The Spruce Street Tragedy; or, Old Spicer Handles a Double Mystery

CHAPTER XVI.
OLD SPICER INTERVIEWS CORA BELL

Old Spicer had no difficulty in finding No. 22 Sixth Avenue; and having gained an entrance to the house, he rapidly ascended to the third floor.

One glance satisfied him as to which were Miss Bell's apartments, and he knocked at the door of her reception-room.

After a moment's waiting, he heard light footsteps approaching from an inner room; then the door opened, and a young woman about twenty-two years of age, with a fine form and a very pretty face, stood before him.

She seemed struck with amazement as her eyes rested on the tall, spare form and somewhat aged face of the famous detective. Then his eyes – those wonderful eyes which had searched so many hearts and made so many criminals tremble – troubled her.

"Who – who did you wish to see?" she at length managed to stammer forth.

"Your own sweet self, and no one else," returned Old Spicer, with his most winning smile and in his most pleasing tones.

"Do you know me, sir?" asked the young woman, in surprise. "I don't remember ever having seen you before."

"Oh, yes; I know you very well, my dear. There are young ladies and young ladies, but there can be but one Cora Bell."

"Oh, sir, I fear you are a flatterer," exclaimed the pleased girl. "Will you walk in?"

"Perhaps it will be as well," and he entered the young lady's reception-room.

"Take a seat, sir," said Cora, sweetly.

"Thank you, my dear," and Old Spicer seated himself in an easy-chair.

Cora was about to sit down at some little distance from him, but pointing to another chair much nearer, he said:

"That is the place for you," and smiling pleasantly, she took it.

For a moment neither spoke. At length Cora, whose curiosity was greatly excited, asked:

"Where have I seen you before, sir?"

"Don't you remember, my dear?" returned the old man.

"No, I confess that I do not."

"Ah! how humiliating that is! To think that while I have had you so constantly in my mind, you have not given to me even so much as a passing thought."

"Good gracious! how could I, when I don't know you from Adam?"

"There! now that's an unkind thrust at my age. True, I am somewhat older than yourself, but if you only have a little patience, and don't get drawn into any serious scrapes – like murder, for instance – you may see the time when you will be as old-looking as I am."

Cora's face suddenly blanched, and she stared helplessly at her visitor. But he looked so innocent and unconscious that she at length mustered courage to ask:

"Why do you take the trouble to allude to serious scrapes? Do you think I am likely to be drawn into anything of the kind?"

"You lead a somewhat irregular life, do you not, my dear?" said Old Spicer.

"What do you mean by that?" asked the girl, quickly.

"You go to theaters, balls and parties, eat late suppers, and see a good deal of gentlemen's society, don't you?"

"Why – yes."

"The gentlemen of your acquaintance are not all saints, I take it?"

Cora gave a somewhat boisterous laugh.

"Anything but that," she said.

"Well, there it is. Haven't you ever heard the old saw, that you can't handle pitch without being defiled?"

"Yes, I have heard something like that."

"Well, probably you've never thought much about it, but I assure you it's true – both of pitch and persons."

"I hope you haven't come to preach me a sermon."

"Do I look like a preacher?"

"I hadn't thought much about it before, but I'm blessed if you don't. But then, you might be anything else that's grave and terrible. A judge, or a – a – "

"Well, a what?"

"Oh, never mind. Who are you, any way?"

"Let me ask you a question first."

"Drive on. What is it?"

Old Spicer took a pocket-handkerchief from his pocket and quietly spread it on her lap.

"Did you ever see that before?" he asked.

Cora Bell's face instantly became ashy pale, and had she not clutched at the table by her side, she must have sunk to the floor.

"Ah! I see you know it," said the detective, in his quiet, matter-of-fact tones.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she murmured, excitedly.

"I saw you did," he repeated.

But without paying any attention to his remark, she went on:

"I knew I was right the moment I thought of it. You're a detective."

Then, with a reckless – an almost despairing air:

"Well, what do you want of me, any way?"

Old Spicer regarded her in silence for a moment; and then, as if communing with himself, he murmured aloud:

"So pretty! and so young! Not above twenty-one or twenty-two, I should say. Sad, very sad. Enough to make a strong man weep."

"Oh! what is it – what is it that's so horrible?" gasped Cora, in an agony of terror.

"Ah! my poor girl, your own heart – your own conscience must tell you."

Cora started to her feet.

"Hear me, sir!" she cried. "I know nothing at all about it. I had nothing whatever to do with it."

Old Spicer quietly picked up the handkerchief, which had fallen to the floor, and holding it in one hand, while he pointed to it significantly with the other, said:

"That tells a different story, my dear."

"I know what you mean – yes, that's my handkerchief," she said, "but he took it that evening without my permission – that, and at least half a dozen others that I bought for him that day."

"And you didn't know what he was going to do with them?"

"Of course not. I never dreamed of what was going to happen."

"He said nothing at all to you about it then?"

"Yes, on the Saturday before he told me that he knew an old woman in the place he came from who had between thirty and forty thousand dollars in her house, and that he was going to get it."

"Ah, indeed? And what did you say to that, my dear?"

"I told him that he had much better go to work."

"But he wouldn't take your good advice?"

"No, he just laughed, and said he didn't propose to work all summer."

"Did you believe he would go up to New Haven and rob the old woman?"

"No, to tell the truth, I didn't believe he had the nerve to do it."

"He has, I believe, a good deal of what is called brute courage."

"Yes, but I hadn't discovered it before."

"How long have you known Chamberlain?"

"I can't tell that exactly."

"How long have you been intimate with him?"

"Some seven or eight months."

"Did you know, Monday night, that he had gone to commit this robbery?"

"No, I only knew that he had gone out of town."

"Did he tell you about it when he came back?"

"The way of it was this: Tuesday evening I was reading an account of the murder, when Chamberlain came in. Then the truth flashed upon me at once. I accused him of killing the old woman, and he admitted it."

"He had plenty of money then, I suppose?"

"Yes; he had a big roll of bills in his pocket."

"No doubt he made you a handsome present?"

"There you're off, mister. Now, what do you really think he gave me?"

"At least one hundred dollars – perhaps two hundred."

"The mean wretch only gave me a paltry five dollar bill! What do you think of that?"

"If he got the big stake he is credited with having carried off, you have fixed the right name on him – he's a mean wretch."

"Big stake! my word for it, it was a big stake. He got all he went for, you can bet high on that."

"No idea what he has done with it, I suppose?" This was said carelessly.

"I have something of an idea," was the reply; "but I don't know for a dead certainty."

"Well, what's your idea?"

"He's got a secret friend somewhere here in town, but who that friend is I don't know, or whether it's male or female I don't know. All I can say is, find that friend and you'll find Margaret Ernst's money!"

"You think, then, he's placed the plunder in the hands of this friend to keep for him?"

"I'm sure of it."

A silence of some moments' duration followed.

At length the old detective turned to Cora and abruptly asked:

"Did you ever hear of such a person as Old Spicer?"

The girl started.

"Good Lord! yes, sir!" she exclaimed. "I – I hope you are not he?"

"Fortunately for you, my dear child, I am he," was the grave reply. "Now are you willing to take some good advice from me?"

"I'll do anything in the world you tell me."

"In the first place, then, if Chamberlain should visit you again, which I hardly think he will do, by the way, you are not to mention my being here."

"I will not – I swear it."

The old man raised his finger impressively.

"That's enough! I believe you," he said.

"I'm glad you do."

"In the second place, then, if any other detective comes here it will not be necessary for you to tell him all you have told me."

"I won't tell him anything at all, if you say so."

"Well, my dear, manage that the best you can."

"I think I can manage to hold my tongue."

"I hope so, my dear. By the way, are you acquainted with any members of the detective force?"

"Yes, sir; I know one or two."

"Who are they?"

"Sergeant Cosgrove, for one."

"And McGuire, perhaps?"

"Yes, sir. I know who he is."

"Well, if they, or either of them, make you a call, you needn't volunteer any information, you understand."

"I understand. And – and if I do just as you tell me, will you get me out of this awful scrape?"

"You have told me the worst – so far as you are concerned?"

"Indeed I have, sir."

"Then I emphatically promise to see you through it."

"Oh! thank you, sir."

"You're heartily welcome to all I can do for you, my dear. And now I must leave you."

"I am sorry to have you go. When shall I see you again?"

"That I cannot tell; but if you are threatened with any danger, you may be sure I shall be on hand."

"You are very good, sir."

"I am glad you think so."

Then Old Spicer arose and walked to the door.

As he turned the knob he looked back and said:

"By the way, where does Chamberlain make it his home in the city?"

"He boards at 305 West Twelfth Street, and rooms at Hudson and Morton streets," was the answer.

"Thank you, my dear. And now I must really say good-day," and almost before the girl could repeat the words of leave-taking the great detective was gone.

CHAPTER XVII.
JIM TAYLOR IS ARRESTED

Old Spicer had hardly left the building when he was joined by Killett.

"Thank fortune you are here!" he exclaimed in a tone of relief. "There are three places that must be shadowed instantly.

"What places are they?" asked his friend.

"The house I have just left, where Cora Bell makes it her home, the boarding-house No. 305 West Twelfth Street, and the building at the corner of Hudson and Morton streets."

"What is the last?"

"The place where Chamberlain lodges."

"Good! Slip into this saloon, and I will see to the matter at once."

Old Spicer went into the place designated, and Killett hurried down the street.

In a few moments he returned, and after giving Old Spicer an account of what had passed between Taylor and the two burglars, he listened to the other's account of his interview with Cora.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, when the old man had finished, "there's just one thing for us to do to make this the neatest and most perfect job ever handled by detectives."

"Yes," nodded Old Spicer, "just one thing."

"And that is to discover Chamberlain's unknown friend."

"Exactly."

"It can be done."

"Of course."

"And we'll do it."

"To be sure we will."

"We must manage to drive Chamberlain to him, I suppose?"

"Perhaps he will go without driving."

"Right! the moment he is out of funds he will go to him for more."

"That's it."

"We ought to have Stark and Rouse looking after him."

"Where are they now?"

"They are busy with Taylor and those precious worthies, Hawks and Klinkhammer. By the way, when had we better gather them in?"

"The moment they have led us to the scoundrel who hired them to murder poor Charley Way."

"They have made an appointment with him to meet them in the city to-day, eh?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, we won't have long to wait."

"I hope not. Do your men know where to look for you, Adam?"

"Yes; and, by Jove! here comes one of them now."

"That's so; and it's Stark himself."

"Right. Well, Silas, what is it?"

"I have a suggestion to make, sir."

"Out with it, then."

"I would recommend taking Taylor before he can see Chamberlain. They'll give us trouble if they get together."

"You're right. And so far as I can see, there's no reason why Taylor shouldn't be arrested at once."

"It must be managed quietly, then," suggested Old Spicer. "It mustn't be known that he's taken."

"Correct, old friend, I see the point. Is he still in the saloon, Silas?"

"Yes, sir; but getting ready to leave."

"Well, send a policeman in uniform in there, and have him tell Taylor that he is wanted at the excise commissioners' office."

"All right sir; and what then?"

"Why, follow and arrest him; say somewhere in the vicinity of Bond Street and Broadway."

"Very good, sir."

"Who's looking after the other scoundrels?"

"Quackenbush and Crowley."

"That's all right. And so, when Taylor is safe under lock and key, I wish you'd be on the lookout for Chamberlain," and Killett explained the situation.

"Oho! he has a secret friend, eh?" exclaimed Stark, when he had finished. "I should like nothing better than to hunt down that man."

"Why so?" asked Old Spicer, curiously.

"Because I believe it will turn out that he, whoever he is, has encouraged this crime."

"Very likely," returned Spicer, in a musing tone.

"Well," exclaimed Killett, abruptly, "we shall see by and by, and now be off with you, my good friend," and Stark hurried away.

He soon fell in with a policeman.

"How are you, Tompkins?" he cried, slapping the officer on the back. "Fine day."

"Hallo!" returned the man in blue, looking round. "What the deuce – Oh, is it you, Stark?"

"Yes, it's me, old boy, and I have a little job for you."

"What is it?"

"Walk along with me and I'll tell you."

The policeman fell into step with the detective, and after a moment, said:

"Well, drive ahead."

"Know Jimmie Taylor's place, down Hudson Street?" asked Stark.

"Know it? Well, I should say so!"

"All right; he's in there now. I want you to go in and just say to him that he's wanted up at the excise commissioners' office right away; and then, in as unconcerned a manner as possible, come out."

"I understand. But, I say, Stark, what's the row?"

"Nobody knows that yet, but you'll hear, I fancy, before you're much older."

"All right. Here we are, and I'll do your little job for you," and Tompkins entered the saloon.

Taylor was in earnest conversation with his barkeeper.

He looked up on hearing footsteps, and when he saw the policeman, he started.

Tompkins appeared not to notice this, but walking up to where he was standing, said, carelessly:

"What's the matter, Jemmie? What's the hitch between you and the folks at the excise office?"

"Didn't know there was any," was the quick reply. "I run this saloon on the square; and so far as I know, there's no chance for any one to find fault."

"You're all right, for anything I've ever seen to the contrary, but something's up and you're wanted at the excise office at once."

"At once, eh?"

"Yes, they want to question you, I suppose, and if you'll take my advice, you'll get around there with the least possible delay."

"I'll go this very minute. Jerry, give Mr. Tompkins whatever he calls for," and snatching up his hat, which was lying on the bar, Taylor left the saloon.

"What is it to be, sir?" asked Jerry, when they were alone.

"Whisky straight, if you please," was the prompt reply, "and, Jerry, I'll just step inside this door to drink it," and pushing open the door which led to the little stall-like rooms, he waited for Jerry to bring him his whisky there.

Mr. Tompkins was a cautious policeman, you see. He was careful – indeed, most anxious, not to bring reproach on the excellent body of men to which he belonged.

Jerry soon made his appearance with a liberal dose of "poison," which Tompkins swallowed as if he loved it, and then, with a cheerful good-day, he went out.

Neither Taylor nor Stark was in sight. The first, on emerging from the saloon, had hurried down the street. The other had let him get some distance ahead and then had followed him.

They kept on in this way until they had reached the vicinity of Bond Street and Broadway, when quickening his pace, Stark came up with Taylor, and slapping him on the back, said in a matter-of-fact tone:

"Mr. Taylor, I should be pleased with the favor of your company for a short distance."

"Who the devil are you?" exclaimed Taylor, turning upon him with a start.

"I am an officer of the law and you are my prisoner," was the stern reply.

"I don't know about that."

"I do. And let me tell you, Jimmie, it will be best for you to go along with me quietly, understand?"

"Where are you going to take me to?"

"The central office."

"What for?"

"Mr. Byrnes is anxious to have a good look at you."

"He won't get much out of me."

"That's all right. Every man has a right to keep his mouth shut and his tongue still if he can."

"Well, I can."

"It's nice to have a good opinion of one's self, Jimmie. And now step off a little faster, if you please."

Taylor apparently had given up all thoughts of resisting, and walked on by the detective's side without another word.

On arriving at the central office he was locked up, and a letter purporting to be signed by him, was sent to his saloon, informing Jerry that he had suddenly been called out of town on business and would not be back that night.

All this having been accomplished, Stark hastened back to the place where Old Spicer and Killett had established their headquarters, and reported.

He then went out to make the rounds between the three points at which it was suspected Chamberlain would be most likely to show up, namely, Cora Bell's rooms, his own boarding-place, and his lodging-house.

Shortly after he had gone out Crowley made his appearance, and a single glance at his face convinced both Killett and Old Spicer that something of importance had happened.

"Ah, sir, you're welcome," said Old Spicer; "take a seat at the table here."

"Thank you, sir," and stepping forward, the new-comer sat down.

CHAPTER XVIII.
OLD SPICER'S SPEAKING-TUBE

"Well, Crowley, what have you to offer?" asked Killett, with a great show of interest.

"We have tracked Hawks and Klinkhammer, by different routes, to the same hotel – a quiet affair uptown," was the answer.

"And are they there now?"

"Yes; closeted in No. 24 with a guest."

"Is the guest a new arrival?" asked Old Spicer.

"I was told not – that is, he has occupied his room, off and on, for several months."

"Off and on, eh? That is, he goes and comes as he pleases."

"Exactly."

"Humph! What's his name?"

"Bissell – E. E. Bissell he signs himself."

"Young or old?"

"Young – that is, under thirty."

"Who's on duty there?" asked Killett.

"Rouse and Quackenbush."

"Well, Old Spicer, one of us ought to look after this matter, while the other waits for news of Chamberlain here."

"I believe I'd better go up to the hotel," said Old Spicer, after a moment's reflection.

"Very good, then, I'll stay here."

"We can keep each other posted as to our movements, eh?"

"Certainly, and we should be careful to do so."

"All right; I will go with Crowley, then, unless you want him here."

"I was just going to suggest that I might want him."

"All right, you keep him, and I'll find my way to the hotel alone;" and Old Spicer went out.

He took the elevated road up town and soon arrived at the hotel.

He found Quackenbush on the lookout, and learned from him that Rouse was endeavoring to catch some fragments of the conversation that was going on in No. 24.

"What!" he exclaimed, "isn't he in the next room?"

"No," was the reply, "there is no chance for that. On one side there is a short hall, a passageway, and on the other a room that is occupied by a gentleman and his wife."

"Hum. Well, there must be a room overhead."

"Lord, yes. I never thought of that."

Old Spicer hurried to the landlord, who happened to be in the office.

After a moment's conversation, he asked:

"What's the number of the room over twenty-four?"

The landlord considered the question for a moment and then said:

"Thirty-six."

"Good! give me the key to thirty-six."

"What do you want of it, sir?"

Old Spicer gave him a hurried but plausible explanation.

The key was at once handed to him.

He went back to Quackenbush.

"Come with me," he said. "I shall take Rouse up to thirty-six with me, and I want you to remain in the vicinity of twenty-four, so that, in case they leave the room, you can follow them."

"All right, sir," and the two went upstairs.

They found Rouse in the little passage at the side of the room. He had been at work boring a hole through the plastering, but unfortunately had chosen the wrong spot, and so his hole had come out in a closet on the other side.

"Come with me, Reub," said Old Spicer; "Quackenbush will remain here."

"It would be worth big money to know just what is being said in there," returned Rouse regretfully.

"Of course, and that's what I am bound to find out."

"How do you propose to do it?" asked Rouse, in surprise.

"There is a room overhead."

"Undoubtedly."

"And in that room is a ventilating flue, which runs down through the room below and out through the roof above."

"I see! I see!" exclaimed Rouse, in high glee. "We have only to reach the ventilator to hear all that is going on in Bissell's room."

"Right, provided the ventilator in twenty-four is not closed."

"I've no fear of that – they're never closed."

"Very good; then we are likely to hear something to our advantage."

By this time they had reached room No. 36, and, thrusting the key into the lock, Old Spicer opened the door.

His eyes at once sought the ventilator.

It was over the mantel-piece and at a considerable distance from the floor.

"How can we get at it?" asked Rouse.

Old Spicer cast a rapid glance about the room.

"Nothing here that will answer the purpose," he muttered. Then catching Rouse by the sleeve, he exclaimed:

"Come with me," and he conducted him to a private sitting-room opposite, the door of which was open.

A strong and fair-sized table stood in the center of the room.

"Take hold of it," said Old Spicer, and within one minute that table was standing in front of the mantel-piece in Room 36.

"Now, then," continued the old detective, "bring a couple of stout chairs, these in this room are too frail to stand on."

Rouse vanished, but soon returned with the chairs, which he placed upon the table.

Old Spicer then locked the door, and the two men mounted on to the elevated chairs and placed their ears to the ventilator.

The next instant a smile of satisfaction spread over both their faces.

"A regular speaking-tube," whispered Rouse.

"Remember that!" returned Old Spicer in his ear; "and on no account utter a word above the lowest whisper."

Rouse nodded, and both gave their undivided attention to what was being said in the room below.

It was Mr. E. E. Bissell who was speaking. There could be no doubt about that, and he was talking right to the point.

"There's no use continuing this interview a moment longer," he was saying. "The man's dead, I admit that fact; but such a bungling piece of work I never heard of before."

"It wasn't a job to be proud of," muttered Barney.

"I should say it wasn't! However, he is dead; and while Reed, of the Consolidated Road, has hit pretty near the mark, neither he nor any other live man suspects that I am mixed up in the affair; hence, so long as you two keep your mouths shut, I am satisfied."

"We're as dumb as oysters," asserted Barney.

"Dot's schust vhat ve are," chimed in Jake.

"I'm glad to hear it. And now I am going to pay you in full, and add a couple of thousand on one condition."

"Vhat vos dot condition, Mr. Pissell?" asked Jake eagerly.

"That you both solemnly swear never, as long as you live, to enter the State of Connecticut again."

"Hem, dot vos schust a leetle hard, Mr. Pissell."

"May be it is; but how can you earn a thousand dollars a piece so easily?"

"Dere vos somedings in dot, I confess."

"Of course, and so you swear do you?"

"Vell, vhat you say, Parney, schall ve swear?"

"Of course," answered Barney, impatiently, "you know as well as I do, there's nothing else for us to do."

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Bissell, "you never intended to return to Connecticut."

"Not likely," responded Barney, dryly. "I fancy our necks are worth as much to us as yours is to you."

"Put," Jake hastened to ask, "you vill gif us der extra dousands all der same, eh?"

"You bet he will!" growled Barney.

"Oh, yes," exclaimed Bissell, with alacrity, "I don't care what motives keep you out of that state, or, better still, out of the country. I am only too willing to pay you, so long as you do keep out. And now here's your money. Adding the $2000 it makes $12,000, or $6000 apiece. Pretty good pay for one night's work, eh, boys?"

"No more than we fairly earned, sir," retorted Barney; "though, as you say, there was a little bungling."

"I find no fault, you understand," said Bissell. "Indeed, it was I who set the price, and if it only leads to what I hope and expect it will, I am a good deal more than satisfied."

"The lady has heard of the – the accident?" said Barney inquiringly.

"Ye-yes, I believe she has."

"How did she take it?"

"Made a great fuss at first, but I hope that's over by this time."

"Oh, she'll come round, never fear. She had to make a little fuss, you know, for appearance sake."

"That's it, exactly."

"Well, we wish you luck, Mr. Bissell, and now, good day."

"Good-day, gentlemen – but stay! one word: When do you leave New York, and in what direction?"

"We leave this very day, and we're going to Mexico or Central America."

"You couldn't have chosen more wisely. I wish you the best of luck and continued prosperity."

"Thank you, sir."

"I shall always feel an interest in your welfare. Write to me, when you get settled down there."

"We'll do it, sir.

"You know my address?"

"Yes, Emory E. Bissell. But shall we direct to this hotel?"

"You may as well. But never mind the Emory; perhaps we've used that name too freely already among the wooden nutmegs, E. E. Bissell will do."

"All right, sir, we'll remember. And now is there anything more to say?"

"I wish you could tell me how Conductor Mason and Peter Coffey are coming out in this affair?"

"That's more than we know ourselves, sir. They were so closely connected with Way in the illicit liquor trade and otherwise, that it's more than likely to go hard with them."

"I'm sorry; but I see no help for it."

"There is no help for it – if we're to get off scot-free."

"Well, you'd better do that – if you can."

"We mean to. And now, once more, good day."

"Good day," and the two worthies were gone.