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AN ARTIST IN CRIME
BY RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND
THE KNICKERBOCKER PRESS
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1892
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_
BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press, New Rochelle, N. Y.
* * * * *
By RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
+An Artist in Crime.+ 16 oct., $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
+A Conflict of Evidence.+ 16 oct., $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
+A Modern Wizard.+ 16 oct., $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
+The Crime of the Century.+ 16 oct., $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
+Final Proof, or, the Value of Evidence.+ 16 oct., $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK & LONDON
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A GENTLEMAN THINKS HE CAN COMMIT
A CRIME AND ESCAPE DETECTION 1
II. A DARING AND SUCCESSFUL TRAIN ROBBERY 16
III. MR. BARNES DISCOVERS AN ARTISTIC
MURDER 30
IV. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND 46
V. THE SEVENTH BUTTON 56
VI. MR. BARNES'S TRAP 75
VII. MR. RANDOLPH HAS A FIGHT WITH HIS
CONSCIENCE 95
VIII. LUCETTE 115
IX. THE DIARY OF A DETECTIVE 129
X. ALI BABA AND THE FORTY THIEVES 138
XI. MR. BARNES RECEIVES SEVERAL LETTERS 154
XII. THE HISTORY OF THE RUBY 169
XIII. MR. BARNES GOES SOUTH 189
XIV. AN INTERRUPTED WEDDING 208
XV. MR. MITCHEL EXPLAINS A FEW THINGS 223
XVI. MR. BARNES DISCOVERS A VALUABLE CLUE 239
XVII. A NEW YEAR'S DINNER PARTY 255
XVIII. MR. BARNES'S NARRATIVE 273
AN ARTIST IN CRIME.
CHAPTER I.
A GENTLEMAN THINKS HE CAN COMMIT A CRIME AND ESCAPE DETECTION.
"Jack Barnes never gets left, you bet."
"That was a close call, though," replied the Pullman porter who had
given Mr. Barnes a helping hand, in his desperate effort to board the
midnight express as it rolled out of Boston. "I wouldn't advise you to
jump on moving trains often."
"Thank you for your good advice, and for your assistance. Here's a
quarter for you. Show me to my section, I am nearly dead, I am so
tired."
"Upper ten, right this way, sir. It is all ready for you to turn in."
When Mr. Barnes entered the coach, no one was in sight. If there were
other passengers, they were abed. A few minutes later, he himself was
patting two little bags of feathers, and placing one atop of the other
in a vain attempt to make them serve as one pillow. He had told the
porter that he was tired, and this was so true that he should have
fallen asleep quickly. Instead, his brain seemed specially active, and
sleep impossible.
Mr. Barnes, Jack Barnes, as he called himself to the porter, was a
detective, and counted one of the shrewdest in New York, where he
controlled a private agency established by himself. He had just
completed what he considered a most satisfactory piece of work. A large
robbery had been committed in New York, and suspicion of the strongest
nature had pointed in the direction of a young man who had immediately
been arrested. For ten days the press of the country had been trying and
convicting the suspect, during which time Mr. Barnes had quietly left
the Metropolis. Twelve hours before we met him, those who read the
papers over their toast had been amazed to learn that the suspect was
innocent, and that the real criminal had been apprehended by the
keen-witted Jack Barnes. What was better, he had recovered the lost
funds, amounting to thirty thousand dollars.
He had had a long chase after his man, whom he had shadowed from city to
city and watched day and night, actuated to this course by a slight clue
in which he had placed his faith. Now, his man fast in a Boston prison,
he was on his way to New York for requisition papers. As he had said, he
was tired, yet despite his need of complete rest his thoughts persisted
in rehearsing all the intricate details of the reasoning which had at
last led him to the solution of the mystery. As he lay in his upper
berth awake these words reached his ears:
"If I knew that man Barnes was after me, I should simply surrender."
This promised to be the beginning of an entertaining conversation, and
as he could not sleep, Mr. Barnes prepared to listen. Extensive
experience as a detective had made him long ago forget the philosophic
arguments for and against eavesdropping. The voice which had attracted
him was low, but his ears were keen. He located it as coming from the
section next ahead of his, number eight. A second voice replied:
"I have no doubt that you would. But I wouldn't. You overestimate the
ability of the modern detective. I should actually enjoy being hounded
by one of them. It would be so much pleasure, and I think so easy, to
elude him."
The last speaker possessed a voice which was musical, and he articulated
distinctly, though he scarcely ventured above a loud whisper. Mr. Barnes
cautiously raised his head, arranging his pillows so that his ear would
be near the partition. Fortunately, the two men next to him had taken
the whole section, and the upper berth had been allowed to remain
closed. Mr. Barnes now found that he could readily follow the
conversation, which continued thus:
"But see how that Barnes tracked this Pettingill day and night until he
had trapped him. Just as the fellow supposed himself safe, he was
arrested. You must admit that was clever work."
"Oh, yes, clever enough in its way, but there was nothing specially
artistic about it. Not that the detective was to blame; it was the
fault of the criminal. There was no chance for the artistic." Yet Mr.
Barnes had used that very adjective to himself in commenting upon his
conduct of this case. The man continued: "The crime itself was
inartistic. Pettingill bungled, Barnes was shrewd enough to detect the
flaw, and with his experience and skill in such cases the end was
inevitable."
"It seems to me either that you have not read the full account of the
case, or else you do not appreciate the work of the detective. Why, all
the clue he had was a button."
"Ah! Only a button--but such a button! That is where I say that the
criminal was inartistic. He should not have lost that button."
"It was an accident I suppose, and one against which he could not have
guarded. It was one of the exigencies of his crime."
"Exactly so; and it is these little accidents, always unforeseen, though
always occurring, which hang so many, and jail so many, and give our
detectives such an easy road to fame. That is the gist of the whole
matter. It is an unequal game, this between the criminal and the
detective."
"I don't catch what you are driving at?"
"I'll give you a dissertation on crime. Attend! In ordinary business it
is brains _versus_ brains. The professional man contends with his
fellows, and if he would win the race towards fortune he must show more
brains. The commercial man competes with other tradesmen all as clever
as himself. So it goes from the lawyer to the locksmith, from the
preacher to the sign painter. It is brains rubbing against brains, and
we get the most polished thought as the result. Thus the science of
honest living progresses."
"What has this to do with the criminal class?"
"One moment. Let the philosopher teach you in his own way. With the
criminal it is different. He is matched against his superior. Those in
his own class do not contend with him; they are rather his partners, his
'pals,' as they term it. His only contention therefore is with the
detective who represents society and the law. No man, I suppose, is a
criminal from choice, and it is the criminal's necessity which leads to
his detection."
"Then all criminals should be caught."
"All criminals should be caught. That they are not is a strong argument
against your detective; for every criminal, we may say is actuated by
necessity, and therein lies the possibility of his defeat. For example:
You may claim that the expert burglar lays his plans in advance, and
that the crime being premeditated he should be able to make such careful
pre-arrangements that he could avoid leaving tell-tale marks behind him.
This, however, is rarely the case, for this reason: the unexpected
often, if not always, happens, and for that he has not prepared. In a
moment he sees prison ahead of him, and his fear steals away his
caution, so that, as we have seen, he does leave a clue behind him."
"But when you say the unexpected happens, you admit the possibility for
that to occur which could not have been premised, and therefore could
not have been guarded against."
"That is true as the case stands. But remove the necessity which
actuates our criminal, and make of him simply a scientific man pursuing
crime as an art! In the first place, we get an individual who will
prepare for more accidents, and secondly, would know how best to meet
emergencies which occur during the commission of his crime. For example:
if you will pardon the conceit, were I to attempt a crime I should be
able to avoid detection."
"I should think that from your inexperience as a criminal you would be
run to earth--well, about as quickly as this man Pettingill. This was
his first crime you know."
"Would you be willing to make a wager to that effect?" This last remark
fairly startled Mr. Barnes, who instantly understood the meaning, which,
however, at first escaped the other listener. He waited eagerly for the
reply.
"I don't grasp the idea. Make a wager about what?"
"You said that were I to commit a crime I should be captured about as
quickly as Pettingill. If you wish, I will wager that I can commit a
crime which will be as much talked of as his, and that I will not be
captured, or rather I should say convicted. I would not bet against
arrest; for, as we have seen in this very case, the innocent are
sometimes incarcerated. Therefore I stipulate for conviction."
"Do I understand you to seriously offer to commit a crime merely to
decide a wager? You astound me!"
"No more perhaps than Pettingill has surprised his friends. But don't be
alarmed; I shall assume all responsibility. Besides, remember it is not
crime that is scowled upon in this century, but detection. I wager with
you against that. Come, what do you say; shall it be a thousand dollars?
I want a little excitement!"
"Well, you shall have it. At least you shall have the excitement of
paying the thousand dollars to me; for though I think you are not really
intending to become a criminal, in either event I may as well profit by
your offer."
"What do you mean by 'in either event'?"
"Why, if you do not commit a crime you pay; and if you do, I am sure
that you would be caught. Then, however much I should regret your
disgrace, I warn you that I should cut you dead, and take your money."
"Then you accept the wager?"
"I do!"
"Done. Now for the conditions. I am to have one month in which to plan
and commit my crime, and one year for avoiding the detectives. That is,
if I am free at the end of one year, and can prove to you that I
committed a crime within the stipulated period, I win the wager. If I am
in jail awaiting trial, the bet cannot be settled until the law has had
its way, and I am either proven innocent or guilty. Is that
satisfactory?"
"Perfectly. But what class of crime will you commit?"
"My friend you are inquisitive. The wager is on, and my boasted caution
must begin. Therefore, I must not tell you anything of the nature of my
intended crime!"
"Why, do you suppose for an instant that I would betray you?"
"Well, yes, that idea does occur to me. Listen. As I said before, the
necessities of the criminal prove his Nemesis. The necessities involve
the object of the crime. That is always a good starting-point in
following up a mysterious case. The more unusual the object the better,
since it will fit fewer people. Plunder is the commonest and therefore
the least promising to trace from. Revenge is common also, but better,
because the special revenge connected with the deed must lead to the
special individual most likely to execute such revenge. In this
instance, I mean my own case, the object of the crime is so unique, that
the detective who discovers it should be able to convict me. A crime
committed to decide a wager is perhaps new."
"Its very novelty is your best safeguard."
"Yet there are two ways by which it may be discovered, and that is two
too many. Had I undertaken this affair secretly there would really have
been but a single way for one to learn my secret,--my own confession. As
men have been weak enough to do this before now, I should even in that
instance have taken precautions. But with my secret in the possession of
a second party, the position is more complex."
"I assure you on my honor that I will not betray you. I will agree to
forfeit five times the wager in such an event."
"I prefer that you should be perfectly at liberty in the matter. I
expect it to be thus: in your own mind at present you do not think that
I shall carry out my purpose. Therefore, your friendship for me is
undisturbed. Then you count that, if I do commit a crime, it will be
some trivial one that you may bring your conscience to excuse, under the
circumstances. But let us suppose that a really great crime should be
reported, and for some reason you should suspect me. You will hurry to
my rooms before I get out of bed, and ask me flatly whether I am guilty.
As flatly I should refuse to enlighten you. You would take this as a
confession of guilt. You would perhaps argue that if your surmise were
correct you would be an accessory before the fact, and to shield
yourself and do your duty you would make a clean breast of it."
"I am beginning to be offended, Bob. I did not think you would trust me
so little!"
"Don't get angry, old man. Remember that only a few minutes ago you
warned me that you would cut me dead after the crime. We artistic
criminals must be prepared against every contingency."
"I did not think when I spoke. I did not mean it."
"Yes, you did, and I am not at all angry. Let it be understood then that
you will be at liberty to repeat the facts about this wager should your
conscience prick you. It will be best for me to expect and be prepared
for such action. But you have not asked what the second danger of
discovery is. Can you guess?"
"Not unless you mean as you suggested, your own confession."
"No, though that really makes a third chance. Yet it is so simple. Have
you noticed that we can hear a man snoring?"
"No!"
"Listen a moment! Do you not hear that? It is not exactly a snore, but
rather a troubled breathing. Now that man is in the third section from
us. Do you see the point?"
"I must confess that I would not make a detective."
"Why, my dear boy, if we can hear that fellow, why may not some one in
the next compartment be listening to our _tete-a-tete_?" Mr. Barnes
fairly glowed with admiration for the fellow's careful consideration of
every point.
"Oh, I guess not. Everybody is asleep."
"The common criminal from necessity takes chances like that, without
counting on them. I shall not. There is a possibility, however remote,
that some one, in Number Ten say, has overheard us. Again he may even be
a detective, and worse yet it might be your Mr. Barnes himself."
"Well, I must say if you prepare against such long odds as that you
deserve to escape detection!"
"That is just what I will do. But the odds are not so great as you
imagine. I read in an afternoon paper that Mr. Barnes had remained in
Boston in connection with properly securing his prisoner during the
day, but that he would leave for New York to-night. Of course the
newspaper may have been wrong. Then in saying "to-night" it may have
been inaccurate; but supposing that the statement were true, then there
were three trains upon which he might have started, one at seven
o'clock, one at eleven, and this one. One in three is not long odds."
"But even if he is on this train, there are ten coaches."
"Again you are wrong. After his hard work on this Pettingill case he
would be sure to take a sleeper. Now if you recall the fact, I did not
decide to go to New York to-night till the last minute. Then we found
that we could not get a whole section, and were about to bunk together
in a lower berth when, several more people applying, they determined to
put on another coach. Therefore, unless Mr. Barnes secured his ticket
during the day, he would inevitably have been assigned to this coach."
"Had you any special reason for suggesting Number Ten?"
"Yes. I know that Number Six is unoccupied. But just as we started some
one came in, and I think took the upper berth of Number Ten."
"Mr. Barnes began to think that he would have exceedingly difficult work
to detect this man in crime, were he really to commit one, in spite of
the fact that he knew so much in advance. The conversation continued:
"Thus, you see, there are two ways by which my object may become known,
a serious matter if unguarded against. As, however, I recognize the
possibilities in advance, there will be no difficulty whatever, and the
knowledge will be of no value to any detective, even though he be your
Mr. Barnes."
"How will you avoid that danger?"
"My dear boy, do you suppose for an instant that I would reply to that,
after pointing out that a detective may be listening? However, I will
give you an idea. I will show you what I meant when I said that
Pettingill had blundered. You said that he had lost only a button, and
thought it clever in Barnes to trace him from the button. But a button
may be a most important thing. If I should lose one of the buttons of my
vest, whilst committing a crime, Mr. Barnes would trace me out in much
less than ten days, and for this reason, they are the only ones of the
kind in the world."
"How does that happen? I supposed that buttons were made by the
thousand?"
"Not all buttons. For reasons which I need not tell the possibly
listening detective, a friend travelling abroad had a set made
especially, and brought them back to me as a present. They are six
handsomely cut cameos, half the set having the profile head of Juliet,
and the others a similar face of Romeo."
"A romance?"
"That is immaterial. Suppose that I should plan a robbery in order to
decide this wager. As necessity would not urge me either as to time or
place, I should choose my opportunity, let us say when but one person
guarded the treasure. That one I should chloroform and also tie. Next, I
should help myself to the designated plunder. Suppose that as I were
about to depart a sleeping, uncalculated-for pet dog should jump out and
bark furiously? I reach for it and it snaps at me, biting my hand. I
grapple it by the throat and strangle it, but in its death throes it
bites my vest, and a button falls to the ground and rolls away. The dog
is at last silenced. Your ordinary burglar by this time would be so
unnerved that he would hasten off, not even realizing that he had been
bitten, that blood had flowed, or that the button was lost. Mr. Barnes
is sent to the house the next day. The lady suspects her coachman, and
Mr. Barnes consents to his arrest, not because he thinks him guilty, but
because, as the mistress thinks so, he may be, and then more especially,
his arrest will lull the fear of the real culprit. Mr. Barnes would
observe blood on the ground, on the dog's mouth, and he would find the
button. From the button he would find Mr. Thief, with his hand bitten,
and there you are."
"But how should you avoid all that?"
"In the first place, were I really wise, I should not have tell-tale
buttons about me at such a time. But let us suppose that the time had
not been of my own choosing, then the buttons might have been with me.
Assured as I should have been that the only person in the house lay
chloroformed and tied, I should not have lost my nerve as did the other
individual. Neither should I have allowed myself to be bitten, though if
the accident had occurred I should have stopped to wash up the stain
from the carpet while fresh, and also from the dog's mouth. I should
have discovered the loss of the button, searched for and recovered it,
untied the victim, and opened the windows, that the odor of chloroform
could pass off during the night. In fact, in the morning the only
evidence of crime would have been the strangled dog and the absence of
the pelf."
"It is easy enough to explain your actions under suppostitious
circumstances. But I doubt if in Pettingill's shoes you would have been
able to retain your presence of mind, and recover the lost button which
led to his final arrest."
"It is possible that you are right, for had I been Pettingill I should
have been coerced by necessities as he was. Yet I think I should not
have planned such a robbery, choosing my own time as he did, and then
have taken with me such a button. But from Mr. Barnes's standpoint, as I
said before, very little of the artistic was needed. The button was
constructed of a curious old coin. Mr. Barnes went the rounds of the
dealers and found the very man who had sold Pettingill the coin. The
rest was routine work."
"Well, you are conceited, but I don't mind making a thousand out of your
egotism. Now I am sleepy, however, so good-night."
"Good-night, old man. Dream of a way to earn an extra thousand, for I
shall win."
For Mr. Barnes himself sleep was now more impossible than ever. He was
attracted to this new case, for so he counted it, and was determined to
trap the individual who wagered against his acumen. It was a long step
towards success to know as much as he had overheard. He would not lose
sight of his man during the allotted month. He enjoyed the prospect of
allowing him to commit his crime and then quietly taking him in the act.
Carefully and noiselessly he dressed himself and slipped out of his
berth. Then he crept into one opposite, so that he could have his eye on
number eight, and settled down for an all-night vigil.
"It would not surprise me if that keen devil were to commit his crime
this very night. I hope so, for otherwise I shall have no sleep till he
does."