A Master Hand: The Story of a Crime

by Richard Dallas

However, the son had always been a "bad lot" and neglected the old man, whereas Arthur had lived with him, and, after his lazy fashion, cared for and helped him in his affairs. So the busy world shrugged its shoulders and passed the episode by, and only prosy moralists dwelt upon it to point the Fifth Commandment.

How Arthur reconciled it with his conscience to keep all the money, I never heard him say, but any sacrifice, I fancy, would have seemed hard to one so self-indulgent. In any event, whatever may have been the right or wrong of it, he was making the most of his fortune while it lasted, and his friends were incidentally getting some benefit therefrom too, as our invitation for the evening testified.

While White was the youngest of the quartette I was to join, Gilbert Littell was the oldest—old enough and worldly-wise enough, too, to have been a valuable friend and adviser to the young man, if the latter would have listened to, or been by any one diverted from the rapid pace he was going. He did try, I thought, to steady him sometimes, but would always abandon the effort and say in his quiet way that he guessed the boy would have to sow his wild oats and waste his dollars before he could be brought up; which was also the general opinion among us.

Littell was a clubman and a man of the world; long and shrewd observations of men and things—for he was past sixty and had lived thoroughly—had given him a keen insight into character and a knowledge of the trend of things that made him a delightful and instructive companion. A little skeptical, perhaps, of the motives of men and particularly of the virtues they affected, and doubting of the seriousness of life and disposed to get the most out of it; his views and criticisms, while often keen and rarely orthodox, were never harsh or uncharitable, and at the most were but mildly cynical. I always felt he was advised whereof he spoke, and his judgment sound, and I had formed a habit of looking to him for advice and help in worldly affairs. He seemed to take the interest in me such as an older man might in a junior and looked me up often at my office or the club. The fact that he was a lawyer, though a retired one, gave us much in common, and we had many pleasant hours together.

Every one has known men like Ned Davis; well meaning and hard working, but without great ability, and fond of pleasure and extravagant living; he was incapable of real success at anything, and was born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. His resources were always something of a puzzle to his intimates, for while occupying some nondescript position with a prominent firm of brokers, he associated with men of large means and extravagant habits and played high at cards. Still I never heard that he failed to pay his debts, and if he borrowed, only the lenders knew of it, so the public had no ground for criticism. With all his shortcomings, he was a good fellow to know and be with; of a bright disposition, ready at any time for anything, unselfish and affectionate by nature, he was only his own enemy. The world has known many like him, but when it has spoken kindly of them, it has said all.

Oscar Van Bult was a man of a totally different stamp. Strong, self-contained, and a little serious, you felt in his presence the reserve force that was in him and with it respect. He was, perhaps, forty years of age, and unlike Littell and Davis, who had been New Yorkers from birth, was a stranger among us. Less than two years before he had appeared, none seemed to know from where, and had made friends and become one of us before we were quite aware of it. That the man was a gentleman in the worldly sense of the term was unmistakable; he was a handsome, manly fellow, too, and agreeable, and so was welcome for himself. Of his antecedents and resources, no one knew anything, nor was it likely much would be learned through Van Bult, who never sought nor offered confidences. One frequently meets such men. They come and they go, and generally things are none the better nor worse for them. I like them; for the time being they furnish me a new interest, something to observe, to study; but then I know I am getting older now and surfeited of the things of daily life, and look for entertainment too much to things outside of myself, my habits and friends now prone to sameness through long acquaintanceship. It was different with me in the days of which I am writing. Then I was learning, and it is more agreeable to learn than to know. Knowledge of the world advantages sometimes, but it rarely entertains. As a glass through which to observe men and things, it is a help to the vision, but it is the defects it magnifies, and the colors in which it shows things are rarely bright or beautiful. But to this point of view I had not then attained.

Graduating from the Harvard Law School some twelve years earlier, I had practised my profession in a desultory way in New York, until about a year before, when I had secured a position as a deputy with the District Attorney. In my work there I found so much to occupy and interest me professionally that other things, such as my social and club life, became of only secondary importance. I was absorbed in my new duties.

The crimes and criminals of a great city are a study of fascinating interest. In each case, if we only knew it, is to be found a lesson in character, method, and motive. He who would cope properly with the subject must have been trained, not only long and faithfully but intelligently, to his work.

Noting, as I thought, deficiencies in the several departments which were auxiliary to ours, I had taken hold of my duties with vigor and with a purpose to lift the work of our administration, from the police officer up, to a higher and more intelligent plane of operation. Alas for such ambitions of youth, they seldom prove more than dreams.

My dinner that evening was at length finished; absorbed in my thoughts, I had dallied over the meal and not eaten very heartily; but, if I remember aright, I enjoyed it rather more than usual, though I was without company, and had left my magazine unread. After all there is no companion like one's self when taken in the right hour and mood, and the secret of happiness, learned as we grow old, is to choose our time and to control and direct our moods.