The Mistress of Mysteries
True Stories from the Notebook of
Mary E Holland, a Woman Detective
(1868-1915) |
Illustrated by
R.M. Brinkerhoff
(1880-1958) |
The Riddle of Miss Dora Green
EDITOR'S NOTE — Mrs. Holland's proficiency
was materially recognized by the United States
Government when she was engaged to teach the
Bertillon System to the men of the United States
Navy Department, the United States Marine
Corps, the National Bureau of Identification,
Washington, D. C, and police departments of
Washington, D. C., Toledo, Ohio, Norfolk, Va.; Bureau
of Identification, police department, Chicago,
etc. She is perhaps the only woman in the world
who is a member of the Chiefs of Police Association.
Mrs. Holland is not a writer; she is a
detective. However, all of the stories in this
series have been written from her own notes. The next
story in the series is "The Problem of the Second
Stain." It will appear in an early issue.
OF all the women whom the
devious byways of crime, have flung
before my mental eye, there are
three who stand out with a
sharp-edged vividness. A curious
trio they were, separated by
motives and conditions as far at
variance as the poles. Madam
Langley of high finance, she with
the brain of a man, who played
the game of questionable stock operations,
always just on the edge of the law, with a
sureness of detail that a veteran Wall Street
magnate might have envied. I can see her silk-rustling
figure, imperious Spanish type of beauty,
and the flash of her jewel-studded hands now.
She might have been the mistress of mediæval
court rather than mistress of that shrewd
quartette of conspirators whose money-fleecing
sway was at once the wonder and the admiration
of the manipulators of finance. And I question
whether even the days of midnight conspirators
and secret dungeons and swashbuckling varlets
whose atmosphere she so vividly suggested ever
produced more romantically turned plots or
played for a higher stake than those which her
ingenuity engineered. Some day, perhaps, I will
tell you of two meetings with her, but they
belong to quite another story.
The second of the trio of crime-suggested
women of my memories is Mrs. Stewart
Holcomb with her background of millionaire luxury
— she with her doll face and dull gold hair and
big innocent eyes and the fortune of a gouty
old husband to mask the record of her chorus
girl days. And yet what a different woman lay
behind her shell, — a woman with the cunning and
daring of Cleopatra, unsuspected by us all until
that day when the rifled jewel safe of her
boudoir gave us the first chapter of the amazing
imposture which in the end sent Holcomb to his
grave.
When the circle of crime touches a woman,
the facts and motives of practical psychology
are negatived. I am a woman, but I am frank
to say that I don't know women. Given a man,
even a clever man, and the workings of his mind
can be traced with a fair degree of certainty.
Put a woman in the same position, and she
becomes an individual proposition, not to be judged
by precedent. Had the positions of Dora Green
and young Homer Ashley been reversed in the
curious affair of the stolen patents of the
Excelsior Automobile Company, I am quite certain that
the following story would never have been written.
Women in crime! The feminine equation in
modern lawbreaking! I am a candid believer of
the statement that ninety per cent of crimes,
from the sordid murder of passion to the
plundering of a bank, have to deal directly or indirectly
with a woman. Money, yes, but money is
a superficial motive.
To the smug-living, routine-guided, proportion
of the public who regard a woman either
as a creature of domesticity or frivolity, the
number of the female sex whom the web of
crime includes as active agents, would doubtless
come with a disconcerting shock. I have known
a woman horse-thief — and a clever one. I have
been led a merry chase by a woman burglar.
One of the most interesting chapters of my life
deals with a woman counterfeiter.
In all my range of motives, however, there
is no woman who presented a more completely
baffling puzzle, nor who set precedent more
directly at variance than Miss Dora Green, stenographer — not even excepting the meteoric
Madam Langley nor the elusive Mrs. Holcomb.
For those who are fond of feminine psychology,
the story may emphasize again the completeness
of the eternal mystery.
IN short, the situation means ruin — unless we
find the stolen plans without delay!"
The president of the Excelsior Automobile
Company paused in the nervous pacing of his
luxuriously furnished office, and brushed a limp
hand across his brow. He was a man of quiet,
reserved dignity, the kind of a man to whom a
silk hat and a frock coat come as a matter of
course, but there was nothing of dignity in his
present appearance. Beads of perspiration dotted
his face, his carefully brushed gray hair
was rumpled, his collar was awry.
I caught his arm. "Sit down, Mr. Morrison,
and give me a calm, connected story of it all.
Hysterics don't make for progress."
"A calm, connected story! Do you realize
what it means to me? Do you know for the
first time in my business life I am facing ruin?
Ruin, I tell you."
"True," I said quietly. "And the only way
business ruin can be averted is by action —
quick action and intelligent action. Now give
me the story exactly in its proper sequence."
"Perhaps you are right!" He sighed, with
an obviously desperate effort to recover his
composure. "This thing has been going on for a
year — twelve months with not the slightest hint
to work on! And it culminated —"
"Please start at the beginning," I interrupted.
HE stared thoughtfully at the methodical
stacks of papers on his desk.
"It was a year ago this spring that we
bought the design for our new engine crank. It
was a big investment, and it promised to mark
one of the most important advances of the year
in the automobile field. Naturally the firm, with
its exclusive control had a fortune. A week
before we filed our patents — we had kept back
in order to perfect two or three minor details —
the Interior Automobile Company recorded a
series of patents at Washington on exactly the
same line as ours, detailing our plans even to
the most trivial detail. Of course, our hands
were at once tied. It was impossible to proceed
with our factory campaign. In brief, we realized
that not only had we lost the chance for
one of the biggest things ever submitted to
us but that we had lost more than thirty
thousand dollars. We had bought the plans
outright, you see, and had invested a considerable
sum in a lot of special machinery for a rush
manufacturing campaign."
"And did you have reason to suspect crookedness
in the situation?" I asked.
"Crookedness! There was not a chance to doubt it.
Things like that don't happen by coincidence. It
would have been impossible to duplicate those plans
of ours unless our drawings had been copied in detail,"
he said.
"But the originals were not touched?"
Mr. Morrison shook his head.
"Not out of our office, as far as I know. The
work of copying them, could have been done in a
couple of hours by a person with technical engineering
knowledge."
I glanced up.
"Then you narrow the list of our suspects. People
with technical engineering knowledge are not common,"
I said with significance.
He shook his head rather helplessly.
"And the next development of the situation?" I asked.
"Came last fall. And curiously enough followed almost the same
lines. We had been working on a change speed
gear, and if I do say it, it is by far the
best thing of its kind on the market. The
Interior people are 'in a fair way to make millions
from it."
"Interior Company again?" I demanded.
He nodded sourly.
"They have been one of our greatest
competitors, and our rivalry has been deepened by
the fact that we are located in the same city.
There is no love lost between competitors in
the automobile market! The Interior people,
however, have never been able to keep abreast
of us, though, until 'the last year. And now —–"
A low knock sounded on the glass paneled
door of the office. A brisk looking young woman
in a white shirt waist and black skirt
entered with a sheaf of papers. I watched her
approvingly as she crossed over to the desk. If
there is anything I detest, it is a stenographer
with puffs and frills and a baby smile!
"I will not be ready to resume my
correspondence for perhaps half an hour, Miss Green,"
said Mr. Morrison. "I will ring when I need you."
SHE bowed, and with a little curious glance
at me took her departure. For several minutes
after the door closed, the president of the
Excelsior Company stared thoughtfully at the floor.
"Was the loss of the gear plans the last
event in your misfortune?" I asked finally.
He glanced up with a start.
"It was until this morning. And then came
the most crushing blow of all! For something
over a month we have been developing a new
self-starter, Profiting by our former experiences,
I have kept the fact an absolute secret at the
factory. I even went so far as to hire a small
foundry at Wellston, turned it into a factory and
conducted our experiments there. With the
exception of our foreman, who had personal charge
of the work, and our Mr. Walters, and myself,
not an official of the company or a workman at
our main factory had an inkling of what was
going on. Yesterday our plans were finally put in
shape for filing at the patent office. Mr. Walters
and I brought them to our down-town office
here, locked them in the safe, intending that he
should go on to Washington with them tonight,
with Greggs, our attorney, who, however, was to
know nothing of the mission until the semi-annual
directors' meeting today. We intended
announcing our good fortune for the first time
to the board at that meeting.
"This morning I found it necessary to refer
to the plans in a report I was drawing up for
the board. I went to the safe — only Mr. Walters
and I have the combination — opened it as usual,
found the morocco case in which the papers
were placed, and brought it back to my desk.
With my first glance at the contents of the case,
I saw that our previous experiences of the year
had been climaxed by a third, even more mysterious
than the others had been. The case
contained nothing but blank paper. The plans had
been stolen!"
The president showed signs of a renewal of
his former agitation.
"Mr. Walters," I said briskly, "is of course,
one of the officials of the company?"
"Our general manager. He is perhaps the
youngest member —–"
A second knock sounded at the door. A scrupulously
dressed young man, with the vigorous,
alert bearing of a successful business career
entered the room. At sight of me he drew back
with a muttered apology.
"This is Mrs. Holland, Jack," said Mr.
Morrison rising. "I sent for her after our conference,
you know. This is our Mr. Walters," he
explained to me.
The young general manager extended his
hand impulsively.
"I am glad to see you. If ever a firm needed
expert assistance in your line —" He broke off
with a little catch. I studied him thoughtfully
as he took a chair.
THERE was nothing distinctive about his
appearance; that is, nothing that would emphasize
him among the type to which he belonged —
except perhaps the suggestion that he was a
decidedly young man for the position which he
evidently had.
He met my scrutiny with a suspicion of a
smile.
"Have you explained the situation in detail,
Mr. Morrison?" he asked, turning to the president. The older man swung back to his desk.
"Everything there is to explain, Jack," he
said with another sigh — "that is, all except —"
His hand swept his desk and a frown gathered
on his face. Pushing back his chair, he fumbled
among the tape-bound documents and the wire
baskets of letters. His frown deepened as he
turned back toward us.
"Have you seen it, Jack?"
"What do you mean?" Walters frowned in
his turn.
"Why, that old coin, the pocket-piece I found
in the safe, you know!"
Walters stepped over to his desk.
"You had it when I left you. I saw you
put it back. You haven't been out of the room,
have you?"
"Why, no — yes, not more than two or
three minutes. You don't mean to infer —"
"Perhaps you had better tell me," I
suggested, "what all this is about."
Walters answered my query. The president
was again sweeping the desk, his brow knit.
"It was like this. Mr. Morrison opened the
safe, you know. He was closing it again when
just inside he saw something gleam. It was a
rather battered pocket-piece, an old coin. He
picked it up, wondering a bit, but thinking it
belonged to me. It was not until we discovered
the theft that he showed it to me. Well, the
coin wasn't mine! I had never seen it before,
and so far as we both know no one else besides
us two has ever had access to the safe!"
Mr. Morrison stepped back.
"It's gone, Jack!"
"Nonsense! It must be there!" Walters
strode over to the desk.
"Just a moment," I interrupted. "You say
you were away from your office for a few
moments this morning, Mr. Morrison. Who would
have access to it at such a time??"
The president sighed wearily.
"I — I don't know. I suppose any of the
people in the other room could come in without
exciting wonder. Why?"
I CONSIDERED for a moment, watching young
Mr. Walters, whose brisk search of the other's
desk was beginning to slacken to an obvious
bewilderment.
"Have any of your employes left the building
in the last hour?" I asked.
"It is hardly possible," Mr. Morrison paused
uncertainly. "You don't infer that — that —"
I stepped to the telephone.
"With your permission, I shall make a thorough
search of your office rooms and their occupants.
I will have one of my men here in half
an hour. In the meantime, give me a copy of
your combination also."
Although the downstairs quarters of the
Excelsior Automobile Company occupied the entire
floor of a substantial business building, the area
was divided into only four separate rooms. There
was, of course, the president's office, a smaller
room adjoining for the use of the general
manager, a larger office with perhaps a dozen clerks
and stenographers, and quite separate, the long,
narrow expanse of the "show room," crowded
with the latest "models" of the Excelsior factory,
spick and span, their spotless tires and
glistening metal. It was the offices that claimed my
immediate attention.
Against the wall farthest from Mr. Morrison's
sanctum stood the company's safe, a massive
steel affair, designed obviously for the safe-guarding
of valuable papers rather than for the
custody of any large sums of money. It was
easy to see, even before Mr. Morrison handed
me the combination, that its lock was of an
unusually intricate pattern. It was fully two
minutes before the heavy door swung open.
I bent over and scrutinized the rows of
labeled compartments. Apparently nothing had
been disturbed. Nor was there so much as a
scratch or smudge on the glistening dial of the
combination. It was evident that whoever had
opened the safe between the previous evening
and the startling discovery of the morning was
either an adept in burglarious methods, or had
been possessed of the original combination or a
copy.
Mr. Walters seemed to read my thoughts.
"We had only one record, of the combination
in the office," he explained in a low tone. "And
it has been a rule for years that Mr. Morrison
should take personal charge of it. I believe he
kept it in a locked drawer of his desk."
I nodded silently. My gaze was fixed somewhat
mechanically on the trim figure of Miss
Dora Green at her typewriter stand. Her slim
fingers were flashing over the keys of her
machine and occasionally she reached up to turn
the pages of the shorthand tablet from which
she was copying. Not once had she raised her
glance in our direction. And yet I was confident
that behind the eyes fixed so studiously on
the clicking typewriter, her brain was straining
to catch some hint of our conversation.
Mr. Walters was stooping over the safe, and
with an exactness of detail was indicating the
spot where the president had found the missing
pocket-piece.
"Will you please describe the coin as you
remember it?" I asked.
A fair-haired man, in a well-tailored
blue serge suit, had paused at the desk of Miss
Dora Green. She glanced up into his face with
a smile and he answered the look with an oddly
boyish flush. Depositing a stack of papers at
her elbow, he stepped back to a flap-topped desk
near the window, and with something like a sigh
picked up a pen. The girl's eyes were still
fixed in his direction.
"Oh, the coin?" said Mr. Walters, pushing
shut the safe door. "Really, I can't give you the
exact data I would like. It was an old-fashioned
English sovereign coined maybe seventy-five or
a hundred years ago, although I didn't notice
the date. From the way it was worn, I should
say that it had been carried as a pocket-piece
for years. Odd, isn't it, that it should have —"
In the doorway, a square-shouldered, stockily
built man caught my eye. It was my operative,
Jenkins. I turned briskly to the general
manager.
"If you will give the necessary directions, I
should like to begin my search of your office at
once. Mr. Jenkins will attend the men. The
women, of course, will come under my personal
examination. With prompt work, we can finish
in twenty or thirty minutes."
Mr. Walters faced the occupants of the room
and in a dozen crisp sentences explained the
situation. Although rumors of the robbery had
undoubtedly leaked through the office force no
official announcement had yet been made, and
the general manager was shrewd enough to avoid
any details except those absolutely necessary to
the purpose in hand. In all there were an even
dozen clerks on the staff of the Excelsior
Automobile Company, seven women and five men. In
the upturned faces before us, there were wonder,
curiosity, uncertainty, but in not one could I
discover any hint of the sudden dismay which might
naturally have been expected on a guilty
countenance."
EITHER our search was proceeding from a
wrong angle or we were dealing with a
person of unusual self-control.
At a sign from me Jenkins took his stand
where he could command an easy view of the
room and its occupants while I stepped into a
small ante-room devoted to the use of the women
clerks.
My examination was completed within ten
minutes. The opportunities for concealment in
the average female's garments are not so many
as the popular fiction stories of the woman
smuggler would suggest — and I was not dealing
with a smuggler. The clerks submitted to my
search with bewildered
curiosity rather than with any suggestion of
reluctance, and I saw the last of the seven leave
me without my examination yielding the slightest
sign of encouragement.
As it happened, the last of the number was
Miss Dora Green, Mr. Morrison's stenographer.
She returned at once to her desk, and as though
taking it for granted that the incident was
over, was already resuming her interrupted
correspondence when Jenkins motioned the men to
follow him for the second detail of the search.
I found myself studying her with an intentness
which I would have found it difficult to explain.
A QUARTER of an hour later, my agent
beckoned me from the end of the room. He shook his
head as I joined him.
"Nothing doing," he said laconically.
I called to Mr. Walters.
"If you will assemble the clerks outside, we'll
search the room here."
He shrugged with a worried frown.
For the second time, the office staff of the
Excelsior Automobile Company left their day's
work. As the door closed, Jenkins and I started
a brisk examination of the vacant room. It was
not a long task. There were no tacked carpets
or heavy array of furniture. In fact, the office
boasted little else save a conventional row of
desks and a collection of filing cabinets. Jenkins
came to a pause finally with a gesture of
surrender.
"I guess we have exhausted the possibilities,"
he commented.
I stopped at the desk of Miss Dora Green
and let my eyes slowly circle the room. In the
corner at my left was a typewriter stand, bearing
a covered machine. I stepped toward it.
"Nothing there," said Jenkins. "The machine
seems to be out of order."
I raised the tin cover and shook it slightly.
I was not satisfied with our results. Perhaps it
was instinct, perhaps it was the sixth sense of
the detective.
With a little cry, I stepped forward. Inside
the typewriter, reposing on the type bars in such
a position, that it was invisible except from a
close view, was a battered gold coin. One glance
as I drew it out was enough to identify it as the
missing pocket-piece.
With a smile, I lifted the cover from the
floor to replace it. As I did so, I saw on the
back of the base board of the machine a card
evidently pasted to it to establish ownership.
The card bore in neat feminine script the name:
"Dora Green."
SHE faced me with a sudden flash of her dark
eyes, a flash that was almost taunting.
"And what if I admit the truth of what you
say?"
"Then you do admit it?"
She laughed as she swerved her glance from
my face. I frowned. Miss Green was presenting
me with an unexpected enigma. Abruptly I
changed the angle of my attack.
"I am afraid I must take you into custody.
And I must warn you in all kindness that your
position is a serious one. The person who took
and deliberately concealed it must have known
its significance."
Miss Green was still staring from the
window.
"I am not trying to deny that I am that
person," she said quietly.
I caught my breath.
"Perhaps you will admit also that it was
you who dropepd the coin in the office safe last
night?"
The girl suddenly rose to her feet.
"You will have to discover that for yourself!
Shall I consider myself under arrest?"
For a moment we studied one another in
silence. I said there was a taunting suggestion
in Miss Green's attitude. Perhaps the adjective
was ill-chosen. As she faced me now, there in
the general manager's private office, which he
had turned over to me for the interview, I
caught a deeper emotion in the steady gaze with
which she regarded me, a hint of a purpose
above mere bravado. And it was apparent, too,
that she realized the position in which she stood,
that she was neither speaking nor acting on
the impulse of the moment.
I rose in my turn, walked to the door, feeling
her eyes following me, and then suddenly
turning, stepped back to her side and put my
arm over her shoulders.
"You poor girl!" I cried. "Come and tell me
the truth!"
For a moment her steady stare continued,
and then her face flushed and I could feel her
shoulders quiver.
"The truth?" she gasped. "What do you
mean?"
I caught up a locket, suspended by a slender
gold chain from her neck, her only ornament.
As I snapped back its cover, the face of a young
man smiled at us, a boyish, frank face, and yet
with a suggestion of serious purpose lurking
somewhere in its lines. It was the blonde young
man I had observed in the outer office.
"Tell me the truth," I repeated kindly,
"about Homer Ashley! Why are you trying to
shield him?"
Miss Green broke from me, snatching the
locket savagely from my hand.
"I — I — have told you the truth! If you don't
believe me —"
I pressed a call button.
"Kindly tell Mr. Ashley," I said to the boy
who answered, "to step in here!"
Dora Green dropped into a chair, her hands
clasped in her lap. The door opened, and young
Ashley stood before Us. His gaze swept past
me to the girl's figure, and he stepped impulsively
forward. I caught his arm.
"Mr. Ashley," I said sternly, "I charge you
with the robbery last night of the office safe,
and the theft of certain valuable plans!"
The young man's figure stiffened as though
he had received a physical blow.
"What on earth. do you mean?" he snapped.
I extended the battered gold coin.
"Do you deny the ownership of this?"
"Why — of course not I lost it last week.
Where did you find it?"
"Lost it last week?" I repeated.
"It might have been longer than that. But
what has that got to do with your absurd
charge?"
MISS GREEN was bent forward on the edge
of her chair, gazing at us appealingly.
"Your explanation is convenient — but hardly
satisfying," I retorted. "I am very much afraid,
Mr. Ashley —"
The young man turned on me with clenched
hands.
"Look here, I don't know what you are driving
at, but if you are trying to connect me —"
A cry from the girl behind us interrupted
his sentence. From his coat an envelope had
fluttered to the floor. She had caught it up and
was staring at it with distended eyes. Passively
she allowed me to take it from her hand. In
the upper left-hand corner was the inscription:
"Latham Advertising Agency,
Western Building,
Chicago, Ill."
|
Below was the typewritten address:
"Mr. Rennick Fosdick,
Advertising Specialist,
Transit Building,."
Chicago, Ill."
|
The enclosed letter had been removed. The
postmark bore a date five days previous. As I
raised my eyes, Miss Green seized my shoulder.
An electric shock could not have transformed
her attitude more completely or more swiftly.
Her eyes were sparkling, her face glowing. And
her words were as startling as the change in
her appearance.
"Will you postpone action in this case for
ten hours?"
Homer Ashley had stepped to the window
and did not turn. Miss Green's grip on my arm
tightened.
"My dear young woman," I said, "do you
realize what —"
"I will give you my word that if at the end
of that time you still desire to take either Mr.
Ashley or myself into custody, we will surrender
to you without a question!"
Even then Homer Ashley did not turn. He
stood as though dazed by what was occurring.
Dora Green raised her lips to my ear, and almost
whispered her next words:
"You are a woman; as a woman I implore
you to grant my request!"
IN all my career I have never debated a more
curious or more sudden problem. And I will
own frankly my complete bewilderment. For
a moment I hesitated. And then I made a
decision which I am confident a man would never
have made under the same conditions.
"I will grant your request, Miss Green. And
in return —"
"Yes?"
"You must tell me where I can find both you
and Mr. Ashley tonight."
On the edge of the desk she scribbled an
address across a blank sheet of paper.
"I have a room at this number. If you
will be there at nine o'clock I promise you that
both Mr. Ashley and myself will meet you!"
As I thrust the paper into my pocketbook,
Miss Green opened the door and stepped into the
outer office. The next moment I could hear her
clicking typewriter as she caught up the thread
of her interrupted correspondence.
Of course my promise to Miss Dora Green
did not convey any agreement to allow either
of my two suspects out of the range of my
operatives. Within ten minutes I had seen to
it that I should be provided with a complete
report of their movements. This may be
construed as a somewhat belated measure of
precaution, or perhaps as a salve to my professional
conscience. I won't attempt to say which. As
I inferred before, when a woman enters the
circle of crime, all precedents of procedure are
at once shattered.
ALSO, I directed my own steps toward
another angle of investigation. With the envelope
that had dropped from the dazed Mr. Ashley's
pocket in my possession, I made my way toward
the address from which it had come. The manager
of the Latham Advertising Agency received
my request for information of Rennick Fosdick,
advertising agent, with a shrug.
"I am afraid I can tell you little about the
gentleman personally. From a professional
angle, he is one of the most promising men in
his field in the city. Although he has been
established here but little over six months, he has
already made a substantial record for himself.
May I ask the reason of your inquiry?"
"Purely business reasons," I evaded, and
sought the address of the Fosdick offices. The
clerk in charge glanced up from my card.
"Mr. Fosdick will not be here today."
"Is he out of the city?"
"I don't know. He didn't say." The clerk
looked politely bored.
I glanced at the two-room suite of offices
with a frown. Certainly I could see no hint of
connection between Rennick Fosdick and Homer
Ashley, the clerk of the Excelsior Automobile
Company. And any association with the safe
robbery seemed still more remote.
I turned back to my offices. The telephone
reports of my operatives, awaiting me, showed
that neither young Ashley nor Miss Green had
left the Excelsior Building. An impatient client
was pacing up and down my reception room.
With an effort I swerved my attention to his
case. Through the back of my mind, however,
the curious behavior of Miss Dora Green
persisted in intruding. Logic? When a woman
enters crime, logic vanishes!
The telephone on my desk rang sharply. I
took down the receiver mechanically and then
straightened into sudden attention. The young
woman of my thoughts was speaking, and it
was plain she was laboring under a repressed
excitement.
"This is Miss Green. Can you come to my
room an hour earlier than I suggested tonight?
And it is important that you come alone!"
"Alone?" I repeated.
THERE was no answer. She had rung off. On
an abrupt impulse, I dispatched a message
to my operative at the Excelsior Building. Miss
Green had not left her office. Obviously she had
used the company's telephone.
