Mrs Peixada. Harland Henry

Peixada murder had been a sensational and peculiarly revolting affair. One July night, 1879, Mr. Bernard Peixada, “a retired Jewish merchant,” had died at the hands of his wife. Edward Bolen, coachman, in the attempt to protect his employer, had sustained a death-wound for himself. Mrs. Peixada, “the perpetrator of these atrocities,” as Arthur gathered from the records now beneath his eye, “was a young and handsome woman, of a respectable Hebrew family, who must have been actuated by a depraved desire to possess herself of her husband’s wealth.” They had “surprised her all but red-handed in the commission of the crime,” though “too late to avert its dire results.” Eventually she was tried in the Court of General Sessions, and acquitted on the plea of insanity. Arthur remembered—as, perhaps, the reader does—that her acquittal had been the subject of much popular indignation. “She is no more insane than you or I,” every body had said; “she is simply lacking in the moral sense. Another evidence that you can’t get a jury to be impartial when a pretty woman is concerned.”

      “She was bad,” continued Peixada, as Arthur returned the papers, “bad through and through. I warned my brother against her before his marriage.

      “ ‘What,’ said I, ’what do you suppose she would marry an old man like you for, except your money?’ He said, ’Never mind.’ She was young and showy, and Bernard lost his head.”

      “She was doocedly handsome, a sooperb creature to look at, you know,” cried Mr. Rimo, with the accent of a connoisseur.

      “Hainsome is as hainsome does,” quoth Mr. Mendel, sententiously.

      “She was as cold as ice, as hard as alabaster,” said Peixada, perhaps meaning adamant. “The point is that after her release from prison she took out letters of administration upon my brother’s estate.”

      “Why, I thought she was insane,” said Arthur. “A mad woman would not be a competent administratrix.”

      “Exactly. I interposed objections on that ground. But she answered that she had recovered; that although insane a few months before—at the time of the murder—she was all right again now. The surrogate decided in her favor. A convenient form of insanity, eh?”

      “Were there children?” Arthur inquired.

      “No—none. My nephew, Mr. Rimo, son of my sister who is dead, and I myself, were the only next of kin. She paid us our shares right away.” Then what could he be driving at now? Arthur waited for enlightenment.

      “But now,” Peixada presently went on, “now I have discovered that my brother left a will.”

      “Ah, I understand. You wish to have it admitted to probate?”

      “Precisely. But first I wish to find Mrs. Peixada. The will isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, unless we can get hold of her. You see, she has about half the property in her possession.”

      “There was no real estate?”

      “Not an acre; but the personalty amounted to a good many thousands of dollars.”

      “And you don’t know where she is?”

      “I haven’t an idea.”

      “Have you made any efforts to find out?”

      “Well, I should say I had—made every effort in my power. That’s what brings me here. I want you to carry on the search.”

      “I shouldn’t imagine it would be hard work. A woman—a widow—of wealth is always a conspicuous object—trebly so, when she is handsome too, and has been tried for murder. But tell me, what, have you done?”

      “You’ll be surprised when you hear. I myself supposed it would be plain sailing. But listen.” Peixada donned a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, opened a red leather memorandum-book, and read aloud from its pages. The substance of what he read was this. He had begun by visiting Mrs. Peixada’s attorneys, Messrs. Short and Sondheim, the firm that had defended her at her trial. With them he got his labor for his pains. They had held no communication with the lady in question since early in January, 1881, at which date they had settled her accounts before the surrogate. She was then traveling from place to place in Europe. Her last letter, postmarked Vienna, had said that for the next two months her address would be poste restante at the same city. From the office of Short and Sondheim Mr. Peixada went to the office of his sister-in-law’s surety, the Eagle and Phoenix Trust Company, No.—Broadway. There he was referred to the secretary, Mr. Oxford. Mr. Oxford told him that the Company had never had any personal dealings with the administratrix, she having acted throughout by her attorneys. The Company had required the entire assets of the estate to be deposited in its vaults, and had honored drafts only on the advice of counsel. Thus protected, the Company had had no object in keeping the administratrix in view. Our inquirer next bethought him of Mrs. Peixada’s personal friends—people who would be likely still to maintain relations with her—and saw such of these as he could get at. One and all professed ignorance of her whereabouts—had not heard of her or from her since the winter of ’80—’81. Finally it occurred to him that as his brother’s estate had consisted solely of stocks and bonds, he could by properly directed investigations learn to what corner of the world Mrs. Peixada’s dividends were sent. But this last resort also proved a failure. The stocks and bonds, specified in the surrogate’s inventory, had been sold out. He could find no clew to the reinvestments made of the money realized.

      Peixada closed his note-book with a snap.

      “You see,” he said, “I’ve been pretty thorough and pretty unsuccessful. Can you think of any stone that I have left unturned?”

      “How about relatives? Have you questioned her relatives?” asked Arthur.

      “Of relatives—in America, at least—Mrs. P. has none. Her father died shortly after her marriage. Her mother died during the trial.”

      “But uncles, aunts, sister, brothers?”

      “None to my knowledge. She was an only child.”

      “Her maiden-name was—?”

      “Karon—Judith Karon. Her father, Michael Karon, used to keep a jewelry store on Second Avenue.”

      “About what is her age?”

      “She was twenty-one at the time of the murder. That would make her twenty-five or six now.”

      “So young, indeed? Have you a photograph of her?”

      “A photograph? No. I don’t know that she ever sat for one. But I have these.”

      Peixada produced a couple of rough wood-engravings, apparently cuttings from illustrated papers, and submitted them for examination.

      “They don’t look any thing like each other,” said Arthur. “Does either of them look like her?”

      “Not much,” Peixada answered. “In fact, the resemblance is so slight that they wouldn’t assist at all in identifying her. On the contrary, I think they’d lead you quite astray.”

      Said Mr. Rimo, “Bah! They give you no more idea of her than they do of Queen Victoria. They’d answer for any other woman just as well.”

      Arthur said, “That’s too bad. But I suppose you have brought a copy of the will?”

      “Oh, yes, here’s the original. It is in my brother’s handwriting, dated a month before his death, and witnessed by two gentlemen of high standing. I have spoken to each of them. They acknowledge their signatures, and remember the circumstances. I made a search for a will right after Bernard died, but could find none. This I unearthed most unexpectedly. I was turning over the leaves of my poor brother’s prayer-book, when, there it was, lying between the pages.”

      The will was brief and vigorous. In the name of God, amen, (on a half-sheet of legal-cap), it devised and bequeathed all the property, real or personal, of which testator should die seized or possessed, to his dearly beloved brother,