The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3) by Arthur B. Reeve (top 10 motivational books .txt) 📕

It Was A Rather Sultry Afternoon In The Late Summer When People

Who Had Calculated By The Calendar Rather Than By The Weather Were

Returning To The City From The Seashore,  The Mountains,  And

Abroad.

Except For The Week-Ends,  Kennedy And I Had Been Pretty Busy,

Though On This Particular Day There Was A Lull In The Succession

Of Cases Which Had Demanded Our Urgent Attention During The

Summer.

We Had Met At The Public Library,  Where Craig Was Doing Some

Special Research At Odd Moments In Criminology. Fifth Avenue Was

Still Half Deserted,  Though The Few Pedestrians Who Had Returned

Or Remained In Town Like Ourselves Were,  As Usual,  To Be Found

Mostly On The West Side Of The Street. Nearly Everybody,  I Have

Noticed,  Walks On The One Side Of Fifth Avenue,  Winter Or Summer.

As We Stood On The Corner Waiting For The Traffic Man's Whistle To

Halt The Crush Of Automobiles,  A Man On The Top Of A 'Bus Waved To

Kennedy.

I Looked Up And Caught A Glimpse Of Jack Herndon,  An Old College

Mate,  Who Had Had Some Political Aspirations And Had Recently Been

Appointed To A Position In The Customs House Of New York. Herndon,

I May Add,  Represented The Younger And Clean-Cut Generation Which

Is Entering Official Life With Great Advantage To Both Themselves

And Politics.

The 'Bus Pulled Up To The Curb,  And Jack Tore Down The Breakneck

Steps Hurriedly.

"I Was Just Thinking Of You,  Craig," He Beamed As We All Shook

Hands,  "And Wondering Whether You And Walter Were In Town. I Think

I Should Have Come Up To See You To-Night,  Anyhow."

"Why,  What's The Matter--More Sugar Frauds?" Laughed Kennedy. "Or

Perhaps You Have Caught Another Art Dealer Red-Handed?"

"No,  Not Exactly," Replied Herndon,  Growing Graver For The Moment.

"We're Having A Big Shake-Up Down At The Office,  None Of Your 'New

Broom' Business,  Either. Real Reform It Is,  This Time."

"And You--Are You Going Or Coming?" Inquired Craig With An

Interested Twinkle.

"Coming,  Craig,  Coming," Answered Jack Enthusiastically. "They've

Put Me In Charge Of A Sort Of Detective Force As A Special Deputy

Surveyor To Rout Out Some Smuggling That We Know Is Going On. If I

Make Good It Will Go A Long Way For Me--With All This Talk Of

Efficiency And Economy Down In Washington These Days."

"What's On Your Mind Now?" Asked Kennedy Observantly. "Can I Help

You In Any Way?"

Herndon Had Taken Each Of Us By An Arm And Walked Us Over To A

Stone Bench In The Shade Of The Library Building.

"You Have Read The Accounts In The Afternoon Papers Of The

Peculiar Death Of Mademoiselle Violette,  The Little French

Modiste,  Up Here On Forty-Sixth Street?" He Inquired.

"Yes," Answered Kennedy. "What Has That To Do With Customs

Reform?"

"A Good Deal,  I Fear," Herndon Continued. "It's Part Of A Case

That Has Been Bothering Us All Summer. It's The First Really Big

Thing I've Been Up Against And It's As Ticklish A Bit Of Business

As Even A Veteran Treasury Agent Could Wish."

Herndon Looked Thoughtfully At The Passing Crowd On The Other Side

Of The Balustrade And Continued. "It Started,  Like Many Of Our

Cases,  With The Anonymous Letter Writer. Early In The Summer The

Letters Began To Come In To The Deputy Surveyor's Office,  All

Unsigned,  Though Quite Evidently Written In A Woman's Hand,

Disguised Of Course,  And On Rather Dainty Notepaper. They Warned

Us Of A Big Plot To Smuggle Gowns And Jewellery From Paris.

Smuggling Jewellery Is Pretty Common Because Jewels Take Up Little

Space And Are Very Valuable. Perhaps It Doesn't Sound To You Like

A Big Thing To Smuggle Dresses,  But When You Realise That One Of

Those Filmy Lacy Creations May Often Be Worth Several Hundred,  If

Not Thousand,  Dollars,  And That It Needs Only A Few Of Them On

Each Ship That Comes In To Run Up Into The Thousands,  Perhaps

Hundreds Of Thousands In A Season,  You Will See How Essential It

Is To Break Up That Sort Of Thing. We've Been Getting After The

Individual Private Smugglers Pretty Sharply This Summer And We've

Had Lots Of Criticism. If We Could Land A Big Fellow And Make An

Object-Lesson Of The Extent Of The Thing I Believe It Would Leave

Our Critics Of The Press Without A Leg To Stand On.

"At Least That Was Why I Was Interested In The Letters. But It Was

Not Until A Few Days Ago That We Got A Tip That Gave Us A Real

Working Clue,  For The Anonymous Letters Had Been Very Vague As To

Names,  Dates,  And Places,  Though Bold Enough As To General

Charges,  As If The Writer Were Fearful Of Incriminating Herself--

Or Himself. Strange To Say,  This New Clue Came From The Wife Of

One Of The Customs Men. She Happened To Be In A Broadway Manicure

Shop One Day When She Heard A Woman Talking With The Manicurist

About Fall Styles,  And She Was All Attention When She Heard The

Customer Say,  'You Remember Mademoiselle Violette's--That Place

That Had The Exquisite Things Straight From Paris,  And So Cheaply,

Too? Well,  Violette Says She'll Have To Raise Her Prices So That

They Will Be Nearly As High As The Regular Stores. She Says The

Tariff Has Gone Up,  Or Something,  But It Hasn't,  Has It?'

"The Manicurist Laughed Knowingly,  And The Next Remark Caught The

Woman's Attention. 'No,  Indeed. But Then,  I Guess She Meant That

She Had To Pay The Duty Now. You Know They Are Getting Much

Stricter. To Tell The Truth,  I Imagine Most Of Violette's Goods

Were--Well--'

"'Smuggled?' Supplied The Customer In An Undertone.

"The Manicurist Gave A Slight Shrug Of The Shoulders And A Bright

Little Yes Of A Laugh.

"That Was All. But It Was Enough. I Set A Special Customs Officer

To Watch Mademoiselle,  A Clever Fellow. He Didn't Have Time To

Find Out Much,  But On The Other Hand I Am Sure He Didn't Do

Anything To Alarm Mademoiselle. That Would Have Been A Bad Game.

His Case Was Progressing Favourably And He Had Become Acquainted

With One Of The Girls Who Worked In The Shop. We Might Have Got

Some Evidence,  But Suddenly This Morning He Walked Up To My Desk

And Handed Me An Early Edition Of An Afternoon Paper. Mademoiselle

Violette Had Been Discovered Dead In Her Shop By The Girls When

They Came To Work This Morning. Apparently She Had Been There All

Night,  But The Report Was Quite Indefinite And I Am On My Way Up

There Now To Meet The Coroner,  Who Has Agreed To Wait For Me."

"You Think There Is Some Connection Between Her Death And The

Letters?" Put In Craig.

"Of Course I Can't Say,  Yet," Answered Herndon Dubiously. "The

Papers Seem To Think It Was A Suicide. But Then Why Should She

Commit Suicide? My Man Found Out That Among The Girls It Was

Common Gossip That She Was To Marry Jean Pierre,  The Fifth Avenue

Jeweller,  Of The Firm Of Lang Goods By Americans Abroad. Well,  The

Chief Of Our Men In Paris Cables Me That Pierre Is Known To Have

Made Extraordinarily Heavy Purchases Of Made-Up Jewellery This

Season. For One Thing,  We Believe He Has Acquired From A Syndicate

A Rather Famous Diamond Necklace Which It Has Taken Years To

Assemble And Match Up,  Worth About Three Hundred Thousand. You

Know The Duty On Made-Up Jewellery Is Sixty Per Cent.,  And Even If

He Brought The Stones In Loose It Would Be Ten Per Cent.,  Which On

A Valuation Of,  Say,  Two Hundred Thousand,  Means Twenty Thousand

Dollars Duty Alone. Then He Has A Splendid 'Dog Collar' Of Pearls,

And,  Oh,  A Lot Of Other Stuff. I Know Because We Get Our Tips From

All Sorts Of Sources And They Are Usually Pretty Straight. Some

Come From Dealers Who Are Sore About Not Making Sales Themselves.

So You See There Is A Good Deal At Stake In This Case And It May

Be That In Following It Out We Shall Kill More Than One Bird. I

Wish You'd Come Along With Me Up To Mademoiselle Violette's And

Give Me An Opinion."

Craig Had Already Risen From The Bench And We Were Walking Up The

Avenue.

The Establishment Of Mademoiselle Violette Consisted Of A Three-

Story And Basement Brownstone House In Which The Basement And

First Floor Had Been Remodelled For Business Purposes.

Mademoiselle's Place,  Which Was On The First Floor,  Was Announced

To The World By A Neat Little Oval Gilt Sign On The Handrailing Of

The Steps.

We Ascended And Rang The Bell. As We Waited I Noticed That There

Were Several Other Modistes On The Same Street,  While Almost

Directly Across Was A Sign Which Proclaimed That On September 15

Mademoiselle Gabrielle Would Open With A High Class Exhibition Of

Imported Gowns From Paris.

We Entered. The Coroner And An Undertaker Were Already There,  And

The Former Was Expecting Herndon. Kennedy And I Had Already Met

Him And He Shook Hands Cordially.

Mademoiselle Violette,  It Seemed,  Had Rented The Entire House And

Then Had Sublet The Basement To A Milliner,  Using The First Floor

Herself,  The Second As A Workroom For The Girls Whom She Employed,

While She Lived On The Top Floor,  Which Had Been Fitted For Light

Housekeeping With A Kitchenette. It Was In The Back Room Of The

Shop Itself On The First Floor That Her Body Had Been Discovered,

Lying On A Davenport.

"The Newspaper Reports Were Very Indefinite," Began Herndon,

Endeavouring To Take In The Situation. "I Suppose They Told Nearly

All The Story,  But What Caused Her Death? Have You Found That Out

Yet? Was It Poison Or Violence?"

The Coroner Said Nothing,  But With A Significant Glance At Kennedy

He Drew A Peculiar Contrivance From His Pocket. It Had Four Round

Holes In It And Through Each Hole He Slipped A Finger,  Then Closed

His Hand,  And Exhibited His Clenched Fist. It Looked As If He Wore