in the day, amongst the more exacting conventions that encompass the
society hero, when we had our liveliest disagreement. At noon he went to
O'Roon's room and found him far enough recovered to return to his post,
which he at once did.
At about six o'clock in the afternoon Van Sweller fingered his watch,
and flashed at me a brief look full of such shrewd cunning that I
suspected him at once.
"Time to dress for dinner, old man," he said, with exaggerated
carelessness.
"Very well," I answered, without giving him a clew to my suspicions; "I
will go with you to your rooms and see that you do the thing properly.
I suppose that every author must be a valet to his own hero."
He affected cheerful acceptance of my somewhat officious proposal to
accompany him. I could see that he was annoyed by it, and that fact
fastened deeper in my mind the conviction that he was meditating some
act of treachery.
When he had reached his apartments he said to me, with a too patronizing
air: "There are, as you perhaps know, quite a number of little
distinguishing touches to be had out of the dressing process. Some
writers rely almost wholly upon them. I suppose that I am to ring for
my man, and that he is to enter noiselessly, with an expressionless
countenance."
"He may enter," I said, with decision, "and only enter. Valets do not
usually enter a room shouting college songs or with St. Vitus's dance
in their faces; so the contrary may be assumed without fatuous or
gratuitous asseveration."
"I must ask you to pardon me," continued Van Sweller, gracefully, "for
annoying you with questions, but some of your methods are a little new
to me. Shall I don a full-dress suit with an immaculate white tie - or
is there another tradition to be upset?"
"You will wear," I replied, "evening dress, such as a gentleman wears.
If it is full, your tailor should be responsible for its bagginess.
And I will leave it to whatever erudition you are supposed to possess
whether a white tie is rendered any whiter by being immaculate. And I
will leave it to the consciences of you and your man whether a tie that
is not white, and therefore not immaculate, could possibly form any
part of a gentleman's evening dress. If not, then the perfect tie is
included and understood in the term 'dress,' and its expressed addition
predicates either a redundancy of speech or the spectacle of a man
wearing two ties at once."
With this mild but deserved rebuke I left Van Sweller in his
dressing-room, and waited for him in his library.
About an hour later his valet came out, and I heard him telephone for
an electric cab. Then out came Van Sweller, smiling, but with that sly,
secretive design in his eye that was puzzling me.
"I believe," he said easily, as he smoothed a glove, "that I will drop
in at - - [4] for dinner."
[Footnote 4: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
I sprang up, angrily, at his words. This, then, was the paltry trick he
had been scheming to play upon me. I faced him with a look so grim that
even his patrician poise was flustered.
"You will never do so," I exclaimed, "with my permission. What kind of a
return is this," I continued, hotly, "for the favors I have granted you?
I gave you a 'Van' to your name when I might have called you 'Perkins'
or 'Simpson.' I have humbled myself so far as to brag of your polo
ponies, your automobiles, and the iron muscles that you acquired when
you were stroke-oar of your 'varsity eight,' or 'eleven,' whichever it
is. I created you for the hero of this story; and I will not submit to
having you queer it. I have tried to make you a typical young New York
gentleman of the highest social station and breeding. You have no reason
to complain of my treatment to you. Amy Ffolliott, the girl you are to
win, is a prize for any man to be thankful for, and cannot be equalled
for beauty - provided the story is illustrated by the right artist. I do
not understand why you should try to spoil everything. I had thought you
were a gentleman."
"What it is you are objecting to, old man?" asked Van Sweller, in a
surprised tone.
"To your dining at - - [5]," I answered. "The pleasure would be
yours, no doubt, but the responsibility would fall upon me. You intend
deliberately to make me out a tout for a restaurant. Where you dine
to-night has not the slightest connection with the thread of our story.
You know very well that the plot requires that you be in front of the
Alhambra Opera House at 11:30 where you are to rescue Miss Ffolliott a
second time as the fire engine crashes into her cab. Until that time
your movements are immaterial to the reader. Why can't you dine out
of sight somewhere, as many a hero does, instead of insisting upon an
inapposite and vulgar exhibition of yourself?"
[Footnote 5: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
"My dear fellow," said Van Sweller, politely, but with a stubborn
tightening of his lips, "I'm sorry it doesn't please you, but there's
no help for it. Even a character in a story has rights that an author
cannot ignore. The hero of a story of New York social life must dine
at - - [6] at least once during its action."
[Footnote 6: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
"'Must,'" I echoed, disdainfully; "why 'must'? Who demands it?"
"The magazine editors," answered Van Sweller, giving me a glance of
significant warning.
"But why?" I persisted.
"To please subscribers around Kankakee, Ill.," said Van Sweller, without
hesitation.
"How do you know these things?" I inquired, with sudden suspicion. "You
never came into existence until this morning. You are only a character
in fiction, anyway. I, myself, created you. How is it possible for you
to know anything?"
"Pardon me for referring to it," said Van Sweller, with a sympathetic
smile, "but I have been the hero of hundreds of stories of this kind."
I felt a slow flush creeping into my face.
"I thought . . ." I stammered; "I was hoping . . . that is . . . Oh,
well, of course an absolutely original conception in fiction is
impossible in these days."
"Metropolitan types," continued Van Sweller, kindly, "do not offer a
hold for much originality. I've sauntered through every story in pretty
much the same way. Now and then the women writers have made me cut some
rather strange capers, for a gentleman; but the men generally pass me
along from one to another without much change. But never yet, in any
story, have I failed to dine at - - [7]."
[Footnote 7: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
"You will fail this time," I said, emphatically.
"Perhaps so," admitted Van Sweller, looking out of the window into the
street below, "but if so it will be for the first time. The authors all
send me there. I fancy that many of them would have liked to accompany
me, but for the little matter of the expense."
"I say I will be touting for no restaurant," I repeated, loudly. "You
are subject to my will, and I declare that you shall not appear of
record this evening until the time arrives for you to rescue Miss
Ffolliott again. If the reading public cannot conceive that you
have dined during that interval at some one of the thousands of
establishments provided for that purpose that do not receive literary
advertisement it may suppose, for aught I care, that you have gone
fasting."
"Thank you," said Van Sweller, rather coolly, "you are hardly courteous.
But take care! it is at your own risk that you attempt to disregard a
fundamental principle in metropolitan fiction - one that is dear alike to
author and reader. I shall, of course attend to my duty when it comes
time to rescue your heroine; but I warn you that it will be your loss if
you fail to send me to-night to dine at - - [8]."
[Footnote 8: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
"I will take the consequences if there are to be any," I replied. "I am
not yet come to be sandwich man for an eating-house."
I walked over to a table where I had left my cane and gloves. I heard
the whirr of the alarm in the cab below and I turned quickly. Van
Sweller was gone.
I rushed down the stairs and out to the curb. An empty hansom was just
passing. I hailed the driver excitedly.
"See that auto cab halfway down the block?" I shouted. "Follow it. Don't
lose sight of it for an instant, and I will give you two dollars!"
If I only had been one of the characters in my story instead of myself I
could easily have offered $10 or $25 or even $100. But $2 was all I felt
justified in expending, with fiction at its present rates.
The cab driver, instead of lashing his animal into a foam, proceeded at
a deliberate trot that suggested a by-the-hour arrangement.
But I suspected Van Sweller's design; and when we lost sight of his cab
I ordered my driver to proceed at once to - - . [9]
[Footnote 9: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
I found Van Sweller at a table under a palm, just glancing over the
menu, with a hopeful waiter hovering at his elbow.
"Come with me," I said, inexorably. "You will not give me the slip
again. Under my eye you shall remain until 11:30."
Van Sweller countermanded the order for his dinner, and arose to
accompany me. He could scarcely do less. A fictitious character is but
poorly equipped for resisting a hungry but live author who comes to drag
him forth from a restaurant. All he said was: "You were just in time;
but I think you are making a mistake. You cannot afford to ignore the
wishes of the great reading public."
I took Van Sweller to my own rooms - to my room. He had never seen
anything like it before.
"Sit on that trunk," I said to him, "while I observe whether the
landlady is stalking us. If she is not, I will get things at a
delicatessen store below, and cook something for you in a pan over the
gas jet. It will not be so bad. Of course nothing of this will appear
in the story."
"Jove! old man!" said Van Sweller, looking about him with interest,
"this is a jolly little closet you live in! Where the devil do you
sleep? - Oh, that pulls down! And I say - what is this under the corner of
the carpet? - Oh, a frying pan! I see - clever idea! Fancy cooking over
the gas! What larks it will be!"
"Think of anything you could eat?" I asked; "try a chop, or what?"
"Anything," said Van Sweller, enthusiastically, "except a grilled bone."
Two weeks afterward the postman brought me a large, fat envelope. I
opened it, and took out something that I had seen before, and this
typewritten letter from a magazine that encourages society fiction:
Your short story, "The Badge of Policeman O'Roon," is herewith
returned.
We are sorry that it has been unfavorably passed upon; but it
seems to lack in some of the essential requirements of our
publication.
The story is splendidly constructed; its style is strong and
inimitable, and its action and character-drawing deserve
the highest praise. As a story _per se_ it has merit beyond
anything that we have read for some time. But, as we have said,
it fails to come up to some of the standards we have set.
Could you not re-write the story, and inject into it the social
atmosphere, and return it to us for further consideration? It
is suggested to you that you have the hero, Van Sweller, drop
in for luncheon or dinner once or twice at - - [10] or at the
- - [11] which will be in line with the changes desired.
Very truly yours
THE EDITORS.
[Footnote 10: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
[Footnote 11: See advertising column, "Where to Dine Well,"
in the daily newspapers.]
[Illustration: "See him do it." (cartoon from _The Rolling
Stone_)]
SOUND AND FURY
[O. Henry wrote this for _Ainslee's Magazine_, where it
appeared in March, 1903.]
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA
Mr. PENNE . . . . . . An Author
Miss LORE . . . . . . An Amanuensis
SCENE - Workroom of Mr. Penne's popular novel factory.
MR. PENNE - Good morning, Miss Lore. Glad to see you so prompt. We
should finish that June installment for the _Epoch_ to-day. Leverett is
crowding me for it. Are you quite ready? We will resume where we left
off yesterday. (Dictates.) "Kate, with a sigh, rose from his knees,
and - "
MISS LORE - Excuse me; you mean "rose from her knees," instead of "his,"
don't you?
MR. PENNE - Er - no - "his," if you please. It is the love scene in the
garden. (Dictates.) "Rose from his knees where, blushing with youth's
bewitching coyness, she had rested for a moment after Cortland had
declared his love. The hour was one of supreme and tender joy. When
Kate - scene that Cortland never - "
MISS LORE - Excuse me; but wouldn't it be more grammatical to say "when
Kate SAW," instead of "seen"?
MR. PENNE - The context will explain. (Dictates.) "When Kate - scene that
Cortland never forgot - came tripping across the lawn it seemed to him
the fairest sight that earth had ever offered to his gaze."
Miss LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "Kate had abandoned herself to the joy of her
new-found love so completely, that no shadow of her former grief was
cast upon it. Cortland, with his arm firmly entwined about her waist,
knew nothing of her sighs - "
MISS LORE - Goodness! If he couldn't tell her size with his arm around -
MR. PENNE (frowning) - "Of her sighs and tears of the previous night."
MISS LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "To Cortland the chief charm of this girl was her
look of innocence and unworldiness. Never had nun - "
MISS LORE - How about changing that to "never had any?"
MR. PENNE (emphatically) - "Never had nun in cloistered cell a face more
sweet and pure."
MISS LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "But now Kate must hasten back to the house lest
her absence be discovered. After a fond farewell she turned and sped
lightly away. Cortland's gaze followed her. He watched her rise - "
MISS LORE - Excuse me, Mr. Penne; but how could he watch her eyes while
her back was turned toward him?
MR. PENNE (with extreme politeness) - Possibly you would gather my
meaning more intelligently if you would wait for the conclusion of the
sentence. (Dictates.) "Watched her rise as gracefully as a fawn as she
mounted the eastern terrace."
MISS LORE - Oh!
Mr. PENNE (dictates) - "And yet Cortland's position was so far above that
of this rustic maiden that he dreaded to consider the social upheaval
that would ensue should he marry her. In no uncertain tones the
traditional voices of his caste and world cried out loudly to him to let
her go. What should follow - "
MISS LORE (looking up with a start) - I'm sure I can't say, Mr. Penne.
Unless (with a giggle) you would want to add "Gallegher."
Mr. PENNE (coldly) - Pardon me. I was not seeking to impose upon you the
task of a collaborator. Kindly consider the question a part of the text.
MISS LORE - Oh!
Mr. PENNE (dictates) - "On one side was love and Kate; on the other side
his heritage of social position and family pride. Would love win? Love,
that the poets tell us will last forever! (Perceives that Miss Lore
looks fatigued, and looks at his watch.) That's a good long stretch.
Perhaps we'd better knock off a bit."
(Miss Lore does not reply.)
Mr. PENNE - I said, Miss Lore, we've been at it quite a long time -
wouldn't you like to knock off for a while?
MISS LORE - Oh! Were you addressing me before? I put what you said down.
I thought it belonged in the story. It seemed to fit in all right. Oh,
no; I'm not tired.
MR. PENNE - Very well, then, we will continue. (Dictates.) "In spite of
these qualms and doubts, Cortland was a happy man. That night at the
club he silently toasted Kate's bright eyes in a bumper of the rarest
vintage. Afterward he set out for a stroll with, as Kate on - "
MISS LORE - Excuse me, Mr. Penne, for venturing a suggestion; but don't
you think you might state that in a less coarse manner?
MR. PENNE (astounded) - Wh-wh - I'm afraid I fail to understand you.
MISS LORE - His condition. Why not say he was "full" or "intoxicated"? It
would sound much more elegant than the way you express it.
MR. PENNE (still darkly wandering) - Will you kindly point out, Miss
Lore, where I have intimated that Cortland was "full," if you prefer
that word?
MISS LORE (calmly consulting her stenographic notes) - It is right here,
word for word. (Reads.) "Afterward he set out for a stroll with a skate
on."
MR. PENNE (with peculiar emphasis) - Ah! And now will you kindly take
down the expurgated phrase? (Dictates.) "Afterward he set out for a
stroll with, as Kate on one occasion had fancifully told him, her spirit
leaning upon his arm."
MISS LORE - Oh!
Mr. PENNE (dictates) - Chapter thirty-four. Heading - "What Kate Found
in the Garden." "That fragrant summer morning brought gracious tasks
to all. The bees were at the honeysuckle blossoms on the porch. Kate,
singing a little song, was training the riotous branches of her favorite
woodbine. The sun, himself, had rows - "
MISS LORE - Shall I say "had risen"?
MR. PENNE (very slowly and with desperate deliberation) - "The - sun -
himself - had - rows - of - blushing - pinks - and - bollyhocks - and -
hyacinths - waiting - that - he - might - dry - their - dew-drenched - cups."
MISS LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "The earliest trolley, scattering the birds from
its pathway like some marauding cat, brought Cortland over from Oldport.
He had forgotten his fair - "
MISS LORE - Hm! Wonder how he got the conductor to -
Mr. PENNE (very loudly) - "Forgotten his fair and roseate visions of the
night in the practical light of the sober morn."
MISS LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "He greeted her with his usual smile and manner.
'See the waves,' he cried, pointing to the heaving waters of the sea,
'ever wooing and returning to the rockbound shore.'" "'Ready to break,'
Kate said, with - "
MISS LORE - My! One evening he has his arm around her, and the next
morning he's ready to break her head! Just like a man!
MR. PENNE (with suspicious calmness) - There are times, Miss Lore, when
a man becomes so far exasperated that even a woman - But suppose we
finish the sentence. (Dictates.) "'Ready to break,' Kate said, with
the thrilling look of a soul-awakened woman, 'into foam and spray,
destroying themselves upon the shore they love so well."
MISS LORE - Oh!
MR. PENNE (dictates) - "Cortland, in Kate's presence heard faintly the
voice of caution. Thirty years had not cooled his ardor. It was in
his power to bestow great gifts upon this girl. He still retained the
beliefs that he had at twenty." (To Miss Lore, wearily) I think that
will be enough for the present.
MISS LORE (wisely) - Well, if he had the twenty that he believed he had,
it might buy her a rather nice one.
MR. PENNE (faintly) - The last sentence was my own. We will discontinue
for the day, Miss Lore.
MISS LORE - Shall I come again to-morrow?
MR. PENNE (helpless under the spell) - If you will be so good.
(Exit Miss Lore.)
ASBESTOS CURTAIN
[Illustrations: Two letters of reference taken by young Will
Porter from North Carolina to Texas]
TICTOCQ
[These two farcical stories about Tictocq appeared in
_The Rolling Stone_. They are reprinted here with all of
their local references because, written hurriedly and for
neighborly reading, they nevertheless have an interest
for the admirer of O. Henry. They were written in 1894.]
THE GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE, IN AUSTIN
A Successful Political Intrigue
CHAPTER I
It is not generally known that Tictocq, the famous French detective, was
in Austin last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumed
name, and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for one
not to be singled out.
No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed the
information that his mission was an important one from the French
Government.
One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an old
statute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty between
the Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly provides
for the north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this is
merely a conjecture.
Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of
Tictocq's room in the hotel.
The detective opened the door.
"Monsieur Tictocq, I believe," said the gentleman.
"You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. X. Jones," said
Tictocq, "and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as
such. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give
you satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O'Donnell,
John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire."
"I do not mind it in the least," said the gentleman. "In fact, I am
accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee,
Platform No. 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq
from your resemblance to yourself."
"Entrez vous," said the detective.
The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.
"I am a man of few words," said Tictoq. "I will help your friend if
possible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayette
and French fried potatoes. You have given us California champagne
and - taken back Ward McAllister. State your case."
"I will be very brief," said the visitor. "In room No. 76 in this hotel
is stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night some
one stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered,
his party will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will make
great capital of the burglary, although I am sure it was not a political
move at all. The socks must be recovered. You are the only man that can
do it."
Tictocq bowed.
"Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the
hotel?"
"The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody is
at your service."
Tictocq consulted his watch.
"Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6 o'clock with the landlord,
the Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both
parties, and I will return the socks."
"Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl."
"Au revoir."
The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowed
courteously and withdrew.
* * * * * *
Tictocq sent for the bell boy.
"Did you go to room 76 last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who was there?"
"An old hayseed what come on the 7:25."
"What did he want?"
"The bouncer."
"What for?"
"To put the light out."
"Did you take anything while in the room?"
"No, he didn't ask me."
"What is your name?"
"Jim."
"You can go."
CHAPTER II
The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in
Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and
from gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate
feet of the guests may tread.
The occasion is the entrée into society of one of the fairest buds in
the City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the
beauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged
to be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found
southwest of Kansas City.
Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her
a circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her evenings
come nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion,
except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron
Front.
Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society's maze was heralded by such an
auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large,
lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingénue manner. She wears
a china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of
towels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades.
She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tête-à -tête with
Harold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend
and schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a
week or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser
from the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is
promenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the
popular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar to
every one who reads police court reports.
Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the
pauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.
Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as
they bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey things
that lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth,
hearts beat time to the sweet notes of "Love's Young Dream."
"And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?"
says Miss St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping at
another shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir
Knight, and defend yourself."
"Oh, come off," says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; "I've been
having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from
the cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds,
and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged - I
mean - can't you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to
fit 'em? Business dull too, nobody wants 'em over three dollars."
"You witty boy," says Miss St. Vitus. "Just as full of bon mots and
clever sayings as ever. What do you take now?"
"Oh, beer."
"Give me your arm and let's go into the drawing-room and draw a cork.
I'm chewing a little cotton myself."
Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of
all eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman
at the Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the
millionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing under
the oleanders as they go by.
"She is very beautiful," says Luderic.
"Rats," says Mabel.
A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitary
man who seemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of his
position, and perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoided drawing
any especial attention to himself.
The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.
He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street by
Colonel St. Vitus about a week before, and according to the Austin
custom in such cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next day
accepted into society, with large music classes at his service.
Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor from
Beethoven's "Songs Without Music." The grand chords fill the room with
exquisite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the
obligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that
grand te deum with arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush in
the room that is dearer to the artist's heart than the loudest applause.
The professor looks around.
The room is empty.
Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, who
springs from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.
The professor rises in alarm.
"Hush," says Tictocq: "Make no noise at all. You have already made
enough."
Footsteps are heard outside.
"Be quick," says Tictocq: "give me those socks. There is not a moment to
spare."
"Vas sagst du?"
"Ah, he confesses," says Tictocq. "No socks will do but those you
carried off from the Populist Candidate's room."
The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.
Tictooq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon the
floor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latter
through the open window into the garden.
CHAPTER III
Tictocq's room in the Avenue Hotel.
A knock is heard at the door.
Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.
"Ah," he says, "it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs."
The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate
who is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairman
of the Democratic Executive Committee, platform No. 2, the hotel
proprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could
be found out.
"I don't know," begins the Populist Candidate, "what in the h - - "
"Excuse me," says Tictocq, firmly. "You will oblige me by keeping silent
until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have
unravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with
attention."
"Certainly," says the chairman; "we will be pleased to listen."
Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burns
brightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor,
cleverness, and cunning.
The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.
"When informed of the robbery," begins Tictocq, "I first questioned the
bell boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knew
nothing. I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there used
to be a little colored boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and kept
them for recovery by the police, but failed to be at the place agreed
upon for arrest one time, and had been sent to jail.
"I then began to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry a
Populist's socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would not
want to do so in the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would he get
one? At the _Statesman office_, of course. I went there. A young man
with his hair combed down on his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew
he was writing society items, for a young lady's slipper, a piece of
cake, a fan, a half emptied bottle of cocktail, a bunch of roses, and
a police whistle lay on the desk before him.
"'Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last three
months?' I said.
"'Yes,' he replied; 'we sold one last night.'
"'Can you describe the man?'
"'Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades,
a touch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath.'
"'Which way did he go?'
"'Out.'
"I then went - "
"Wait a minute," said the Populist Candidate, rising; "I don't see why
in the h - - "
"Once more I must beg that you will be silent," said Tictocq, rather
sharply. "You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report."
"I made one false arrest," continued Tictocq. "I was passing two finely
dressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had
'stole his socks.' I handcuffed him and dragged him to a lighted store,
when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated and
his tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of some
business transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had 'sold
his stocks.'
"I then released him.
"An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bum
drinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said 'here is my man.'
He worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, and
would have stolen anybody's socks. I shadowed him to the reception at
Colonel St. Vitus's, and in an opportune moment I seized him and tore
the socks from his feet. There they are."
With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon the
table, folded his arms, and threw back his head.
With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to his
feet.
"Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I - "
The two other Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly.
"Is this tale true?" they demanded of the Candidate.
"No, by gosh, it ain't!" he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the
Democratic Chairman. "There stands the man who has concocted the whole
scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for
our party. How far has thing gone?" he added, turning savagely to the
detective.
"All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the
_Statesman_ will have it in plate matter next week," said Tictocq,
complacently.
"All is lost!" said the Populists, turning toward the door.
"For God's sake, my friends," pleaded the Candidate, following them;
"listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of
socks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie."
The Populists turn their backs.
"The damage is already done," they said. "The people have heard the
story. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race."
All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats.
"Let's all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee,"
said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform No. 2.
[Illustration: "The Plunkville Patriot," April 2, 1895]
TRACKED TO DOOM
Or
The Mystery of the Rue de Peychaud
'Tis midnight in Paris.
A myriad of lamps that line the Champs Elysées and the Rouge et Noir,
cast their reflection in the dark waters of the Seine as it flows
gloomily past the Place Vendôme and the black walls of the Convent
Notadam.
The great French capital is astir.
It is the hour when crime and vice and wickedness reign.
Hundreds of fiacres drive madly through the streets conveying women,
flashing with jewels and as beautiful as dreams, from opera and concert,
and the little bijou supper rooms of the Café Tout le Temps are filled
with laughing groups, while bon mots, persiflage and repartee fly upon
the air - the jewels of thought and conversation.
Luxury and poverty brush each other in the streets. The homeless gamin,
begging a sou with which to purchase a bed, and the spendthrift roué,
scattering golden louis d'or, tread the same pavement.
When other cities sleep, Paris has just begun her wild revelry.
The first scene of our story is a cellar beneath the Rue de Peychaud.
The room is filled with smoke of pipes, and is stifling with the reeking
breath of its inmates. A single flaring gas jet dimly lights the scene,
which is one Rembrandt or Moreland and Keisel would have loved to paint.
A garçon is selling absinthe to such of the motley crowd as have a few
sous, dealing it out in niggardly portions in broken teacups.
Leaning against the bar is Carnaignole Cusheau - generally known as the
Gray Wolf.
He is the worst man in Paris.
He is more than four feet ten in height, and his sharp, ferocious
looking face and the mass of long, tangled gray hair that covers his
face and head, have earned for him the name he bears.
His striped blouse is wide open at the neck and falls outside of his
dingy leather trousers. The handle of a deadly looking knife protrudes
from his belt. One stroke of its blade would open a box of the finest
French sardines.
"Voilà , Gray Wolf," cries Couteau, the bartender. "How many victims
to-day? There is no blood upon your hands. Has the Gray Wolf forgotten
how to bite?"
"Sacrè Bleu, Mille Tonnerre, by George," hisses the Gray Wolf. "Monsieur
Couteau, you are bold indeed to speak to me thus.
"By Ventre St. Gris! I have not even dined to-day. Spoils indeed. There
is no living in Paris now. But one rich American have I garroted in a
fortnight.
"Bah! those Democrats. They have ruined the country. With their income
tax and their free trade, they have destroyed the millionaire business.
Carrambo! Diable! D - - n it!"
"Hist!" suddenly says Chamounix the rag-picker, who is worth 20,000,000
francs, "some one comes!"
The cellar door opened and a man crept softly down the rickety steps.
The crowd watches him with silent awe.
He went to the bar, laid his card on the counter, bought a drink of
absinthe, and then drawing from his pocket a little mirror, set it up on
the counter and proceeded to don a false beard and hair and paint his
face into wrinkles, until he closely resembled an old man seventy-one
years of age.
He then went into a dark corner and watched the crowd of people with
sharp, ferret-like eyes.
Gray Wolf slipped cautiously to the bar and examined the card left by
the newcomer.
"Holy Saint Bridget!" he exclaims. "It is Tictocq, the detective."
Ten minutes later a beautiful woman enters the cellar. Tenderly
nurtured, and accustomed to every luxury that money could procure,
she had, when a young vivandière at the Convent of Saint Susan de la
Montarde, run away with the Gray Wolf, fascinated by his many crimes and
the knowledge that his business never allowed him to scrape his feet in
the hall or snore.
"Parbleu, Marie," snarls the Gray Wolf. "Que voulez vous? Avez-vous le
beau cheval de mon frère, oule joli chien de votre père?"
"No, no, Gray Wolf," shouts the motley group of assassins, rogues and
pickpockets, even their hardened hearts appalled at his fearful words.
"Mon Dieu! You cannot be so cruel!"
"Tiens!" shouts the Gray Wolf, now maddened to desperation, and drawing
his gleaming knife. "Voilà ! Canaille! Tout le monde, carte blanche
enbonpoint sauve que peut entre nous revenez nous a nous moutons!"
The horrified sans-culottes shrink back in terror as the Gray Wolf
seizes Maria by the hair and cuts her into twenty-nine pieces, each
exactly the same size.
As he stands with reeking hands above the corpse, amid a deep silence,
the old, gray-bearded man who has been watching the scene springs
forward, tears off his false beard and locks, and Tictocq, the famous
French detective, stands before them.
Spellbound and immovable, the denizens of the cellar gaze at the
greatest modern detective as he goes about the customary duties of his
office.
He first measures the distance from the murdered woman to a point on the
wall, then he takes down the name of the bartender and the day of the
month and the year. Then drawing from his pocket a powerful microscope,
he examines a little of the blood that stands upon the floor in little
pools.
"Mon Dieu!" he mutters, "it is as I feared - human blood."
He then enters rapidly in a memorandum book the result of his
investigations, and leaves the cellar.
Tictocq bends his rapid steps in the direction of the headquarters of
the Paris gendarmerie, but suddenly pausing, he strikes his hand upon
his brow with a gesture of impatience.
"Mille tonnerre," he mutters. "I should have asked the name of that man
with the knife in his hand."
* * * * * *
It is reception night at the palace of the Duchess Valerie du Bellairs.
The apartments are flooded with a mellow light from paraffine candles
in solid silver candelabra.
The company is the most aristocratic and wealthy in Paris.
Three or four brass bands are playing behind a portière between the coal
shed, and also behind time. Footmen in gay-laced livery bring in beer
noiselessly and carry out apple-peelings dropped by the guests.
Valerie, seventh Duchess du Bellairs, leans back on a solid gold ottoman
on eiderdown cushions, surrounded by the wittiest, the bravest, and the
handsomest courtiers in the capital.