When a few days from that I made my appearance before Mr. Gryce, it was
to find him looking somewhat sober. “Those Schoenmakers,” said he, “are
making a deal of trouble. It seems they escaped the fellows up north and
are now somewhere in this city, but where--”
An expressive gesture finished the sentence.
“Is that so?” exclaimed I. “Then we are sure to nab them. Given time and
a pair of low, restless German thieves, I will wager anything, our hands
will be upon them before the month is over. I only hope, when we do come
across them, it will not be to find their betters too much mixed up with
their devilish practices.” And I related to him what Fanny had told me a
few evenings before.
“The coil is tightening,” said he. “What the end will be I don’t know.
Crime, said she? I wish I knew in what blind hole of the earth that girl
we are after lies hidden.”
As if in answer to this wish the door opened and one of our men came
in with a letter in his hand. “Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, after he had
perused it, “look at that.”
I took the letter from his hand and read:
The dead body of a girl such as you describe was found in the East
river off Fiftieth Street this morning. From appearance has been
dead some time. Have telegraphed to Police Headquarters for
orders. Should you wish to see the body before it is removed to
the Morgue or otherwise disturbed, please hasten to Pier 48 E. R.
GRAHAM.
“Come,” said I, “let’s go and see for ourselves. If it should be the
one--”
“The dinner party proposed by Mr. Blake for to-night, may have its
interruptions,” he remarked.
I do not wish to make my story any longer than is necessary, but I must
say that when in an hour or so later, I stood with Mr. Gryce before the
unconscious form of that poor drowned girl I felt an unusual degree
of awe stealing over me: there was so much mystery connected with this
affair, and the parties implicated were of such standing and repute.
I almost dreaded to see the covering removed from her face lest I should
behold, what? I could not have told if I had tried.
“A trim made body enough,” cried the official in charge as Mr. Gryce
lifted an end of the cloth that enveloped her and threw it back. “Pity
the features are not better preserved.”
“No need for us to see the features,” exclaimed I, pointing to the locks
of golden red hair that hung in tangled masses about her. “The hair is
enough; she is not the one.” And I turned aside, asking myself if it was
relief I felt.
To my surprise Mr. Gryce did not follow.
“Tall, thin, white face, black eyes.” I heard him whisper to himself.
“It is a pity the features are not better preserved.”
“But,” said I, taking him by the arm, “Fanny spoke particularly of
her hair being black, while this girl’s--Good heavens!” I suddenly
ejaculated as I looked again at the prostrate form before me. “Yellow
hair or black, this is the girl I saw him speaking to that day in
Broome Street. I remember her clothes if nothing more.” And opening my
pocketbook, I took out the morsel of cloth I had plucked that day from
the ash barrel, lifted up the discolored rags that hung about the body
and compared the two. The pattern, texture and color were the same.
“Well,” said Mr. Gryce, pointing to certain contusions, like marks from
the blow of some heavy instrument on the head and bared arms of the girl
before us; “he will have to answer me one question anyhow, and that
is, who this poor creature is who lies here the victim of treachery or
despair.” And turning to the official he asked if there were any other
signs of violence on the body.
The answer came deliberately, “Yes, she has evidently been battered to
death.”
Mr. Gryce’s lips closed with grim decision. “A most brutal murder,” said
he and lifting up the cloth with a hand that visibly trembled, he softly
covered her face.
“Well,” said I as we slowly paced back up the pier, “there is one thing
certain, she is not the one who disappeared from Mr. Blake’s house.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“How!” said I. “You believed Fanny lied when she gave that description
of the missing girl upon which we have gone till now?”
Mr. Gryce smiled, and turning back, beckoned to the official behind us.
“Let me have that description,” said he, “which I distributed among the
Harbor Police some days ago for the identification of a certain corpse I
was on the lookout for.”
The man opened his coat and drew out a printed paper which at Mr.
Gryce’s word he put into my hand. It ran as follows:
Look out for the body of a young girl, tall, well shaped but thin,
of fair complexion and golden hair of a peculiar bright and
beautiful color, and when found, acquaint me at once.
G.
“I don’t understand,” began I.
But Mr. Gryce tapping me on the arm said in his most deliberate tones,
“Next time you examine a room in which anything of a mysterious nature
has occurred, look under the bureau and if you find a comb there with
several long golden hairs tangled in it, be very sure before you draw
any definite conclusions, that your Fannys know what they are talking
about when they declare the girl who used that comb had black hair on
her head.”