Tracked by a Tattoo: A Mystery

Title: Tracked by a Tattoo: A Mystery

Author: Fergus Hume

Release date: October 20, 2017 [eBook #55783] Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55783

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by La Trobe University, Melbourne Australia

Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://arrow.latrobe.edu.au/store /3/4/6/5/2/public/B26995177.pdf La Trobe University, Melbourne Australia

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON "The Carbuncle Clue."

BY FERGUS HUME. UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

"Everywhere throughout its source there is evident the same wonderful originality that distinguished his first success. It is as clever a piece of detective story writing as 'The Leavenworth Case.'"—Dundee Advertiser.

"To say that Mr. Fergus Home's 'The Carbuncle Clue' is one of his best stories hardly does justice to its merits. Very clever must be the reader who, in the earlier chapters, finds even a faint clue in this labyrinth of crime and intrigue."—Morning Post.

"It is in all truth a mystery, and one which when dipped into will be followed with the greatest interest in all its maze of detail. There is scarcely one of the opening chapters that does not reveal some new, startling, and apparently inexplicable fact."—The Scotsman.

"Among the more successful of the purveyors of the detective order of fiction is Mr. Fergus Hume. All who love mystery will find his last story exactly to their taste."—Publishers' Circular.

"We were becoming afraid that Mr. Hume was over-producing—a fear greatly allayed by 'The Carbuncle Clue.' Mr. Hume keeps his story well in hand, and although the mystery changes its aspect many times, he never allows it to drag; and in the end he springs the secret on us in a way that effectually discounts any feeling of superiority we may have cherished as to our powers of playing the amateur detective."—Literary World.

"Apart from the author's reputation, 'The Carbuncle Clue,' standing on its own undoubted merits, will commend itself to those of the reading public who can admire a clever plot, with just a sufficient dash of sensationalism. The skilful manner in which the plot is evolved and the machinations of the conspirators disclosed, place the work on a much higher level than the average detective story."—Chester Courant.

"A capital story, one that will hold its reader enthralled to the end. The clever detective—Mr. Fanks, alias Rixton—is, we think greatly superior to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his many followers, inasmuch as he is not omniscient, and is quite capable of making mistakes and getting exasperated over them. He follows the slender clue with the sagacity and patience of a bloodhound, and the mystery is so well maintained that its solution only breaks on us as we turn the last page.—Pall Pall Gazette.

"Mr. Hume is great in mysteries, but almost excels himself in the complications of this carbuncle clue. It is brightly and briskly written, and goes on without a hitch or momentary loss of interest from beginning to end. The actors are admirably described. It is the ordinary man and woman that Mr. Hume brings on the stage, and he pulls the wires so deftly that it is with a sigh of regret that we close the book. The publishing world has been inundated with detective stories recently, but if all were so good as 'The Carbuncle Clue' there would not be much reason to complain of the fashion."—Manchester Courier.

"One of the best detective stories that have appeared for a long time."—Manchester Guardian.

"The whole plot is very ingeniously contrived. The interest never flags, and, together with the mystery, is kept up to the very end of the story."—Glasgow Herald.

"In 'The Carbuncle Clue' the author elucidates with his accustomed skill a highly mysterious murder. The story is thrilling and ingenious."—Yorkshire Post.

"Mr. Fergus Hume is a wonderful producer of books, and he proves himself the possessor of considerable resource, while he is also very versatile. 'The Carbuncle Clue' will be read with avidity by lovers of this particular class of work, while it will also be found to contain a goodly share of attraction for the general novel reader."—Western Daily Mercury.

"For some time past the feeling has been that the detective story has had its day, living only in the memory of the immortal Sherlock Holmes. After perusing the mystery of 'The Carbuncle Clue,' however, we feel inclined to change our mind. Mr. Fergus Hume has a more than ordinary talent for the making and unravelling of enigmas."—Liverpool Mercury.

"There are few weavers of mystery like Mr. Fergus Hume. In 'The Carbuncle Clue' his best qualities as an adept in the art of mystification are apparent. He is a magician in mystery and a wizard in working up a sensation without divulging the denouement until the opportune moment."—Newsagent.

"A splendid story, and the identity of the murderer of the unknown man so mysteriously found stabbed to death in the chambers of a man about town is cleverly concealed until the last. There is not a dull line in the book, and the interest is never for a moment allowed to flag."—Blackburn Times.

"A story replete with sensational excitement from the first to the last. In our opinion it is one of the best novels he has yet produced."—The People.

"A peculiar faculty is necessary for the composition of a really ingenious story of the detective type, and Mr. Fergus Hume undeniably possesses it in an unusual degree. 'The Carbuncle Clue' is a really clever piece of work of its school. The mystery suffices to keep the reader on the alert till he comes to the final page."—Court Journal.

London: FREDERICK WARNE & CO., and New York.

TRACKED BY A TATTOO

TRACKED BY A TATTOO

A MYSTERY

BY

FERGUS HUME

AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "MONSIEUR JUDAS," "THE CARBUNCLE CLUE," "THE WHITE PRIOR," ETC.

LONDON FREDERICK WARNE & CO. AND NEW YORK

Copyright. Entered at Stationers' Hall.

CONTENTS

Tracked by a Tattoo.

CHAPTER I.

THE CRIME.

On the twenty-first of June, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-four Mr. Fanks, of New Scotland Yard, detective, was walking down the Strand, between the hours of seven and eight in the evening, in the character of Octavius Rixton, of the West End, idler. It may be as well to repeat here, what is no doubt already known—that this individual led a dual existence. He earned his money as a detective, and spent it as a man about town. East of Trafalgar Square he was called Fanks; westward he was known by his real name of Rixton. But few people, were aware that the idler and the worker were one and the same. Nevertheless of necessity four or five persons possessed this knowledge, and of these one was Crate, a brother officer of Fanks, who had worked with him in many cases, and who had a profound respect for his capabilities. Fanks had obtained this ascendancy over Crate's mind by his skilful unravelling of the Chinese Jar mystery.

This especial evening Rixton had cast off the name, clothes, and personality of Fanks; and in "propriâ personâ," he was about to treat himself to a melodrama at the Adelphi Theatre. As he was passing through the vestibule, at a quarter to eight, a man came forward and touched him on the arm. To the surprise of Rixton he recognised Crate.

"You mentioned that you were coming here this evening, Mr. Rixton," said this latter, who had been instructed to so address his chief on particular occasions. "And I have been waiting for the last half hour to see you."

"What is the matter, Crate?"

The subordinate beckoned Rixton to a quiet corner, and in a low tone said one word, which made him dismiss from his mind the idea of attending the theatre on that evening. The whispered word was "murder."

"Where?" asked Fanks, assuming the detective on the instant.

"Down Tooley's Alley."

"Man or woman or child?"

"Man! I think a gentleman."

"When was the crime committed?"

"Between six and seven this evening."

"In a house or on the street?"

"In a house. The Red Star public-house."

"I know it," said Fanks, with a sharp nod, "a cut-throat place at the bottom of Tooley's Alley. The assassin chose an excellent locality. Poison, steel, or bludgeon?"

"The first I fancy; there are no marks of violence on the body. But you had better come and see for yourself."

"I agree with you. Return to the Red Star, Crate, while I go to my rooms to change my clothes. I am Rixton at present, and I don't want to mix up my two personalities. Expect me in half an hour."

Crate departed with prompt obedience, and Rixton drove off in a swift hansom to his chambers in Duke Street, St. James. In ten minutes he had assumed his detective clothes and Fanks personality; in twenty he was returning eastward; and at the expiration of half an hour he was standing at the door of the house wherein the crime had been committed. Such promptitude was characteristic of the man.

Tooley's Alley is a narrow zig-zag street, which, beginning at a point in Drury Lane, twists its way through a mass of malodorous houses until blocked finally by the Red Star Hotel. It is a famous Rialto of rogues and vagabonds, for here "they most do congregate;" and here come the police, when any especial criminal is wanted by the law. An evil district with an evil name; a plague spot, which cannot be eradicated either by law or by religion. There are many such in London, and of all Tooley's Alley is the worst. It was plausible enough that a gentleman should be trapped, robbed, and murdered in this quarter; but it was more difficult to surmise what errand had brought a gentleman into so dangerous a neighbourhood. A gentleman done to death in Tooley's Alley! Fanks scented a mystery.

The Red Star was a gorgeous gin-palace, all gas, and glare, and glitter. It was licensed to Mrs. Boazoph, a widow, whose character was more than suspected by the police; but who contrived by a circumspect demeanour to keep on the right side of the law. By virtue of her position, her supposed wealth, and above all by reason of her talents, she was quite the queen of Tooley's Alley. Why she should have been permitted to hold her disreputable court in this hotbed of crime was best known to the authorities; but hold it she did, and made money out of her ragged subjects. In the neighbourhood she was popularly known as Queen Beelzeebub.

Attracted by the news of the murder, a mob of raffish men and slatternly women had collected round the Red Star, but the presence of four policemen prevented them from entering the bar and drinking, as they desired to do.

Fanks had no need to push through the crowd, for on recognising him they fell to right and left to leave him a free passage. Under his keen gaze a quiver of fear passed over many of the brutalised faces; and here and there some especial rogue, scared by the memory of lately committed crimes, shrank back into the shadows, lest this man, who personified the law, should discover and punish. Fanks was the Nemesis of Tooley's Alley; the god they desired to propitiate, and he was at once hated and feared by his debased worshippers.

After exchanging a few words with the guardian policemen, Fanks entered the house, and was met in the passage by Crate and by Mrs. Boazoph. This latter, who appeared to be between forty and fifty years of age, was a slender and pallid-faced woman, with almost white hair smoothed back from her high forehead. She spoke habitually with folded hands and downcast eyes, and her voice was low and soft, with a refined accent. One would have taken this demure figure, clad in a plain dress of lustreless black, for an hospital nurse, or for a housekeeper. Yet she was—as the police asserted—the most dangerous woman in London, hand and glove with thieves and rogues: not for nothing had she gained her reputation and queenly title.

"Well, Mrs. Boazoph," said Fanks, abruptly, "this last scandal will add largely to the excellent reputation already gained by your house."

"No doubt of it, sir," replied the landlady, without raising her eyes; "it is most unfortunate."

"And most unexpected?"

"Certainly most unexpected, sir."

The detective looked at her sharply, and noticed that her fingers played nervously with the stuff of her gown. Also he heard a tremor in her voice as she answered. Now Mrs. Boazoph was not easily upset; yet, as Fanks well saw, only her unusual self-control prevented her from having an attack of hysteria. To many men the circumstance of the crime having been committed in the house would have accounted for this. Fanks was too well acquainted with Queen Beelzeebub to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was disturbed by something more than the mere fact of the murder.

"Do you know the man?" he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on her face.

"No!" retorted Mrs. Boazoph, with suspicious promptitude. "I never set eyes on him until this evening."

And with this hinted defiance she stared Fanks boldly in the face. When she saw that he was watching her twitching fingers, they became motionless on the instant. Only one conclusion could the detective draw from this behaviour; she knew more than she would own to, and she was afraid lest he should find it out. After another look, which discovered nothing—for she was now on her guard—Fanks turned sharply to Crate.

"Where is the body?"

"Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms."

"Was the murder committed in one of the bedrooms?"

"No, Mr. Fanks. It was committed in the room at the end of this passage."

"And why was the body removed out of that room?"

"I removed the body," said Mrs. Boazoph, in a low voice.

"You had no right to do so," rebuked Fanks, sharply. "It was your duty to leave things as they were, when you discovered that a crime had been committed, and to give immediate information to the police."

"I did do so, sir. The police were in this house ten minutes after I saw the dead body."

"Nevertheless, you found time to remove it in that ten minutes."

"I thought it best to do so," said Mrs. Boazoph, obstinately.

"No doubt. I shall not forget your zeal," was Fanks' rejoinder.

The woman could not repress a shudder at the ironical tone of the detective, and her pale face turned yet paler. However, she passed discreetly over the remark and turned the conversation briskly.

"Shall I take you upstairs to see the body, sir?

"No; I shall first examine the room. Afterwards I shall hear your story and inspect the corpse. Come with me, Crate."

Still preserving an impenetrable countenance, Mrs. Boazoph preceded the two men into the little room at the end of the passage. It was an apartment of no great size, furnished in a scanty, almost in a penurious fashion. A window draped with faded curtains of red rep faced the entrance There was no fireplace, and the furniture consisted of a mahogany horse-hair sofa placed against the right-hand wall looking from the door, a round table covered with a stained red cloth, which stood in the centre of the room, and on either side of this two chairs. A crimson felting carpeted the floor, and a few racing pictures, crudely coloured, adorned the salmon-tinted walls. Beyond this the room contained nothing, save an iron gas-pipe suspended from the roof, by which two jets flaring in pink globes lighted the apartment.

Fanks glanced slowly round, taking in every detail, and walked across to the window. It was locked, the curtains were drawn, the blind was down. As it was too dark to see the outlook, Fanks turned to Mrs. Boazoph for information.

"What does this window look out on to?"

"A yard, sir."

"Is there any outlet from the yard?"

"No, sir, excepting through the kitchen where the servants have been all the evening."

"When you entered the room and discovered the fact of the murder, where was the body?"

"Huddled up on yonder sofa, sir."

"Was the room in the same state as it is now?"

"In precisely the same state, Mr. Fanks."

"Wait a moment," interposed Crate; "you told me that you took some glasses out of the room."

Mrs. Boazoph darted a tigerish glance at the detective, which revealed the hidden possibilities of her nature. However, she replied with all possible meekness—

"I quite forgot that, sir I did take two glasses off that table."

Recalling Crate's remark that the deceased had probably been poisoned, Fanks was rendered angry and suspicious by this action; but as it was mere folly to quarrel with so clever a woman as Mrs. Boazoph he made light of the circumstance, and observed casually that no doubt the glasses had been washed and put away.

"Yes, sir," assented the landlady, "they were washed and put away by my own hands."

"I have always known you to be an extremely tidy woman," said Fanks, ironically. "Two glasses, you say? Then there were two gentlemen in this room between six and seven?"

"There were two men in this room between six and seven," replied Mrs. Boazoph, making the correction with emphasis.

"Two men, you say? And they came to have a chat—by appointment?"

"I think so, sir. The white man came at six, and the black man arrived an hour later."

"Ho! ho!" said Fanks, rather taken by surprise; "so one of the men was a negro. I see. And who lies dead upstairs?"

"The white man, sir."

"And the negro assassin; what of him?"

"We have no proof that the negro committed the crime, Mr. Fanks," protested Mrs. Boazoph, forgetting her caution for the moment. "There are no marks of violence on the body."

"Of course not," said Fanks, with grim humour. "No doubt the white man died a convenient and natural death, while the negro, for no reason, fled in alarm. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Mrs. Boazoph. Probably it is as you say."

Not sufficiently clever to see the irony of this remark, Crate looked surprised. But the woman was clearer sighted; and, seeing that she had over-reached herself by saying too much, she relapsed into silence. The detective, feeling that he had scored, smiled grimly, and went on with his examination of the room.

"The body was on the sofa, you say?" he said after a pause.

"Yes; it was tumbled in a heap against the wall."

"And the glasses were on the table?"

"On the table and on the tray."

"Were there any signs of a struggle?"

"Not that I saw, Mr. Fanks."

"Can you describe the appearance of the white man; no, stop, I'll see his body when I go upstairs. What of the black man?"

"He was a tall, burly, fat creature, sir, just like any other negro."

"How was he dressed?"

"In a black opera hat, dark trousers, brown boots, and a long green overcoat with brass buttons," said Mrs. Boazoph, concisely.

"Rather a noticeable dress," said Fanks, carelessly; "had you ever seen the negro before?"

"No, sir."

"Nor the white man?"

"I never saw white or black man in my life till this evening."

By this time the patience of Mrs. Boazoph was nearly worn out, and her self-control was gradually giving way. She evidently felt that she could hold out no longer, for, after replying to the last question, she left the room suddenly. But that Fanks interfered Crate would have stopped her.

"Let her go," said the former, "we can see her later on. In the meantime," he continued, pointing to the table, "what is all this?"

Crate bent forward, and on the dingy red tablecloth he saw a number of tiny black grains scattered about.

"It is a powder of some sort," he said; "I told you that I thought the man had been poisoned."

Even as Crate spoke the gaslight went out, leaving them in complete darkness.

"Ah!" said Fanks, rather startled by the unexpected incident, "Mrs. Boazoph is fiddling with the meter."

"What the deuce did she do that for?" asked Crate, as his superior struck a match.

"Can't you guess? She saw these black grains on the tablecloth, and wants to get rid of them. That was why she left the room and turned off the gas. She hopes that the darkness will drive us out. Then she will explain the incident by a lie, and enter before us to relight the gas."

"Well?" said Crate, stolidly.

"Well!" repeated Fanks, crossly. "I shall never make you understand anything, Crate. Before lighting the gas she will pull off the tablecloth and scatter the grains."