Billy considered a moment. Then he said, triumphantly: “But the impressions will harden this surface; they’ll get on to us if ever they sweep away the new fall of snow.”
Lingo Dan shrugged his shoulders. “Whence the inspiration of that remark, I know not. I think you must have been reading Conan Doyle. Well, you can be quite sure that there is no Sherlock Holmes in this part of the country. Dear me!”
At this last exclamation Billy looked curious. “What’s up?” he asked.
For an instant or two Lingo Dan made no reply. He was looking intently at the highway on which the two riders were approaching. In point of fact, the occurrence that attracted his attention was singular enough. As they rode slowly, side by side, down the slope of the road that came to the shanty from the east, the young man’s left arm slowly disengaged itself from the reins of his horse and passed behind the waist of his human companion; their bodies and their heads came gently, carefully together; the girl’s hand went up to her chin, detaching the veil and relegating it to her forehead, and then her arm encircled the young man; their faces met in a kiss. The horses’ heads hung down and their feet ambled leisurely; tired after their hill-climbing canter, they took this respite thankfully enough. It was a kiss that lasted longer than do most kisses; the adventurous circumstances and the perilous nature of their position tended to fill both these riders with the advisability of making the most of bliss; to them, the kiss was but an infinitesimal instant of happiness; to any one not concerned in it, its length would have seemed an eternity. All these things the watcher in the cottage observed.
“It is evident,” he said, presently, “that this is no ordinary case. They are lovers, but they are also more: they are eloping. This complicates matters. It makes our booty greater, but it increases the—h’m—the difficulty. Yes, I am afraid this will be a—what did we say in the Quadrangle?—a mauvais quart d’heure.”
“What’re you drivin’ at?” Billy glowered at his companion in evident disgust at his high-flown phrases.
“My dear Billy, here are the facts: Two persons, when they elope, are preparing for a future; hence, the young man lines his pockets before he starts. He lines his pockets, however, both from without and within. Realizing the risk he is running, he puts pistols in his hip-pockets, as well as a purse over his breast.”
“I reckon that’s likely.”
“Thank you. Your acquiescence, Billy, soothes a spirit slightly ruffled by the prospect of discourtesy. For, to tell the truth, I fear we shall have to—h’m—silence these two first, and inquire afterward. It would be so infernally unpleasant, you see, if he got the drop on us. Understand, then, that we are not to take risks. You, Billy, will sight for the girl; I’ll take the man.”
There was a click as Billy sent the hammer of his rifle to the full-cock. Lingo Dan stretched out his long arm, picked up the other weapon and rested the barrel carefully on the window-sill.
The riders were quite close to the house, and the love in the eyes of each shone out with a sort of spiritual brilliance. They leaned together again and joined lips in a long, delicious kiss.
And while they kissed, two shots rang out on the crystal air.
An old woman living on the outskirts of Libertytown rejoices in the peculiar sobriquet of Mrs. Early Worm. This is, one can only suppose, due to her habit of rising at a most infinitesimal hour, in midwinter as well as in midsummer. As to her reasons for this singular course, there is nothing but conjecture. She is said to have driven her husband to an early grave, and then, overcome by remorse, to have sworn to seek none but an early grave herself. However that may be, the things that Mrs. Early Worm saw on the morning of the twentieth of February, 189–, are facts, and have nothing to do with the realm of conjecture.
When she arose, the world was still, in spite of its coating of snow, very dark. There was light, to be sure, of that curious, indefinite gray that distinguishes the birth of a day in winter time. She was proceeding to the woodshed to pick up the usual armful of kindling-wood for the kitchen stove, when suddenly she said, “Land sakes, what is that?” and stood stock-still in the middle of the yard.
What she saw was this: Through the gray dawn light that hung between the earth’s white coverlet and the night’s flying wings of sable, there approached the apparition of two horses and two riders. In the gray haze they shone like angels of whiteness; that was the awful part of it—they were all white! Against the horizon, where night still held sway, their forms were cut as clearly as in ivory. As they came nearer, the old woman, shivering now with cold and fear, observed that one rider was a man, the other, a girl. They sat motionless, rigid, as if carved of marble. They were covered with frost from head to foot; they were white with the hue of cold. The horses, as they stepped rhythmically forward, blew out mists of steam that came back to them frozen coatings of ice.
The old woman, with an effort, found energy enough to wrench herself out of the strange, lethargic fascination she had been in. She began to run, as fast as her old legs could carry her, toward the nearest house, about a hundred yards away.
Presently the entire village was aroused to the presence of this ghastly phenomenon.
Heedless of the terror they occasioned, the horses stepped on with a tired and even gait.
And now it was observed that the riders were linked together, that the two were one, that here was some awful unity of horror. Their arms were intertwined, their faces touching. The man’s right hand held his horse’s reins and a hunting-crop, while his left was about the girl’s waist; her right was about his shoulders, and her left held the reins. Their shoulders touched; it was as if they were hewn out of one stone.
But there was no breath from their nostrils. White as ghosts, still as eternity, they rode on into the heart of the village.
Numb with dread, no one dared approach them. All knew their faces well; no one spoke their names; even curiosity was stifled in the greatness of their terror.
With the resonant clamor of iron shoes upon wood, both horses ascended the slight sloping entrance to the livery barn. Roused by the sound, the livery man came out of his office. He looked, in dazed astonishment, at these colorless, silent, motionless riders, he noticed what no one had yet seen: upon the breast of each a crimson stain, not quite hidden by the coating of frost.
“Great God!” he said; “they’re stone dead!”
The sun, shimmering through the planks of a lumber-car, part of a freight-train traveling through the farther West, rested for an instant on the eyes of Lingo Dan as he slept the sleep of the careless. Its radiance woke him; he rubbed his eyes, gave Billy a nudge with his elbow, and said: “Hello, Billy; here we are again!”
“Oh,” grunted Billy, viciously, “you be d——d!”
“I admit it, Billy; I probably shall be. What for? For gross incompetence in judging the idiocy of a man in love. For, I leave it to any one, is it conceivable that any one but a lunatic would start upon a voyage for life, with a life-companion, without a sou in his pocket? A lunatic, Billy, is, as I now see, a simile for a man in love. Billy, when I was at college I played tennis; in tennis, love means nothing. It is the same here. Let us go to sleep again. Great Greeley!—without a sou—without a sou!”
Turning over, they went to sleep again.
1895
RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
The Nameless Man and The Montezuma Emerald
Strangely unread and forgotten in the mystery world, (BENJAMIN ADOLPH) RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI (known as “Rod” to family and friends) (1861–1937) remains a familiar name in the field of dentistry, as he pioneered such significant advances as the early use of X-rays, created several methods of filling teeth, especially root canals, and developed methods to restore cleft palates. His book Methods of Filling Teeth (1892) was a standard textbook for several decades, and for nearly forty years he edited and wrote for a journal, Items of Interest, later retitled Dental Items of Interest, resulting in a book, Table Talks on Dentistry (1928). He also was one of the
first writers of fiction to use the patterns of dental fillings as a way to identify a corpse.
Ottolengui wrote four novels and a short story collection featuring a professional private detective, John Barnes, and all but one also included Robert Leroy Mitchel, a wealthy amateur detective who often challenged his friend to solve crimes, most of which were of a humorous nature. The author largely “gave up the sleuth for the tooth,” as the noted mystery critic Anthony Boucher once said, after his collection, Final Proof, was published in 1898, with only a half-dozen later stories appearing in magazines.
His first book, An Artist in Crime (1892), saw the two sleuths sometimes cooperating, sometimes competing, and was followed by A Conflict of Evidence (1893), A Modern Wizard (1894), and The Crime of the Century (1896), all of which included various forms of 1890s sensationalism and a dose of fantasy and science fiction. Ellery Queen described Ottolengui as “one of the most neglected authors in the entire history of the detective story” in Queen’s Quorum, his important book detailing the 106 most important short story collections in the history of detective fiction, and included Final Proof in that list. Two stories are included in this anthology to establish the interesting and unusual relationship between the two sleuths.
“The Nameless Man” was first published in England in the January 1895 issue of The Idler. “The Montezuma Emerald” was first published in the February 1895 issue of The Idler. Both stories were first collected in Final Proof (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1898).
***
THE NAMELESS MAN
MR. BARNES WAS sitting in his private room, with nothing of special importance to occupy his thoughts, when his office boy announced a visitor.
“What name?” asked Mr. Barnes.
“None!” was the reply.
“You mean,” said the detective, “that the man did not give you his name. He must have one, of course. Show him in.”
A minute later the stranger entered, and, bowing courteously, began the conversation at once.
“Mr. Barnes, the famous detective, I believe?” said he.
“My name is Barnes,” replied the detective. “May I have the pleasure of knowing yours?”
“I sincerely hope so,” continued the stranger. “The fact is, I suppose I have forgotten it.”
“Forgotten your name?” Mr. Barnes scented an interesting case, and became doubly attentive.
“Yes!” said the visitor. “That is precisely my singular predicament. I seem to have lost my identity. That is the object of my call. I wish you to discover who I am. As I am evidently a full-grown man, I can certainly claim that I have a past history, but to me that past is entirely blank. I awoke this morning in this condition, yet apparently in possession of all my faculties, so much so that I at once saw the advisability of consulting a first-class detective, and, upon inquiry, I was directed to you.”
“Your case is most interesting—from my point of view, I mean. To you, of course, it must seem unfortunate. Yet it is not unparalleled. There have been many such cases recorded, and, for your temporary relief, I may say that sooner or later, complete restoration of memory usually occurs. But now, let us try to unravel your mystery as soon as possible, that you may suffer as little inconvenience as there need be. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“As many as you like, and I will do my best to answer.”
“Do you think that you are a New Yorker?”
“I have not the least idea whether I am or not.”
“You say you were advised to consult me. By whom?”
“The clerk at the Waldorf Hotel, where I slept last night.”
“Then, of course, he gave you my address. Did you find it necessary to ask him how to find my offices?”
“Well, no, I did not. That seems strange, does it not? I certainly had no difficulty in coming here. I suppose that must be a significant fact, Mr. Barnes?”
“It tends to show that you have been familiar with New York, but we must still find out whether you live here or not. How did you register at the hotel?”
“M.J.G. Remington, City.”
“You are quite sure that Remington is not your name?”
“Quite sure. After breakfast this morning I was passing through the lobby when the clerk called me twice by that name. Finally, one of the hall-boys touched me on the shoulder and explained that I was wanted at the desk. I was very much confused to find myself called ‘Mr. Remington,’ a name which certainly is not my own. Before I fully realized my position, I said to the clerk, ‘Why do you call me Remington?’ and he replied, ‘Because you registered under that name.’ I tried to pass it off, but I am sure that the clerk looks upon me as a suspicious character.”
“What baggage have you with you at the hotel?”
“None. Not even a satchel.”
“May there not be something in your pockets that would help us; letters, for example?”
“I am sorry to say that I have made a search in that direction, but found nothing. Luckily I did have a pocketbook, though.”
“Much money in it?”
“In the neighborhood of five hundred dollars.”
Mr. Barnes turned to his table and made a few notes on a pad of paper. While he was so engaged his visitor took out a fine gold watch, and, after a glance at the face, was about to return it to his pocket when Mr. Barnes wheeled around in his chair, and said:
“That is a handsome watch you have there. Of a curious pattern too. I am rather interested in old watches.”
The stranger seemed confused for an instant, and quickly put up his watch, saying:
“There is nothing remarkable about it. Merely an old family relic. I value it more for that than anything else. But about my case, Mr. Barnes; how long do you think it will take to restore my identity to me? It is rather awkward to go about under a false name.”
“I should think so,” said the detective. “I will do my best for you, but you have given me absolutely no clue to work upon, so that it is impossible to say what my success will be. Still I think forty-eight hours should suffice. At least in that time I ought to make some discoveries for you. Suppose you call again on the day after to-morrow, at noon precisely. Will that suit you?”
“Very well, indeed. If you can tell me who I am at that time I shall be more than convinced that you are a great detective, as I have been told.”
He arose and prepared to go, and upon the instant Mr. Barnes touched a button under his table with his foot, which caused a bell to ring in a distant part of the building, no sound of which penetrated the private office. Thus anyone could visit Mr. Barnes in his den, and might leave unsuspicious of the fact that a spy would be awaiting him out in the street who would shadow him persistently day and night until recalled by his chief. After giving the signal, Mr. Barnes held his strange visitor in conversation a few moments longer to allow his spy opportunity to get to his post.
“How will you pass the time away, Mr. Remington?” said he. “We may as well call you by that name, until I find your true one.”
“Yes, I suppose so. As to what I shall do during the next forty-eight hours, why, I think I may as well devote myself to seeing the sights. It is a remarkably pleasant day for a stroll, and I think I will visit your beautiful Central Park.”
“A capital idea. By all means, I would advise occupation of that kind. It would be best not to do any business until your memory is restored to you.”
“Business. Why, of course, I can do no business.”
“No. If you were to order any goods, for example, under the name of Remington, later on when you resume your proper identity, you might be arrested as an impostor.”
“By George! I had not thought of that. My position is more serious than I had realized. I thank you for the warning. Sight-seeing will assuredly be my safest plan for the next two days.”
“I think so. Call at the time agreed upon, and hope for the best. If I should need you before then, I will send to your hotel.”
Then
, saying “Good morning,” Mr. Barnes turned to his desk again, and, as the stranger looked at him before stepping out of the room, the detective seemed engrossed with some papers before him. Yet scarcely had the door closed upon the retreating form of his recent visitor, when Mr. Barnes looked up, with an air of expectancy. A moment later a very tiny bell in a drawer of his desk rang, indicating that the man had left the building, the signal having been sent to him by one of his employees, whose business it was to watch all departures, and notify his chief. A few moments later Mr. Barnes himself emerged, clad in an entirely different suit of clothing, and with such an alteration in the color of his hair that more than a casual glance would have been required to recognize him.
When he reached the street the stranger was nowhere in sight, but Mr. Barnes went to a doorway opposite, and there he found, written in blue pencil, the word “up”, whereupon he walked rapidly uptown as far as the next corner, where once more he examined a door-post, upon which he found the word “right,” which indicated the way the men ahead of him had turned. Beyond this he could expect no signals, for the spy shadowing the stranger did not know positively that his chief would take part in the game. The two signals which he had written on the doors were merely a part of a routine, and intended to aid Mr. Barnes should he follow; but if he did so, he would be expected to be in sight of the spy by the time the second signal was reached. And so it proved in this instance, for as Mr. Barnes turned the corner to the right, he easily discerned his man about two blocks ahead, and presently was near enough to see “Remington” also.
The pursuit continued until Mr. Barnes was surprised to see him enter the Park, thus carrying out his intention as stated in his interview with the detective. Entering at the Fifth Avenue gate he made his way towards the menagerie, and here a curious incident occurred. The stranger had mingled with the crowd in the monkey-house, and was enjoying the antics of the mischievous little animals, when Mr. Barnes, getting close behind him, deftly removed a pocket-handkerchief from the tail of his coat and swiftly transferred it to his own.
The Best American Mystery Stories of the 19th Century Page 37
