DETECTIVE STORIES.From the Diary of a New York Detective.EDITED BY FRANK PEMMON.A Chance Meeting.
DETECTIVE STORIES.
From the Diary of a New York Detective.
EDITED BY FRANK PEMMON.
Several years ago I was detailed to undertake the solution of a mystery surrounding a robbery which had baffled the police for a month or more. Then two detectives had been set at work upon it and had failed to locate the thief. I was given the case. I did not exactly succeed in finding the thief, but I brought him to justice, just the same. How, you shall see.
The house of Mr. Bond had been broken into and a large amount of jewelry stolen. Among the latter was a handsome gold watch belonging to the daughter of Mr. Bond. It had been a birthday present from her mother, and was highly prized by her. Her father offered a large reward for its recovery. I called at the home of Mr. Bond to get a description of the missing jewelry and whatever other information the family could give me. This was little enough. The jewelry had been stolen and no trace of the thief was to be found. That was all. I was expected, with no clue whatever to work upon, to ferret out and bring the thief to justice, and at the same time recover Miss Bond’s watch. The onlything that the thief had left behind him was a piece of paper on which was written the words:
“Remember the poor.” I did not regard this as being of any importance, and gave it little or no thought.
I was a young man at the time, unmarried, and, as it may be guessed, susceptible to the charms of pretty girls. Miss Bond—Clara—was a pretty girl, and I may as well confess, I fell in love with her at first sight. I also made an impression upon her. This caused me all the more eagerly to work up the case and try to bring it to a successful conclusion. Who knows, thought I, what may be at the end of it? I made a good many visits to the Bond house, nominally to seek information, in reality to gaze upon the face of the charming Miss Bond. My search for the thief did not progress very favorably. In fact, I had made no progress whatever. It promised to remain an unsolved mystery. I could not find the thief. Now comes the strange part of the story—how the thief found me. I had just boarded a railway train when a man followed me, and quietly slipped into the seat next to me. He carried a small bag which he hid under the seat. I also had a bag somewhat similar to his own.
“Well, Jimmy,” he remarked, “how did you succeed?”
“First rate,” I returned, in a whisper, so as not to betray my identity by my voice. Itwas clear that I was in conversation with a thief—he did not look to my well-trained eyes like an honest man—and I must keep up the deception.
“Got the swag?” he asked.
I merely tapped my bag for reply. It was nearly dusk and the car lamps had not been lighted. My companion had not yet discovered his mistake. I didn’t feel exactly flattered at being mistaken, even in the half light, for a thief.
“How with you?” I asked.
“Aint done much since I tapped ‘Remember the poor.’”
“Remember the poor!” The words flashed across my mind. Was I on the track of the thief at last?
“Got the watch yet?” I asked.
“Yes, don’t dare to try to get rid of it. Where is Baggy John, now?”
What the deuce was I to say? Just then a man came down the car aisle. I saw at once it was the man whom my companion had really expected to meet. The resemblance between us was remarkable. My companion looked from one to the other and then tried to get away. Not before I had a pair of hand-cuffs encircling his wrists, however.
That is how I caught the thief, got my promotion, the reward, and last, but by no means least, my wife.