Читать книгу The Bradys and the Opium Dens; or Trapping the Crooks of Chinatown - Francis Worcester Doughty - Страница 3

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“It is a very strange case,” said the chief of the Secret Service as he leaned back in his chair and drummed with his fingers upon the desk.

“I will admit that,” said Old King Brady, with a low bow; “but yet it is not without many parallels. Every day people drop from sight in this great city of New York and are never heard from again.”

“Very true,” agreed the chief. “But a man of the prominence and standing of Jonathan Small in his own country town of Bushville does not drop from sight voluntarily as a usual thing.”

“But it is the unusual that is happening every day all about us,” said Old King Brady.

“His disappearance is certainly unusual.”

“And yet not altogether to be wondered at.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is to me a literal wonder that there are not more such disappearances.”

“Will you explain?”

“With pleasure,” agreed the old detective. “Here is the idea: Every incoming train brings a legion of our country cousins, some on business and some on pleasure intent.

“Every man from the rural districts, as soon as he strikes New York, seems to lose his identity as a man of sound sense and judgment. His conceptions of metropolitan life and customs are greatly at variance with the real facts.

“At home he refuses to be deceived by the keenest of sharps; but once in New York, he flings prudence and virtue to the winds, and as a result is an easy victim of sharpers and thugs. He runs the gauntlet of the dens of vice with a sang froid and a recklessness which even the most hardened Tenderloiner will hardly essay.

“The result follows swiftly: He is cheated and fleeced and swindled, and sometimes murdered. In other words, he will do things in New York which at home he would never dream of doing.

“Now the metropolis offers every possible warning. It has the most splendid detective system in the world. The daily newspapers present such examples in their columns of the effects of vicious living in New York, that you would think the country man would be warned by them. But they are as foolish as a cow on a railroad track and fully as obdurate.”

The chief leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Well, I never took that view of it, Brady,” he declared. “But I can see that you are right.”

“I speak from observation.”

“Your theory is sound. So you think that Mr. Small has fallen a victim to the crooks of Gotham?”

“In no other way can I see any explanation of his disappearance.”

“But what do you think has become of him?”

Old King Brady gave a deprecatory shrug.

“That is one of the mysteries of the city,” he replied.

“You must bear in mind that he was one of the church deacons in Bushville and strict in his morals.”

“Humph! that makes no difference.”

“Do you believe that he would forsake his principles so far as to indulge in dissipation in the slums?”

“Men will do queer things as well as women,” said Old King Brady. “I recall one case of a full-fledged Baptist clergyman who was found in a den of gamblers one night by a member of his congregation. He was from the West and deemed himself absolutely safe. He put up the valid excuse that he was seeking converts. Rather a novel way of doing missionary work, but he passed all right.”

“Was not that rather an unusual case?”

“Yes. I am glad to say that it was more than unusual—it was an isolated case,” replied Old King Brady.

“Well,” said the chief, succinctly, “this is the case: A wealthy resident of Bushville came down to New York a week ago to do some business. He was registered at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

“Very mysteriously he disappeared. Not a clew to his whereabouts can be found. His relatives called here yesterday. They propose offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars for his body, dead or alive.”

“Tell them not to do it,” cried the old detective.

“What do you mean?”

“They must not do it.”

The chief was surprised.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Ask me for no reason just yet,” said the old detective. “Simply oblige me by telling them to offer no reward. I will endeavor to find the missing man.”

“Then you are interested in the case?” cried the chief, eagerly.

“Yes, very much indeed. Be assured my partner and I will do all in our power to solve the mystery.”

“That is enough,” cried the chief, with delight. “I know that if anybody can solve this case it is Old King Brady. I wish you success.”

“Thank you. I shall try.”

Old King Brady arose and started for the door.

He was a man of few words and terse methods.

All over the country his name and fame were known.

For many years he had figured in the criminal circles of New York as a most astute and clever sleuth.

All his life he had worked out his cases alone, and trusted to his own deductions and skill.

Of late, however, he had formed the acquaintance of a younger detective, whose name was also Brady, though he was no blood relation.

Harry Brady was a promising young detective.

Association with Old King Brady had been largely to his advantage.

He had gained many points and was rising rapidly to such proficiency as would one day make him a worthy successor of Old King Brady.

As they were seen together so much, they were soon known as Old and Young King Brady. They were a pair of keen sleuths.

Old King Brady left the office of the chief of the Secret Service.

He had possessed himself of all the details of the missing man mystery.

The old detective had already formed his theories, though he said nothing about them to the chief. How accurate they were the incidents of this story will divulge.

When he reached the street the old detective boarded an up-town car.

He alighted at Twenty-third street and entered the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

He applied at the desk for certain information.

“May I see the night register of one week ago?” he asked.

The clerk complied.

Old King Brady ran his eye down the page. There was the entry:

“Jonathan Small, Bushville, N. Y.”

“When did Mr. Small leave?” he asked of the clerk.

“He was here two days, and his baggage is here yet,” replied the clerk.

“Ah! May I have the privilege of looking at his baggage?”

“Are you a friend?” asked the clerk.

“I am a Secret Service man.”

Old King Brady showed his star.

“Ah, yes,” agreed the clerk, politely. “It is in the storeroom. Front?”

A bell boy responded.

“Take this gentleman to the storeroom and show him these pieces of luggage,” and he gave the boy two checks.

Old King Brady followed the bell boy to the storeroom.

Here the old detective found that the missing man’s effects consisted of an umbrella, a traveling-bag and a rain coat.

The traveling-bag had been opened, and contained a miscellaneous array of articles of very little consequence, so far as a clew was concerned.

They were articles of toilet and wearing apparel.

Detectives had already examined these without any result.

Old King Brady’s efforts only met with the same result. He did not linger in the storeroom.

When he returned through the office, however, the clerk signaled him.

“I know you by sight,” he said. “Are you not Old King Brady?”

“I am so called,” replied the detective.

“Well, perhaps this might be of value to you. It is a letter which was left in the office by the carrier shortly after Mr. Small’s disappearance.”

“A letter?”

Old King Brady took the missive eagerly.

He studied the postmark and the chirography very closely.

He saw that it was a curious foreign hand and that the postmark was New York city.

“A local letter,” he said, meditatively. “It may be of value.”

As he turned it over in his hand he noticed that the seal was only imperfectly made.

“Look here,” he said to the clerk, “I am going to open this in your presence. It may afford a clew.”

“All right,” agreed the clerk.

Old King Brady completed the breaking of the seal.

The envelope contained only a slip of notepaper. On it was written:

“I start for the land of dreams to-night at eleven. If you have not already started to keep the appointment upon receipt of this, do not fail to come. I shall await you, and we will journey together to the land of delirious delight, of ecstatic repose and voluptuous enjoyments. You know the path. Be on hand. From the Prince of Pleasure.”

Old King Brady read this strange epistle several times. The clerk did the same.

“I should think some lunatic wrote it,” declared the clerk.

“No,” said Old King Brady, shaking his head, “not that.”

“Who, then?”

“The person who wrote this letter was sane. Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Do not mention the existence of this letter to any living being.”

“I will respect your wish, certainly,” replied the clerk. “Do you consider it a clew?”

“The clew,” said Old King Brady.