JOE LESLIE’S WIFE

OR

A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET

BY

ALEXANDER ROBERTSON, M.D.

Author of “Gold-Maker of Lisbon,” “Little Sweetheart,” “Phantom Smuggler,” “Diana Thorpe,” “Frozen Hearts,” “Nora’s Legacy,” etc.

CHICAGO THE HENNEBERRY COMPANY 554 Wabash Avenue

p. iiiCONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

The Office of a New York Detective

17

II

Two of a Kind

28

III

The Tell-tale Scrap of Paper

39

IV

The House on Twenty-seventh Street

50

V

The Man Dressed as a Bull-fighter

61

VI

Marian

73

VII

A Brand from the Burning

83

VIII

The Jehu Adds to the Mystery

94

IX

Joe’s Secret

105

X

That Meerschaum Pipe

116

XI

All is Forgiven

127

XII

The Opium Joint

138

XIII

A Terrible Doom

149

XIV

Another Link in the Chain

160

XV

Comparing Notes

171

XVI

The Locked Saratoga

182

XVII

The Artist is Defiant

193

XVIII

Fortune’s Favors

204

XIX

The Time Draws Near

215

XX

For Plunder

226

XXI

The Cottage Beyond the Harlem

237

XXII

Almost

248

XXIII

The Messenger with Good News

259

XXIV

Conclusion

268

p. 17CHAPTER I THE OFFICE OF A NEW YORK DETECTIVE

The little clock in the dingy office of Eric Darrell was just pointing out the hour of four when there came a rap on the door. Within the proprietor sat alone, his feet elevated upon the top of a desk, and from his position it was evident that his thoughts were far away, for although he took an occasional whiff at his cigar, it was in an absent-minded way.

At this summons, his interest was at once aroused—his feet came down from their elevated position, and an expression appeared on his face that might have been a smile.

“A woman, by Jove!” he muttered, giving p. 18his handkerchief a flirt over the desk where his feet had been so recently deposited.

There was no guess-work about this, neither had the detective been able to distinguish anything feminine about the knock.

Over the door was a peculiar little contrivance, which by means of several small mirrors would tell the occupant of the office who summoned him—a useful affair under the circumstances, as the detective might at some time have a visitor bent on taking his life, and under such circumstances he would be warned.

Jumping to his feet he approached the door—had it been a man he probably would have sung out: “Come in,” and been done with it.

A lady stood there.

She was deeply veiled, and yet there was that about her dress that bespoke the lady.

Darrell saw this at the first glance, and also judged from her figure that she was young.

“Is this the office of Mr. Darrell?” she asked, in low, pleasing tones.

“Yes, madam,” replied the other, respectfully.

“Is he in?”

“I am Eric Darrell, at your service. If you wish to see me on business will you come in?”

p. 19He stepped aside as he spoke.

“Thank you, I will.”

As the lady entered the room, the detective closed the door, and with the pressure of his thumb secured it so that no one could enter without knocking. It was not his intention to be rudely interrupted in his interview—he had from time to time all sorts of visitors, and did not mean that one of the men he employed should come in upon them while they were engaged in talking.

The lady had already seated herself, and seemed to be looking around the room, through her veil, with considerable interest.

Perhaps it was her first visit to the office of a detective, and she was taken with the strange assortment of mementoes that hung around the room.

Eric Darrell swept his eyes about him, and something akin to a smile came over his face as he viewed his curiosity shop—there were scores and scores of murderous tools and ingenious contrivances, each of which was connected with some crime or criminal in the past history of New York, and in the pursuit of his chosen business he had been brought into connection with the affair or the individual.

p. 20The detective was a little proud of his collection, as well as the Rogue’s Gallery over the desk, where some hundreds of faces were represented, many extremely brutal and some good-looking, while the pictures of women were not infrequent.

“My clerk is out this afternoon, madam—we are quite alone, so that you may speak without any fear of being overheard,” he said, as he took a chair, and sat down facing his unknown client.

“I am glad of that, Mr. Darrell, for what I have to say to you must be kept a dead secret.”

The detective was more than ever convinced that he had to deal with a young woman—her figure was exceedingly pleasing, and her voice a sympathetic one.

“Madam, I am daily entrusted with secrets by all manner of persons. You can rely upon it that anything you tell me in confidence will be as safe as though whispered in the ear of a father confessor. That is my business—we detectives rival the family doctors in being made the repository of secrets.”

This was well put and quite reassuring, as he had intended it should be.

The lady must have confidence in him now.

p. 21“Mr. Darrell, I want your assistance in a little domestic matter. I am a young married woman—have been married a year, and my husband is a man you would call one in a thousand—a truthful, honorable gentleman, a favorite with every one he knows.

“I love him deeply, esteem his noble qualities, and believe we could be happy through life, but there is a canker sore eating my heart—Joe has a secret, a terrible secret, and the knowledge of it is making me miserable.”

She seemed a little overcome, and Darrell waited; meantime he grimly thought to himself how many Joes here in this wicked city of New York kept terrible secrets from their wives—yes, and the boot was on the other leg too.

His business had brought him into contact with many such scenes.

“Pardon my feeling so badly, Mr. Darrell. These things are an old story to you, but with me it means the wrecking of my whole life, and I am weak enough to be troubled by it.”

He hastened to reassure her that he fully sympathized with her feelings.

Thus encouraged she went on:

“If ever a woman had reason to trust her p. 22husband I have—and yet, as I said, Joe has a secret from me, the knowledge of which is making me miserable.

“I would not have him ever suspect that I came to consult you about it, but I am determined to know the truth—I am his wife—if he is gambling in secret, connected with any secret society or going to see some other woman I am resolved to know the worst.

“It is hard for me to explain my position, Mr. Darrell—I believe in and trust my husband as much as nearly any woman could, but I know he is keeping something from me, which excites my curiosity greatly.”

This was an old story with Darrell.

He had seen other Joes before.

In his own mind he was immediately convinced that the man was guilty.

He believed Joe to be an unmitigated scoundrel to treat his young and pretty wife in this way—for the detective had already decided this question and believed the owner of this voice and figure must also be handsome.

So he began to dig for facts, a little ruthlessly perhaps, because it was business.

Your professor of anatomy does not waste p. 23time when getting down to a certain nerve or muscle which he wishes to expose to his class—the knife is applied without stint.

So the detective asked questions in order to expose as much of the game as possible. “You have no hint of the truth, madam?”

“None.”

“Before marriage, was your husband a man of the world?”

“He was always steady and quiet. I have never heard that my Joe ever had an entangling alliance before we were married.”

Even this did not reassure Darrell—he was a little skeptical with regard to such a man, being inclined to reflect that still water runs deep.

His daily business brought him in contact with so much of the evil of life that he had a rather poor opinion of mankind in general—though ready to bow before woman’s goodness, even after having had experience with numerous confidence women and others, who were more difficult to manage than male criminals.

For instance, here was a case in point—a confiding, loving wife—a cruel, deceiving husband.

“I understand, madam. How long have these strange visits been going on?”

p. 24“I do not know.”

“How long have you been aware of them?”

“For two weeks. By accident I discovered that Joe was in the habit of leaving his office at half-past four, and he never reaches home until an hour and a half later.

“Even this did not do more than pique me a little to think he dallied so long, when he should have hurried home to me—but three days later, again by accident, I saw him enter a house on Twenty-seventh Street.

“At first I could not believe my eyes and I felt as though I would swoon. It was just five o’clock, and he seemed in a dreadful hurry.

“What impressed me as being the strangest part of the business, was the fact that he did not ring or even knock on the door, but with a key let himself in as though he belonged there!”

Of course—Darrell’s eyebrows went up, but he made no remark—he could see through a millstone with a hole in it.

“I don’t know why I hurried home but I did so with a trembling heart. Joe came in at his usual time, and I endeavored to be myself so that he might suspect nothing.

“On the next day, however, something p. 25impelled me to go to Twenty-seventh Street again.

“Opposite to this house was a French restaurant, and about ten minutes to five I entered here and ordered supper, sitting at the window and yet far enough back not to be seen.

“It lacked but one minute to five when Joe came down the street from the elevated station, walking very fast, and went in that house.

“I sat there until twenty minutes of six, when he came out again, and walked more slowly down the street.

“Mr. Darrell, I shall say nothing about my feelings—you can understand them well enough. What I want you to do is to discover who lives in that house, and why Joe Leslie spends the better part of an hour there every day.”

“Who—Joe Leslie—good heavens! it can’t be the Joe Leslie I know!”

The lady seemed surprised at his words, and swept her veil aside.

Then Darrell saw he had made no mistake in believing her to be pretty—she was more than that, really handsome.

“My husband is Joseph Gregory Leslie.”

“Then he is the man I know—a man whom I have always believed the best of men, liked by p. 26every one acquainted with him. It seems incredible that he should be engaged in anything of this character.”

“Because you know him, will you refuse to take my case?” she faltered.

“Not at all, Mrs. Leslie—in fact, I shall do the work all the more eagerly, hoping it may all prove to be a mistake.”

“I too hope so, but my heart is filled with fears. I seem to have lived years since making this discovery. At first I meant to ask my husband plainly to explain it, but something held my tongue—for my life I could not—and only as a last resort have I come to you.”

“Kindly write the number of the house here—you know it, of course.”

“Indeed it is burned on my brain as with letters of fire,” and she obeyed him.

“Now, Mrs. Leslie, you are to leave this matter in my hands and think of it as little as you can. At home appear as natural as you may, and believe that I will serve your interests faithfully, first, last and all the time.

“Joe is a friend of mine, and yet if he is a villain—which I cannot believe—I will discover the proofs of it and hand them to you.”

p. 27“Mr. Darrell, I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes.

“There is no occasion for it, madam—this is business with me, leaving sentiment aside—I shall charge you my regular price for such work; but at the same time I honestly hope your husband will be able to prove his innocence.”

“Amen!” she said, solemnly.

At this moment there came a loud rap on the door—Mrs. Leslie uttered a little scream, which was pretty well muffled by the cobweb of a handkerchief she thrust up to her mouth.

As for Eric Darrell, the detective, he glanced up at the small tell-tale mirror just inside the transom over the door—his face was screwed up into a pucker, and pressing his finger on his lips he said in a low voice:

“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish! The man who knocks is your husband, Mrs. Leslie.”

p. 28CHAPTER II TWO OF A KIND

The pretty little lady came very near swooning when she heard this.

Darrell arose from his chair.

“Come with me through the inner office,” he said in low tones.

She followed him, trembling like a leaf, and looking back as though she expected the door to be broken in, and an angry husband to make his appearance on the scene.

“He must have followed me—he will be so angry—oh! what shall I do—how shall I look him in the face again?” she moaned.

“He need not see you now—here is a door that lets you out into the passage around the corner, and you can descend the stairs without being discovered. As for looking him in the face again, you have no reason to shun him, my dear madam—you are innocent of wrong-doing at any rate, and if anybody is going to be p. 29ashamed let it be him. Good-bye, madam, trust me to the utmost.”

She gave him one pitiful look that haunted the old bachelor for many days, and then, allowing her veil to fall over her pretty face, passed on toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, the knock on the other door had been twice repeated—the man without was evidently growing impatient.

Mr. Darrell walked over to the door and opened it.

“What! you, Leslie, my boy? It’s good for sore eyes to see your face.”

They shook hands warmly.

Leslie walked in.

The detective had seen on the instant that his old-time friend was disturbed—Joe’s countenance had a gloomy look, totally at variance to the cheerful expression that generally marked it.

Of course Eric Darrell wondered to what he owed this visit.

Was it brought about by the fact that Joe’s wife had just been seated in the very chair he now threw his long form upon?

Since Joe’s marriage he had seen very little of him—their lines ran apart and seldom crossed, p. 30yet they had once been pretty good friends. Again the detective closed the door and fastened it against interruption.

Whatever the cause of Leslie’s visit, he meant to have a quiet chat with him.

If the husband of the pretty lady who had just quitted his office demanded to know why Lillian Leslie had visited him, he would have to confess the truth, but he knew enough to keep a close tongue until the lay of the land was made manifest.

Before sitting down himself he took up a box of cigars and offered it to Joe.

The other looked at it rather sheepishly and then declined with a wave of the hand.

“Ah! sworn off, eh? Something I never expected such an old smoker as you to do; but every man to his taste. Now, old fellow, to what am I indebted for this visit—a desire to talk over old times, or business?”

Leslie seemed to swallow a lump in his throat, and playing nervously with the paper-cutter on the desk—which was a dagger taken from a notorious assassin whom Darrell had assisted to the gallows years before, said huskily:

“Eric, you are the only man in the world I p. 31would come to with domestic troubles. What I am about to confide in you now I do as to a friend. At the same time I ask for your assistance in a professional way.”

Then he seemed lost in deep thought for a minute, and was no doubt collecting his energies to speak to the point.

As for Eric Darrell, he surveyed the other in deepest surprise.

What was coming?

Was Joe Leslie deep in the mire, and had he come to have his old friend extricate him?

One thing seemed certain—he did not appear to know that his pretty wife had been in this very room less than five minutes before.

Believing this, the detective considered it a peculiar freak of fate that these two should visit him on the same day and almost the same hour, each without the knowledge of the other.

At length Joe had recruited his energies to equal the occasion.

He looked up.

The detective was leaning back in his chair and calmly observing him, wreaths of blue white smoke curling up from his Havana.

“Eric, you never met my wife?” he said.

p. 32The other did not by any start betray himself.

“That is your fault, old man. You were married in Chicago, and after settling down here you never invited us old bachelors to visit you,” he replied, quietly.

“Forgive me. But see, here is her photograph. Take a look at the girl who captured the man who used to laugh at all Benedicts.”

Darrell took the picture.

It was the same face he had so recently sat vis-a-vis with in this very office, with one particular difference—the photograph was of a happy, loving girl, while the other had been the face of an anxious woman.

Mentally he noted this fact, while looking long and earnestly at the photograph.

“Well, what do you think of her?” asked Leslie.

He was a tall man, perhaps thirty-five years of age, not handsome, but with a face that won him friends everywhere, for Joe Leslie had a warm heart and was ready to champion the cause of any poor devil in distress.

“She’s handsome, Joe—a beauty.”

“Anyone can see that—look deeper, man.”

“I can see qualities there such as might make p. 33her a wife to be proud of, and whom any man might well hesitate to offend.”

At this Joe groaned.

The shrewd detective thought he had driven one nail home—that his allusion must have hit Leslie in a tender spot—but for once he made a mistake.

Just then he was not thinking of his own shortcomings—that groan was the result of mental agony brought about by something else.

“Eric, I am in trouble,” he said.

The other knew it before he spoke.

To himself he was saying:

“Now, here’s a surprising thing—I am already retained by the wife, and the husband has come to confess his sins. Shall I listen—he must not bind me to a promise not to tell.”

Aloud, he said:

“I’m sorry for that, Joe. Tell me all about it and heaven knows I will aid you all I can.”

“Thank you, old friend—I knew it before you spoke—that was why I finally determined to come here and unbosom myself.”

“It’s coming,” muttered Darrell, smiling grimly.

He fully expected to learn the secret of that p. 34mysterious house on Twenty-seventh Street.

“To think,” said Joe, looking around him at the walls and ceiling, “that here in this den where I spent so many careless, happy bachelor hours with you, I should now be detailing the tribulations of married life.”

“Singular—of course,” nodded Eric, apparently observing the ashes on the end of his cigar, but all the while watching Joe’s face.

“For of course,” Joe continued, “what I have to say to you concerns—my wife.”

“Yes.”

The detective was wondering how Joe meant to bring out his confession.

He did not dream of anything else.

“You have seen that face, Eric”—tapping the photograph—“would you say there was any deceit there?”

This was something of a staggerer—the other had not expected the electric fluid to strike in such a quarter at all.

“Deceit—in that little woman—well, I’m an old bachelor, Joe, but my judgment is generally conceded sound, and I tell you your wife is a woman of a thousand. Her face speaks of purity and charity—one could not look into the p. 35depths of those eyes and not read truth there.”

“Good heavens, man! you describe Lillian as I have believed her—one would think you had met her,” cried Leslie, starting out of his moody fit.

“A good photograph can be easily read nowadays, my boy,” replied Darrell, quietly; at the same time conscious that he had made a break that had better not be repeated.

Joe gave a great sigh, and resumed his despondent attitude, nervously playing with the paper-cutter.

“Eric, perhaps there are men who love their wives better than I do mine, but I am completely wrapped up in Lillian, and if I lost her I’d go to the dogs devilish quick.

“You know my nature—I’m not a suspicious fool, nor am I constitutionally jealous, but I suppose I have a certain amount of the latter in my disposition—every man but an idiot has.”