Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 206, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 August 1915 — The Strange Adventures of Christopher Poe [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The Strange Adventures of Christopher Poe

Jtorifc* of Strang* Cases Solved ft> Secret *y a Banker-Defect**

By ROBERT CARLTON BROWN

(Copyright. 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

THE MISSPELLED WORD

“Well, hello, Poe! Glad to see yon back from the wilds of New Orleans and Mexico,” greeted Mitchell, President of the Bankers’ Protec tire Association, as Poe stepped into his private room, unannounced, the second day after his retorn from Mexico. “I was Just on the point of calling you up,” continued MltchelL “Saved you a nickel, then,” drawled Christopher Poe, dropping into a chair, and beginning to fan himself slowly with his hat. “What’s new? Ton look as though you’d just sidestepped a bomb.” “Something interesting,” Mitchell announced, glancing uneasily at the door, a trifle open. Rising abruptly, he stepped over, and shut it securely. Coming back, he reached out mechanically, as though he had made the same motion a hundred times that day, and drew from a pigeon-hole a handful of crisp five-dollar bills, thrusting them into Poe’s fingers with nervous quickness. “Is this hush money, or a donation to the head office boy of the Bankers’ Protective, which capacity I so humbly fill?” asked Poe, lifting a highly arched eyebrow, and holding it quiverering for a questioning moment. “Look it over,” said Mitchell, turning sidewise, and drumming nervously on a magnifying-glass he had dropped at Poe’s entrance. Christopher Poe separated one of the bills from the package, held it first to the light, started slightly, and then quickly turned the bill face up, and smoothed it over his knee, bending close to examine it Quick as thought he snatched the magnifying-lens from Mitchell’s finders, and studied the bill for a full minute. Then he looked up and Bmiled. “Why, it’s at least a millimeter out Nobody’s ever been able to get old General Jackson’s jaw just right, except the man who made the genuine plate. It’s been tried often, hasn’t it?” “There are two other counterfeits of that bill," answered Mitchell. “Neither of them any good at all. But this is different. They found out the bill was bad by that lengthy jaw. But that bill’s been slipping through several banks for a week or more. Think of it! Just discovered today. Goodlooking bill, isn’t it? Paper fine, print has the proper snap; everything right but that jaw; it’s Just a hair less than a millimeter too long, as you noticed. I knew it wouldn’t escape you.” “How much of the stuff is out?” “Nearly twenty thousand is in!” cried Mitchell. “It’s a fine mess! God knows how much is out! Think of it! Think of New York banks being fooled on bunches of this stuff; they’ve taken in twenty thousand the roll you have there contains samples of it all.” “But it’s the best paper I've fever seen!” exclaimed Christopher Poe, Slightly flushed, having turned again to the bill. “The counterfeiter hasn’t missed on a thing but that jaw,, and how any man could duplicate that is more than I can tell. President Jackson’s jaw was a lucky thought on that 'O7 note; nobody could ever jcopy his head exactly as it’s reproduced on the bill. It’s a lantern jaw, so shaped that it can stand the extra millimeter and escape notice. But that paper is what worries me. It looks just like the real thing. That fellow must have got hold of a batch of the real stuff somewhere. Measurements are exactly right. The two scatter-silk lines running through the bill are correct. By George, here’s a mystery worth a man’s trouble!” “It’s a remarkable bill,’* replied Mitchell. “Do you notice the webstitching on the back is exactly right, too?” Poe turned the certificate over. “Remarkable f” 1 he exclaimed, having examined- the green and white webbing, put on wijth the effect of fan-tracery in the cathedrals, in intricate design, difficult to imitate. "There’s nothing else out of proportion but Jackson’s jaw?” queried Christopher Poe, glancing at the fine printing on the green back of the note, which begins: "This note is a legal tender at its f&ce value —” “No, they didn’t report anything else, and I haven’t found a thing." Poe paid no Attention to the reply; he seemed deeply Interested in the printing, reading it carefully through the magnifier. Suddenly, right at the end, he stopped, and looked at Mitchell quizzically. Handing Mitchell the bill and pointing to the printing, he queried: “Have you read this ?” “No, I dare say that’s all right. The fellow wouldn’t, likely be such a shrewd engraver and make any mistake on the plain printing.” “Suppose you read it, then.” Poe handed him the bill and pidced up another, holding it far from his eyes, and staring at it absently. Meanwhile Mitchell read the following usual form, printed on the back of the 1907 five-dollar note: “This note is a Legal tender at its face value for all debts public and private, except duties on Imports and Interest on the Public Debt. Counterfeiting or altering this note or passing any Counterfeit or alteration of it.

or having in possession any false or counterfeit plate or impression of it, or any paper made in imitation of the Paper on which it is printed is Felony, and is punishable by Five Thousand ($5,000) Dollars FINE, or Fifteen (15) years imprisonment at Hard Labour or both.” "Well?” he said, looking up. “You wouldn’t amount to much in working out one of these advertising puzzles .where they offer a prize for finding the misspelled word,” replied Poe. “There was something near the last,” reflected Mitchell. “Some word seemed out of its regular appearance.” / “Read it again,” suggested Poe. “Oh, I see!” cried the other, having glanced through the last line once more. “It’s the word ‘labour that should be spelled ‘labor.’ ” "That‘s wnat Webster says.” “It’s not one of the usual ways of detecting a counterfeit. I wouldn't ever think of reading the printing on a bill.” “The little things count.” “But surely you can’t see any clue in that misspelling?” “I certainly have an inkling to the counterfeiter from it,” was the abrupt reply, as Poe rapidly thumbed through the stack of five-dollar bills, looking first at one side and then the other, and paying no attention to Mitchell’s importunate questions. Finally he folded the roll carefully and placed it in his breast-pocket. "I’ll take these with me, if you don’t need them,” he said. “Tell me, where have those things been passed?” “Mostly around New York. It’sfunny, the counterfeiting band doesn’t seem to have many agents outside, most of it has cropped out in Brooklyn; but then, this is the first batch, and I suppose we’ll soon be getting others from the interior states.” Poe secured a list of the banks that had been caught on the blllß and departed. He went at once to his rooms, where he spent several hours closely examing each bill. Finally he separated one from the* lot, the only one which showed a slight difference from the others. This he put beneath the mag-nifying-glass, and studied it at great length. Only one portion of the bill interested him; it was the white spot on the back, at the left, balancing the frame which contained the printed notice with “labor” misspelled. On that blank spot was the light impression of a finger. Poe bent close over It, and followed the light ridges which had left their impressions. Evidently he was classifying the kind of mark it was, in accordance with the system pf finger-print identification. He studied away, mumbling quick phrases to himself, according to a habit he could not break: “First finger, right hand. Loops approx. tented arches—eleven ridges—ulnar —outer terminus —accidentals. Callus —engraver —graver, Hmmmtn — curious twins —needles, no! ah! East India. Fakir. Paper. I—” Christopher Poe dropped the mag- ? nifier, and swung around to the tele-' phone at his elbow. In a minute’s time he was connected with Mitchell. “How about the Coney Island bank he arfked. “How much of the queer was shoved off there?" ' * ,\- “They took in seven thousand of it, nearly. Got in heaviest there. Doesi# seem possible; but it’s the cleverest counterfeit ever made.” “And the Brooklyn National?" “Stuck for nearly five thousand.” “Good!" Poe started to hang up when Mitchell’s voice broke in axiously: “I hope you’re not trusting entirely to that misspelled word? I don’t see anything in that.” “No, I’ve got a finger-print to work on now. Just discovered it on one of the notes.” f “Is that so?” the voice became anxious. “Suppose I run over and have a look at it.” “Better hurry, then,” replied Poe. “It’s after three now, and I’ve got to get out to Coney before supper.” He paused, started to hang up, and then called, “Bring Burns with you.” The pair of bankers arrived shortly, and Poe showed them the finger-prints he had discovered. Both looked St it carefully, but neither believed that it was an important discovery. “Why,” insisted Mitchell, “that finger print could have been left by any of a hundred people who might have, handled the bill.” “Then boW on earth are you going to find the maiiT It’s impossible. You say he can’t be an old crook, and his work certainly isn’t that of any one I recognize. You aren’t going to look at everybody’s fingers until you find the one that matches this, are you?” queried Burns. “Hardly that,” smiled Poe. “Since you fellows are so skeptical, I won’t trouble to tell you my theory at all. But,' Burns, suppose, you run over to Coney Island with me this afternoon. We may bump into something interesting.” “All right.” Burns shrugged his shoulders doubtfully. “You dope things out pretty well, Chris, but ! haven’t

r much faith in your due this time. It leaves too much to chance.” Burns and Poe started in a taxi for Coney Island at pnce, leaving Mitchell behind. Arrived*' at the famous resort, the taxi dodged in and out among the crowding vehicles, and finally came to a quivering halt before the central police station. Leaving Burns outside, Poe hurried in, and was at once admitted to the Captain of the dls-' trict, under the name of Hardy. By showing credentials from the Bankers’ Protective Association Poe gained the Captain’s interest, and quickly explained about the counterfeit flve-dol-lar bills. “We’ve had several complaints of them the last few days,” answered the Captain. "They’ve been in circulation a couple of weeks, I guess, but nobody detected them till the banks finally got wise. Best counterfeit I ever saw. Frankly, I can’t tell them from the genuine, except when somebody points out the fact that the jaw on the por-' trait of Jackson Is a bit too long.” Poe plunged at once into the purpose of bis visit. “Will you kindly give me what records you have of East Indian jugglers in shows here, preferably those managed by Englishmen?” The Captain turned to a director; and skimmed through it. “There’s lots of East Indian troupes this year,” he said. “Here are some addresses. But you don’t suspect those fellows, do you?” “Not exactly,” was the reply, as Poe rapidly copied down the names and addresses. Many occupations were included in the list; some were jugglers, others fortune-tellers,. danc ers, dervishes, snake-charmers, and magicians. The whole list was quite long and the Captain could offer but little information concerning the management of the Indian performers. Thanking the officer for his courtesy, Poe left at once, pulled Burns into the vestibule of the building, tore the list of names in half, and asked: “Have you much money with you?” “About fifty dollars, I guess,” answered Burns, feeling of his wallet. “Well, here’s a hundred in tens. I brought an extra amount. Take it, and go to all the shows at-these-ad-dresses; pay In tens, and keep separate all the five-dollar bills you get In change. Ask at each place who the manager is, have it understood that you want to hire some jugglers for a show. If you stumble onto any bunch of East Indians with an English manager, take his name and address. Then meet me here at exactly nine o’clock. “All right,” answered Burns blankly, but he was too well acquainted with

Poe’s methods to ask useless questions. ‘ Poe began at once his circuit of the shows employing Blast Indians. He, paid everywhere with a ten or twentydollar bill, and always stuffed the notes he received in change into a separate pocket, without more than glancing at them. At each show he inquired the name of the manager, and secured several addresses. Finally,- having found nothing of immediate Interest, and it being almost time to rejoin Burns, he slipped back to the police-station, and, picking out a vacant corner in the vestibule, turned his back to the door, rapidly thumbing over the collection of bills he had received in change. There were nine .Jive-dollar bills in the lot. To his great satisfaction, on examining President Jackson’s jaw on each he found that six were identical with the counterfeit bills he had studied all afternoon. ' ' ■ Burns came shortly, with six fivedollar bills, received in change at East India shows; two of them were counterfeits. \ Christopher Poe put the false money away carefully and stood for a moment, thoughtfully running his thin hand through his damp brown hair; the corners of his mouth twitched, and two deep wrinkles appeared, joining the lips to the nostrils in heavy furrows. “How many managers did you unearth?” he asked Burns abruptly.

"Only two,” was the reply. Poe took the names and addresses, compared them quickly with the several he had procured, and then, his eyes lighting up strangely, remarked: "Ton stay here; it I’m not back in one hour, get the Police Captain to give you eight officers at once to these two addresses. It’s evident the bad money is emanating from these Bast Indians. I want to talk It over alone with their managers. Send four of the policemen to this first address on Surf Avenue, and you come along to the Coney Island Bowery yourself with the other four. If entrance Is denied at either address, force is to be used.” Without a word Poe darted out of the building, and threw himself into the tangle of meri'y-makers in the street It was a gay night at Coney, and with difficulty Poe made speed to the address on Surf Avenue. There he found a roomy lodging above a moving-picture show, and asked for the proprietor, one of the two managers of Bast India shows he had picked out to call upon. He received information that the man was not in and wouldn’t be until the next day. Somewhat disappointed, Poe walked slowly down the steps and stood for a moment in the curb. Then he glanced at the card. The other name and address was: - EDGEWORTH HORTON, 75 BOWERY. Deep, cynical wrinkles between nose and mouth formed unconsciously; he drew his broad-brimmed straw hat close over his eyes, and turned quickly into the Bowery. . At number 75 Christopher Poe found a big gay music-hall, with the stereotyped dancing and singing girls. On the lurid bill in front was a huge advertisement: SPECIAL EAST INDIAN TROUPE OP 10 PERFORMERS NAUTCH DANCERS JUGGLERS SNAKE-CHARMERS As he came to ‘‘Snake-Charmers’’ on the list, the banker-detective’s eyebrows shot up in sudden interest; then he walked into the case, and seated himself at a table. It was a large, substantial place, doing a tremendous business, and Poe took in all the details carefully, noting the height of the ceiling and the two passages upstairs, one on either side. Having taken a sip of the tasteless beer placed before him, Poe slipped from his chair, and walked through one of the side doors, ascending a narrow flight of stairs. At the top was a big door, closed.

Poe stepped up, and knocked on it. A full minute he waited, vaguely conscious of the fact that unseen eyes were.peering at him from somewhere near by. Suddenly the door swung open noiselessly, and an East Indian servant, dressed severely in black silk, bowed to him with a funereal grin. “I should like to see Mr. Horton,” said Poe in a hurried, business-like tone. “I’m from Atlantic City, you know. Tell him Mr. Hardy. I’ve got two new places over there, and I’d like to get hold of a good troupe of East Indians.” The servant bowed, took the proffered card, bowed again, and abruptly slammed the door in Poe’s face. “Cool one!” exclaimed the banker. “Wonder where he was watching me from before he opened the door. He certainly’* got some look-out hole. Didn’t look at me curiously, must have been watching me.” Two minutes elapsed; the door slid open, and the. East Indian bowed him to enter. It was a strangely cool and restful apartment, seemingly far removed from screeching, sweaty Coney, though below was a riotous music hall, and there was a break-neck toboggan with shrieking joy-riders just across the street. Poe noted with interest the thickness of that front door. It was at least eight inches, doubtless to make it sound-proof.

Having been guided through a pleasant little reception room with several heavy chairs and a deep-napped carpet, Poe was ushered into a large square room, quite plain; a representative office of busy America. A gray-haired, thin-faced man of indeterminate age sat in a large square chair before a roll-top desk. He was alone, and looked up with a quick, engaging s.mile as Poe entered. “Mr. Hardy?” he said interrogatively, with an English Intonation. "So glad to see you. Beastly hot tonight, isn’t it? I’d die if it weren’t for the electric fans.” "You’ve got a fine place her*" answered Christopher Poe, assuming the rough good-fellowship of the American show-manager. “It’s as cool as beer and as quiet as Rajputana.” “Oh, you’ve been to India then — and the desert?” queried Horton, motioning Poe to a chair, and drawing up his interestedly, as he dismissed the servant with a nod. “Only once, thank goodness, and you’ll never get me there again,” answered Poe, after the well-nigh inimitable manner of your typical American business man who abhors a vacation and loathes a change of scene, be it outside of his own country. “First time I made a big stake, took my wife. She liked it Well, it wasn’t so bad. Gave me lots of good ideas for shows.” “Bom fakirs —the natives —aren’t they?” smiled the Englishman easily, it being quite evident from his manner that he was sure of his visitor, and had sized him up for just what Poe chose to be considered. “They’re the best in the business,” answered Poe enthusiastically. “I came all the way from Atlantic City to look up a troupe, and it’s been an awfully hot day. Haven’t you got a few to spare—a juggler or a snakecharmer?” “Oh, I might spare one or two. I’ve quite a number of them, but I could only lease them to you; might need them next season, you know.” “Oh, certainly, I understand that. They don’t care who they work for, I guess,” replied Poe in the same brusque manner. “I’ve got a friend in the British Government service in Calcutta. He says you’ve got to treat the natives as though they were dogs. He has a bunch of them working for him, running printing-presses or something; says they’re all right if you knock 'em down once a day.” "Indeed,” smiled Horton, that’s about right. But I’m interested. I have friends in the government employ over there. Perhaps I know this chap you speak of; you say he’s in the British engraving-department?” "Printing or something like that,” answered Poe “His name is Gerver. Hasn’t been there long.” “Gerver, Gerver,” repeated the other, “no, can’t say I’ve heard of him. Perhaps he’s —” “Got bit by a cobra once, had the wound cauterized —” Christopher Poe broke oft abruptly in his interruption as Horton stirred in his chair and gave him a strange look, at the same time the forefinger of his right hand twitched and crooked up convulsively. “What’s the matter? One bite you too?” queried Poe, calling .attention to the other’s uneasiness. “No —yes," said Hortgp, confused. Then he smiled quickly, as though reassuring himself, shoved his right forefinger beneath Poe’s gaze and cried: “Look! There’s where one got me. I’ll never forget it.” Two small white scars showed on the finger, close together, sunk like pock-marks bepeath heavy callouses. The grooves in the lower part of Poe’s face showed deep for a moment; he took the finger, and examined the scare carefully. "So that’s the sign the cobra’s fangs leave!” he exclaimed. “How’d you get out of it alive?” “Oh, he was a tame one, belonging to one of my snake-charmers. Had had his poison sacks removed. But it threw a bally scare into me all the same.” “Funny thing!” exclaimed Poe, Jerking a card from his vest-pocket, and pressing the scarred finger on the prepared surface before Horton half realized what was going on. In an instant Poe had returned the paper bearing the finger-print and drawn out the five-dollar bill he had separated from the original lot of counterfeits, holding it so that Horton could plainly see the finger-mark upon it, which had first attracted Poe’s attention. “Funny thing!” continued Poe, as Horton stared at him blankly, jerking away his finger and reaching for a rear pocket. “You must have fingered this bill. Here’s a mark exactly like yours, scars the same; callous from handling the graver and ail. I suppose—” Horton had leaped to his feet and was glaring at Christopher Poe, eyes starting horridly. Poe only smiled, sat tight, and waited. “You —you —” Horton endeavored to control himself. Then he pounced like an animal toward his desk, touched a button beneath it, and swung back, stopping with a throttled cry, a revolver half drawn from his hippocket “Wait!” cried Poe. He had drawn his revolver in the instant Horton had pressed the button, and was covering him. Horton stood motionless except for a tremor which shot through his tall, thin form; his eyes glinting as he shot ratlike glances from Poe to the door. “There’s no use!” cried Poe, rising slowly from his chair and approaching the other. “I’ve got the proofs. Better—” Poe gave a sudden agonized leap in the air, clutched at his throat, and his revolver dropped from his nerveless hand. He twisted his burning neck with onu desperate effort, and peered into the grim-set face of the servant

who had let him In; the Bast Indian had garroted Poe; even now the silk cord was cutting closer into Poe'* neck. He saw It all in the dizzy second that he reeled before all grew black. Then he felt himself falling, falling through the trap-door in tho wall that bad slid back silently behind him when Horton had signaled for assistance, and enabled the catlike servant with his ready cord to take him unaware. With the first ray of light that came with returning consciousness Christopher Poe dimly saw Burns's face anxiously peering into his own. He couldn’t remember what had happened, he couldn’t place himself. All that became evident to him in the following five minutes, as he lay with eyelids trembling open, trying to remember, was the fact that he was lying 'bn a heavy silk rug and somebody strange was working over him. But Burns was present Suddenly a wiry black form skulked through the room, a blue-coated officer clutching the thin black neck. Then Poe suddenly remembered, and looked around to make certain that he was still in the strange apartment belonging to Horton. He moistened his throat with a great effort, and managed to articulate: "Well? Did you get—” “Yes, we got him." Burns’ voice came clearly, as he kneeled beside the silk rug. “We got him right. Just in time, too. He and his black minion were trying to destroy the counterfeiting plates when we managed to break through that heavy front door. We got him with the goods; he was just jumping through the window, but we had a man below. He’s confessed it all —bully for you! Horton used to be an engraver on bonds for the British Government; he was located in Calcutta.” “So they found the plates and —” "Better not talk!” put in a voice strange to Poe, and he suddenly realized the stranger was a physician. A strained silence ensued. In ten minutes’ time Christopher Poe had become quite himself, though he still passed his hand over his bruised neck mechanically, a curious half-smile illuminating his otherwise drawn face. He finally reached into his vest-pock-et, and brought out the bit of prepared paper (evidently overlooked by Horton) containing the counterfeiter’s right forefinger imprint. He handed it to Burns, and watched him musingly. In answer to his friend’s anxious questioning and enthusiastic praise over the capture, "Foe finally-managed to sketch the whole thing to him, just what had happened when he was alone with Horton. “How the devil did you spot the fellow?” burst out Burns. “It was easy from the minute I noticed that misspelled ‘labour,’ and saw the duplicate of that finger-print you hold in your hand," he explained. “If you’ll stop to think, you’ll remember that Englishmen stick to the old form of spelling ‘honor,’ armor,' ‘labor,’ and the like. They always put in the letter ‘u;’ making it ‘h-o-n-o-u-r,’ ‘arr-m-o-u-r,’ and ‘l-a-b-o-u-r.’ “Well, the minute I saw that word spelled ‘l-a-b-o-u-r’ I knew an Englishman had done the work, and evidently had been an engraver on English stamps or securities of some sort in which the word ‘labor’ also appeared, and that the spelling of it had become second-nature to him. “Then I came across the finger-print on the bill; you and Mitchell didn’t seem to take account of the fact that the finger-print showed in light green ink, identical with the ink used on the back of the note. That proved that the counterfeiter himself had touched it while it was still wet, or while he had a little of the fresh ink on his finger; he smeared his light mark on it without noticing. On examining that finger-mark under the microscope I was doubly sure the counterfeiter was the one who had left his mark, for I found that the ridges on the finger-print, which were loops approximating tented arches, as they classify them in the print identiheavy calluses. As these were on flcation system, showed calluses, the forefinger of the right hand, I immediately knew that the man was an engraver, for only the continuous use of the graver could have left such a mark.” Poe paused for breath, and Burns suggested: "But that didn’t give you the identity of the man.” “No. Then I found the two scare, close together on the finger-print. 1 figured out, by the process of elimination, about the only thing they could have been caused by. Then 1 suddenly recalled seeing twin scars on the finger of a snake-charmer, left by a cobra’s fangs, I immediately felt these must have originated the same way. Having the facts that the man was English, had been bitten by a cobra, and that the snake was a tame one with his poison sacks removed, or the man would have died before the bite became scars, I began putting two and two together. The counterfeiter must have associated with East Indian fakirs to have been bitten by a show cobra, as they are the only ones who tame them. I recalled, too, the fact that fine paper is manufactured in India, and that some of the bonds uttered by the British Government there have silk threads in the paper, similar to our currency. I conceived the notion that a clever Englishman might have worked in the en-graving-house for the government there, and come to America with this wonderful new counterfeit, and a few East Indian fakirs, his friends and servants, to help him get rid of the stuff without suspicion falling on him.” “That’s just what he confessed,” put in Bunts.