Transcribed from Henneberry Company edition by an anonymous UK volunteer.
JOE LESLIE’S WIFE
OR
A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET
* * * * *
BY
ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, M.D.
* * * * *
_Author of_ “_Gold-Maker of Lisbon_,” “_Little Sweetheart_,”
“_Phantom Smuggler_,” “_Diana Thorpe_,” “_Frozen_
_Hearts_,” “_Nora’s Legacy_,” _etc._
* * * * *
CHICAGO
THE HENNEBERRY COMPANY
554 WABASH AVENUE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Office of a New York Detective 17
II Two of a Kind 28
III The Tell-tale Scrap of Paper 39
IV The House on Twenty-seventh Street 50
V The Man Dressed as a Bull-fighter 61
VI Marian 73
VII A Brand from the Burning 83
VIII The Jehu Adds to the Mystery 94
IX Joe’s Secret 105
X That Meerschaum Pipe 116
XI All is Forgiven 127
XII The Opium Joint 138
XIII A Terrible Doom 149
XIV Another Link in the Chain 160
XV Comparing Notes 171
XVI The Locked Saratoga 182
XVII The Artist is Defiant 193
XVIII Fortune’s Favors 204
XIX The Time Draws Near 215
XX For Plunder 226
XXI The Cottage Beyond the Harlem 237
XXII Almost 248
XXIII The Messenger with Good News 259
XXIV Conclusion 268
CHAPTER I
THE OFFICE OF A NEW YORK DETECTIVE
The little clock in the dingy office of Eric Darrell was just pointing
out the hour of four when there came a rap on the door. Within the
proprietor sat alone, his feet elevated upon the top of a desk, and from
his position it was evident that his thoughts were far away, for although
he took an occasional whiff at his cigar, it was in an absent-minded way.
At this summons, his interest was at once aroused—his feet came down from
their elevated position, and an expression appeared on his face that
might have been a smile.
“A woman, by Jove!” he muttered, giving his handkerchief a flirt over the
desk where his feet had been so recently deposited.
There was no guess-work about this, neither had the detective been able
to distinguish anything feminine about the knock.
Over the door was a peculiar little contrivance, which by means of
several small mirrors would tell the occupant of the office who summoned
him—a useful affair under the circumstances, as the detective might at
some time have a visitor bent on taking his life, and under such
circumstances he would be warned.
Jumping to his feet he approached the door—had it been a man he probably
would have sung out: “Come in,” and been done with it.
A lady stood there.
She was deeply veiled, and yet there was that about her dress that
bespoke the lady.
Darrell saw this at the first glance, and also judged from her figure
that she was young.
“Is this the office of Mr. Darrell?” she asked, in low, pleasing tones.
“Yes, madam,” replied the other, respectfully.
“Is he in?”
“I am Eric Darrell, at your service. If you wish to see me on business
will you come in?”
He stepped aside as he spoke.
“Thank you, I will.”
As the lady entered the room, the detective closed the door, and with the
pressure of his thumb secured it so that no one could enter without
knocking. It was not his intention to be rudely interrupted in his
interview—he had from time to time all sorts of visitors, and did not
mean that one of the men he employed should come in upon them while they
were engaged in talking.
The lady had already seated herself, and seemed to be looking around the
room, through her veil, with considerable interest.
Perhaps it was her first visit to the office of a detective, and she was
taken with the strange assortment of mementoes that hung around the room.
Eric Darrell swept his eyes about him, and something akin to a smile came
over his face as he viewed his curiosity shop—there were scores and
scores of murderous tools and ingenious contrivances, each of which was
connected with some crime or criminal in the past history of New York,
and in the pursuit of his chosen business he had been brought into
connection with the affair or the individual.
The detective was a little proud of his collection, as well as the
Rogue’s Gallery over the desk, where some hundreds of faces were
represented, many extremely brutal and some good-looking, while the
pictures of women were not infrequent.
“My clerk is out this afternoon, madam—we are quite alone, so that you
may speak without any fear of being overheard,” he said, as he took a
chair, and sat down facing his unknown client.
“I am glad of that, Mr. Darrell, for what I have to say to you must be
kept a dead secret.”
The detective was more than ever convinced that he had to deal with a
young woman—her figure was exceedingly pleasing, and her voice a
sympathetic one.
“Madam, I am daily entrusted with secrets by all manner of persons. You
can rely upon it that anything you tell me in confidence will be as safe
as though whispered in the ear of a father confessor. That is my
business—we detectives rival the family doctors in being made the
repository of secrets.”
This was well put and quite reassuring, as he had intended it should be.
The lady must have confidence in him now.
“Mr. Darrell, I want your assistance in a little domestic matter. I am a
young married woman—have been married a year, and my husband is a man you
would call one in a thousand—a truthful, honorable gentleman, a favorite
with every one he knows.
“I love him deeply, esteem his noble qualities, and believe we could be
happy through life, but there is a canker sore eating my heart—Joe has a
secret, a terrible secret, and the knowledge of it is making me
miserable.”
She seemed a little overcome, and Darrell waited; meantime he grimly
thought to himself how many Joes here in this wicked city of New York
kept terrible secrets from their wives—yes, and the boot was on the other
leg too.
His business had brought him into contact with many such scenes.
“Pardon my feeling so badly, Mr. Darrell. These things are an old story
to you, but with me it means the wrecking of my whole life, and I am weak
enough to be troubled by it.”
He hastened to reassure her that he fully sympathized with her feelings.
Thus encouraged she went on:
“If ever a woman had reason to trust her husband I have—and yet, as I
said, Joe has a secret from me, the knowledge of which is making me
miserable.
“I would not have him ever suspect that I came to consult you about it,
but I am determined to know the truth—I am his wife—if he is gambling in
secret, connected with any secret society or going to see some other
woman I am resolved to know the worst.
“It is hard for me to explain my position, Mr. Darrell—I believe in and
trust my husband as much as nearly any woman could, but I know he is
keeping something from me, which excites my curiosity greatly.”
This was an old story with Darrell.
He had seen other Joes before.
In his own mind he was immediately convinced that the man was guilty.
He believed Joe to be an unmitigated scoundrel to treat his young and
pretty wife in this way—for the detective had already decided this
question and believed the owner of this voice and figure must also be
handsome.
So he began to dig for facts, a little ruthlessly perhaps, because it was
business.
Your professor of anatomy does not waste time when getting down to a
certain nerve or muscle which he wishes to expose to his class—the knife
is applied without stint.
So the detective asked questions in order to expose as much of the game
as possible. “You have no hint of the truth, madam?”
“None.”
“Before marriage, was your husband a man of the world?”
“He was always steady and quiet. I have never heard that my Joe ever had
an entangling alliance before we were married.”
Even this did not reassure Darrell—he was a little skeptical with regard
to such a man, being inclined to reflect that still water runs deep.
His daily business brought him in contact with so much of the evil of
life that he had a rather poor opinion of mankind in general—though ready
to bow before woman’s goodness, even after having had experience with
numerous confidence women and others, who were more difficult to manage
than male criminals.
For instance, here was a case in point—a confiding, loving wife—a cruel,
deceiving husband.
“I understand, madam. How long have these strange visits been going on?”
“I do not know.”
“How long have you been aware of them?”
“For two weeks. By accident I discovered that Joe was in the habit of
leaving his office at half-past four, and he never reaches home until an
hour and a half later.
“Even this did not do more than pique me a little to think he dallied so
long, when he should have hurried home to me—but three days later, again
by accident, I saw him enter a house on Twenty-seventh Street.
“At first I could not believe my eyes and I felt as though I would swoon.
It was just five o’clock, and he seemed in a dreadful hurry.
“What impressed me as being the strangest part of the business, was the
fact that he did not ring or even knock on the door, but with a key let
himself in as though he belonged there!”
Of course—Darrell’s eyebrows went up, but he made no remark—he could see
through a millstone with a hole in it.
“I don’t know why I hurried home but I did so with a trembling heart.
Joe came in at his usual time, and I endeavored to be myself so that he
might suspect nothing.
“On the next day, however, something impelled me to go to Twenty-seventh
Street again.
“Opposite to this house was a French restaurant, and about ten minutes to
five I entered here and ordered supper, sitting at the window and yet far
enough back not to be seen.
“It lacked but one minute to five when Joe came down the street from the
elevated station, walking very fast, and went in that house.
“I sat there until twenty minutes of six, when he came out again, and
walked more slowly down the street.
“Mr. Darrell, I shall say nothing about my feelings—you can understand
them well enough. What I want you to do is to discover who lives in that
house, and why Joe Leslie spends the better part of an hour there every
day.”
“Who—Joe Leslie—good heavens! it can’t be the Joe Leslie I know!”
The lady seemed surprised at his words, and swept her veil aside.
Then Darrell saw he had made no mistake in believing her to be pretty—she
was more than that, really handsome.
“My husband is Joseph Gregory Leslie.”
“Then he is the man I know—a man whom I have always believed the best of
men, liked by every one acquainted with him. It seems incredible that he
should be engaged in anything of this character.”
“Because you know him, will you refuse to take my case?” she faltered.
“Not at all, Mrs. Leslie—in fact, I shall do the work all the more
eagerly, hoping it may all prove to be a mistake.”
“I too hope so, but my heart is filled with fears. I seem to have lived
years since making this discovery. At first I meant to ask my husband
plainly to explain it, but something held my tongue—for my life I could
not—and only as a last resort have I come to you.”
“Kindly write the number of the house here—you know it, of course.”
“Indeed it is burned on my brain as with letters of fire,” and she obeyed
him.
“Now, Mrs. Leslie, you are to leave this matter in my hands and think of
it as little as you can. At home appear as natural as you may, and
believe that I will serve your interests faithfully, first, last and all
the time.
“Joe is a friend of mine, and yet if he is a villain—which I cannot
believe—I will discover the proofs of it and hand them to you.”
“Mr. Darrell, I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.
“There is no occasion for it, madam—this is business with me, leaving
sentiment aside—I shall charge you my regular price for such work; but at
the same time I honestly hope your husband will be able to prove his
innocence.”
“Amen!” she said, solemnly.
At this moment there came a loud rap on the door—Mrs. Leslie uttered a
little scream, which was pretty well muffled by the cobweb of a
handkerchief she thrust up to her mouth.
As for Eric Darrell, the detective, he glanced up at the small tell-tale
mirror just inside the transom over the door—his face was screwed up into
a pucker, and pressing his finger on his lips he said in a low voice:
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! The man who knocks is your husband,
Mrs. Leslie.”