American Sherlocks by Nick Rennison (reading like a writer .TXT) 📕

blind beggar jumped up, and ran in the direction taken by the cab. Mr Barnes watched them till both cab and beggar disappeared around the next corner, and then he went into the building again, deeply thinking over the episode.

He found the morgue-keeper, and was taken to the corpse. He recognised the clothing at once, both from the description given by Williams, and because he now remembered to have seen Mr Mitchel so dressed. It was evident that the body had been in the water for several days, and the marks of violence plainly pointed to murder. Still sticking in the back was a curious dagger of foreign make, the handle projecting between the shoulders. The blow must have been a powerful stroke, for the blade was so tightly wedged in the bones of the spine that it resisted ordinary efforts to withdraw it. Moreover, the condition of the head showed that a crime had been committed, for the skull and face had been beaten into a pulpy mass with some heavy instrument. Mr Barnes turned away from the sickening sight to examine the letters found upon the corpse. One of these bore the Paris postmark, and he was allowed to read it. It was from the jewellers, and was the letter alluded to in the warning cable. Its contents were:

‘Dear Sir – As we have previously advised you, the Montezuma emerald was shipped to you on the tenth instant. On the following day the man from whom we had bought it was found dead in Dover Street, London, killed by a dagger-thrust between the shoulders. The meagre accounts telegraphed to the papers here state that there is no clue to the assassin. We were struck by the name, and remembered that the deceased had urged us to buy the emerald, because, as he declared, he feared that a man had followed him from Mexico, intending to murder him to get possession of it. Within an hour of reading the newspaper story, a gentlemanly-looking man, giving the name of Miguel Palma, entered our store, and asked if we had purchased the Montezuma emerald. We replied negatively, and he smiled and left. We notified the police, but they have not yet been able to find this man. We deemed it our duty to warn you, and did so by cable.’

The signature was that of the firm from which Mr Barnes had received the cable in the morning. The plot seemed plain enough now. After the fruitless murder of the man in London, the Mexican had traced the emerald to Mr Mitchel, and had followed it across the water. Had he succeeded in obtaining it? Among the things found on the corpse was an empty jewel-case, bearing the name of the Paris firm. It seemed from this that the gem had been stolen. But if so, this man, Miguel Palma, must be made to explain his knowledge of the affair.

Once more visiting the Imperial, Mr Barnes made inquiry, and was told that Mr Palma had left the hotel on the night of the previous Thursday, which was just a few hours before Mr Mitchel had undoubtedly reached there alive. Could it be that the man at the morgue had been he? If so, why was he visiting that place to view the body of his victim? This was a problem over which Mr Barnes puzzled, as he was driven up to the residence of Mr Mitchel. Here he found Williams, and imparted to that faithful servant the news of his master’s death, and then inquired the address of the family abroad, that he might notify them by cable, before they might read the bald statement in a newspaper.

‘As they only sailed a week ago today,’ said Williams, ‘they’re hardly more than due in London. I’ll go up to the master’s desk and get the address of his London bankers.’

As Williams turned to leave the room, he started back amazed at the sound of a bell.

‘That’s the master’s bell, Inspector! Someone is in his room! Come with me!’

The two men bounded upstairs, two steps at a time, and Williams threw open the door of Mr Mitchel’s boudoir, and then fell back against Mr Barnes, crying: ‘The master himself!’

Mr Barnes looked over the man’s shoulders, and could scarcely believe his eyes when he observed Mr Mitchel, alive and well, brushing his hair before a mirror.

‘I’ve rung for you twice, Williams,’ said Mr Mitchel, and then, seeing Mr Barnes, he added:

‘Ah, Mr Barnes! You are very welcome. Come in. Why, what is the matter, man? You are as white as though you had seen a ghost.’

‘Thank God you are safe,’ fervently ejaculated the detective, going forward and grasping Mr Mitchel’s hand. ‘Here, read this, and you will understand.’ He drew out the afternoon paper and handed it to him.

‘Oh, that!’ said Mr Mitchel carelessly. ‘I’ve read that. Merely a sensational lie, worked off upon a guileless public. Not a word of truth in it, I assure you.’

‘Of course not, since you are alive; but there is a mystery about this which is yet to be explained.’

‘What? A mystery, and the great Mr Barnes has not solved it! I am surprised. I am, indeed. But then, you know, I told you after Goldie made a fizzle of our little joke that if I should choose to play the principal part you would not catch me. You see, I have beaten you this time. Confess. You thought that was my corpse which you gazed upon at the morgue?’

‘Well,’ said Mr Barnes reluctantly, ‘the identification certainly seemed complete, in spite of the condition of the face, which made recognition impossible.’

‘Yes; I flatter myself the whole affair was artistic.’

‘Do you mean that this whole thing is nothing but a joke? That you went so far as to invent cables and letters from Paris just for the trifling amusement of making a fool of me?’

Mr Barnes was evidently slightly angry, and Mr Mitchel, noting this fact, hastened to mollify him.

‘No!