A quarter of an hour later I was in the inspector's office at Tottenham
Court Road Police-Station, relating to him all I knew of the horrible
discovery.
"You saw a man come out, you say? Are you certain of this?" the
inspector asked, after I had concluded my story.
"Quite; and, what's more, I saw his face."
"Would you know him again?" he inquired, eyeing me keenly.
"Certainly, I should."
"Well, when you saw him, what did you do?"
"I followed him. We ran for nearly five minutes without meeting a
constable, and I subsequently lost sight of him in Gray's Inn Road."
"For five minutes without meeting one of our men?" repeated the
inspector, dubiously.
"Yes. I shouted, but nobody came to my assistance," I replied, for I
had not failed to notice the suspicion with which he regarded me.
The inspector's brows contracted slightly as he took a slate from his
desk, saying, "Give me his description as accurately as possible,
please."
I did so, and he wrote at my dictation. As soon as he had finished, he
handed the slate to a sergeant, who at once went to the row of telegraph
instruments and transmitted the description of the murderer to all the
stations in the Metropolitan Police District.
"And this was upon the body when you saw it?" exclaimed the officer,
smoothing out the crumpled piece of paper before placing it upon the
desk in front of him.
I nodded an affirmative, and proceeded to describe the position of the
paper as pinned upon the breast.
"Hum! well, I think that's all," said he, when I had finished. "You say
you live in Torrington Square. Ah! I have the number. And you spent
the evening at the Junior Garrick Club--was that so?"
"Yes."
"At the inquest we shall want you as a witness; but you will get warning
in due course. Good-morning."
I left the station, and trudged homeward, full of thoughts of the
horrible scene of which I had been an involuntary spectator.
Truly the night had been an eventful one.
The discovery had been made too late for the first editions of the
morning papers, but those published on the following evening gave
accounts of the tragedy, headed "Another Mysterious Murder: The Mystic
Seal again," in which the details of the crime were most graphically
told, the facts exaggerated, and plenty of fiction infused; for that
style known as the New Journalism seems to have been invented for the
purpose of satisfying the craving for sensational reading.
During the day I was pestered with interviewers. Several enterprising
reporters, who saw a chance of making an interesting column of "copy"
out of me, sent up their cards, and to them I granted an audience.
Following these came two detectives from the Criminal Investigation
Department, who also wished for a description of my night's adventure.
This I gave willingly, yet to my astonishment and annoyance I found,
when I went down to the club in the evening, that the police had been
making inquiries of the servants as to what time I left on the previous
night, besides endeavouring to learn various other particulars.
I, Frank Burgoyne, was evidently suspected of the crime!
There had been six murders, all curious, unexplained mysteries, which
had formed the chief topic of conversation and comment in the newspapers
for the past few weeks. In each there appeared an utter absence of
motive, which made the enigma doubly puzzling; and though the murderer
had sought his victims from every rank of society, the same seal--
evidently impressed by the same hand--had been found pinned upon the
breast of the corpses.
Premeditated the crimes undoubtedly were, and accomplished by one to
whom murder was an art, for in not a single instance was there the
slightest clue to his identity, though some were committed in broad
daylight. The _modus operandi_ appeared to be similar in every case,
and with the exception of one victim, who had been shot, the remaining
five had all been stabbed to the heart by a stiletto, which the murderer
usually carried away with him.
Various were the theories advanced as to the motives for these appalling
deeds.
Some journals suggested that the murderer was a maniac, whose insatiable
thirst for blood was controlled by the moon's changes. This appeared
plausible enough to some, but others asked how, if he were a lunatic,
did he continue so effectually to conceal himself. These were told
there was method in madness, and that in all probability the murderer
was insane whilst committing the crimes, and immediately afterwards, on
gaining his right senses, he remembered nothing of the fearful deeds.
Such hypotheses, and others of a far wilder character, were daily talk,
not only throughout the Kingdom, but in all the Continental capitals,
and in America. Although several heavy rewards had been offered for the
apprehension of the offender, and a free pardon to any accomplice, all
efforts to discover him were futile. The shrewdest detectives
acknowledged themselves utterly baffled.
The most inexplicable part of the mystery was the fact that the crimes
were not confined to one city, or even to one country, but had been
committed at places at great distances from one another. This plainly
showed that the murderer travelled with almost miraculous rapidity.
Very little sensation was created by the first discovery, although it
was regarded as a mysterious affair. It occurred in New York, where a
celebrated financier, George M. Sheward, was discovered one day in his
private office, stabbed to the heart. Here the fatal seal first made
its appearance. At the time the New York police thought little of the
fact, and the finding of the symbol was not made public until
subsequently, when other crimes had taken place, and the same emblem was
found.
From inquiries, it appeared that the deceased arrived at Wall Street, as
usual, at ten o'clock in the morning, retiring into his room, which was
only separated from that of his clerk's by a short passage, some ten
feet in length. He remained in his room an hour, interviewing several
clients and attending to his correspondence. His manager had occasion
to consult him shortly after eleven, when on entering the room he was
horrified at finding him dead in his chair. Upon the blotting-pad
before him lay the paper whereon was the seal.
The persons who had called to see the murdered man were so numerous that
neither of the clerks could tell who had been the last to visit their
master, yet it was certain that the murderer, whoever he was, had passed
through the public office to get to the principal's room.
As the deceased gentleman had a world-wide reputation, the fact of his
sudden death from some unknown assassin was speedily carried to the ends
of the civilised globe, or, at all events, to the great centres where
his financial influence was felt. He was a quiet, reserved man, but had
many friends, for his well-known benevolence of disposition, combined
with his immense wealth, had acquired for him a celebrity in more
circles than one.
The New York police, aided by the powerful agency of the Press, which in
America takes a peculiar pride in the business of the detection of
crime, gave all its energies to the unravelling of the mystery; but
their efforts, alas! were in vain. Before a fortnight had passed, news
was received from Vienna that Herr Scherb, a wealthy professor, a man of
great scientific attainments, had been stabbed in a restaurant at
mid-day.
It appeared that a waiter, on approaching a table at which Herr Scherb
was sitting, was terrified to observe that he was quite dead. The cause
of his sudden demise was a glittering dagger, even then firmly fixed in
the breast. On this being removed, it was discovered that a piece of
paper bearing the seal had been fastened to the handle.
With trembling fingers and blanched faces the spectators unfolded it,
and tried to decipher the hieroglyphics. It was not until the discovery
of this seal had gained publicity that the New York police admitted
finding one that was identical.
This was considered a very curious circumstance and was freely commented
upon by various London and provincial newspapers, some giving a woodcut
of what purported to be a representation of the mysterious characters
upon the seal. Considerable excitement was caused thereby, and numbers
of antiquarians and others at once set about trying to solve its
meaning; but although editors were flooded with correspondence from
those who professed to have found an elucidation, it remained as
enigmatical as ever.
Just as the excitement was abating there came information of a third
tragedy. This time a young French actress, Mlle. Voiturit, who was
_premiere danseuse_ at the Eden Theatre in Paris, was discovered late
one evening in the Kalverstraat at Amsterdam, dying from the effects of
a knife-wound in the breast.
There were dozens of persons passing and repassing in the street at the
time of the occurrence, nevertheless, so swiftly and surely was the blow
dealt and the seal attached, that before a crowd had assembled, the
unfortunate young artiste had expired.
This created little less than a panic.
By the existence of the seals--each of which corresponded in every
detail with the others--the fact was proved that the murders, if not
committed by the same hand, were within the knowledge of the same
person. This, of course, was a peculiar element in the case, and not a
little speculation was indulged in as to what was the chief motive
leading to the commission of crimes so outrageous.
The next dastardly affair caused a thrill of amazement and horror
through the whole of Europe.
Mr Joseph Glossop, member of the House of Commons, and one of Society's
shining lights, had been found dead in bed at his house in Mount Street,
Grosvenor Square, in most curious circumstances. True, the deceased had
met with his death much in the same manner as the three previous
victims, and the seal was present in exactly the same form, yet the
window of the room was securely fastened, and the door locked.
This catastrophe caused the hearts of the three great capitals to throb
with fear and indignation and the efforts of the police were redoubled.
The same result--or lack of result--followed all their endeavours,
however, and again nothing was discovered of the assassin who so
ruthlessly took the lives of his unoffending fellow-men.
The police were utterly powerless, for the marvellous, almost
superhuman, swiftness with which the fell deeds were accomplished, and
the manner in which the murderer gained access to his victims, were two
points which were entirely incomprehensible.
But while this situation was bad enough, it was nothing when compared
with the complete paralysis which took possession of the entire
population when, a few weeks later, the work of the same dreadful hand
was observed, this time at Zurich, where Madame Daburon--a celebrated
authoress, whose works, principally on political questions, and of a
Socialistic tendency, had attracted a great deal of attention--was found
lying in the bottom of a pleasure boat drifting upon the Lake.
The discovery was made by a party of tourists who were out sailing, and
their dismay may be readily imagined when they found the unfortunate
woman had been shot in the breast, and the seal placed upon her.
There were neither oars nor rudder to the boat, yet from the presence of
blood it was plain that the shot was fired after the murdered woman had
embarked, and it was more than probable that the assassin, before
escaping, threw both oars and rudder overboard. How he landed was a
mystery.
Hardly had the news of this latest crime reached London, when the
sensation was increased by the report that another person had been
discovered in the metropolis with the seal upon him.
In a few hours this statement was confirmed.
It transpired that on the afternoon following the discovery in
Switzerland some children who were at play in Upper Street, Islington,
noticed blood trickling from under the door of a pawnbroker's shop
occupied by Mr Isaac Solomons. The police were called; with difficulty
the door was forced. Solomons was found face downwards in the passage,
with a fearful gash in his throat, and on lifting the body, the seal was
seen pinned upon him.
The seventh of this remarkable series was the Mystery of Bedford Place.
The _Comet_--most sensational of evening newspapers--upon the staff of
which was my friend Bob Nugent, appeared with what it assured its
readers was a portrait of the murdered woman, and in its comments upon
the continuation of the mysterious crimes severely criticised our police
system, asking what was the use of a Commissioner, of detectives, of a
police force at all, if crimes could be committed with impunity in our
very midst.
The murderer apparently treated the vigilance of the combined detective
force of Europe with the utmost indifference, and such an attitude was
alarming, for, as the latter acknowledged themselves defeated, there was
no telling where this wholesale butchery would end!
That there was a motive for it all no one doubted, though it was a
problem none could solve.
What was to be done? demanded the public; a question on which the
newspapers were skilfully silent.
Questions were asked in the House, but the reply was that all that could
be done had been done.
The population were to be coolly assassinated, while the apathetic
authorities made no secret of their incompetency, and treated it with
unconcern.
The excitement rose to fever heat.