Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926
- Автор: Bailey H. C., Bechdolt Jack
- Год: 1926
- Язык: английский
- Год: The Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926». Краткое содержание книги:
It now became evident that stringent methods would have to be taken to protect the rector against any further persecution of this character. In spite of all the annoyance that “Gentleman Joe” had caused, there was only one thing which could afford grounds for criminal proceedings, and that was the fact that the persecutor had written a letter threatening to make certain scandalous charges against the rector through the medium of the press.
Who Laughs Last
Strange as it may seem, he had not technically violated any law in any of his other actions. But this new act enabled the police to invoke the aid of the post office for the discovery of his identity. Detectives were accordingly posted to watch every letter box and branch post office in New York City, being provided with keys and with samples of “Gentleman Joe’s” handwriting.
Throughout several days these men stood at a short distance from the letter boxes, and every time that a letter was mailed the letter box was at once opened and the handwriting examined. This went on for a week, detectives being withdrawn from practically every branch of the police service, but “Gentleman Joe” did not make use of the mails.
And now came a singular piece of chance which enabled the police to run down the scoundrel. All the clergymen in the city had been personally consulted upon the matter without being able to throw the slightest light upon the subject.
One of them, however, belonging to a different denomination, happened to mention casually that a few days previously he had seen in the city a man calling himself Williamson, who had once been a teacher in Trinity Church Sunday school, and had been dismissed by the trustees on account of degrading conduct.
This seemed to supply a possible motive, and the detectives were not willing to let even so remote a possibility of discovering the culprit escape them. It happens that every person who writes to the post office desiring to have his address changed has had his handwriting filed by the department, and, since almost every one at some time or other changes his residence, the writing of practically every citizen of New York City is thus placed on file at the post office.
The superintendent at once began to investigate his books in order to ascertain whether Williamson’s peculiarly neat handwriting was to be found. Surely enough, a postal card was discovered in the same handwriting as “Gentleman Joe’s,” but signed by Williamson, and requesting that his correspondence should be forwarded to the Windsor Hotel.
The detectives hurried to the Windsor Hotel and found that Williamson had registered there on February 17, and had that day left for Baltimore, instructing the clerk to forward all his letters to Barnum’s Hotel in that city. The detectives hurried south upon the trail and traced the man from one place to another, until finally they arrested Williamson in a Baltimore boarding house.
Williamson was brought back to New York and placed upon trial on the charge of blackmail. He pleaded guilty, admitted that he was the author of all the trouble, but declared that his only motive was the desire to have some fun at the expense of the rector.
Investigation of Williamson’s antecedents revealed the fact that he suffered from a peculiar form of abnormal mentality which led him to the commission of acts having as their end the obtaining of notoriety. He had devoted many years of his life to the commission of petty crimes, wholly unprofitable — in fact the total sum of his thefts would not have paid a single week’s board bill — but causing trouble to his victims.
He had traveled extensively abroad, and had served a year’s imprisonment in London for having committed a series of offenses there precisely similar to those in New York, having sent out false invitations and business propositions in the name of a prominent financier, hiring a room opposite his house in order to witness the fun. He had also lived in Turkey and entered into all the customs and vices of Oriental life.
The only misdemeanors in America that were brought home to him were the theft of small articles of little value from a stationer’s shop on Broadway, whose proprietor was an intimate friend of his, and the swindling of jewelry firms out of small sums of money.
Williamson had written a quantity of poetry, and was the author of a play which had met with favorable comment, although it was subsequently alleged that this was the work of a nun in a convent in New Orleans. His death in Sing Sing, while he was serving the term of his sentence, removed the most dangerous practical joker since the days of Theodore Hook.
The Treasure of Caricar[2]
by Roy W. Hinds
From the quay at Marseilles I stepped into a mystery that whirled rapidly into a mad and ghastly carnival
Chapter XXIV
The Horror of the Seas
It didn’t seem to me that it would take the police long, if they were interested or any way suspicious, to trace this affair to the Angela Lee, the yacht on which I, George Ranholm, was captive of Brakely and his thugs. The policeman would want revenge for the rough treatment the gang handed him in seizing me from him while he was attempting to arrest me, and he would tell a colorful story — not forgetting to mention that the sailor he was after was armed.
Would they learn that I had said at the Café de Paris I was pursued by cutthroats? If they did, and if the mere mention of crooks were enough to get them started, they would make things uncomfortable for Brakely, the pseudo society millionaire.
Would Brakely be able to smooth things over by saying it was merely an escape of his crew? If he could convince the police that the rumpus developed from too much liquor and that the sailors simply rescued one of their comrades from arrest, the police would probably be willing to overlook it.
No doubt Brakely, known as a rich American society man, had influential friends at Monte Carlo, among the guests in the hotels. He’d fix it some way. If the police demanded money, he’d be ready with it.
Anyhow, the hours went by with no sign that the yacht was being made ready for sea. Neither were there any visitors that I became aware of, but, of course, many persons could come aboard without me knowing it. When I laid down to sleep that night I was convinced that the affair had either blown over of its own accord or that Julius Brakely had smoothed it over.
We were still in port next morning, all that day and all that night — and all the next day, too. It was the most monotonous experience I had ever had — nothing to do but sit on the floor with my knees hunched up, or lie down as comfortably as I could, or walk about to the music of the chain on my legirons.
I saw absolutely no chance of escape. I had failed in getting word to the authorities of the mysterious doings and the murder at the island of Querolle.
And, of course, my thoughts turned almost altogether to Querolle. My next struggle with Brakely and his gang would take place there. My only hope of starting anything depended on some chance which might cause my captors to take me out of the hold. But they wouldn’t do that as long as we were in port.
It was very late on the fourth night after our arrival at Monte Carlo that the monotony was broken by signs that the yacht was being made ready for sea. I heard heavy objects being moved about on the decks above, and some word passed to the man on guard duty outside my door assured me that cans of gasoline were being brought aboard. I heard talk, too, of fresh water and provisions.
Once, when my door was opened by the guard, who often looked in, I heard talk between our crew and the crew of a lighter. I knew that there was a concern at Monaco which dealt in stores and provisions for yachts, and the lighter was from its dock no doubt.
2
This story began in FLYNN’S WEEKLY for September 4