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Luke Crate hated Octavius Fanks for three reasons,—all sufficient in themselves to one of his envious temperament. In the first place, Fanks was a gentleman by birth and education; in the second, Fanks treated him with benign indifference; in the third—and this was worst of all, Fanks held rank as the smartest detective in London. Crate was not the first being of humble parentage, but he was the last without the superlative adjective, therefore he sorely grudged Fanks his birth, his brains, and, above all his position. Here was a man of aristocratic connections who, leaving the professions generally followed by his class, assumed the rôle of a thief-catcher, and took the bread out of hungry mouths. To add insult to injury, this interloper, not only knew his business thoroughly, but, by the skilful use of an educated brain, succeeded in solving riddles long given up as hopeless by blundering detectives of the Crate species. Certainly Crate possessed a vein of cunning which stood him in good stead when investigating an ordinary case, but lacking the delicate perceptions and deducible abilities of his rival, he was never entrusted with those notorious mysteries by the solution of which Fanks gained his renown. And after all, as the reputation of this English Vidocq rested mostly on the famous case of Monsieur Judas Crate, on the one-swallow-does-not-make-a-summer ground, failed to see why the brains of this gentleman detective should be rated higher than his own. He grumbled incessantly at the chances thrown in Fanks’ way, and complained bitterly of the advantage always taken of those same chances. Furthermore, Fanks, not being infallible, had failed on occasions, and with these failures he was frequently taunted by Crate, who likewise proclaimed his belief that the successes of his rival were more the result of accident than design. Fanks, hearing indirectly of these captious criticisms, felt somewhat nettled at their manifest injustice, and resolved to put a stop to them at the earliest opportunity, by making Crate follow him step by step in the unravelling of some particularly intricate case. By forcing Crate to acknowledge his inability to solve the problem thus presented, and then doing so himself, Fanks hoped to shame this lower intelligence into silence.

With this idea he cast about for the necessary enigma, and one soon presenting itself for solution, Fanks, before taking a single step towards the desired end, sought out Crate for the purpose of arranging details. Crate, a thickset, bull-necked, obstinate man of full habit and narrow understanding, received his visitor with scarcely veiled suspicion, and when Fanks proposed that they should work amicably together in this particular case, gave voice to his doubts. In his own lodging, unrestrained by the ordinary rules of courtesy, Crate, hating Fanks with all the intensity of a petty soul, took full advantage of the opportunity in the way of plain speaking.

“I don’t see why you want to work with me, Mr. Fanks,” he said roughly. “You think enough of yourself to do without my help, don’t you?”

“As a general rule I do,” replied Fanks serenely, his angelic temper in no wise ruffled by the idiosyncrasy of this ruffian; “but the fact is, I have heard on all sides that you consider yourself to be a more capable man than I, and grudge me the position I have won by hard work. Now I do not usually take notice of this sort of thing, as there are many men of your temperament in the world, but in this instance I wish to teach you a lesson, and prove to you how difficult it is to unravel one of these criminal enigmas you seem to think so easy. I therefore propose that we work together at the same case, and he who first unravels the mystery shall be admitted by the other to he the best man.”

During this speech Crate’s face expressed nothing but blank astonishment. In his own heart he knew that Fanks was infinitely his superior in brain power, and could afford to treat all adverse criticism with silent contempt. Yet, notwithstanding this tacit acknowledgment of inferiority, Crate’s egotism strove to crush down the feeling and persuade him into the belief that he could conduct a case quite as admirably as could Fanks. Hitherto he had lacked the chance to so distinguish himself, as he was forbidden by the authorities to undertake any but the easiest cases, but now that Fanks desired his co-operation in one of these intricate riddles, Crate greedily seized the opportunity. Quite overlooking Fanks’ generous self-abnegation in the matter, Crate hoped, by means of this opportunity, to oust his rival from his position and take it himself. At the same time he was conscious that he was the weaker of the two, and tried to hide his knowledge of this fact under an aggressive demeanour.

“I don’t say you ain’t clever, Mr. Fanks,” he observed, swelling like the frog in the fable, “but what I do say is, as there are others as clever as you. If I had your chances I could show myself just as capable as you.”

“That remains to be seen, Crate,” replied Fanks significantly; “here is one of my chances, as you call them. Work it out according to your own fashion, and let me see this wonderful capability of which you speak.”

“It’s a bargain!”

“Very good! But on one condition only. If you fail and I succeed, you must promise to stop speaking ill of me behind my back.”

“Behind your back!” echoed Crate, in an indignant tone. “I never say anything behind your back I wouldn’t say to your face. In my opinion you are over-rated, and I can beat you. Prove to me that I am wrong, and I won’t open my month except to praise you.”

“I don’t require that,” said Fanks, coldly. “Only leave off abusing me, and I shall be satisfied. Here!” he continued, taking a newspaper out of his pocket, “here is the case—that of the man found dead last Friday morning at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle on the Embankment.”

“That!” said Crate, disdainfully; “what are you talking about?”

“About this murder!”

“It ain’t a murder. Can’t you tell a murder from a suicide?”

“I fancy I can, and in this instance say it is the former.”

“The latter!”

“The former,” persisted Fanks, tapping his newspaper, “decidedly the former.”

Crate, greatly excited, thumped the table with his fist, and proceeded, as he thought, to annihilate his rival.

“You’re on the wrong lay, you are!” he declared, vociferously; “the jury say it is suicide, the world says it is suicide, and I—”

“You say it is suicide,” said Fanks, contemptuously, “simply because other people have made up your mind for you. However, stick to your own opinion and solve the riddle. If you can prove it to be suicide, you are cleverer than I think you are.”

“I’m not going to take up the case. It would be a waste of time to do so. Give me an out-and-out murder and I’ll find the criminal, but—”

“Precisely!” interrupted Fanks, with a sneer. “I quite believe you would find the criminal in what you term an out-and-out murder, but you are perfectly aware that I never touch those sort of cases. It is by an affair like this that I gain my reputation—this is one of the chances you complain of; I offer it to you, and you refuse to have anything to do with it.”

“There’s nothing in it!”

“On the contrary, there is quite a romance in it!”

“Then do it yourself! If you prove it to be murder I’ll say you deserve your reputation.”

“Very good!” replied Fanks, unfolding the newspaper. “With regard to this case, I have succeeded in impressing on the authorities that there is more in it than meets the eye, therefore it has been put in my hands for solution. Notwithstanding that you refuse to have anything to do with it, I still hope to convince you of the uselessness of your attempting this class of work, by setting you to follow me step by step as I unravel this case. By so doing you will see how difficult it is to deal with these enigmas, and how wrong you are in supposing that my successes are due to chance only.”

“Fire away, Mr. Fanks!” said Crate, quite delighted at having ruffled his rival’s usual placidity. “I’ll follow your arguments as closely as you please, but all this murder business is moonshine.”

“So you think! I hope to prove it to be otherwise, and am not the man to waste my time in looking for a mare’s nest. Now let us begin! Just cast your eye over this report of the inquest in The Morning Planet.

Crate sniffed in a disbelieving manner, and glanced at the paragraph indicated by the forefinger of Fanks; a paragraph, cross-headed, “An Unknown Suicide,” containing the following intelligence, condensed, superficial, and altogether unsatisfactory—from a detective’s point of view!

“Last evening an inquest was held on the body of the man found at the base of the Obelisk on the Thames Embankment on Friday morning last. Constable X 300 stated that he discovered the body at one o’clock on Friday morning, and had it at once taken to the Morgue. He had previously passed the place at midnight, but had then seen no suspicious circumstance likely to attract his attention. At that hour the space at the foot of the Obelisk was quite empty. It was impossible to identify the body as the linen was not marked, and the pockets contained nothing but a knife, a pipe, ten shillings in silver, a tobacco pouch, and a sixpenny novel.

“Dr. Beauvoir deposed that he had examined the body of the deceased. It was that of a young man under thirty years of age, badly nourished, and bearing traces of dissipation. He should say that deceased had been a hard drinker. On examining the contents of the stomach he found that death was due to the effects of prussic acid. According to his calculations the deceased must have died between twelve and one o’clock’ on Friday morning.

“This was all the evidence obtainable, and the coroner, while pointing out that the deceased died from the effects of poison, said there appeared to be no reason to suspect foul play. According to the evidence of Dr. Beauvoir, the deceased had led a dissipated life, so had probably poisoned himself while in an excited mental condition brought on by excessive drinking. Notwithstanding all efforts made by the police, it was found quite impossible to obtain any clue to the identity of the deceased. On this meagre evidence the jury would have to found their verdict.

“The coroner offered to adjourn the case for the purpose of obtaining further evidence if possible, but the jury deemed it unnecessary, and returned a verdict to the effect that the deceased had committed suicide while in a state of unsound mind.”

“There you see,” cried Crate, triumphantly, when they had finished reading this bald narrative, “it’s nothing but a case of suicide.”

“So it appears from that report,” said Fanks, benignly, folding up the newspaper; “but having seen the body, examined the articles found in the pockets of the clothes, and made a few inquiries, I have come to a different conclusion. In my opinion this man was murdered by some unknown person who was with him on the night in question.”

“How do you know some unknown person was with him?”

“Ah! that requires a somewhat lengthy explanation. In order to support my theory that he was murdered, there must have been a second person with the dead man at midnight. I believe this to be so, hence my disagreement with the verdict of the jury.”

“Have you any reason for such a belief?”

Fanks produced a book from his pocket—a thin, yellow-covered volume with a gaudy picture on the outside. This he slapped down on the table before the wondering eyes of his doubter.

“Taken from the body of the dead man,” explained Fanks, pointing to the title, “Tales of Mystery and Imagination,” by Edgar Allan Poe, published at the moderate price of sixpence, and purchased at even less, allowing for discount.

Crate picked up the book, glanced through the pages, replaced it on the table, and looked inquiringly at Fanks.

“What has this book to do with your theory?” he asked contemptuously.

“Everything! But in order to make you thoroughly understand its importance, I had better offer a preliminary explanation.”

“Go on! I’m all attention.”

“I saw the body after it was taken to the Morgue,” said Fanks, drawing the book towards his end of the table; “the dead man had been a handsome fellow in his day and evidently a gentleman. They said at the inquest that he was under thirty, but in my opinion, making allowance for the marks of dissipation, he was not more than twenty-five. Evidently he had at one time occupied an excellent social position, and having come down in the world through fast living—”

“Had committed suicide!”

“Nothing of the sort. People don’t as a rule go to the banks of a river to poison themselves. If this man had desired to commit suicide, he would have probably thrown himself off one of the bridges where there would have been more chance of immediate extinction of life. If he were bent on self-destruction by poison, he could have made away with himself comfortably in the seclusion of his own lodgings.”

“Supposing he had no lodgings?”

“You forget! Ten shillings in silver were found in his pockets, so he was not without the means of obtaining a roof to cover him. There was no need for him to come to the river in order to poison himself, and no need for him to bring poison there if he intended to drown himself.”

“He might have taken poison first and then intended to throw himself into the river, so as to do away with any chance of escaping death.”

“That objection is answered by the nature of the poison and by the nature of the place where the body was found. Prussic acid kills almost instantaneously; therefore there was no need for him to supplement his rash act by drowning. But even admitting that he intended to do so, he would decidedly have gone down the steps and taken the poison there, so that he could fall at once into the water. If this were so, your theory of suicide might be feasible, but as the body was found at the base of the Obelisk far away from the water, I hardly think it is a plausible conjecture. In short, if he desired to drown himself, he would have thrown himself off one of the Thames bridges, had he intended to poison himself he would have done so at his lodgings for the night, and if, according to you, he had determined to combine poison and drowning, he would certainly have taken the first where there was a chance of his falling involuntarily into the river.”

“This is all supposition,” said Crate, unable to find any answer to these arguments. “What is your other idea?”

“I believe that on Thursday night the deceased met an unknown person by appointment at the foot of Cleopatra’s Needle, and that during their interview this unknown person induced the deceased to take poison.”

“But for what reason?”

“I don’t know at present. I must find it out.”

“You have a clue?”

“I have already said so. In this book—”

“Were there no letters in the pockets of the deceased likely to establish his identity?”

“None!”

“Pawn tickets?”

“No!”

“Watch?”

“No!”

“Name on linen—initials on clothes?”

“None at all!”

“In fact,” said Crate, triumphantly; “there is not the slightest clue to show who this dead man was?”

“Not the slightest!”

“And yet you hope to discover the truth?”

“I do!”

Crate looked at his rival with unwilling respect. Such dogged perseverance was beyond his comprehension.

“I don’t know if this is a game of bluff,” he said at length, rubbing his chin, “but you have certainly more self-assurance than I gave you credit for.”

“Thank you!” replied the imperturbable Fanks, “I trust to convince you shortly that this is not a game of bluff.”

“Well! And what about this clue?”

“Ah, of course! The clue! It is in this book! Do you know anything of the detective stories of Poe?”

“Nothing!”

“That’s a pity! They might educate you in your profession by illustrating the doctrine of ratiocination. However, I’ll show you somewhat of it myself. Now on finding this book I thought it strange that the deceased should have bought it the week before he died.”

“How do you know he did?”

“It is cheap and clean. If he had bought these stories in his wealthy days it is probable that the copy would have been an expensive one. Had this copy been bought long ago it would have been dirty and dog-eared. Therefore from these facts I deduce that this poor man, to whom the expenditure of a penny was a consideration, must have had some powerful reason for making such a purchase.” Crate began to feel curious, and grunted approval.

“Furthermore,” pursued Fanks, opening the book, “You will notice that herein a page is turned down. I examine this turned-down page and find that it marks the place where occurs the cryptograph in “The Gold Bug.”

“Cryptograph! Gold Bug!” echoed Crate, much obfuscated. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Edgar Allan Poe,” explained Franks, smoothing out the turned-down page, “is a famous American author, who wrote a clever story called ‘The Gold Bug,’ in which occurs an ingenious cryptograph.”

“What is a cryptograph?”

“A puzzle! A cipher! A number of words purposely thrown into confusion in order to conceal a secret. Now this dead man evidently wished to correspond with someone in cipher, and, not being clever enough to invent one, resorted to this book in which he found his cryptograph ready made.”

“But would the person to whom the cipher was sent know how to unravel it?” questioned Crate dubiously.

“I have a theory as to that which I shall now explain. Let us invent a story which, though it may not be true, will yet convey to you clearly my ideas on the subject of this murder.”

“You seem to consider me very stupid,” exclaimed Crate, rather nettled at the infinite pains taken by Fanks to put forth his theory in a simple form.

“I think you lack the ratiocinative faculty, otherwise you could deduce the theory yourself from what I have told you.”

“My imagination is not so lively as yours. Let me hear your deductions.”

“Willingly. Follow me closely, please. This dead man, I say, is, or rather was, a person of good family. He is dissipated—we will speak in the present tense as most convenient. He is dissipated, he takes to drink; his family, disgusted at his conduct, will have nothing to do with him, so he sinks lower and lower till he is little else than a vagabond of the streets. One person, a relative no doubt, alone retains, as he thinks, a kindly feeling for him. He wishes to communicate with this person, but owing to his ostracism cannot do so directly. He is forbidden the house; his handwriting is known and his letters left unanswered, so this prodigal son is at his wits’ end how to communicate with his well-wisher. Suddenly he thinks of a cipher in the newspaper as the means of communication. Either he is not able to invent a cipher, or does not know how to give his correspondent a key to one invented by himself, therefore he casts about for some method by which the desired result can be achieved. Having probably read Poe’s story of ‘The Gold Bug,’ he recollects the cipher therein, and thinking it suitable to his purpose, buys two books of Poe’s stories.”

“Why two?”

“Cannot you guess? One book he keeps himself so as to aid him to write the cipher, the other he sends to the person with whom he desires to correspond, having the cipher page turned down. What happens? The well-wisher receiving this book at first wonders why it is sent to him; then noting the turned-down page, at once sees that the sender of the book desires to correspond with him. The newspaper is the only available medium of communication, so the well-wisher looks daily in the newspaper for a cipher similar to that in Poe’s book.”

“How would the well-wisher know in what newspaper to look?”

“Very easily. Every house takes a particular newspaper, so the dead man, knowing the special journal affected by his well-wisher, puts his cipher in that one. You can guess what follows! The well-wisher finds the cipher message, asking for a meeting at Cleopatra’s Needle on Thursday night; replies in a similar cipher; the victim and the murderer meet and the crime takes place.”

“A very cleverly constructed case,” said Crate sarcastically; “but why should this well-wisher go to be killed?”

“You forget, Crate! It was the well wisher who killed his friend. The dead man evidently thought that the person with whom he corresponded in cipher was attached to him. Instead of being so, this person meets his victim, with the intention of poisoning him by means of prussic acid.”

“Rubbish! How could the murderer force his victim to take prussic acid in a public place?”

“That, of course, I do not yet know,” replied Fanks, musingly; “it could certainly not be done by force, else there would have been a struggle and an outcry on the part of the victim. No! It must have been accomplished so cautiously that the intended victim did not know he was taking poison until it was too late, and died before he could utter a cry.”

“Such a thing is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible in the criminal world,” said Fanks emphatically; “and, as regards this theory, remember that celebrated case where an American doctor induced girls to take poisoned pills, which they did in all innocence, and then died. For all we know this murderer may be a doctor, and under the pretence that his victim was ill, may have administered the fatal dose. Of course this is pure supposition. Still it might be so.”

“But why court danger by committing a crime in so public a place?”

“The more public the place in which a crime is committed the less chance is there of detection. Moreover, according to my theory, the meeting place was appointed by the deceased, not by his destroyer, and as the latter could not alter the locality, he had to carry out his infernal intention as he best could. He did succeed in achieving his purpose, as you see.”

“This is a good plot for a novel, Mr. Fanks,” observed Crate, scoffingly, “but it’s very improbable. How can you hope to follow up this slight clue, if indeed it is one, which I very much doubt?”

Fanks jumped up briskly to his feet, and slipped the book into his pocket. “I intend to follow up the clue, which you despise so much, by searching the newspapers for the cipher. When I find it and solve it by means of Poe’s explanation I shall know something important. On the information that cipher contains depends all my future movements.”

“You hope, perhaps, to find the name of the dead man?”

“It’s not impossible I may do so,” retorted Fanks coolly; “to indicate his identity this dead man must certainly have put his real name in the cipher.”

“You are making a mountain out of a molehill,” declared Crate, as Fanks moved quickly towards the door.

Fanks looked back at this sceptic with a smile.

“Not convinced yet?”

“No! Nor am I likely to be.”

“Wait till I bring you the cipher to-morrow, Crate. You will find therein the second link of the chain destined to bind the hands of this unknown criminal.”

“And the first link?”

Fanks tapped the pocket wherein reposed the book of Poe’s stories, nodded smilingly, and then disappeared.