An Artist in Crime

by Rodrigues Ottolengui

"Tell me quickly, have you succeeded?"

"Yes, thoroughly."

"Good! Write the man's name on a card, and I will give you one upon which I have written the name of my man."

Mr. Barnes did so. Then they exchanged cards, glanced at them, and grasped each other's hands significantly. The cards bore the same name. With the others they went into the dining-room. Mr. Thauret found himself seated next to Mr. Barnes, whilst on the other side of the detective sat Mr. Fisher.

It need scarcely be said that the dinner was enjoyable and enjoyed, though it must be admitted that all awaited anxiously the hour of twelve. It will be as well perhaps, therefore, to come immediately to the dénouement, for which all were assembled. The last course had been served, and coffee and nuts were on the table, when the clock chimed the hour for which all were anxious. Promptly at the first stroke Mr. Mitchel arose. There was a silence till twelve was tolled and then he began:

"Gentlemen, you have all kindly accepted my invitation to see me win a rash wager made thirteen months ago. It is odd, perhaps, that I should have won—for I announce that I have won—when we remember that the time was thirteen months, which number, as we all know, superstitious persons are inclined to connect with misfortune. To show, however, that I do not harbor such childish ideas, I purposely made the time of that length, and, to-night, at the decisive moment, we are thirteen." Here he paused a moment, and one might have noticed that several persons quickly counted those present to test the fact. Continuing, he said: "The superstition in connection with thirteen at dinner is a well-defined one, and the supposition is that one of the number will die within the year. I offer as a toast, therefore, 'Long life to all present—who deserve it.'" The last clause after a slight hesitation, made a decided effect. However, the toast was drunk in silence.

"As some present may not entirely understand what my wager was, I must explain that thirteen months ago to-night I was in a Pullman sleeper with my friend, Mr. Randolph. Mr. Barnes here had just accomplished a neat capture of the criminal Pettingill, who has since been convicted. The papers were praising him, and Mr. Randolph did so to me in glowing terms. I ventured the assertion that detectives run down their prey largely because the criminal class lack intelligence sufficient to compete with their more skilled adversaries. I offered to wager that I could commit a crime within a month and not be detected within a year thereafter. The amount was to be a thousand dollars, and was accepted by Mr. Randolph. I stipulated for conviction, though had I been arrested within the stated period and convicted afterwards, I should have considered that I had lost the wager. That is why I awaited the arrival of Mr. Barnes so anxiously. I had not seen him for some time, and it was possible that at the last moment he might be prepared to arrest me upon evidence that would later convict me. However, gentlemen, I have escaped both arrest and conviction, yet I committed the crime as wagered."

"You must prove that," said Mr. Randolph; "and, according to our agreement, it must have been a crime which was much talked about!"

"Quite right, my friend, but I shall be able to demonstrate all that. By a curious coincidence a robbery was committed on the very night and upon the same train upon which we made our wager, whilst another robbery was committed almost at the moment when the stipulated month expired. Thus two crimes transpired within the time allowed me, and with both of these my name has been connected in the mind of the detective, Mr. Barnes. Now, that you all may better understand the circumstances, I must go to what I might call the beginning. Years ago certain circumstances in my earlier life gave me an intimate acquaintance with the methods used by detectives, and I then acquired the idea which led me into this undertaking,—that where the criminal has succeeded in escaping actual watching during the commission of his crime, so that there is no witness to the act, the detective is almost powerless until he learns the object for which the crime was undertaken. Am I not right, Mr. Barnes?"