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The Floating Press - Carolyn Wells

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148 pages

English

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A wealthy entrepreneur is found murdered in the study of his lavish New Jersey mansion. A young detective tries his hand at cracking the case, but conflicting clues leave him confused and frustrated. It's not until the renowned detective Fleming Stone is called in that the truth is revealed.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776539857
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE GOLD BAG
* * *
CAROLYN WELLS

*
The Gold Bag First published in 1911 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-985-7 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-986-4 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I - The Crime in West Sedgwick II - The Crawford House III - The Coroner's Jury IV - The Inquest V - Florence Lloyd VI - The Gold Bag VII - Yellow Roses VIII - Further Inquiry IX - The Twelfth Rose X - The Will XI - Louis's Story XII - Louis's Confession XIII - Miss Lloyd's Confidence XIV - Mr. Porter's Views XV - The Photograph Explained XVI - A Call on Mrs. Purvis XVII - The Owner of the Gold Bag XVIII - In Mr. Goodrich's Office XIX - The Midnight Train XX - Fleming Stone XXI - The Disclosure
I - The Crime in West Sedgwick
*
Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one, andI have several fairly successful investigations to my credit on therecords of the Central Office.
The Chief said to me one day: "Burroughs, if there's a mystery to beunravelled; I'd rather put it in your hands than to trust it to anyother man on the force.
"Because," he went on, "you go about it scientifically, and younever jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they're indubitablywarranted."
I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief's kind words, but I wassecretly a bit chagrined. A detective's ambition is to be, consideredcapable of jumping at conclusions, only the conclusions must alwaysprove to be correct ones.
But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my habits aremethodical and systematic, and though I am indefatigably patient andpersevering, I can never make those brilliant deductions from seeminglyunimportant clues that Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothingbut observation and logical inference, but to me it is little short ofclairvoyance.
The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes in hismind some important fact that is indisputable, but which would neverhave occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a natural bent of hisbrain, for I have not yet been able to achieve it, either by study orexperience.
Of course I can deduce some facts, and my colleagues often say I amrather clever at it, but they don't know Fleming Stone as well as Ido, and don't realize that by comparison with his talent mine isinsignificant.
And so, it is both by way of entertainment, and in hope of learning fromhim, that I am with him whenever possible, and often ask him to "deduce"for me, even at risk of boring him, as, unless he is in the right mood,my requests sometimes do.
I met him accidentally one morning when we both chanced to go into abasement of the Metropolis Hotel in New York to have our shoes shined.
It was about half-past nine, and as I like to get to my office by teno'clock, I looked forward to a pleasant half-hour's chat with him. Whilewaiting our turn to get a chair, we stood talking, and, seeing a pairof shoes standing on a table, evidently there to be cleaned, I saidbanteringly:
"Now, I suppose, Stone, from looking at those shoes, you can deduce allthere is to know about the owner of them."
I remember that Sherlock Holmes wrote once, "From a drop of water, alogician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara withouthaving seen or heard of one or the other," but when I heard FlemingStone's reply to my half-laughing challenge, I felt that he had outdonethe mythical logician. With a mild twinkle in his eye, but with aperfectly grave face, he said slowly,
"Those shoes belong to a young man, five feet eight inches high. He doesnot live in New York, but is here to visit his sweetheart. She lives inBrooklyn, is five feet nine inches tall, and is deaf in her left ear.They went to the theatre last night, and neither was in evening dress."
"Oh, pshaw!" said I, "as you are acquainted with this man, and know howhe spent last evening, your relation of the story doesn't interest me."
"I don't know him," Stone returned; "I've no idea what his name is,I've never seen him, and except what I can read from these shoes I knownothing about him."
I stared at him incredulously, as I always did when confronted by hisastonishing "deductions," and simply said,
"Tell this little Missourian all about it."
"It did sound well, reeled off like that, didn't it?" he observed,chuckling more at my air of eager curiosity than at his own achievement."But it's absurdly easy, after all. He is a young man because his shoesare in the very latest, extreme, not exclusive style. He is five feeteight, because the size of his foot goes with that height of man, which,by the way, is the height of nine out of ten men, any way. He doesn'tlive in New York or he wouldn't be stopping at a hotel. Besides, hewould be down-town at this hour, attending to business."
"Unless he has freak business hours, as you and I do," I put in.
"Yes, that might be. But I still hold that he doesn't live in New York,or he couldn't be staying at this Broadway hotel overnight, and sendinghis shoes down to be shined at half-past nine in the morning. Hissweetheart is five feet nine, for that is the height of a tall girl.I know she is tall, for she wears a long skirt. Short girls wear shortskirts, which make them look shorter still, and tall girls wear verylong skirts, which make them look taller."
"Why do they do that?" I inquired, greatly interested.
"I don't know. You'll have to ask that of some one wiser than I. But Iknow it's a fact. A girl wouldn't be considered really tall if less thanfive feet nine. So I know that's her height. She is his sweetheart, forno man would go from New York to Brooklyn and bring a lady over here tothe theatre, and then take her home, and return to New York in the earlyhours of the morning, if he were not in love with her. I know she livesin Brooklyn, for the paper says there was a heavy shower there lastnight, while I know no rain fell in New York. I know that they were outin that rain, for her long skirt became muddy, and in turn muddied thewhole upper of his left shoe. The fact that only the left shoe is sosoiled proves that he walked only at her right side, showing that shemust be deaf in her left ear, or he would have walked part of the timeon that side. I know that they went to the theatre in New York, becausehe is still sleeping at this hour, and has sent his boots down to becleaned, instead of coming down with them on his feet to be shined here.If he had been merely calling on the girl in Brooklyn, he would havebeen home early, for they do not sit up late in that borough. I knowthey went to the theatre, instead of to the opera or a ball, for theydid not go in a cab, otherwise her skirt would not have become muddied.This, too, shows that she wore a cloth skirt, and as his shoes are notpatent leathers, it is clear that neither was in evening dress."
I didn't try to get a verification of Fleming Stone's assertions;I didn't want any. Scores of times I had known him to make similardeductions and in cases where we afterward learned the facts, he wasinvariably correct. So, though we didn't follow up this matter, Iwas sure he was right, and, even if he hadn't been, it would not haveweighed heavily against his large proportion of proved successes.
We separated then, as we took chairs at some distance from each other,and, with a sigh of regret that I could never hope to go far along theline in which Stone showed such proficiency, I began to read my morningpaper.
Fleming Stone left the place before I did, nodding a good-by ashe passed me, and a moment after, my own foot-gear being in propercondition, I, too, went out, and went straight to my office.
As I walked the short distance, my mind dwelt on Stone's quick-wittedwork. Again I wished that I possessed the kind of intelligence thatmakes that sort of thing so easy. Although unusual, it is, after all, atrait of many minds, though often, perhaps, unrecognized and undevelopedby its owner. I dare say it lies dormant in men who have never hadoccasion to realize its value. Indeed, it is of no continuous value toanyone but a detective, and nine detectives out of ten do not possessit.
So I walked along, envying my friend Stone his gift, and reached myoffice just at ten o'clock as was my almost invariable habit.
"Hurry up, Mr. Burroughs!" cried my office-boy, as I opened the door."You're wanted on the telephone."
Though a respectful and well-mannered boy, some excitement had made hima trifle unceremonious, and I looked at him curiously as I took up thereceiver.
But with the first words I heard, the office-boy was forgotten, and myown nerves received a shock as I listened to the message. It was fromthe Detective Bureau with which I was connected, and the superintendenthimself was directing me to go at once to West Sedgwick, where aterrible crime had just been discovered.
"Killed!" I exclaimed; "Joseph Crawford?"
"Yes; murdered in his home in West Sedgwick. The coroner telephoned tosend a detective at once and we want you to go."
"Of course I'll go. Do you know any more details?"
"No; only that he was shot during the night and the body found thismorning. Mr. Crawford was a big man, you know. Go right off, Mr.Burroughs; we want you to lose no time."
Yes; I knew Joseph Crawford by name, though not personally, and I knewhe was a big man in the business world, and his sudden death would meanexcitement in Wall Street matters. Of his home, or home-life, I knewnothing.
"I'll go right off,"