Under his thumb

Front matter

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FT WEftDE

GenCoU

Chapter I. The Printing-house Tragedy

The sharp report of a pistol rang through the great printing-house of Blain & Waldron.

And almost simultaneously a loud, clear voice shouted :

“Waldron has killed himself!”

Not less than fifty of the employees of the establishment heard the pistol shot, and half that number heard and understood the cry.

As this fact has an important bearing upon the great mystery which was speedily to be developed, the reader will please bear it in mind.

None heard the sounds more distinctly than Steve Lawton, a young apprentice, who chanced at the moment to be “sorting pi” in an apartment directly over the counting-room.

The youngster dropped the handful of type that he held at the instant, and darted toward the stairway.

At the foot of the stairs he collided with George Dyer, the foreman of one of the composing-rooms,

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and was brought to a halt by a powerful grasp upon his arm.

Dyer gave the lad a violent shaking, with the gruff remark:

‘Til teach you better than to run over a fellow in that way!”

Steve struggled to free his arm, retorting :

“Let go of me, won’t yer? You ain’t my boss. I tell yer, let go!”

But Dyer clung to him tenaciously, only too glad of this chance to vent the natural spitefulness of his disposition upon a young apprentice.

“Where are you going in such a rush?” he demanded, giving Steve another shake.

“Going to see who is shot,” the boy replied.

“You go back to work. You are not a cop yet, so you are not obliged to run every time you hear a pistol fired.”

“I guess I’ve a right to find out what’s the matter. I heard somebody say that Mr. Waldron had killed himself. Mr. Waldron is a friend of mine, he is. He picked me up out of the street, and took me in to learn the trade. If he’s shot, then I’m jest going to know, and don’t you forgit it!”

Steve was both angry and horrified.

That others had heard the shot and cry he knew because of the hurrying footsteps in all parts of the great building.

Doors opened and closed ; there was a confusion of excited voices ; girls, boys, men, and women ran hither and thither, white, horrified, and breathless.

“What has happened?”

“Shot, did you say?”

“Mr.Waldron killed?”

“It can’t be possible!”

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Such were the excited utterances on all sides ; but no coherent reply was made to any of them.

The clanking of the great printing presses in the basement had ceased, and from below a great number of men and boys poured into the passage-way where Steve and the young foreman had encountered each other.

None of them seemed to know which way to turn. Some thought the sounds proceeded from one of the upper rooms ; to others it seemed as though the pistol report was in the street, or the adjoining building.

Several stopped to question Dyer, and this gave Steve the desired opportunity.

He adroitly freed his arm from the young man’s grasp, and before the latter could again seize him the lad reached the next door-way, and darted through.

In another moment Steve was at the door of the counting-room. It was closed, and as yet no one had arrived upon the scene. Evidently, to all save the young apprentice, the startling sounds had appeared to proceed from another quarter of the building.

But the lad, being directly over the room in question at the moment, could not have been deceived.

He was surprised to find the door closed. It was customary during business hours to allow all the doors communicating with the counting-room and main office to stand open.

“This is a queer go!” Steve exclaimed, aloud.

His hand rested upon the knob, but an indefinable dread caused him to hesitate.

He listened intently for a moment. He could hear footsteps coming and going in all parts of the build-

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in g ; but from within the counting-room not a sound proceeded.

Steve was a plucky lad ; there was not a timid hair about him ; yet, as he turned the knob and slowly opened the door, his form was convulsed by a violent shudder.

He crossed the threshold, and again listened before venturing to glance about the room.

How still it was ! A cold current of air swept past, rustling some papers upon the row of desks behind the long railing, and with it came the pungent odor of burned powder.

Instantly Steve was aroused to action. He heard nearer footsteps, this time unmistakably approaching the counting-room. He saw, first, an open window, beyond which was a narrow court inclosed by grim stone walls. Upon the floor were several newspapers, evidently blown thither by the draught. This was all there was to be seen outside the desk-railing, and Steve hastened to open the lattice-door leading to the private quarters of the clerks and proprietors.

He cast a single swift glance across the space beyond. Then he drew back, his face growing white, a gasp of horror parting his lips.

As he turned he found himself face to face with Mr. Blain, the senior member of the firm.

“What is it, boy? What has happened?” that gentleman exclaimed, in a husky voice.

“Look for yourself, sir. It’s awful! awful!”

So much the boy managed to articulate, and without waiting to see or hear more, he darted past the throng of employees who had followed Mr. Blain into the room.

An instant later an alarm was rung at the nearest

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police station, and Steve Lawton, the young apprentice, was at the other end of the wire.

He had scarce sounded the signal before his arm was seized and an angry voice demanded :

“Why did you do that?”

The speaker was Dyer, the young foreman, and his voice was full of anger.

“To call the cops, of course,” Steve returned, a flash of defiance in his small, dark eyes.

“What have the police to do with a case of this kind? Mr. Waldron committed suicide, and ”

Steve interrupted, in a tone of conviction :

“It ain’t a suicide, George Dyer, and you know it.”

“What do you mean?” Dyer retorted.

“It is a murder.”

“Why do you think so?”

The lad pointed to the open window, and replied :

“’Cause that is never opened at this time of day, you know. Somebody shot Mr. Waldron, and then lumped out into the court. I can show where he struck. ”

Steve drew the young man toward the window. As he drew near the latter, he saw something upon the white sash that caused him to ejaculate:

“What do you think of that? Guess I know somethin’, if I don’t happen to be boss over a lot of typestickers.”

George Dyer, for the first time, exhibited intense excitement. He was rather apathetic by nature, and those who knew him were wont to remark that an earthquake wouldn’t make him change color.

“You’re right, Steve!” he exclaimed, in a low, husky tone. “It is a murder, and a bold one at that. It seems as though it would be easy to catch the culprit, though.”

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Quickly the tidings ran through the increasing throng which was gathering in the spacious counting-room, and many crowded close to the open window and stared shudderingly at the tell-tale sign which Steve’s keen eyes' had detected.

The sash was broad, smooth, and painted white. Near the middle, just where one would naturally take hold to raise the sash, was the bloody imprint of a man’s thumb.

This was all ; yet how significant, even to the inexperienced eyes of those who stared at it in morbid curiosity.

At this juncture several officers arrived upon the scene, and the crowd was forced to retire. Only Steve, Dyer, Mr. Blain, and two or three others, besides the policemen, were allowed to remain.

Steve noticed one slender, thin-featured man who entered behind the officers, and of whom the latter appeared to take not the least notice.

This man wore spectacles, and seemed to be very near-sighted. He also appeared to be quite deaf, for he frequently placed his hands to his ears as though trying to catch something which was being said.

“A reporter,” was the lad’s mental decision, after watching him curiously for several moments.

The absurdity of this inference struck him immediately, however, and he added, half aloud :

“The idea of a deaf and near-sighted reporter, when it is their business to see and hear everything. Ha! What is the chap up to now, I wonder?”

The odd-looking stranger had crossed over to the open window, and seemed to be closely inspecting the bloody thumb-print on the sash.

And the next moment Steve saw him do a most extraordinary thing.

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With a tiny saw which he produced from a pocket, the man quickly made a slot in the sash on each side of the mark. Then, with a keen-bladed knife he deftly clipped off a small section of the sash, wrapped the piece in tissue paper, and then stood motionless as a statue, gazing out into the court.

All this was accomplished so quickly that, with the exception of Steve Lawton, not a soul in the room noticed the action. And before Steve had time to conjecture concerning the stranger’s purpose, his attention was diverted by a most thrilling occurrence.

He heard the sounds of a scuffle behind the railing. Turning quickly, he was in time to see a man spring past the guard at one of the doors, followed by two others in swift pursuit.

The fugitive was George Dyer, the foreman ; the pursuers were policemen.

At the same instant a shout was raised that electrified all who heard it.

“Stop him ! Stop the miscreant !”

Half involuntarily, Steve sprang past the guard into the passage-way beyond — on, until he reached the stair- way leading to the basement.

The policemen had kept on past this stair-way, supposing the one of whom they were in pursuit to have made for the street door. But a significant sound from below caused Steve to dart down the stairs instead.

Reaching a small room below, which was dimly lighted, the lad paused to listen.

Why he was pursuing George Dyer he did not know. Why were the policemen chasing him? What had the young foreman done? Surely he could not be the

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Steve’s hasty reflections were interrupted by a shadow falling athwart the floor. At the same instant he turned and met the gaze of George Dyer.

“Not a sound — on your life, be quiet !” the foreman huskily exclaimed, emphasizing his command by thrusting a revolver close to the startled youngster’s face.

Steve knew better than to disobey an injunction like that. Yet he was not frightened, for there was an expression in the young man’s eyes more likely to excite pity than fear.

“Why are the cops chasin’ you?” Steve found voice to ask.

“Hush ! I must hide, and you must not betray me, Steve. You will not betray me!” Dyer exclaimed, in low, earnest tones.

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Chapter II. The Detective

We will not mystify the reader with vague com plications. The occasion of George Dyer’s sudden flight from the counting-room and the hot pursuit of the officers can be quickly explained, so far as it was understood by the pursuers themselves.

As yet no formal investigation had been held.

Along with the policemen a coroner’s deputy had arrived, and as he was a physician, he had proceeded to examine the body of Mr. Waldron.

The latter lay upon the floor, and in one hand he grasped a revolver. One chamber of the latter was empty ; and the fatal bullet had penetrated the victim’s heart, causing instantaneous death.

So much was revealed at a glance, and so far it appeared like a suicide.

The physician’s examination was quickly made, in the presence of Mr. Blain and two policemen, one of the latter being a sergeant from police headquarters.

In the meanwhile, the other circumstances of the case, which pointed strongly to the theory of murder, were freely discussed by those present, as was natural, and during this discussion George Dyer had appeared upon the scene.

The young man’s face was rather pale, as was natural under the circumstances. As he stood gazing upon the lifeless form of his late employer, Mr. Blain lightly touched his arm, and said :

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“I think you can give valuable evidence at the inquest, George.”

There was no particular significance in the gentleman’s tones. Mr. Blain was agitated, of course, and he had an abrupt way of saying things which was a trifle startling to a stranger.

The young foreman quickly glanced up, his pallor deepening, and in an indignant tone, he exclaimed :

‘'What do you mean, sir?”

The tone, rather than the words, caused all present to fix their gaze upon his face.

Mr. Blain hesitated an instant, and then, as though prompted by a sudden impulse, he said :

“It was you who said, ‘Waldron has killed himself ! ’ I heard the shout plainly, for I was coming up from the basement at the time the shot was fired. And it was your voice.”

Mr. Blain did not, in the beginning, intend to make this accusation. Only at this moment had he been convinced that it was Dyer who had uttered the startling words.

It was only the young man’s singular agitation that had given birth to the conviction.

Dyer was silent a moment. His eyes blazed with a strange expression. The coroner’s deputy and the policemen continued to stare.

“Do you accuse me?” Dyer then demanded.

“Only of uttering the words I have repeated,” was the reply.

“And if I did utter them?”

“Explain— that is all.”

“I have nothing to say, sir.”

The young man cast a swift, furtive glance toward the officers. Then he turned away hastily, seemingly, at least, with the intention of flight.

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Mr. Blain and the deputy coroner made simultaneous signs to the policemen, which the latter failed to observe. Then the former himself sprang to intercept the foreman.

He caught the latter around the waist ; there was a momentary struggle, then Dyer flung off the grasp of his employer and darted through the gate-way leading from the desk-room to the outer office.

One of the policemen bounded in pursuit, and thus occurred the scene which had so mystified Steve Lawton, the young apprentice.

Neither Mr. Blain, nor the coroner passed the guard at the entrance of the passage. They were confident the policeman would overtake the fugitive.

“What can the fellow mean? It cannot be that he is the guilty one ! No, no !”

It was Mr. Blain who said this, and his tones expressed sudden anguish, for George Dyer was a trusted employee.

At that moment his glance rested for the first time on the slender spectacled man, whose mysterious maneuvers had excited the curiosity of Steve Lawton.

This individual had left the window, and was in the act of passing through the railing gate-way, beyond which lay the victim of the tragedy. Blain and the doctor followed. The latter said, in an undertone :

“That is Croly, the new detective. Rather cranky they call him, but he has worked up one or two extraordinary cases, it is said.”

They saw the spectacled man examine the revolver which had been taken from the hand of the corpse. Then he inspected the fatal wound, scanned the floor, the ceiling, and the walls in turn.

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Mr. Blain and the coroner’s deputy furtively watched him.

“A detective quack — a pretender!” was the former’s mental decision.

This verdict had scarcely crossed his mind, however, before he was impelled to change it.

“A quarrel; pistols drawn ; other party fired first ; Mr. Waldron the victim.”

This was spoken by Croly, the detective, in a mild, low voice. He had abruptly ceased his investigations and addressed the remark to Mr. Blain.

“You think Mr. Waldron was killed in a quarrel?” Blain demanded, in his abrupt way.

“Evidently. He might have drawn his weapon for self-defense, but he certainly had no chance to use it.”

“So you did not notice the empty chamber of the cylinder?”

“Oh, yes. Been empty a good while, too. Cartridge-shell removed ; barrel not smoked ; weapon hasn’t been used since it was thoroughly cleaned and oiled. You did not hold to the suicide theory, Mr. Blain?”

The latter felt strangely thrilled as the spectacled eyes of the detective were fixed penetratingly upon his face.

“Certainly not, since the bloody thumb-mark was discovered on the window-sash.”

“Still you thought this pistol was the one used?”

“I supposed the murderer placed the weapon in the hand of his victim before escaping.”

“Hot at all. He didn’t stop for that. Mr. Waldron was shot by an enemy in a quarrel. You ought to be able to name the culprit, Mr. Blain. Who was Mr. Waldron’s bitterest enemy, eh?”

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“I did not know he had one in the world.”

“You are his partner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And didn’t know he had an enemy?”

“I did not.”

“That is queer, I declare. How long have you been in business together?”

“For ten years.”

“And I suppose you know each other rather intimately?”

“Of course. We were warm personal friends.”

“Still you did not suspect that he had an enemy? Why, have you kept your eyes shut for ten years?”

“Business men may be friends and still not pry into each other’s private affairs,” said Mr. Blain, a trifle sharply.

Croly cast a peculiar glance toward the coroner’s deputy, and said :

“I suppose, Mr. Blain, that you have no enemies?”

“I am not prepared to say, sir. I have intended to treat every one squarely, yet I may have unconsciously excited enmity.”

The detectve stepped quietly forward, and tapped the rich man lightly upon the shoulder.

“Let us understand each other, Mr. Blain,” he said, in his mild tones.

As we have before stated, Julian Blain was the senior partner of the firm. He was one of the “solid” business men in New York, and it would be hard to find one whose reputation for integrity stood higher than his.

He was wealthy and honored. He had held various public offices, and, unlike many, he had not betrayed the trust reposed in him.

He was called in all respects a “square” man.

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Woe to the employee, foreman, or apprentice, who should quibble or prevaricate in their dealings with Mr. Blain. And woe likewise to the one who should dispute or defy this gentleman upon his own premises. He was abrupt of speech and rather hasty in temper. The words and tones of this slender, spectacled detective irritated him, and he sharply retorted :

“Well, sir, what have you to say?”

The coroner’s deputy bent eagerly forward. He felt that something startling was about to occur.

“Simply, Mr. Blain,” Croly began, with studied deliberateness; “simply this, sir: you have stated to me an out and out falsehood.”

The deputy scarce repressed a startled exclamation !

Mr. Blain recoiled, as though he had received a blow in the face.

“Dare you tell me that I have lied?” he fiercely demanded.

“About the same thing, sir,” was the mild response.

“Do you mean it?”

“I mean it. It is a good plan for us to start with a good understanding with each other. We shall be better friends in the end.”

Julian Blain, in his fierce anger, sprang toward the detective with clenched hands.

But the blow which he impetuously sent out was skillfully parried ; and in another instant the rich man was whirled around by powerful arms and forcibly seated in a pivotal chair close at hand.

For a moment the gentleman panted helplessly from exhaustion and the excess of passion.

He did not attempt to rise. But he glared up at

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the face of the detective, who seemed not the least excited by that which had taken place.

“You must restrain your temper, sir,” Croly quietly remarked, while he waited for the other to regain his breath.

Mr. Blain’s anger subsided as quickly as it had been aroused.

“If you thought I was deceiving you,” he said, speaking quite calmly, “you should have stated your suspicions more courteously.”

“Then you would have denied their truth. Now you will admit it. You know that Mr. Waldron had an enemy, and so have you. That enemy was a former business partner of yours, whom you ‘crowded out’ of the partnership because he was dissipated and seemed likely to disgrace you. The man’s name is Carl Brandon, and he swore vengeance against you both. Am I not right?”

Mr. Blain rose slowly to his feet, the flush of anger upon his face having given place to a slight pallor.

“What you say is true,” he declared; “though Heaven only knows how you became possessed of the information. I supposed the secret was dead and buried. At all events, it can have nothing to do with this tragedy. Carl Brandon was a reckless man, but he would never do this.”

“I have not charged Brandon with the crime. But it is well to question every circumstance in the case, even to the graceful, closely vailed lady who called upon your partner early this morning. You saw this lady come and go, Mr. Blain. You do not think she could have instigated the murder?”

Mr. Blain’s visage turned to the hue of ashes, his lips trembled, and he clutched the arms of his chair as though for support.

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“Great Heaven, man! how knew you of her visit?” he hoarsely asked.

“I saw her as she entered and came forth— pretty fair evidence, you see,” the detective replied. “I even know that Mr. Waldron’s visitor was a certain pretty compositor in your printing-house. Her name and the object of her visit I shall ascertain in due time. As you now understand that I have a faculty of discovering all sorts of facts, you will see how useless your attempts to hide them from me must prove. But hush ! Here come the officers who started out after that foreman of yours. And he has given them the slip.”

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Chapter III. The Detective’s Strange Clew

Croly, the detective, did not stay to hear the report of the policemen who had failed in their attempt to overtake George Dyer.

He hastened out upon the street, quickly walked to the elevated railway station at the Bowery and Canal street, took the first train, and, a little later, alighted at East Forty-seventh street. His private rooms were close by, and he went to them directly.

Opening from his chamber was a small room, little larger than a closet, the door of which he kept constantly locked.

The room had no window, and his first act upon entering was to light the gas. Then he closed the door and seated himself at a table.

The room was fitted up with shelves. These, as well as the table, were laden with an indescribable jumble of curiosities.

There were odd-shaped knives, murderous-looking dirks, pistols of all sizes and shapes, a fragment of a dynamite bomb, several burglars’ tools, and various other implements taken from criminals or preserved as clews to unsolved mysteries.

On the table was an open scrap-book, in which were pasted portraits and sketches of numerous criminals, clipped from the newspapers. There were also several labeled vials containing liquids and powders. In a glass jar, floating in alcohol, was a severed finger — a clew to a crime recently solved by this wonderful detective.

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Upon another table, over which a mirror hung, were materials for every conceivable disguise that one might wish to assume.

Croly took from his pocket the piece which he had cut from the window-sash in the printing-house counting-room. He unwrapped it carefully, and then studied the bloody thumb-print with eager intensity.

From a shelf he took down a tattered book, and opened it at a marked page. A single line on the printed page was underlined with blue ink. The line read as follows :

“The lines on no two human thumbs are exactly alike.”

The detective had read this statement a great many times, but never with such vital interest as the present.

The book was an old, curious affair, containing many wonders of human research and science. It also contained some exploded sophistries, no longer of value.

Whether the curious statement underlined by the detective was true or not, Croly was uncertain.

He had carefully studied the subject, vaguely impressed that at some time it would prove of value to him. What if the print of a human thumb, and the lines upon the same, should at some time prove to be the only clew to a great crime?

Often had this thought passed through the detective’s mind ; and like a sagacious prophecy, it now seemed likely to be fulfilled.

A crime had been committed — a crime enshrouded in deepest mystery, and the only clew, save those of a most superficial character, was this bloody impression on the window-sash.

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•The impression was wonderfully perfect, every line being distinctly traced. It seemed as though Fate had placed this piece of evidence in the hands of the great scientific detective, that the truth or fallacy of the curious statement might be proven.

Croly placed this strange clew carefully under a glass globe, to protect it from dust and accident. Then he closed the book, and said, aloud :

“Most detectives would consider such a clew as this a rather slender one. I guess it is. But somehow, I am impressed by a conviction that the wretch who shot Hiram Waldron left behind a fatal imprint, and that I shall soon have him under my thumb.”

The detective went out, carefully closing and locking the door.

Later in the day be attended the inquest in the coroner’s office, in East Houston street. He was called upon to testify as an expert.

The verdict implicated no one, but declared the case to be one of murder, not of suicide.

After the inquest Croly returned to the printing-house. Of course, business in the building was suspended, but a number of employees and others lingered about the premises under the impulse of morbid curiosity.

Croly found Mr. Blain in a small private office. That gentleman had just concluded a consultation with a detective sergeant from police headquarters.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Croly,” the gentleman promptly said, placing a chair for his visitor.

“I was afraid you would not be,” was the quick reply.

Croly seated himself in a position whence he could

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furtively watch the expressions of the other through his spectacles.

“Why not, sir?” Mr. Blain demanded.

"On account of our encounter of this morning.”

4 'You were discourteous, and I was hasty.”

"I was outspoken, that is all. I gave you a fair chance to tell me the truth, but you persisted in an out and out falsehood.”

The detective’s tones were mild, but his words were blunt.

No one ever dared before to use such language to Julian Blain.

"You tried to entrap me,” the latter declared, an angry tremor in his tones.

"I tried your veracity, and found it wanting, sir.”

"Did you come here to insult me?”

"I came to have a plain talk. You will gain nothing by flying into a passion.”

"I claim the right of resenting insult.”

"Of course you do when you are insulted. But since you have admitted your fault, I fail to see where the offense on my part comes in.”

"Never mind, let it pass. What do you wish to know?”

"In the first place, do you wish this mystery to be solved?”

"By all means.”

"Are you willing I should take the case?”

"You are privileged to do so, but I shall not undertake to keep other detectives from working on it.”

"Of course not.”

Croly bent slightly forward and rapped the table which was between them with his forefinger.

"Mr. Blain, where were you when the fatal shot was fired?” he asked.

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“I was on the street.”

“How far from the building?”

“Only a few yards. I was on the point of entering.”

“You heard the pistol-shot?”

“Distinctly.”

“And the shout which several have stated that they heard immediately afterward?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran to the counting-room entrance, and found it locked.”

“Locked, eh! And then what?’

“I went around to another door and entered.”

“You came directly to the scene of the tragedy?” “I did.”

“Whom did you first encounter?”

“George Dyer, in the passage with several others. Next was Steve Lawton, one of my apprentices, who was first to discover the crime.”

“Where is this youngster, who, I understand, was first to find the victim, first to sound an alarm, first to summon officers?”

“He has disappeared — probably run off to escape testifying at the inquest.”

‘ ‘Probably he has done nothing of the kind. Has search been made for him?”

“We sent to his lodgings and made inquiries.”

“And that is all?”

“That is all.”

“How about George Dyer?”

“That is what puzzles me. He cannot be found, although this building has been searched from top to bottom, and the police all over the city are on the lookout for him.”

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“Then you think he knows something about the crime ?”