Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 February 1913 — TRUTH ABOUT THE CASE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TRUTH ABOUT THE CASE

The Experiences of M. R. Goron, Ex-Chief of the Paris Detective Police ~ Edited by Albert Keyzer THE SCAR

(Copyright by J. B. Lippincott Co.)

LADY is waiting for you, sir,” said my secretary, as I came to my office an hour later. j. :. _ . . “Already?” “Yes, she has been here a Jong time,” and, as he spoke, my visitor entered the room. I have seen 'some

[handsome women, but never one to approach her. A lovely, graceful flg'ure, her golden hair like an aureole iround the shapely head. “Pray take a seat,” I saM. “What can I do for you?” She sat, or rather dropped, down Into the proffered arm-chair, trembling from head to foot, convulsed by sobs. I pretended to look over Borne papers to give her time to recover. Then, after two or three ineffectual attempts to speak, she said: “I am Madame R——; my name, I think, is not unknown to you.” I nodded, for I had often seen it among those of our brilliant society women. “But”'—and then she again burst into tears—“l am lost, lost! What shall I do unless you help me?” “Calm yourself,” I said, holding a glass of water to her lips, the tumbler clicking against her Bmall white teeth. She rocked herself to and fro, and then, after a violent effort, unfolded her tale —the old, old tale of a woman’s folly and a man’s wickedness. In a low voice she began: “I will not trouble you with the etory of my wretched youth, in a lonely* country house, my father always away in Paris on some business or Other, and myself given over to the care of a cross, hard, bigoted maiden aunt, supposed to replace my mother,, whom I have never known. When I was nineteen I married M. R . I hardly knew him, bjit I longed to. get away from the maddening, dull life in that melancholy country house, with no other - company than that of my old aunt, and a few old ladies of the same stamp.” She clenched her little fists, and, fixing her eyes on me with a frightened stare: “Monsidttr Goron.” she cried, “you come across terrible misery and trouble, but none of the wretched beings whom it is your duty to arrest can be any worse than those who deliberately wrecked a woman’s life. The scoundred, the scoundrel—” She had risen from her chair.

“My niarrlage,” she .continued, “was a farce, a grotesque farce. My father had neglected me; horses,-wom-the baccarat engrossed him. Two days after my wedding I realized what marriage would mean to me! My husband, as you know, is a distinguished antiquarian—” She paused a moment, with her hand to her throat, and then resumed; “I rank after the old coins and musty manuscripts on which he wastes his money and time. Again J was left to myself, but I was free; and, with money at my command, plunged into the so-called pleasures of society. If only God had given me a child, a darling I could have loved, all this misery would have been spared me. But that, too, had been denied me. Courted and flattered, I had plenty of opportunities to ‘console’ myself —like many ladies of my acquaintance —but I had the strength to resist. I have a letter my mother wrote to me nineteen years ago, when Bhe knew she was dying, wherein she exhorts me, when I grow up, to think of her and act rightly. I have always this letter with me. It is a 'talisman. But—” She stopped and looked away. “I can - gueßS,” I said soothingly, “only tell me what brings you here, and what I can do for you." She shuddered, as if in recollection of something nauseous. “Ye», you can guess 1 met him at Trouville last summer, and was fascinated by his looks and his manner. I forgot all; my mother's letter, my good resolutions, all, all, all! I only thought of him. I loved and thought I was loved For the first time in my wretched existence I knew what happiness meant. And then —” But only inarticulate* sounds came from her. “Monsieur Goron,” she cried, “that man is a monster, a fiend. I found out his treachery and told him I would never look at him again.s3ut he holds me in his grasp. I wrote him four letters, and what letters! And, under the threat of delivering them to my liußband, he has already had three thousand pounds from me. He wants another four hundred, by tomorrow night. I have no more money at my bank, and have parted with all' my jewels. What am Ito do, what am I to do? If you do not help me in my trouble and rid me of that man, I shall be disgraced, and must hill myself. And I want to live, to to repent, and earn my mother’s for givene I want to live, Monsieur Ooron, (will not die! In the name of your mother, save me!” She stopped. She was quite exhausted. *> The poor woman’s case was, unfor-

tunately, not an exceptional one. Blackmailers —of both sexes—carry out their nefarious trade in every class of society. Success, in fact, emboldens them; for it is rarely that the victims, unless, driven to despair, like Madame R , have the courage to come forward. . “My dear madaihe,” I said, “I see no cause for alarm. That man is a common blackmailer, and, before this evening, he —” “No, no!” sl)e shrieked. “I know what you mean. You must not arrest him. You must not; for he would; at once carry out his threat. All I want are those letters. What becomes of him afterwards is of no importahee. Don’t you understand?” "Yes, I quite understand. Yet, unless I arrest him. I do not see—” "No, no!” she repeated, more vehemently, “you do not realize my dam ger! He is a desperate character; hq fears nobody, and if yob try to frighten him he will turn on me! Get those letters! Save me!” After a moment’s pause Tasked: “la he a Frenchman?” “No, he is a Cuban; of a first-class family, I think.” “Give hie his name and address, and also the dates of those letters, if you remember them.” She wrote everything down and handed me the slip. The more I heard of this business the less I,,liked it, although I knew full-well that unless something were done a catastrophe would ensue. On the other hapd, Madame R had tied my hands; I had no legal hold on her tormentor, and I did not.see how, under these conditions, I could bring him to bay. But her sad story had moved me, and I resolved to try my luck. I had often tried it before and found it answered. I led her to a small room near my office and told her to wait. “You must be patient,” I warned her, for it may take me some time, and, remember, I guarantee no results.” I sent a note to the Cuban, asking him to call on me without delay. My messenger found him at home. There came a knock on my door, and a tall man with ‘ very dark hair and blue eyes entered my office. His clothes fitted him well, and he had that easy grace of those moving in good society. His manners were perfect, apd in any drawing ‘room his general appearance l would have passed muster. Yet, to the practiced eye, there was in him something of the adventurer, of the man who looks upon the thousands in other people’s pockets as his own. Audacity and unscrupulousness were written in every feature, and I knew a difficult task lay before me. “Do you know why I sent for you?” I at once began. “No,”

“Cannot you gueßS?” “No.” “I asked yon to come here because I want you to return me some letters, four of them, written to you by Madame R . Do you understand now?” “Yes, I do. But, pardon me for saying, by what right do you claim these letters?” “frut, tut. You are a stranger; yet I dare say, you understand enough of French law to know that have been guilty of an ugly offense, 'which may get you into serious trouble. Are you aware that I can arrest you here, in my office, on a charge of blackmail?” The Cuban smiled —not a pretty smile —and twirled his mustache. "You cannot arreßt me,” be said quietly. “You cannot do so, unless some one has laid such a foolish charge against me. I am sure Madame R , whom I have the pleasure of knowing.' would never dream of putting forward such an accusation. Who, then, is the mysterious person I am supposed to have injured? Although I am, as you say, a stranger, I have some little knowledge of French law, and I have the right to know whence you derive your information.” The scoundrel was making fun of me. He complacently stroked his mustache, and, for the second time, I noticed that he mechanically pulled down his right cuff. I felt him slipping-through my fingers; and there was the poor creature in the adjoining room, his victim, depending on me to release her from his clutches. It was maddening. He looked his watch, rose from his chair, and politely asked me whether I had anything more to say, as he had an important engagement in town. I was growing desperate, and felt tempted to call Madame R Into my office, and force her to formally charge the man and bring him within my grasp. A moment’s reflection showed me the uselessness of. such s course. She would be too frightened to act upon my suggestion. He walked towards the dopr. “Stop!" I shouted. “I have one or two questions to ask you.” I wanted to gain time. The Cubah looked at me, slightly surprised. “How long have you been in Paris?*’ I asked. “Seven months.” he replied. Then I risked a random shot

"What It your real name? No, not the one on your card; but the name your father bore?” If you had a father, I added mentally. r . . Thus far my man bad not turned a hair. His tone now became sharp. “What right have you to ask me such a question?” He was losing his temper. • He gave his mustache another twirl and, just as he was again pulling down his cuff, I noticed a scar across his right wrist. It was an ordinary scar, slightly jagged toward the middle, a scar that might have been caused by a fall when he was a boy. Now, however, it took gigantic proportions, and I felt instinctively that I had laid my finger on something that might turn the scales in our favor. It required, nevertheless, grave caution with such an opponent. A false move Would mean failure. In a moment I had formed my plan, and started the attack. TeailetTiH one of my men, ordering him to remain with the Cuban until 1 returned. It was only intuition, not inference, that caused me to fasten on this scar as the means of bringing the fellQW to bay; but, as I discovered in the course of my career, in difficult and subtle oases inspiration is no detracting factor in detective work. . Madame R had warned me not to attempt to frighten the ruffian. This would have been a wrong Course towards anyone with a clean record' With the class of man like the one before me, I not only could risk the experiment,,but I had no other alternative. After a few minutes I returned to my office, with a book containing the photos of as fine a collection ‘of scamps as ever disgraced this earth. The Cuban’s handsome features did not figure in the set. But this he could not know. I glanced at the portraits until I came to a certain page, compared what I was supposed to see with some papers I took out es a drawer, and then, walking up to him, said, in a not very gentle voice: “Show me your wrist.” I noticed an almost imperceptible twitch of the eyelids as he held out his left hand. “No, the other,” I cried. And this time it was I who raised the cuff; and there was the scar. I gazed at it long, and then at the man whose hand I held. I saw he made violent efforts to remain calm, but the ferocity of the dangerous animal gleamed in his eyes. ‘That’s all right,” I began cheerily, “now we can talk.” j His eyes were riveted on me. “A quarter of an hour ago,” I resumed, “you declined to return me those letters. Do you still refuse?” The Cuban made no answer. How much of his secret —for a secret there undoubtedly was— did I know? What would occur if he declined to give up the letters? What could he extort from me if he acceded to my request? I understood the desperate struggle in his mind and watched him intently. It was evident he waited for me to say something. Seeing I remained silent he began, in a voice suddenly grown ( husky: ' • “Monsieur Goron —legally you have no right to demand those letters, but —” He paused suddenly, well knowing that the dangerous moment for him had arrived, and that he had to weigh evei;y word. Again he looked at me as if for support, and, not receiving any, he continued: “But, supposing I should give thein up—what—am 1 to—expect in return for my—courtesy?”

The word “courtesy” made me smile. It was typical of the man. “My dear sir,” I replied, “I must not be behind you in the way of courtesy. Now, this is what you can expect from me. You wiU go to your chambers. You will come back at once with the letters; and I will allow you till tomorrow < midday to pack your belongings and clear out of France. If you refuse, you and I will have another' kind of talk.” This time the Cuban's thoughts moved quicken. He dropped his grand manners and also his lazy drawl. “Do you give me your word that if I agree to this you will not molest me under some foolish pretense or other?” he asked. “I give you my word,” I retorted, “that you will not be molested under any foolish pretense.” “I accept,” he called out, and moved quickly towards the door. “Hold hard, my friend,” I cried, “frou are too hasty. I want to show you more courtesy. A man of your position must not go about like an ordinary mortal; you shall have a guard of honor.” I rang the bell. ’Tell Inspector Leroux I want him.” “Leroux,” I said, when that official made his appearance, “this gentleman is going to his chambers In the Hue d’Alger to fetch some documents. You are to accompany him, and not to leave him a second out of your sight. The Rue d’Alger is not far. Take a cab. I expect you back in half an hour —with the gentleman, remember. I recommend blflo to your care.” “All right, k ,r >” grinned Leroux. “I’ll look after him.” A heavy day’s work lay before me,, yet I had not the patience to attend to other matters until this business was settled, especially with the half frantic woman near me. Before I had finished my third cigarette the Cuban, followed by the grinning Leroux, entered. Without a word the fellow deposited the letters on my desk. I carefully examined them, and found that they corresponded with the dates given me by Madame R-—-. For a moment this pseudo-gentle-man and I looked at one another. 1 do not know whether he read my thoughts regarding him, but I was not

in doubt as to his wishes for my future welfare. “And now we are quits,” I exclaimed. “I wish you a pleasant journey, and, pray, do not forget tomorrow midday. It is important!” He gave me an unlovely scowl, made a slight bow, and was gone. It was with a lighter heart that I opened the door of the little room where Madame R was awaiting events. On seeing me she turned deathly pale, and followed me to my office.

“Listen,” I said sternly, for she, too, deserved a lesson. "You have thrown an unpleasant task upon my shoulders. If the Recording Angel puts a black mark against me, I hope ho will take into consideration the charitable motives that prompted me, chief of the detective police, to commit an illegal act. Now, Madame R , if 1 not only restore these letters to you, but even guarantee you will never see the face of one Of the biggest rogues in the shape of a man, will you promise, will you swear, that this danger from which you have escaped, will be a lesson to you for life; and. that you will never again stray from the right path?” And I held out the little bundle.

“I swear,” she gasped. Clutching the letters, she looked at them with feverish haste and then tore them into a thousand bits, which, womanlike, she scattered all over my carpet, ignoring the waste paper basket at her -feet. I watched her go to the window, where she remained, her back turned towards me ; her face buried in her hands. Was she praying? I think so; andr for several minutes, not a word was spoken. She slowly turned round and walked to the table where I sat and, with an expression .that removed from my mind the last trace of remorse for my illegal act, she seized both my hands and said; “Monsieur Goron—dear Monsieur Goron —how —how can I thank you ?” “Madame," I answered, “I am not entitled to your gratitude. You have to thank the scar.” She opened her eyes m astonishment. “The scar—what scar?” “The one on the man’s right wrist." “On his right wrist? I—I —never saw it!” “No, but I did!”

Five years elapsed. One morning, passing through the Parc Monceau, I saw an elegantly dressed, handsome young woman walking with a nurse carrying a baby. I at once recognized Madame R . She colored slightly, and, without uttering a word, held up the baby; raising its tiny hand to her lips, she sent me a kiss. I understood. And the Cuban? A few days later, a New York paper brought the story of a fracas in a Ban Francisco gambling house where tbree men bad been shot. The body or one, a dark-complexioned man, with a scar on his right wrist, had not been identified. .Was It my Cuban? I think so. s