Knots Untied; Or, Ways and By-ways in the Hidden Life of American Detectives

by George S. McWatters

These were comparatively old boarders. The third one was a new comer; that is, he had been with the widow about three months. He dressed pretty well, and represented himself as the manufacturer of patent roofs, and as having a business office on the corner of Bowery and Second Street.

This was all the widow could then tell me about them. Her husband had died about two years before, after some years of illness; and a little daughter and a son had died before him, and not long after her arrival in this country; and the burden of their and his illness and funeral expenses had fallen upon her. Saddened by her misfortunes here, and ever sighing for the "Fatherland," she had been resolutely at work, since her husband's death, to accumulate enough to return to Hungary with, and also to buy a little cottage where she had spent most of her early childhood's hours with her nurse, and which was situated near the confines of the great park in which stood her father's palace—a romantic spot, which she seemed to worship with her whole soul, now that her sweetest treasures were gone. Her description of the dear old cottage and its surroundings was glowing, and even pathetic. Her father had been a rebel officer, and his estates were confiscated and sold, but sold in divisions, it seemed, and some relatives had succeeded to the possession of the cottage. This, she was sure, she could buy for no very large sum. There would she go, and live, and die. That was her widowhood's ambition, and she cheerfully toiled, early and late, to achieve its realization. She had paid some debts, which remained unpaid at the death of her husband; had supported herself neatly and comfortably, and aided, to considerable extent, not a few of her unfortunate countrymen, the old attachés of Kossuth, but had saved about eleven hundred dollars, inclusive of the eight hundred and forty which had been stolen from her; and the loss of the latter was to her a most heavy blow.

She was one of those brave, unflinching souls, who do and dare on forever, without giving up in despair to, no matter how untoward a fate; but while she uttered no childish complaint, I could see that the loss oppressed her very seriously. She said to me, indeed, that it was very discouraging, and that she sometimes thought that she would give up the further struggle of earning her way back to her old home and purchasing the cottage, but settle down here, and only visit the old spot sometime—but to do so would be distasteful.

This was all enigmatic to me, and of course I did not ask her to explain; but I learned afterwards, what I presume was its solution, that a wealthy widower, of some political distinction as well as literary character, and living at Morristown, N. J., had offered the widow his hand, and heart perhaps: but such men do not often give away their hearts. They buy wives with their money, and treat them as their goods and chattels thereafter; which is a convenient way of doing things, and does not wear upon the purchaser's soul.

But Madame K. (the widow), who admired the man in some respects, had learned the value of a great, noble love too well to even trifle with her soul in this regard, and could not consent to accept the wealthy widower's offer. In view of the fact of this offer, she suffered from the loss of her money more than she otherwise would have done; for she was proud to have the widower, as well as everybody else, know that she was self-reliant and successful; and to be successful, it is necessary to be cautious and prudent in all things; and the widow had not been prudent in the disposal of her money. Indeed, she had lost it through a sort of unpardonable carelessness, or rather lack of caution, and this vexed her not a little.

My sympathies were greatly enlisted in behalf of the beautiful widow; and without being willing to acknowledge that my heart was touched by her facial beauty (for where is the man in the world who would not scorn to be thought susceptible to such a "trifle"?), I do confess that the widow's charming address and manners won me over to her cause with a force which I thought a little peculiar, and I resolved to do all I could to hunt up the thief, and find the money, and perhaps not charge the beautiful widow a cent for my services (if I must confess the whole right here).

Armed with such high resolve, I went over to Madame K.'s house the next day to tea, the time when she would have returned from her necessary business trip that day to the gold-lace house for which she wrought; and found her there ready to receive me, and point out the place where she had kept the money stolen. I should say here, that the theft had been committed five days before, and some effort had been made on the part of Madame K. to discover a clew to the thief.

Madame K. had, in her sitting-room, a curious old "secretary," which had been brought out from Hungary by some exiles, and which—since it exactly resembled one in her father's library or studio, and at which she had so often sitten and wrought out her lessons, written her school-girl "compositions," and made her early efforts in epistolary graces—she had bought. This secretary had close-locking double doors, in each of which was, as if it were itself a panel, a mirror, as a middle piece, with plates of deftly chased glass above each mirror; and the glasses were opaque, so that the doors might, in one sense, have been said to be solid. Indeed, I think the whole mirror and ornamental glass plates were backed by a panel of wood.

The secretary was a queer compound of strength, and more or less bad taste, as well as about the same quantity of good taste. The inner work was all curious,—sly boxes; boxes within boxes, etc., and the faces of each carved with the heads of lions, tigers, and so forth, of the natural order, as well as with all sorts of things of a mystic nature, as well as some never thought of before save by the special carver of these special faces. Everything about it looked secure, but, alas! it would not protect its contents against a cunning thief. But I saw that it must have been somebody who was somewhat acquainted with the interior of the secretary to have readily abstracted any of its contents without disturbing things, in the short space of time between the discovery of the loss and the fact of the presence of the money there, just a little before; for I had determined matters so far as to learn this point, namely, that the money had been taken from a purse in a certain drawer, and the purse itself left.

The money consisted of bank bills principally, with fifty dollars in gold—two tens and six five-dollar pieces. This drawer had a peculiar lock, a part of which turned around three times before the key could drive the bolt, so that the person unlocking it must have had time to study this, or had known it before. There was the outer key, too, the key of the secretary's doors. On inquiry, I found that this key was hung up on a little tack at the back of the secretary. It might almost as well have been left in the lock. The lock of the doors, too, was peculiar, and only the smallest of keys could open it, and it would have been difficult to pick. Probably somebody who knew where to find the key had opened it.