O. Henry
Tictocq: The Great French Detective In Austin
Файл с книжной полки Несененко Алексея
IT IS NOT GENERALLY KNOWN that Tictocq, the famous French detective, was
in Austin [Texas] last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumed
name,
and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for one not to be
singled out.
No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed the
information that his mission was an important one from the French
Government.
One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an old
statute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty between the
Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly provides for the
north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this is merely a
conjecture.
Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of
Tictocq's room in the hotel.
The detective opened the door.
"Monsieur Tictocq, I believe," said the gentleman.
"You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. X. Jones," said
Tictocq, "and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known as such. If
you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will give you
satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O'Donnell, John
McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.
"I do not mind it in the least," said the gentleman. "In fact, I am
accustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee,
Platform No. 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocq from
your resemblance to yourself."
"Entrez vous," said the detective.
The gentleman entered and was handed a chair.
"I am a man of few words," said Tictocq. "I will help your friend if
possible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayette and
French fried
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potatoes. You have given us California champagne and --- taken
back Ward McAllister. State your case."
"I will be very brief," said the visitor. "In room No. 76 in this hotel is
stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night someone
stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered, his party
will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will make great capital of
the burglary, although I am sure it was not a political move at all. The
socks must be recovered. You are the only man that can do it."
Tictocq bowed.
"Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with the
hotel?"
"The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody is at
your service."
Tictocq consulted his watch.
"Come to this room tomorrow afternoon at 6 o'clock with the landlord, the
Populist Candidate, and any other witnesses elected from both parties, and I
will return the socks."
"Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sic wohl."
"Au revoir."
The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No. 2, bowed
courteously and withdrew.
Tictocq sent for the bell boy.
"Did you go to room 76 last night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who was there?"
"An old hayseed what come on the 7:25."
"What did he want?"
"The bouncer."
"What for?"
"To put the light out."
"Did you take anything while in the room?"
"No, he didn't ask me."
"What is your name?"
"Jim"
"You can go."
Chapter 2
The drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences in
Austin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, and from
gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicate feet of the
guests may tread.
The occasion is the entrée into society of one of the fairest buds in the
City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, the beauty,
the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledged to be the
wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be found southwest of
Kansas City.
Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her a
circle of talent, and beauty, rarely equaled anywhere. Her evenings come
nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion, except,
perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the Iron Front.
Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society's maze was heralded by such an
auspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large,
lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingénue manner. She wears a
china silk, cut
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princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple of towels
inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades. She is
chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tête-à-tête with Harold St.
Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friend and schoolmate,
Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, a week or two before,
and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiser from the handsome and
talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, is promenading in and out the low
French windows with Ethelbert Windup, the popular young candidate for hide
inspector, whose name is familiar to every one who reads police court
reports.
Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during the pauses
in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.
Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender as they
bend over white necks and drooping heads, timid eyes convey things that lips
dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth, hearts beat time
to the sweet notes of "Love's Young Dream."
"And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?" say
Miss St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping at another
shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, Sir Knight, and
defend yourself."
"Oh, come off," says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone. "I've been
having a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays from the
cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds, and all
expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged --- I mean --- can't
you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants to fit 'em?
Business dull too, nobody wants 'em over three dollars."
"You witty boy," says Miss St. Vitus. "Just as full on bon mots and clever
sayings as ever. What do you take now?"
"Oh, beer."
"Give me your arm and let's go into the drawing-room and draw a cork. I'm
chewing a little cotton myself."
Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure of all
eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night watchman at the Lone
Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of the millionaire owner
of the Humped-Back Camel Saloon, are standing under the oleanders as they go
by.
"She is very beautiful," says Luderic.
"Rats," says Mabel.
A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitary man
who seemed to avoid company but by adroit changing of his position, and
perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoiding drawing any especial
attention to himself.
The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.
He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street by Colonel
St. Vitus about a week before, and according the Austin custom in such
cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next day accepted into
society, with large music classes at his service.
Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor from Beethoven's
"Songs Without Music." The grand chords fill the room with exquisite
harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in the obbligato home run
in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with that grand te deum with
arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush in the room that is
dearer to the artist's heart than the loudest applause.
The professor looks around.
The room is empty.
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Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, who springs
from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.
The professor rises in alarm.
"Hush," says Tictocq. "Make no noise at all. You have already made enough."
Footsteps are heard outside.
"Be quick," says Tictocq. "Give me those socks. There is not a moment to
spare."
"Vas sagst du?"
"Ah, he confesses," says Tictocq. "No socks will do but those you carried
off from the Populist Candidate's room."
The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.
Tictocq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon the floor,
tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latter through the open
window into the garden.
Chapter 3
Tictocq's room in the Avenue Hotel.
A knock is heard at the door.
Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch.
"Ah," he says, "it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs."
The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidate who is
there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the Chairman of the
Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No. 2; the hotel proprietor; and
three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as could be found out.
"I don't know," begins the Populist Candidate, "what in the h---"
"Excuse me," say Tictocq, firmly. "You will oblige me by keeping silent
until I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I have
unraveled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard with
attention."
"Certainly," says the Chairman, "we will be pleased to listen."
Tictocq stands in the center of the room. The electric light burns brightly
above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor, cleverness, and
cunning.
The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall.
"When informed of the robbery," begins Tictocq, "I first questioned the bell
boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knew nothing.
I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there used to be a little
boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and kept them for recovery by the
police, but failed to be at the place agreed upon for arrest one time, and
had been sent to jail.
"I then begin to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry a Populist's
socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would not want to do so in
the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would be get one? At the Statesman
office, of course. I went there. A young man with his hair combed down on
his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew he was writing society items, for a
young lady's slipper, a piece of cake, a fan, a half emptied bottle of
cocktail, a bunch of roses, and a police whistle lay on the desk before him.
"Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last three months?"
I said.
"Yes," he replied, "we sold one last night."
"Can you describe the man?"
"Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades, a
touch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath."
"Which way did he go?"
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"Out."
"I then went ---"
"Wait a minute," said the Populist Candidate, rising. "I don't see why in
the h---"
"Once more I must beg that you will be silent," said Tictocq, rather
sharply. "You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report."
"I made one false arrest," continued Tictocq. "I was passing two finely
dressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had
'stole his socks.' I handcuffed him and dragged him into a lighted store,
when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated and his
tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of some business
transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had 'sold his stocks.'
"I then released him."
"An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bum
drinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said 'here is my man.' He
worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, and would
have stolen anybody's socks. I shadowed him to the reception at Colonel St.
Vitus's, and in an opportune moment I seized him and tore the socks from his
feet. There they are."
With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon the table,
folded his arms, and threw back his head.
With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to his
feet.
"Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I ---"
The other two Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly.
"Is this tale true?" they demanded of the Candidate.
"No, by gosh, it ain't!" he replied, pointing a trembling finger at the
Democratic Chairman. "There stands the man who has concocted the whole
scheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for our
party. How far has this thing gone?" he added, turning savagely to the
detective.
"All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and the Statesman
will have it in plate matter next week," said Tictocq, complacently.
"All is lost!" said the Populists, turning toward the door.
"For God's sake, my friends." pleaded the Candidate, following them. "Listen
to me. I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair of socks in my
life. It is all a devilish campaign lie."
The Populists turn their backs.
"The damage is already done," they said. "The people have heard the story.
You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race."
All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats.
"Let's all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee," said the
Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform No. 2."