THE HUSTLING REPORTER.
Nick smiled at the simplicity of the young man.
“Dumond has a reputation for keeping his mouth shut,” he said, “and
that is the reason he has built up such a profitable business. Go to
him to-morrow with this suit, trade-mark and all, and he will swear
that the trade-mark is a forgery, and that he never saw the clothes
before.”
“Do you think the woman came to America in quest of these diamonds?”
asked Maynard.
Nick did not reply immediately. He was examining a comb and brush which
lay upon a dresser at the head of the bed.
“Look here,” he finally said, turning to Maynard with the brush and
comb in his hand, “the woman could not resist the temptation to primp
before the mirror. And she left hairs in the brush and the comb.”
Maynard took the brush into his hand.
“What do you see there?” asked Nick.
“Not black hairs, certainly. Short red hairs.”
“Exactly.”
“But this person was dark,” insisted Maynard; “at least so described by
the clerk.”
“Also described by the clerk as a man,” said Nick, with a smile.
“How do you know that these hairs were not left here by some former
occupant of the room?” asked the young man.
“Because,” was the reply, “she combed her hair, after removing her
black wig, before she removed her clothes. There were short red hairs
on the collar of the coat she wore.”
“A red-haired woman,” mused Maynard.
“Very slender and with black eyes,” added Nick. “She couldn’t color her
eyes, you know, and the clerk said they were black. We may also add a
very nice white complexion.”
Nick went to the washstand in the corner of the room and pointed to a
black sediment on the sides of the bowl. The piece of toilet soap which
lay on the marble top was also rimmed with black. The interior of the
bowl and the surface of the soap were still moist.
“There is where she washed off her face stain,” said Nick. “So we have
a slender, red-haired, fair-complexioned woman, about five feet three,
according to the clothes, with very small feet and hands.”
“How do you know about the feet and hands?” asked the young man.
“The woman slopped water from the bowl as she washed,” was the reply,
“and it fell on the carpet and over her shoes. See, the spot where this
foot stood is dry; the carpet is wet, and the dry spot represents a
very small shoe.”
“We started in with a dark-complexioned male murderer,” said Maynard,
“and now we have come to a fair-faced woman with red hair, and clothes
made in Paris.”
“You asked me a moment ago,” said Nick, “if I thought this woman came
across the Atlantic in quest of these diamonds, and I made no reply.
Now, I can tell you that it is possible that she did, and that she did
not come alone.”
“A conspiracy for robbery?”
“That is about the size of it, as it looks now.”
“Do you think this affair in any way connected with the former larceny
of the diamonds, when they were followed from South Africa?”
“There is little doubt of it,” was the reply. “Who was with you
to-night besides the dead man?”
“Why, I was at rehearsal, as I told you at first. That is the way the
diamonds came to be with me. They were to be used in the play, you
know.”
“And the members of the club knew that you had them with you?”
“Of course. They admired them vastly.”
“And who did you talk with about them; especially, I mean?”
“Julius Mantelle, I think.”
“Who is he?”
“A recent acquaintance from Paris and a member of the club. During the
rehearsal he made an appointment with me.”
“Where were you going?”
“Why, I told you about that. To the African fortune teller’s. We had a
date for two o’clock, and we waited at the café, Townsend and I, for
Julius to come.”
“He did not arrive until after Townsend left?”
“No. He went home with one of the ladies.”
“Had you talked with Julius, as you call him, about the African fortune
teller before to-night? You mean the fortune teller out on East Houston
Street?”
“Oh, yes, he had long promised to secure a private séance for Townsend
and I, and to-night the chance came.”
“What do you know of Julius Mantelle?”
“Nothing.”
“Is he in business?”
“He is just a globe trotter, I think.”
“Plenty of money?”
“I think so. He never borrows.”
“How long have you known him?”
“About three months.”
“He came from Paris to New York?”
“So I am informed. That must be the clerk coming back, and there seems
to be some one with him. I wonder if he called the police?”
The next moment the door was thrust open, and the clerk, accompanied by
a youth of breezy manners, swung into the room. Nick looked at them
sternly, for he was not patient when disturbed at his work.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The young man, who was red-headed, freckled-faced, and the owner of a
perennial smile, advanced toward the detective.
“I am to blame for the intrusion,” he said. “I’m a reporter, and want
to know all about this murder and the loss of the diamonds. Which is
Mr. Charles Maynard, and which is Mr. Nicholas Carter, the famous
detective? Ah! the coroner has not been called as yet. Here is the body
of the murdered man. What luck! Now, if you will stand aside, I’ll take
a snapshot of it.”
The young man began arranging a camera which he carried in his coat
pocket. Nick took him by the back of the neck and landed him outside
the door.
“Now, keep out of here,” he said. “And you, too,” he added, turning to
the clerk.
“Oh, you can’t stop the press,” shouted the reporter, pounding on the
door. “I’ve got the story right here. And another one to boot. Young
girl mysteriously murdered half an hour ago in a tenement on East
Houston Street. Beautiful girl! I took her picture.”
Nick opened the door.
“Come in here and tell me about it,” he said.
“Oh, you have thawed out, have you?” said the young man. “Well, I don’t
know much about the case. The girl had been out during the night, I
take it. Anyway, there was a row, and the girl was stabbed. The people
of the tenement declare they had a row over diamonds, or something of
that sort. I’m going back there right now. Want to come with me?”
“It may have some connection with this case,” whispered Maynard to the
detective. “Diamonds in the case, you know.”
“I was just thinking of that,” said Nick, “but I am not entirely
satisfied that this young man is just what he pretends to be.”
“I might go back with him and find out,” suggested Maynard.
For a moment Nick made no reply.