‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with something like dramatic effect, ‘let me present to you Mr Adam Markley.’
Every one shouted with surprise.
‘But who,’ exclaimed Dr Randall-Brown, pointing to the creature in the arm chair, ‘is this man?’
‘That,’ said Barnes, ‘is Jim Markley, thief and general all-round confidence man. He had been living in Dayton, O., but when he read of your $30,000 necklace he couldn’t resist the temptation to come here and get it. How he got it is a long story that will have to be told in the court, but in the meantime it is sufficient for you to know that he first had his twin brother lured away from here and then, clothing himself in his gray uniform, personated him at the museum and easily got away with the gems during the night.’
While he talked the two brothers were staring at each other. Adam’s eyes were humid with unshed tears, but the face of the black sheep now betrayed only cynical indifference. The resemblance between the two was remarkable. They were as much alike as two peas in a pod. After the necessary formalities had ended, they separated, one to take his place in a felon’s dock, the other to resume his position as a faithful and trusted employee.
That night Clancy ventured to question Bromley Barnes.
‘I thought at first,’ he said, ‘that the culprit was either the student who was found going through Dr Randall-Brown’s desk, or Professor von Hermann, the Egyptologist.’
Barnes shook his head.
‘The boy was hunting for a set of questions to be used in the coming examination, while the sight of the necklace simply caused Professor von Hermann to give his rare collection to the Cosmopolitan Museum.’
‘You got your clue the night you peeped in at Markley, didn’t you?’ persisted Clancy.
‘I did,’ was the reply, ‘and the clue was in the book he was reading. I knew that Adam Markley could scarcely write his own name and that he could read only with great difficulty. Therefore, when I discovered that watchman reading the second volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire with ease, I knew he wasn’t Adam Markley. The rest was easy. The finding of the telegram that lured Adam to Dayton, and then getting into communication with him over the long-distance telephone was simply a matter of course.’
‘What’s the moral as far as Jim Markley is concerned?’
‘I don’t know,’ grinned Barnes, ‘unless it’s the old one “where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.”’
MR BARNES and MR MITCHEL
Created by Rodrigues Ottolengui (1861-1937)
Born in Charleston, South Carolina but long resident in New York, Rodrigues Ottolengui devoted most of his energies to his career as a dentist. When he died in 1937, obituaries concentrated more on his decades-long editorship of a dental journal and his pioneering use of X-rays in orthodontics than they did on the four novels and a collection of short stories that he published in the 1890s. However, the stories, featuring the professional detective Mr Barnes and the wealthy amateur Mr Mitchel, were not completely forgotten. Ellery Queen mentioned them in an influential list of great crime fiction published in the 1940s and they have continued to find readers who enjoy detective stories from that period. ‘The Montezuma Emerald’, in which Mr Barnes comes to believe that his friend and crime-solving partner has been brutally murdered by a Mexican gangster in search of a priceless jewel, is one of the best of Ottolengui’s tales.
THE MONTEZUMA EMERALD
‘Is the Inspector in?’
Mr Barnes immediately recognised the voice, and turned to greet the speaker. The man was Mr Leroy Mitchel’s English valet. Contrary to all precedent and tradition, he did not speak in cockney dialect, not even stumbling over the proper distribution of the letter W throughout his vocabulary. That he was English, however, was apparent to the ear, because of a certain rather attractive accent, peculiar to his native island, and to the eye because of a deferential politeness of manner, too seldom observed in American servants. He also always called Mr Barnes ‘Inspector’, oblivious of the fact that he was not a member of the regular police, and mindful only of the English application of the word to detectives.
‘Step right in, Williams,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘What is the trouble?’
‘I don’t rightly know, Inspector,’ said Williams. ‘Won’t you let me speak to you alone? It’s about the master.’
‘Certainly. Come into my private room.’ He led the way and Williams followed, remaining standing, although Mr Barnes waved his hand towards a chair, as he seated himself in his usual place at his desk. ‘Now then,’ continued the detective, ‘what’s wrong? Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘I hope not, sir, indeed! But the master’s disappeared!’
‘Disappeared, has he!’ Mr Barnes smiled slightly. ‘Now, Williams, what do you mean by that? You did not see him vanish, eh?’
‘No, sir, of course not. If you’ll excuse my presumption, Inspector, I don’t think this is a joke, sir, and you’re laughing.’
‘All right, Williams,’ answered Mr Barnes, assuming a more serious tone. ‘I will give your tale my sober consideration. Proceed!’
‘Well, I hardly know where to begin, Inspector. But I’ll just give you the facts, without any unnecessary opinions of my own.’
Williams rather prided himself upon his ability to tell what he called ‘a straight story’. He placed his hat on a chair, and, standing behind it, with one foot resting on a rung, checked off the points of his narrative, as he made them, by tapping the palm of one hand with the index finger of the other.
‘To begin then,’ said he. ‘Mrs Mitchel and Miss Rose sailed for England, Wednesday morning of last week. That same night, quite unexpected, the master says to me, says he, “Williams, I think you have a young woman you’re sweet on down at Newport?” “Well, sir,” says I, “I do know a person as
