Part 29 (1/2)

Detectives? What are detectives? Oh, yes, I have read of them and their deeds, when I come to think of it. The prehistoric races must have been remarkable. I have never been able to understand how the detective navigated in stone boats. Still, specimens of their pottery excavated in Taumalipas show a remarkable knowledge of mechanics. I remember the little hydraulic--what's that? Well, what you say may be true, my friend, but I think you dream.

The little stained tiles. My friend, I stopped in an inn at the ends of the earth, and in the morning they were there flying like little birds and pecking at my window.

I should have escaped. Heavens, I should have escaped. What was more simple? I murdered and then walked into the world, which is wide and intricate.

Do you know that my own clock a.s.sisted in the hunting of me? They asked what time I left my home that morning, and it replied at once, ”Half-after eight.” The watch of a man I had chanced to pa.s.s near the house of the crime told the people ”Seven minutes after nine.” And, of course, the tall, old clock in the drawing-room went about day after day repeating, ”Eighteen minutes after nine.”

Do you say that the man who caught me was very clever? My friend, I have lived long, and he was the most incredible blockhead of my experience.

An enslaved, dust-eating Mexican vaquero wouldn't hitch his pony to such a man. Do you think he deserves credit for my capture? If he had been as pervading as the atmosphere, he would never have caught me. If he was a detective, as you say, I could carve a better one from an old table-leg.

But the tiles. That is another matter. At night I think they flew in long high flock, like pigeons. In the day, little mad things, they murmured on my trail like frothy-mouthed weasels.

I see that you note these great, round, vividly orange spots on my coat.

Of course, even if the detective were really carved from an old table-leg, he could hardly fail to apprehend a man thus badged. As sores come upon one in the plague so came these spots upon my coat. When I discovered them, I made effort to free myself of this coat. I tore, tugged, wrenched at it, but around my shoulders it was like a grip of a dead man's arms. Do you know that I have plunged into a thousand lakes?

I have smeared this coat with a thousand paints. But day and night the spots burn like lights. I might walk from this jail to-day if I could rid myself of this coat, but it clings--clings--clings.

At any rate, the person you call a detective was not so clever to discover a man in a coat of spotted orange, followed by shrieking, blood-stained tiles. Yes, that noise from the corridor is most peculiar.

But they are always there, muttering and watching, clas.h.i.+ng and jostling. It sounds as if the dishes of Hades were being washed. Yet I have become used to it. Once, indeed, in the night, I cried out to them, ”In G.o.d's name, go away, little blood-stained tiles.” But they doggedly answered, ”It is the law.”

AT CLANCY'S WAKE.

SCENE--_Room in the house of the lamented Clancy. The curtains are pulled down. A perfume of old roses and whisky hangs in the air. A weeping woman in black it seated at a table in the centre. A group of wide-eyed children are sobbing in a corner. Down the side of the room is a row of mourning friends of the family. Through an open door can be seen, half hidden in shadows, the silver and black of a coffin._

WIDOW--Oh, wirra, wirra, wirra!

CHILDREN--B-b boo-hoo-hoo!

FRIENDS (_conversing in low tones_)--Yis, Moike Clancy was a foine mahn, sure! None betther! No, I don't t'ink so. Did he? Sure, all th'

elictions! He was th' bist in the warrud! He licked 'im widin an inch of his loife, aisy, an' th' other wan a big, shtrappin' buck of a mahn, an'

him jes' free of th' pneumonia! Yis, he did! They carried th' warrud by six hunder! Yis, he was a foine mahn. None betther. Gawd sav' 'im!

(_Enter_ Mr. SLICK, _of the ”Daily Blanket,” shown in by a maid-servant, whose hair has become disarranged through much tear-shedding. He is attired in a suit of grey check, and wears a red rose in his b.u.t.tonhole._)

Mr. SLICK--Good afternoon, Mrs. Clancy. This is a sad misfortune for you, isn't it?

WIDOW--Oh, indade, indade, young mahn, me poor heart is bruk.

Mr. SLICK--Very sad, Mrs. Clancy. A great misfortune, I'm sure. Now, Mrs. Clancy, I've called to--

WIDOW--Little did I t'ink, young mahn, win they brought poor Moike in that it was th' lasht!

Mr. SLICK (_with conviction_)--True! True! Very true, indeed. It was a great grief to you, Mrs. Clancy. I've called this morning, Mrs. Clancy, to see if I could get from you a short obituary notice for the _Blanket_ if you could--

WIDOW--An' his hid was done up in a rag, an' he was cursin' frightful. A d.a.m.ned Oytalian lit fall th' hod as Moike was walkin' pasht as dacint as you plaze. Win they carried 'im in, him all b.l.o.o.d.y, an' ravin' tur'ble 'bout Oytalians, me heart was near bruk, but I niver tawt--I niver tawt--I--I niver--(_Breaks forth into a long, forlorn cry. The children join in, and the chorus echoes wailfully through the rooms._)

Mr. SLICK (_as the yell, in a measure, ceases_)--Yes, indeed, a sad, sad affair. A terrible misfortune. Now, Mrs. Clancy--

WIDOW (_turning suddenly_)--Mary Ann. Where's thot lazy divil of a Mary Ann? (_As the servant appears._) Mary Ann, bring th' bottle! Give th'

gintlemin a dhrink!... Here's to Hiven savin' yez, young mahn.