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Transcriber's note: This story was first serialized in the _Boys of NewYork_ story paper and was later reprinted as Vol. I, No. 70 in _The NewYork Detective Library_ published November 16, 1883 by Frank Tousey.This e-text is derived from the reprinted edition.
SHADOW, THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE.
By POLICE CAPTAIN HOWARD, Author of "Old Mystery," "Young Sleuth," "The Silver Dagger," "A Piece of Paper," "The Broken Button," etc., etc.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY. CHAPTER I. A MURDER. CHAPTER II. MAT MORRIS. CHAPTER III. SHADOW--WHO WAS HE? CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS. CHAPTER V. HELEN DILT. CHAPTER VI. THE REMEMBERED BILLS. CHAPTER VII. A HAPPY MOMENT. CHAPTER VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE. CHAPTER IX. IN THE BLACK HOLE. CHAPTER X. FAVORING FORTUNE. CHAPTER XI. IN THE MAD-HOUSE. CHAPTER XII. SHADOW. CHAPTER XIII. IN A BAD BOX. CHAPTER XIV. DICK STANTON. CHAPTER XV. A FIEND IN HUMAN SHAPE. CHAPTER XVI. DISAPPOINTED AGAIN. CHAPTER XVII. HELEN'S TORTURE. CHAPTER XVIII. PUZZLED. CHAPTER XIX. IN DEADLY PERIL. CHAPTER XX. STILL SEARCHING. CHAPTER XXI. FUN! CHAPTER XXII. OUT OF JEOPARDY. CHAPTER XXIII. WEAVING THE NET. CHAPTER XXIV. "HELP IS HERE!" CHAPTER XXV. MAN OR WOMAN? CHAPTER XXVI. CORNERED CRIMINALS. CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
INTRODUCTORY.
Again I have been called on to entertain my wide circle of youngfriends, by relating another story of detective life. Before plunginginto my story, I have thought it best to address a few words to youpersonally, and about myself.
It is held as a rule that an author should never introduce himselfinto the story he is writing, and yet I find, on looking back, that innearly all of my recent stories I have described myself as playing amore or less conspicuous part.
And yet I could not avoid doing so, as I can plainly see, withouthaving detracted somewhat of interest from the stories.
As I sit here now, prepared to commence, the question arises: "Shall Ikeep myself in the background, out of sight, or shall I bring myselfin, just as I actually took part in the strange story of
"'SHADOW, THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE?'"
Well, I don't know, but I think it may be just as well to introducemyself when necessary, since when I write thus I feel that my pen istalking to you instead of at you. And, besides, I think that to you thestory is more realistic.
Am I right?
Don't each of you feel now as if I had written you a personal letter?And are you not satisfied that there is only one Police Captain Howard,and he that one who now speaks to you?
I am sure of it.
And now for the story.
CHAPTER I.
A MURDER.
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, andwhat wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaningsound.
It was after the midnight hour.
Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there anysound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and thatsoughing of the wind--not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasyspirit unable to rest in the grave.
It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not helpshuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, forI felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.
This heavy silence--except for the noises mentioned--was veryoppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a senseof relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:
"Help--help!"
I paused short.
My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could notlocate its direction.
Presently it came again.
"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"
Off I dashed to the rescue.
Crack!
Then came a wild wail.
Crack!
Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to thesidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two thingsmust be the case--he was either insensible or dead.
I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellowjust dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him tosecure the plunder on his victim's body.
The assassin had already secured most of the stricken man's valuables,when my rapid approach alarmed him, and jumping up, he sprang along thestreet at a break-neck pace.
Crack!
Crack!
I had drawn a revolver, and I sent a couple of bullets after him,hoping to wing him, as well as to extend the alarm which his shots mustalready have raised.
A policeman put in an appearance some distance down the street, but theflying murderer took a running leap at him, tumbled him head over heelsinto the gutter, and then succeeded in making his escape.
When I compared notes with the policeman, I found that neither ofus had distinctly enough seen the murderer to be able to give anydescription of him whatever, save that he was a chunky-built man, andseemed roughly dressed.
We were not surprised, on examining into the prostrate man's condition,to find him dead.
Right in the center of his forehead was a small hole, edged withdrying, clotted blood, which mutely said:
"Here entered the fatal messenger from a death-dealing weapon."
The body was conveyed to the station-house, there to remain until itwas claimed or conveyed to the morgue.
An examination of the pockets resulted in our learning that his namewas Tom Smith. As to his residence, we could find no clew from anythinghe had on his person, or by consulting the directory.
About two o'clock the next afternoon, a wild-eyed woman entered thestation-house, and, in trembling tones, asked to see the body.
I was present at the time, and my heart went out in pity to thepale-faced woman--or perhaps I should say girl, for she certainly hadnot seen her twentieth birthday.
She disappeared into the inner room where the body was lying, and a fewseconds later I heard a low and anguished cry. Then I knew that she hadrecognized the poor fellow as some one who was near and dear to her.
Kindly hands drew her away from beside the body, and when I saw heragain her face was convulsed with anguish, and tears were streamingfrom her eyes.
For fully half an hour she continued weeping, and not a man of us wasthere who did not feel uncomfortable. We did not venture to consoleher, for it seemed like sacrilege to intrude on her during the firstperiod of her sorrow.
Then her sobbing became less loud, and gradually she subdued the moredemonstrative expressions of grief.
She finally lifted her head, and in a hollow voice asked to hear thestory of his death.
The captain briefly outlined what was known, and she calmly listened tothe tale.
"Can I see the person who first reached him?" she asked, when thecaptain had finished.
"Yes," was the reply. "Detective Howard here is the man you want."
She wished to see me alone, and I conducted her into another room.
Arrived here, she begged me minutely to relate what had happened; and,exhibiting a singular self-control, asked for as close a description ofthe assassin as I could give.
"You knew him very well?" said I, when an opportunity occurred.
"Yes."
"Perhaps he was your brother?"
"No," she said, and a faint flush flitted into her pallid face for aninstant. "No," and then her voice sank to a whisper, "he was to havebeen my husband."
"Ah! And now, miss, you don't suppose that the assassin could have beenan enemy of his? Did he have any enemies, who might rob him, as a blindto cover up their real motive?"
"Tom have an enemy? No--
no--he was too good and kind for that. It wasdone by some murderous wretch for the sake of plunder. Tom must haveresisted being robbed, and the ruffian killed him."
"That is my own theory. And--I do not wish to pain you, miss--but whatabout the body? Has he any family or relations?"
"No, none in this world. He and I were all in all to each other," andthe eyes of the girl became moist again; but she fought back the tears,and quite calmly said:
"I will take care of the body."
Then a troubled expression crossed her face; and, to make a long storyshort, I gained her confidence, learned that she had not enough toproperly inter her lover, and loaned her the money.
With tears of gratitude in her eyes, she thanked me, and every wordcame straight from her heart.
Her name was Nellie Millbank, she said, and she was utterly alone inthe world. Until several days before, she had been employed in a store,but had then been discharged.
Tom was a clerk, but had only a small salary, as soon as which wasraised they were to have been married. He had been to see her on thatfatal night, to tell her he had obtained a day off, and was going totake her on an excursion on the morrow.
She had been dressed and waiting for him, but he had not come.
Alarmed, for he had always kept his word, she knew not what to do, norwhat to think, until, having bought an afternoon paper, she saw anaccount of the shooting.
This was her simple history.
After the inquest, the body was delivered to her, and then she fadedfrom my sight and knowledge for a long while. Exactly how long, theensuing chapters will inform you.