“The abysmal depth of degradation has now been reached; I no longer, even
in my moments of affected refinement, attempt to conceal the fact from
myself, the gauzy veil of acquisition no longer deceives even me, it long
since failed to deceive others.”
What evil genii of metamorphosis had transformed the debonair Walter
Burton into the wretched, slovenly, brutalized being who, grunting, gave
utterance to such sentiments, while stretched, in unkempt abandonment, on
a disordered couch in the center of the unswept and neglected music-room
in the ‘Eyrie’ early on this March morning?
Even the linen of the once fastidious model of masculine cleanliness
was soiled, and the delights of the bath seemed quite unknown to the
heavy-eyed, listless lounger on the couch.
“I have abandoned useless effort to rehabilitate myself in the misfit
garments of a civilization and culture for which the configuration of my
mental structure, by nature, renders me unsuited. My child indicated the
off-springs natural to me. My emotion and actions in the forest of Haiti
gave evidence of the degree of the pure spirit of religion to be found
in my inmost soul, and my conduct, following natural inclinations, since
my return to Boston, has demonstrated how little control civilization,
morality, or pity have over my inherent savage nature.”
The man seemed in a peculiar way to derive some satisfaction from
rehearsing the story of his hopeless condition, and in the fact that he
had reached the limit of descent.
“I should have fled to the mountains of Haiti, had I not been led to
fight against my own kinsmen. For the moment I was blinded by the
thread-bare thought that I was of the white instead of black race, and
when I had time to free my mind from that old misleading idea, my hands
were stained with the blood of my own race. I was obliged to leave Haiti
or suffer the fate that ever overtakes a traitor to his race.”
“There is no hope of the restoration of my wife’s mental faculties,
and even should there be that is all the more reason for my fleeing
from Boston and forever disappearing, I retain enough of the borrowed
refinement of the whites in my recollection to know that as I am now I
should be loathesome to her.”
“Here, I must shun the sight of those who know me, realizing that I
can no longer appear in the assumed character that I formerly did.
Here, I skulk the streets at night in the apparel of a tramp seeking
gratification of proclivities that are natural to me.”
“I know that I must leave this city and country as quickly as possible.
The long repressed desires natural to me break forth with a fury that
renders me oblivious to consequences and my own safety. Repression by
civilization and culture foreign to a race but serves to increase the
violence of the outburst when the barrier once is broken.”
“I will go to the office today, secure some private documents and notify
Mr. Dunlap that I desire to withdraw at once from the firm of J. Dunlap.
I will nerve myself for one more act in the farce. I will don the costume
in which I paraded the stage so long for one more occasion.”
Burton arose slowly from his recumbent position as if reluctant to resume
even for a day a character that had become tiresome and obnoxious to his
negro nature.
* * * * *
David Chapman had on several occasions made suggestions to the head of
the Police Department in Boston that had resulted in the detection and
apprehension of elusive criminals. Unlike many professional detectives,
Chief O’Brien welcomed the aid of amateurs and listened respectfully
to theories, sometimes ridiculous, but occasionally suggestive of the
correct solution of an apparently incomprehensible crime.
The deductive method of solving the problem of a mysterious crime
employed by Chapman was not alone interesting to the Chief of Detectives,
but appeared wonderful in the correctness of the conclusions obtained.
He therefore gave eager attention to what Chapman communicated to
him while seated in the Chief’s private office on the evening of the
day that Burton visited the office of J. Dunlap to secure his private
correspondence and documents.
“In the first place, Chief, as soon as I learned the details of this
Malloy crime, I decided that the perpetrator of it was of the negro
race,” said Chapman, methodically arranging a number of slips of paper
on the Chief’s desk, at which he sat confronting O’Brien on the opposite
side.
“How did you arrive at that decision?” said the detective.
“Well, as you are aware, for you laughed at me often enough when you ran
across me with my black associates, I ‘slummed’ among the negroes for
months to gain some knowledge of the negro nature”.
“Yes, I know that and often wondered at your persistent prosecution of
such a disagreeable undertaking,” said O’Brien.
“I learned in that investigation that beneath the surface of careless,
thoughtless gaiety and good nature there lies a tremendous amount of
cruelty and brutal savagery in the negro nature; that dire results have
been caused by a misconception of the negro character on this point to
those associated with them; that while sensual satiety produces lassitude
in other races, in the negro race it engenders a lust for blood that
almost invariably results in the murder of the victim of a brutal attack.
I checked the correctness of my conclusions by an examination of all
obtainable records and completely verified the accuracy of my deduction.”
“That had not occurred to me before,” said the Chief frankly; “now that
you mention it, I think from the record of that crime, as it recurs to me
at this moment, that your statement is true.”
“The next step was to look for the particular individual of the negro
race who could fit in with the trifling evidence in your possession,
which you so readily submitted to me. From the mold taken by your men
of the criminal’s foot-prints it is evident that his feet were small
and clad in expensive shoes. In the shape of the imprints I find
corroboration of my premise that the author of the crime was of the negro
race. The fragment of finger nail embedded in the girl’s throat, under a
microscope reveals the fact that, while the nail was not free from dirt,
it had recently been under the manipulation of a manicure and was not
of thick, coarse grain like a manual laborer’s nails,” said the amateur
detective glancing at his notes.
“Yes, I agree in all that, Mr. Chapman. Go ahead; what follows?” remarked
O’Brien.
“We have then a negro, but one not engaged in the usual employment of
the negro residents in Boston, to look for; next you found clutched in
the fingers of the dead girl two threads of brownish color and coarse
material, together with a fragment of paper like a part of an envelope on
which was written a few notes of music.”
“Yes, and I defy the devil to make anything result from such
infinitesimal particles of evidence,” exclaimed the professional
detective.
“Well, I’m not the devil.” said Chapman, quietly proceeding to
recapitulate the process adopted by him.
“From the few notes—you know that I am something of a musician—I began,
_poco a poco_, as they say in music, to reconstruct the tune of which
the few notes were a part. As I proceeded, going over the notes time and
again on my violoncello, I became convinced that I had heard that wild
tune before, and am now able to say where and when.”
“Wonderful, perfectly wonderful if you can, Chapman,” cried the
thoroughly interested Chief.
“What next?” O’Brien asked, impatient at the calmness of the man on the
opposite side of the desk.
“To-day I saw the finger that the fragment of nail found in the girl’s
neck would fit, and one finger-nail had been broken and was gone,”
continued Chapman, by great effort restraining the evidence of the
exultation that he felt.
“Where, man, where? And whose was the hand?” gasped O’Brien.
“Wait a moment! Upon reflection I realized that the only part of a man’s
apparel likely to give way in a desperate struggle would be a coat
pocket; that the hand of the girl had grasped the edge of the pocket and
in so doing had closed upon an old envelope in the pocket, which was torn
and remained in her hand with a couple of threads from the cloth of the
coat when the murderer finally wrenched the coat out of her lifeless
fingers.”
“Quite likely,” exclaimed the Chief impatiently.
“But hurry along, man,” urged the officer.
“This afternoon I examined under the most powerful microscope procurable
in Boston the threads that your assistant has in safe keeping. I
recognized the color and material of which those threads are made. I know
the coat whence the threads came, and the owner of the coat,” declared
Chapman emphatically.
“His name,” almost yelled the astonished detective.
“David Chapman,” was the cool and triumphant reply.
The Chief glared at the exultant amateur with wonder, in which a doubt of
the man’s sanity was mingled.
“It is the coat of the suit I wore while ‘slumming’ in my investigations
concerning the negro race. It has hung in my private closet in the office
until some time within the last two months, when it was abstracted by
some one having keys to the private offices of J. Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap,
Walter Burton and I alone possess such keys. Burton, like me, is tall and
slim, the suit will fit him; Burton is of the negro race; I heard Burton
play the tune of which the few notes are part when I went to his house on
the only occasion that I ever visited the ‘Eyrie;’ Burton’s shoes—I tried
an old one today which was left at the office some months ago—exactly
fit the tracks left by the murderer. Burton having no suit that he could
wear as a disguise while rambling the streets in search of adventure,
found and appropriated my old ‘slumming’ suit. You will find that suit,
blood-stained, the coat pocket torn, now hidden somewhere in the ‘Eyrie’
if it be not destroyed. Walter Burton is guilty of the Malloy assault
and murder!” Chapman had risen from his chair, his face was aflame with
vindictiveness and passion, his small eyes blazing with satisfied hatred
as he almost yelled, in his excitement, the denunciation of Burton.
“Great God! man, it can’t be,” gasped the Chief of Detectives, saying as
he regained his breath,
“Burton and the Dunlaps are not people to make mistakes with in such a
horrible case as this.”
“Burton has withdrawn from our firm. He has provided himself with a large
sum of currency. He is leaving the country. Tomorrow night he dines
with Mr. Dunlap to complete the arrangements for the severance of his
relations with the house of J. Dunlap. Captain Jack Dunlap will dine with
Mr. Dunlap on that occasion, and I shall be there to draw up any papers
required. The coast will be clear at the ‘Eyrie;’ go there upon the
pretext of arresting Victor, Burton’s valet, on the charge of larceny;
search throughout the premises; if you find the garments, and the coat
is in the condition I describe, come at once to the Dunlap mansion and
arrest the murderer, or it will be too late, the bird will have flown.”
The veins in Chapman’s brow and neck were fairly bursting through the
skin, so intense were the passion and vehemence of the man who, straining
forward, shouted out directions to the detective.
O’Brien sat for several minutes in silence, buried in deep meditation,
glancing ever and anon at Chapman, who, chafing with impatience, fairly
danced before the desk. The official arose and, walking to the window,
stood for some time gazing out upon the lighted street below. Suddenly he
turned and came back to Chapman, whom he held by the lapel of the coat,
while he said,
“Chapman, I know that you hate Burton. I know also of your fidelity to
the Dunlaps. You would never have told this to me, even as much as you
hate Burton, if it were not true. This disclosure and disgrace, if it be
as you suspect, will wound those dear to you.”
This phase of the situation had evidently not occurred to David Chapman
in his zeal for satisfaction to his all-consuming hatred of Burton. He
dropped his eyes, nervously clasped and unclasped his hands, while his
face paled as he faltered out,
“Well—maybe you had best not act upon my suggestions; I may be all wrong.”
“There, Mr. Chapman, is where I can’t agree with you. I am a sworn
officer of this commonwealth, and, by heavens! I would arrest the
governor of the state if I knew it to be my duty. Not all the money of
the Dunlaps or in the whole of Massachusetts could prevent me from laying
my hand on Walter Burton and placing him under arrest for the murder of
the Malloy girl, if I find the clothing you mention in the condition you
describe. I shall wait to make the search at the ‘Eyrie’ until tomorrow
night, that if there be a mistake it shall not be an irreparable one,”
said the conscientious Chief of Detectives sternly, in a determined tone
of voice.
“But I may be mistaken,” urged the agitated amateur detective.
“You have convinced me that there are grounds for your statements; I know
them now, and, knowing them, by my oath of office, must take action,”
quietly replied O’Brien.
“Then promise to keep my connection with the case a secret, except what
may be required of me as a witness subpoenaed to appear and testify,”
cried the now remorseful Chapman.
“That I will, and readily too, as it is but a small favor in comparison
to the great aid you have been to our department, and is not in conflict
with my duty. I shall also collect and hand over to you all of the
reward.”
“Never mind the reward; keep it for your pension fund,” replied the
regretful Superintendent of J. Dunlap, who had played detective once too
often and too well for his own peace of mind.