This is not a story of the Maharajah's emeralds; only a knot in the
landing-net of which I have already spoken. I may add with equal
frankness that Haggerty, upon his own initiative, never proceeded an
inch beyond the keyhole episode. It was one of his many failures; for,
unlike the great fictional detectives who never fail, Haggerty was
human, and did. It is only fair to add, however, that when he failed
only rarely did any one else succeed. If ever criminal investigation
was a man's calling, it was Haggerty's. He had infinite patience, the
heart of a lion and the strength of a gorilla. Had he been highly
educated, as a detective he would have been a fizzle; his mind would
have been concerned with variant lofty thoughts, and the sordid would
have repelled him: and all crimes are painted on a background of
sordidness. In one thing Haggerty stood among his peers and topped
many of them; in his long record there was not one instance of his
arresting an innocent man.
So Haggerty had his failures; there are geniuses on both sides of the
law; and the pariah-dog is always just a bit quicker mentally than the
thoroughbred hound who hunts him; indeed, to save his hide he has to be.
Nearly every great fact is like a well-balanced kite; it has for its
tail a whimsy. Haggerty, on a certain day, received twenty-five
hundred dollars from the Hindu prince and five hundred more from the
hotel management. The detective bore up under the strain with stoic
complacency. "The Blind Madonna of the Pagan--Chance" always had her
hand upon his shoulder.
Kitty went to Bar Harbor, her mother to visit friends in Orange.
Thomas walked with a straight spine always; but it stiffened to think
that, without knowing a solitary item about his past, they trusted him
with the run of the house. The first day there was work to do; the
second day, a little less; the third, nothing at all. So he moped
about the great house, lonesome as a forgotten dog. He wrote a sonnet
on being lonesome, tore it up and flung the scraps into the
waste-basket. Once, he seated himself at the piano and picked out with
clumsy forefinger _Walking Down the Old Kent Road_. Kitty could play.
Often in the mornings, while at his desk, he had heard her; and oddly
enough, he seemed to sense her moods by what she played. (That's the
poet.) When she played Chopin or Chaminade she went about gaily all
the day; when she played Beethoven, Grieg or Bach, Thomas felt the
presence of shadows.
There was a magnificent library, mostly editions de luxe. Thomas
smiled over the many uncut volumes. True, Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson
were tolerably well-thumbed; but the host of thinkers and poets and
dramatists and theologians, in their hand-tooled Levant . . . ! Away
in an obscure corner (because of its cheap binding) he came across a
set of Lamb. He took out a volume at random and glanced at the
fly-leaf--"Kitty Killigrew, Smith College." Then he went into the body
of the book. It was copiously marked and annotated. There was
something so intimate in the touch of the book that he felt he was
committing a sacrilege, looking as it were into Kitty's soul. Most men
would have gone through the set. Thomas put the book away. Thou fool,
indeed! What a hash he had made of his affairs!
He saw Killigrew at breakfast only. The merchant preferred his club in
the absence of his family.
Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, Thomas received a telephone
call from Killigrew.
"Hello! That you, Webb?"
"Yes. Who is it?"
"Killigrew. Got anything to do to-night?"
"No, Mr. Killigrew."
"You know where my club is, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, be there at seven for dinner. Tell the butler and the
housekeeper. Mr. Crawford has a box to the fight to-night, and he
thought perhaps you'd like to go along with us."
"A boxing-match?"
"Ten rounds, light-weights; and fast boys, too. Both Irish."
"Really, I shall be glad to go."
"Webb?"
"Yes."
"Never use that word 'really' to me. It's un-Irish."
Thomas heard a chuckle before the receiver at the other end clicked on
the hook. What a father this hearty, kindly, humorous Irishman would
have made for a son!
In London Thomas' amusements had been divided into three classes.
During the season he went to the opera twice, to the music-halls once a
month, to a boxing-match whenever he could spare the shillings. He
belonged to a workingmen's club not far from where he lived; an empty
warehouse, converted into a hall, with a platform in the center, from
which the fervid (and often misinformed) socialists harangued; and in
one corner was a fair gymnasium. Every fortnight, for the sum of a
crown a head, three or four amateur bouts were arranged. Thomas rarely
missed these exhibitions; he seriously considered it a part of his
self-acquired education. What Englishman lives who does not? Brains
and brawn make a man (or a country) invincible.
At seven promptly Thomas called at the club and asked for Mr.
Killigrew. He was shown into the grill, where he was pleasantly
greeted by his host and Crawford and introduced to a young man about
his own age, a Mr. Forbes. Thomas, dressed in his new stag-coat, felt
that he was getting along famously. He had some doubt in regard to his
straw hat, however, till, after dinner, he saw that his companions were
wearing their Panamas.
Forbes, the artist, had reached that blasé period when, only upon rare
occasions, did he feel disposed to enlarge his acquaintance. But this
fresh-skinned young Britisher went to his heart at once, a kindred
soul, and he adopted him forthwith. He and Thomas paired off and
talked "fight" all the way to the boxing club.
There was a great crowd pressing about the entrance. There were eddies
of turbulent spirits. A crowd in America is unlike any other. It is
full of meanness, rowdyism, petty malice. A big fellow, smelling of
bad whisky, shouldered Killigrew aside, roughly. Killigrew's Irish
blood flamed.
"Here! Look where you're going!" he cried.
The man reached back and jammed Killigrew's hat down over his eyes.
Killigrew stumbled and fell, and Crawford and Forbes surged to his
rescue from the trampling feet. Thomas, however, caught the ruffian's
right wrist, jammed it scientifically against the man's chest, took him
by the throat and bore him back, savagely and relentlessly. The crowd,
packed as it was, gave ground. With an oath the man struck. Thomas
struck back, accurately. Instantly the circle widened. A fight
outside was always more interesting than one inside the ropes. A blow
ripped open Thomas' shirt. It became a slam-bang affair. Thomas
knocked his man down just as a burly policeman arrived. Naturally, he
caught hold of Thomas and called for assistance. The wrong man first
is the invariable rule of the New York police.
"Milligan!" shouted Killigrew, as he sighted one of the club's
promoters.
Milligan recognized his millionaire patron and pushed to his side.
After due explanations, Thomas was liberated and the real culprit was
forced swearing through the press toward the patrol-wagon, always near
on such nights. Eventually the four gained Crawford's box. Aside from
a cut lip and a torn shirt, Thomas was uninjured. If his
fairy-godmother had prearranged this fisticuff, she could not have done
anything better so far as Killigrew was concerned.
"Thomas," he said, as the main bout was being staged, the chairs and
water-pails and paraphernalia changed to fresh corners, "I'll remember
that turn. If you're not Irish, it's no fault of yours. I wish you
knew something about coffee."
"I enjoy drinking it," Thomas replied, smiling humorously.
Ever after the merchant-prince treated Thomas like a son; the kind of a
boy he had always wanted and could not have. And only once again did
he doubt; and he longed to throttle the man who brought into light what
appeared to be the most damnable evidence of Thomas' perfidy.