The Red-headed Man. Fergus Hume

Torry's eyes flashed like steel, and his mouth shut with a snap on the curt query: "Why?"

      "Well," said Darrel slowly, "you see, I am a novelist who tries to set forth things as they are, for the benefit of the B. P. I have written one or two detective novels, and have explained the mysteries of divers crimes, simply because, in the first instance, I invented those crimes. To parody Gilbert's song, I made the crime fit the discovery, and, so to speak, built up a house of cards, to be knocked down in the final chapter. Now here, Mr. Torry," pursued the young man with uplifted finger, "here is a crime in actual life, of chance's own making, which I, not having conceived, cannot elucidate. I, therefore, wish to set my wits to work, in order to learn if they will serve me as well in fact as they have done in fiction. I desire to take an active part in the working out of this real problem, to see if my literary method of detective analysis is correct. On these grounds--purely selfish ones, I fear--I ask you to let me assist you."

      Mr. Torry, who had listened to this long speech with his head on one side like an elderly bird, nodded at its conclusion. "I need not take time to consider your request," said he briskly; "you shall be my right hand if you will; but"--more gravely--"on one condition."

      "And that is?----"

      "That you let me guide you in every way, and that you take no step without consulting me."

      "Surely! I am only too glad to bow to your experience and judgment."

      "Then that settles it; we are partners. Your hand, Mr. Darrel," and novelist and detective shook hands on their agreement.

      After coming to this conclusion, they settled themselves to discuss the important matter which had brought them together.

      "Our task is to find out who killed this red-haired man, I suppose?" said Darrel slowly.

      "Well, not exactly, sir. You see, I know who killed him," replied the detective, nodding.

      Frank jumped to his feet. "You know who killed him?" he cried in amazement.

      "Yes. A lady with fair hair."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Going by circumstantial evidence, I am.

      "But are you sure? How do you know? Is she arrested?" The questions poured out of Darrel's mouth until Torry stopped him with a gesture.

      "She is beyond the power of the law," said he.

      "She is--dead."

      "Dead!" cried Darrel, recoiling.

      "Murdered."

      "Another crime?"

      "Precisely; and committed within an hour of the other. Red-hair was murdered, presumably, between the hours of twelve and one o'clock. Fair-hair was stabbed between one and two, also presumably."

      "It seems all presumption, Mr. Torry."

      "Naturally," replied the detective, "and must continue so, until the post-mortem examination, which takes place to-morrow at three."

      "Where was the woman's body found?"

      "On the Embankment, to be precise," added Torry using his favourite phrase. "The corpse was discovered on the steps of Cleopatra's Needle leading down to the water."

      "Oh!" said Darrel thoughtfully; "then the presumption is that the assassin tried to throw the body of his victim into the river?"

      "I think so; but probably he was interrupted while dragging it down the steps and was forced to fly."

      "Who found the body?"

      "A tramp who went to wash his hands in the river at six o'clock in the morning. I was busy examining the clothes of the red-haired man, when I heard of this new murder. Learning that it was a woman, I hurried off to view the body."

      "Had you any particular reason for this haste?" asked Frank.

      "I had a theory," rejoined Torry reflectively. "Rather far-fetched, to be sure; still a feasible theory. See here!"

      From his breast the detective produced a narrow strip of black lace much torn, and threw it on the white cloth of the breakfast-table. Darrel looked at it casually, and then glanced inquiringly at Torry.

      "That lace," explained Torry, "was in the left hand of the red-haired man; therefore I judged that when stabbed by the assassin he put out his hand to ward off the blow and mechanically clutched at the garments of his assailant. Now men do not wear lace, so I naturally concluded that the person who killed him was a woman. You follow me?"

      Darrel nodded. "Yes, your theory is a natural one. But how did you connect the one woman with the other?"

      "Well," said Torry, smoothing his bald head in a puzzled manner, "you have me there, for I don't exactly know how I can explain my idea. It was a flash of genius, I suppose. I thought it peculiar that a man should have been murdered by a woman, and then, on the same night, that a woman should have been killed also. The man was stabbed to the heart; the woman was stabbed to the heart. The first was killed in Mortality-lane; the second on the Embankment, no very great distance away. All these facts made me fancy that the one crime might be the outcome of the other."

      "I don't wonder at your fancy," said Darrel; "with coincidences the same thought would have occurred to me. So you went to look at the woman's body?"

      "Yes; and I found lace on her mantle similar to that; also half a yard torn off the front. There is about half a yard there," said Torry, pointing to the lace on the table; "in fact, I have no doubt but that the woman murdered the man."

      "It seems like it," assented Darrel; "but who murdered the woman?"

      "Ah! that is the problem we have to solve, Mr. Darrel. There is no mark on the woman's linen, no letter in her pocket, no name on her handkerchief. She seems to have been a well-to-do woman, in easy circumstances, as her clothes are of good material and well made. How to establish her identity I really do not know; there there is absolutely no point whence one can start."

      "Why not start from the red-headed man?" suggested Frank.

      "Why," said Torry, pinching his chin between thumb and forefinger, "I might do that if he had not been disguised."

      "Disguised?"

      "Yes; the red hair is a wig, the red beard is false. The deceased is a gentleman of some age nearer sixty than fifty. He has a plump face and a bald head with a fringe of white hair--something like me," said Mr. Torry in parenthesis, "only my hair is brown. The man is clean-shaven and has several teeth stopped with gold."

      "You think he is--or rather was--a gentleman?"

      "I'm sure of it. His hands and feet are carefully attended to, and his linen is beyond reproach."

      "Ha! His linen. Is there no mark on it?"

      "There is. He changed his outward garments, but not his linen or socks--which shows that he was an amateur in disguising himself. A man who was in the habit of masquerading for evil purposes would have changed from top to toe. But this poor creature, not expecting to be murdered, never thought it was necessary to change anything but his outward aspect."

      "Is there a name on his shirt, then?"

      "No; there are initials. On his shirt, his undershirt, his pants, and on his socks are two letters, 'J.G.'"

      "The initials of his name."

      "I should think so," replied Torry. "All his underclothes are in good taste and of an expensive quality. I judge him to be a rich man."

      "You speak of him in the present instead of the past," said Darrel grimly. "He is not a man now, but a thing. Well, Mr. Torry, can't you trace his identity by those initials?"

      "Doubtless; especially as the name of the firm who made the shirt is stamped on the neck of it--Harcot and Harcot, of Bond-street. Oh, I don't think there will be any difficulty in identifying the man; but it will be more difficult to discover the name of the woman."

      "I