Part 4

“More than fifty years ago a stranger of good appearance, whose speech and manner indicated that he was of English birth, entered the shop of one Kershaw, a manufacturer on the corner of Chardon and Green Streets, in this city, inquired for the proprietor, and stated that he wanted constructed a strong, fire-proof safe, giving the description and dimensions desired. By his conversation he appeared familiar with such work, and stated plainly how he wanted this constructed and the kind of lock required,—the keyless combination not having then been invented. In answer to inquiries he said that he was about to open a jewelry store in Hanover Street, that he did not intend to do a retail business, but would carry a considerable stock for wholesale, visiting for trade dealers in neighboring cities. He added, also, that as he would be absent from his store from time to time, he desired a safe of large dimensions where his stock could be safely stored during his absence, as well as at night. He required no shelving in the safe, and wanted it of unusual depth, that he might put directly into it the cases and trunks in which he would keep or carry his stock.

“Being convinced of the stranger’s responsibility by a large advance deposit, and by the promise of full payment on completion and delivery, Mr. Kershaw accepted his order, and in due time the safe was completed and delivered. Soon after a sign was put up on the store,—‘J. Williamson, Wholesale Dealer in Watches and Jewelry.’ No great display was made in the window. Goods were received and shipped by the rear entrance opening on an alley-way. Apparently, but little business was done at the store, and frequently Mr. Williamson was absent visiting his customers or buying additional stock in New York City. He contracted no indebtedness, paying cash for everything. He expressed a lack of confidence in banks and bankers, saying that he had once lost a large sum by the failure of a bank in which he deposited, and for the future should be his own banker.

“Shortly after he began business he took up his residence on Sheafe Street in the North End of the city, and attended regularly the Baldwin Place Baptist Church. No subscription paper or contribution box ever passed him without a fairly liberal donation.

“In disposition he was quiet and retiring, and rarely spoke except in response to some inquiry. His earlier life he never referred to except in reply to one or two persons who ventured the question, when he briefly stated that he was the second son of a well-to-do English squire, that at an early age he found that there was no future for him in the old country, and that when little more than a boy he came to New York where he acquired a knowledge of business, and by diligence and economy saved enough to start in business.

“Within a year after his arrival in Boston Mr. Williamson sought the hand of the eldest daughter of a respectable merchant, a deacon in the church which he attended, producing at the same time letters from New York indorsing his worth and character. Having thus satisfied her parents, he was accepted and with little delay married. Very soon after he was received, on profession of his faith, into the church, and by his quiet, correct life, liberality, and honest dealing, secured the confidence and respect of all who knew him.

“About this time a strange epidemic of crime swept over the Puritanic city of Boston. The houses of the wealthy were entered and robbed of their valuable contents. Packages of money were boldly seized within the very enclosures of the bank, the thief escaping through some passageway or by fastening behind him the door through which he escaped; the satchels of bank messengers, filled with valuable contents, were suddenly snatched, and the robber eluded pursuit. At night persons were garroted and robbed on the public street. The police force was small and, although they exercised unusual diligence, every few days some new and startling crime, committed with wonderful skill and boldness, was announced. It was thought that a gang of experienced criminals had made a descent upon the city so long exempt from crime, and every stranger was under suspicion and carefully watched.

“One night, not long after his marriage, Mr. Williamson was found on Charlestown Bridge in a dazed, exhausted condition, and assisted to his home. When sufficiently recovered he stated that while crossing the bridge he was suddenly seized from behind, his throat grasped so that he could not cry out, and his pocketbook, containing a large sum of money, taken from him. He struggled to free himself from his unknown assailant until he gasped for breath, and fell exhausted, unconscious.

“On the following day Mr. Williamson offered a liberal reward for the arrest of the highwayman, but as he had not seen him he could give no clue to aid in the detection of the criminal. Some of the persons robbed, however, who had caught a glimpse of the thief, described a dark person with heavy black hair, wearing blue glass spectacles; and, as it was believed that he and the assailant of Williamson were one, search was made for a person answering this description.

“One evening the whole city was startled by the news of a crime just committed, bolder than any that had preceded it. The store of Davis & Palmer, jewelers on Washington Street, had been entered between the hours of seven and eight P. M., and the most valuable part of their stock taken, the trays containing many valuable watches, diamonds, and jewelry, having all been emptied. As was customary, the store was closed at seven o’clock and a night-watchman came on duty within an hour after. On this evening when the watchman entered he found the cases stripped of their valuable contents and immediately gave the alarm. The police were sent for and an investigation began. It was soon discovered that persons near the store had seen a sleigh drive up, a man alight, unlock and enter the store. Not long after he came out bringing two heavily laden bags, one after the other, which he placed in the sleigh and drove away. At the time no suspicion had been excited, as there was nothing peculiar about his manner of entering or leaving the store. From his course of action the thief was evidently well acquainted with the fact that there was a brief period between the closing of the store and the arrival of the watchman; and, having at some time, doubtless, obtained an impress of the key and made a duplicate, the task of entering and robbing the store at a time when it was least expected was an easy one.

“In those days there was no detective force or special police to investigate crime and capture the criminals. The attention of the few policemen employed by the city was given wholly to the preservation of order, and to preventing a breach of the peace. There was, however, a force of a few constables who served civil processes and worked as private detectives for a reward, headed by an old experienced officer, Captain Darius Clapp; and when it was known that a large reward had been offered for the discovery and return of the goods irrespective of the arrest and conviction of the criminal, Clapp devoted himself at once to that object. As a first step he visited every stage-office, stable, vessel, and mode of egress from the city, but to no purpose. The owner of the sleigh was found, but could give no information except that it had been hired in the afternoon by a dark-haired man wearing colored glasses, and that late in the evening the team was found without any driver in Haymarket Square.

“As weeks passed and the mystery seemed no nearer a solution, the strange robbery became the universal topic of conversation. Every clue and suspicion was followed up. Strangers were arrested and obliged to prove their innocence. Everybody became a detective.

“Some weeks after the robbery, a stranger came to the express office with a trunk which he wished transported to New York. Something in the manner of the man, an unnatural, half-disguised appearance, excited the suspicion of the alert, sharp-eyed express agent, who had been cautioned by Captain Clapp, and while he proceeded to make out the receipt he secretly sent a messenger to the constable. Upon his arrival that official instantly began to question the stranger, demanding to know the contents of the trunk. His inquiries were frankly answered with proper explanation, and the key produced that the captain might verify the same by examination. The innocent frankness of the stranger disarmed the constable, and, half apologizing for not accepting his statements as sufficient, the captain stooped to unlock the trunk, when suddenly the stranger leaped by him and out through the door, barring it after him by thrusting a stout cane through the iron handle. Throwing himself against the door the captain soon broke the improvised bolt and rushed off in pursuit, following the fugitive down through Dock Square, Marshall, and Hanover Streets, into a narrow court leading from the last street, where the man had disappeared. But though there was no outlet other than that by which he had entered, a thorough search of this place a few moments after failed to discover the fugitive, or the way of his escape. After the houses opening on the court were searched without discovering any trace of the probable thief, the proprietors of the stores fronting Hanover Street on each side and having rear entrances, were sent for. Among these was Mr. Williamson, but as it was ascertained at his residence that he was absent from the city, entrance was gained to his store by a side window. Here, however, as in the other stores, no person or sign of one was found. The burglar, for such an examination of the trunk at the express office proved him to be, was never captured, nor was trace of him discovered, although diligent search of that neighborhood was made by the whole police force.

“Not long after, the city was again startled, this time by the announcement in the morning papers of the mysterious disappearance and probable murder of Mr. Williamson. He was known to carry large sums of money upon his person, and as there was no good explanation of his absence, it was thought most probable that he had been robbed and murdered. In fact there were some who reported hearing at night cries for help in the vicinity of his store, and a hat which had been found one morning on the street near his store, proved to be one worn by him on the morning when he last left his home.

“Information was sought by advertisement in the newspapers with promise of liberal reward, but all investigation proved unavailing.

“After some weeks of vain inquiry and search, the general suspicion that he had been murdered and his body thrown over the Charlestown Bridge became a settled conviction; but his faithful, trusting wife refused to believe him dead, and her father finally proceeded to New York to see what information, if any, could be gained from those with whom his son-in-law had had dealings in that city.

“What he ascertained there I do not know, but immediately on his return he came to my employer for a workman to go to the store and open in his presence the safe containing the stock stored therein. After some drilling the bolt was sprung and the door swung open, disclosing a sight at which I started back affrighted and amazed, and which so horrified the troubled and anxious father that he fell like a dead man on the floor. There within the safe lay the dead body of Mr. Williamson, the trusted and respected jewelry merchant!

“On recovering consciousness, the good deacon, heartbroken, implored me for his sake and the fair name of his daughter never to make known the sight then revealed, and to assist him in concealing all evidence which would tend to disclose it. To both these requests I at once consented, and that night I helped him to carry out the body privately for burial—no matter where.

“An examination of the safe disclosed a hardly discernible aperture drilled through the back near the top, from which, on the inside, hung a flexible tube by which respiration was made possible for a person enclosed, and through which noise from without could reach the inmate.

“On the inside of the door a hole had been cut so that the key could be inserted and the bolt thrown. The handle of this key had broken off, leaving the key in the lock. There were indications that food and water had been stored in the safe, but none remained; even the shoes bore marks of the teeth, as if gnawed for sustenance. A black wig and blue glass spectacles lay on the floor of the safe. Seeing all this, we soon conjectured for what purpose this safe was made and used—a temporary place of quick retreat. We wondered if the key was broken by accident in the haste to elude that last pursuit, or in attempting to re-open the door. We thought we knew now, though each was silent, the mystery of the many recent crimes; but one thing was certain, they ceased and the author of them was never found or arrested.”

How Small the World.

BY E. H. MAYDE.

I.

_The letter of Mr. Robert Fairfax to the Rev. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Colorado_:

MANCHESTER, July 24, 1892.

Right you are, Old Hoss, and no mistake. Europe was a great lark—all the better for having been as unexpected as a wedding fee in advance. I’m mighty glad I’ve seen it all. I used to be afraid that foreign scenery would make that of home seem tame in comparison. It has, on the contrary, been rather enhanced for me, and New England continues to stir my aged blood as nothing else does.

I stopped over a day in New York, and dined with Ellis, who told me about poor Jack Simms. Awfully sad case. Of course you know he was eager for the operation—it really was the last hope—and went into it with the greatest amount of pluck and nerve. Ellis is interne at St. Luke’s hospital, and was with Jack all the time, and, up to the last day, believed he’d pull through: but it was no go. Jack’s life was insured for ten thousand dollars, and his wife’s uncle had just left her thirty thousand dollars. So he had the comfort of knowing she was provided for. It’s a lucky thing, for she has weak lungs or something of that sort. It strikes me that women as a race are pretty delicate in spite of their modern fad for athletics.

I saw Adams and Lennox Vandewater in Boston. Van looks rather peaked. Adams says he’s just made his annual proposal to the girl he’s been in love with for six years (nobody knows who she is) and she has rejected him again. Van never recuperates in less than three months, so Adams has consented to go across with him, and they’re going to bike about England during August and September. Adams’s legs must be a better match for his head than they were in college.

I’ve run down here for a week with my mother and sister who are at the Masconomo. Have strolled along the shore this afternoon, and wish you were here to enjoy this comfortable ledge of rock and the strong salt air, and to talk over old times. I put a writing pad in my pocket, and the faithful fountain permits one side of a conversation at least. I’m confoundedly sleepy, however,—don’t grin like a dog when you read that,—and think I’ll stretch out and take a snooze, in the hope of imparting a little brilliancy to my style.

_Evening._ My dear fellow, I am madly in love. Fact, and you may as well take it seriously. I went to sleep, as I intended to, and dreamed I was discussing methods of executing criminals with your wife, when, in reply to some remark of mine, she said, “I always use a kitchen knife.” Then some one laughed and I woke up. Then a Voice—such a _delicious_ voice—said, “Don’t grin like a dog,” and I thought I must be dreaming, for it was all mixed up with you, and you know I had just written those very words. Then the Voice went on, “Billy said it was inane, but I didn’t care, for the result was just as good as his.” Then followed a most amusing talk, which must have lasted fifteen minutes. You need not put on a look of professional disapproval at my eavesdropping. I pledge you my word, I hadn’t the faintest idea I was doing it until it was too late. You see, I was half asleep and half awake at first, and when I discovered that I was all awake I hadn’t the nerve to get up and apologize for being there, and walk away. It would have been as embarrassing for her as for me. Besides, though she was talking confidentially to some woman friend, she hadn’t said a word which there was the slightest objection to my hearing, so I thought best to lie still. I was completely hidden by the ledge, though she couldn’t have been six feet distant. It was immensely amusing. The Voice was relating her experiences in keeping house for some one she called Billy on “the ranch”—location unknown. For a long time I thought “Billy” was her husband, and it seemed to me he ought to be a happy man, for she called him a saint (not the canonized kind: she meant a brick), and she said Billy called her a better cook than his mother. But it turned out that Billy is her brother. He’s married now, and she apparently dotes on the ‘twins.’ Once they—_i.e._, the Voice and Billy—had a Mr. Adams to dine with them, and as he was from Boston I think it may be our Adams, and, perhaps, through him I can get a clue to her identity. You think this is all nonsense, but I assure you I’m in dead earnest. She’s the most interesting girl I’ve ever seen—or ever haven’t seen—for I know little enough about her appearance. I looked over the ledge after they’d gone away (they couldn’t see me) and saw them walking off towards the road, and she wears tan shoes and a blue dress. I’m going forth to hunt those articles to-morrow. Why shouldn’t I be the happy man I supposed Billy to be?

I pity Van more than I did when I began this letter.

If Adams’s reply is favorable, and I find her and she’ll have me, I’ll send for you to come on and tie the knot. You may impart this information to your wife (I know you can’t keep it to yourself), for she once told me that she took comfort in the most incipient stages of love-making, because there was always the possibility of a fee ahead. My best regards to that mercenary woman.

Yours,

BOB.

P. S. What do you suppose she uses a kitchen knife for? It must be something unusual.

II.

_The letter of Mr. Winthrop Adams to Mr. Robert Fairfax, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts._

BOSTON, July 27, 1892.

_Dear Fax_:—Sorry enough to hear of your accident. A sprained ankle is no joke. Thought you were the most surefooted of men.

I append the memorandum you ask for of all the Williams of my acquaintance. Are you writing a paper on The Influence of Christian Names on Christian Character? And, if so, why in thunder don’t you begin at the other end of the alphabet?

Van and I sail on the second. He’s dumpier than ever before. What a girl she must be to refuse a million, and Van thrown in!

Yours,

WINTHROP ADAMS.

_Memorandum._ (Ages only approximate.) William A. Curtis, fifty, lawyer, widower, New York; Wm. B. Slater, twenty-six, physician, bachelor, Iowa; Wm. Thorndike, thirty, merchant, ?, Charleston, S. C.; Wm. Martin, forty, teamster, married, Boston; Wm. Berkeley Vandewater (our Van’s father); Wm. (generally called Billy) Posey, (colored), seventy-five, janitor, Boston; Wm. Winthrop Adams, my three-months’-old nephew, still unmarried, Boston.

I don’t recall any other Williams whom I have met within the last two years.

III.

_The telegram of the Rev. Arthur Selbourne to Mr. Robert Fairfax, Manchester-by-the-Sea, Mass._

INNASITTIE, COL., August 2, 1892.

Probably uses it instead of a fork.

A. SELBOURNE.

Collect.

IV.

_The letter of Miss Polly Forsythe to Mrs. Arthur Selbourne, Innasittie, Col._

PRIDE’S CROSSING, July 24, 1892.

_My dearest Lucie_:—I have the most delightful and most disgusting things to tell you. First to the first. Of course you know all about poor Nannie Simms’s trouble and about her husband’s death a month ago, at St. Luke’s Hospital. Perhaps you do not know, however, the only gleam of comfort in the whole sad affair—that she has a very comfortable fortune. Old Mr. Dupuy left her thirty thousand dollars, and when poor Jack died it was found that his life was insured for ten thousand dollars. It is _so_ fortunate, for she is all alone in the world, and not a bit strong. Of course she’s perfectly heartbroken, but she’s just as brave and sweet as you might know she would be. She says she can never be sufficiently thankful for this year they’ve had together. You know at one time there was talk of postponing the marriage for a year, and when Jack was taken ill he reminded her of that. She sent for me immediately, and Carrie was quite well, so I came right on. I really think it’s better now that she and Billy and the babies should be by themselves. They have a very good servant, and a nice motherly woman for a nurse. But this is a digression. Jack’s family dote on Nannie, and they all want her to go and live with them, but she says she couldn’t bear it just yet, and so she has asked me to be her companion for a year, until she feels able to decide on her future.

Dr. Ellis, an awfully nice young surgeon, and a college classmate of Jack’s, has been just as kind as he could be to Nannie. He says she mustn’t stay North this winter, but we haven’t yet decided where we are going; perhaps to Florida, and perhaps abroad. We came down here a week ago, and it is perfectly enchanting, but we are going away to-morrow on account of the horridest thing that happened this afternoon. Now, Lucie, before you read another line you must _promise_ not to breathe a word of this to Arthur. Well, this afternoon Nannie and I walked down to the West Manchester rocks. We sat with our backs against a nice ledge and looked off over the quiet sea and talked for hours. When we got up to go I had an experience before which Robinson Crusoe’s footprint on the sand sinks into nothingness. Right on the other side of the ledge against which we had been leaning I saw, not a footprint, but a foot. Two feet, in fact, and attached to them two legs. All, evidently, the property of _a man_. I felt as if every drop of blood in my body flew into my face, but I never said a word to Nannie until we got back to the road. Then she looked around, very carefully, of course, and there was that disgusting creature looking over the ledge at us. Did you ever know _anything_ so horrid? If I’d only his legs to judge by—that was all of him I saw, because the rest of him was hidden by a rock—I should have thought him a gentleman, for he wore fine russet shoes and blue trousers. I never want to see that combination again as long as I live. But no gentleman _could_ have done so rude a thing as to listen to a long conversation like ours. I dare say you will think this is funny, but I’m sure you won’t laugh when you hear the rest of the story.

What made it so _perfectly dreadful_ was that Lennox has proposed to me again—for the sixth time, my dear,—and I was telling Nannie all about it. Of course, Lennox Vandewater’s name is as well known here as Jay Gould’s or George Washington’s, and you know how perfectly horrid men are, and how they always think girls boast of their offers. And you know, too, Lucie, that you and Nannie are the only living souls that know about that affair, and that Lennox told Nannie himself. And you, dear thing, never would have known it at all if you hadn’t overheard his first proposal, and that ridiculous declaration that he was going to repeat it annually until I accepted him or married some one else. Dear me! I never imagined then he’d keep his word. I do really think the constancy of man is awful.