"Is the Inspector in?"
Mr. Barnes immediately recognized the voice, and turned to greet the
speaker. The man was Mr. Leroy Mitchel's English valet. Contrary to all
precedent and tradition, he did not speak in cockney dialect, not even
stumbling over the proper distribution of the letter "h" throughout his
vocabulary. That he was English, however, was apparent to the ear,
because of a certain rather attractive accent, peculiar to his native
island, and to the eye because of a deferential politeness of manner,
too seldom observed in American servants. He also always called Mr.
Barnes "Inspector," oblivious of the fact that he was not a member of
the regular police, and mindful only of the English application of the
word to detectives.
"Step right in, Williams," said Mr. Barnes. "What is the trouble?"
"I don't rightly know, Inspector," said Williams. "Won't you let me
speak to you alone? It's about the master."
"Certainly. Come into my private room." He led the way and Williams
followed, remaining standing, although Mr. Barnes waved his hand towards
a chair as he seated himself in his usual place at his desk. "Now then,"
continued the detective, "what's wrong? Nothing serious I hope?"
"I hope not, sir, indeed. But the master's disappeared."
"Disappeared, has he." Mr. Barnes smiled slightly. "Now Williams, what
do you mean by that? You did not see him vanish, eh?"
"No, sir, of course not. If you'll excuse my presumption, Inspector, I
don't think this is a joke, sir, and you're laughing."
"All right, Williams," answered Mr. Barnes, assuming a more serious
tone. "I will give your tale my sober consideration. Proceed."
"Well, I hardly know where to begin, Inspector. But I'll just give you
the facts, without any unnecessary opinions of my own."
Williams rather prided himself upon his ability to tell what he called
"a straight story." He placed his hat on a chair, and, standing behind
it, with one foot resting on a rung, checked off the points of his
narrative, as he made them, by tapping the palm of one hand with the
index finger of the other.
"To begin then," said he. "Mrs. Mitchel and Miss Rose sailed for
England, Wednesday morning of last week. That same night, quite
unexpected, the master says to me, says he, 'Williams, I think you have
a young woman you're sweet on down at Newport?' 'Well, sir,' says I, 'I
do know a person as answers that description,' though I must say to you,
Inspector, that how he ever came to know it beats me. But that's aside,
and digression is not my habit. 'Well, Williams,' the master went on, 'I
shan't need you for the rest of this week, and if you'd like to take a
trip to the seashore, I shan't mind standing the expense, and letting
you go.' Of course, I thanked him very much, and I went, promising to be
back on Monday morning as directed. And I kept my word, Inspector;
though it was a hard wrench to leave the young person last Sunday in
time to catch the boat; the moon being bright and everything most
propitious for a stroll, it being her Sunday off, and all that. But, as
I said, I kept my word, and was up to the house Monday morning only a
little after seven, the boat having got in at six. I was a little
surprised to find that the master was not at home, but then it struck me
as how he must have gone out of town over Sunday, and I looked for him
to be in for dinner. But he did not come to dinner, nor at all that
night. Still, I did not worry about it. It was the master's privilege to
stay away as long as he liked. Only I could not help thinking I might
just as well have had that stroll in the moonlight, Sunday night. But
when all Tuesday and Tuesday night went by, and no word from the master,
I must confess that I got uneasy; and now here's Wednesday noon, and no
news; so I just took the liberty to come down and ask your opinion in
the matter, seeing as how you are a particular friend of the family,
and an Inspector to boot."
"Really, Williams," said Mr. Barnes, "all I see in your story is that
Mr. Mitchel, contemplating a little trip off somewhere with friends, let
you go away. He expected to be back by Monday, but, enjoying himself,
has remained longer."
"I hope that's all, sir, and I've tried to think so. But this morning I
made a few investigations of my own, and I'm bound to say what I found
don't fit that theory."
"Ah, you have some more facts. What are they?"
"One of them is this cablegram that I found only this morning under a
book on the table in the library." He handed a blue paper to Mr. Barnes,
who took it and read the following, on a cable blank:
"Emerald. Danger. Await letter."
For the first time during the interview Mr. Barnes's face assumed a
really serious expression. He studied the despatch silently for a full
minute, and then, without raising his eyes, said:
"What else?"
"Well, Inspector, I don't know that this has anything to do with the
affair, but the master had a curious sort of jacket, made of steel
links, so tight and so closely put together, that I've often wondered
what it was for. Once I made so bold as to ask him, and he said, said
he, 'Williams, if I had an enemy, it would be a good idea to wear that,
because it would stop a bullet or a knife.' Then he laughed, and went
on: 'Of course, I shan't need it for myself. I bought it when I was
abroad once, merely as a curiosity.' Now, Inspector, that jacket's
disappeared also."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I've looked from dining-room to garret for it. The master's derringer
is missing, too. It's a mighty small affair. Could be held in the hand
without being noticed, but it carries a nasty-looking ball."
"Very well, Williams, there may be something in your story. I'll look
into the matter at once. Meanwhile, go home, and stay there so that I
may find you if I want you."
"Yes, sir; I thank you for taking it up. It takes a load off my mind to
know you're in charge, Inspector. If there's harm come to the master,
I'm sure you'll track the party down. Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, Williams."
After the departure of Williams, the detective sat still for several
minutes, lost in thought. He was weighing two ideas. He seemed still to
hear the words which Mr. Mitchel had uttered after his success in
unravelling the mystery of Mr. Goldie's lost identity. "Next time I will
assign myself the chief _role_," or words to that effect, Mr. Mitchel
had said. Was this disappearance a new riddle for Mr. Barnes to solve?
If so, of course he would undertake it, as a sort of challenge which his
professional pride could not reject. On the other hand, the cable
despatch and the missing coat of mail might portend ominously. The
detective felt that Mr. Mitchel was somewhat in the position of the
fabled boy who cried "Wolf!" so often that, when at last the wolf really
appeared, no assistance was sent to him. Only Mr. Barnes decided that he
must chase the "wolf," whether it be real or imaginary. He wished,
though, that he knew which.
Ten minutes later he decided upon a course of action, and proceeded to a
telegraph office, where he found that, as he had supposed, the despatch
had come from the Paris firm of jewellers from which Mr. Mitchel had
frequently bought gems. He sent a lengthy message to them, asking for an
immediate reply.
While waiting for the answer, the detective was not inactive. He went
direct to Mr. Mitchel's house, and once more questioned the valet, from
whom he obtained an accurate description of the clothes which his master
must have worn, only one suit being absent. This fact alone, seemed
significantly against the theory of a visit to friends out of town.
Next, Mr. Barnes interviewed the neighbors, none of whom remembered to
have seen Mr. Mitchel during the week. At the sixth house below,
however, he learned something definite. Here he found Mr. Mordaunt, a
personal acquaintance, and member of one of Mr. Mitchel's clubs. This
gentleman stated that he had dined at the club with Mr. Mitchel on the
previous Thursday, and had accompanied him home, in the neighborhood of
eleven o'clock, parting with him at the door of his own residence. Since
then he had neither seen nor heard from him. This proved that Mr.
Mitchel was at home one day after Williams went to Newport.
Leaving the house, Mr. Barnes called at the nearest telegraph office and
asked whether a messenger summons had reached them during the week, from
Mr. Mitchel's house. The record slips showed that the last call had been
received at 12.30 A.M., on Friday. A cab had been demanded, and was
sent, reaching the house at one o'clock. At the stables, Mr. Barnes
questioned the cab-driver, and learned that Mr. Mitchel had alighted at
Madison Square.
"But he got right into another cab," added the driver. "It was just a
chance I seen him, 'cause he made as if he was goin' into the Fifth
Avenoo; but luck was agin' him, for I'd scarcely gone two blocks back,
when I had to get down to fix my harness, and while I was doin' that,
who should I see but my fare go by in another cab."
"You did not happen to know the driver of that vehicle?" suggested Mr.
Barnes.
"That's just what I did happen to know. He's always by the Square, along
the curb by the Park. His name's Jerry. You'll find him easy enough, and
he'll tell you where he took that fly bird."
Mr. Barnes went down town again, and did find Jerry, who remembered
driving a man at the stated time, as far as the Imperial Hotel; but
beyond that the detective learned nothing, for at the hotel no one knew
Mr. Mitchel, and none recollected his arrival early Friday morning.
From the fact that Mr. Mitchel had changed cabs, and doubled on his
track, Mr. Barnes concluded that he was after all merely hiding away for
the pleasure of baffling him, and he felt much relieved to divest the
case of its alarming aspect. However, he was not long permitted to hold
this opinion. At the telegraph office he found a cable despatch awaiting
him, which read as follows:
"Montezuma Emerald forwarded Mitchel tenth. Previous owner
murdered London eleventh. Mexican suspected. Warned
Mitchel."
This assuredly looked very serious. Casting aside all thought of a
practical joke, Mr. Barnes now threw himself heart and soul into the
task of finding Mitchel, dead or alive. From the telegraph office he
hastened to the Custom-House, where he learned that an emerald, the
invoiced value of which was no less than twenty thousand dollars, had
been delivered to Mr. Mitchel in person, upon payment of the custom
duties, at noon of the previous Thursday. Mr. Barnes, with this
knowledge, thought he knew why Mr. Mitchel had been careful to have a
friend accompany him to his home on that night. But why had he gone out
again? Perhaps he felt safer at a hotel than at home, and, having
reached the Imperial, taking two cabs to mystify the villain who might
be tracking him, he might have registered under an alias. What a fool he
had been not to examine the registry, as he could certainly recognize
Mr. Mitchel's handwriting, though the name signed would of course be a
false one.
Back, therefore, he hastened to the Imperial, where, however, his search
for familiar chirography was fruitless. Then an idea occurred to him.
Mr. Mitchel was so shrewd that it would not be unlikely that, meditating
a disappearance to baffle the men on his track, he had registered at the
hotel several days prior to his permanently stopping there. Turning the
page over, Mr. Barnes still failed to find what he sought, but a curious
name caught his eye.
"Miguel Palma--City of Mexico."
Could this be the London murderer? Was this the suspected Mexican? If
so, here was a bold and therefore dangerous criminal who openly put up
at one of the most prominent hostelries. Mr. Barnes was turning this
over in his mind, when a diminutive newsboy rushed into the corridor,
shouting:
"Extra _Sun_! Extra _Sun_! All about the horrible murder. Extra!"
Mr. Barnes purchased a paper and was stupefied at the headlines: