Tictocq

by O. Henry

　　

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THE GREAT FRENCH DETECTIVE, IN AUSTINA Successful Political IntrigueCHAPTER IIt is not generally known that Tictocq, the famous French detective, wasin Austin last week. He registered at the Avenue Hotel under an assumedname, and his quiet and reserved manners singled him out at once for onenot to be singled out.No one knows why he came to Austin, but to one or two he vouchsafed theinformation that his mission was an important one from the FrenchGovernment.One report is that the French Minister of State has discovered an oldstatute among the laws of the empire, resulting from a treaty betweenthe Emperor Charlemagne and Governor Roberts which expressly providesfor the north gate of the Capital grounds being kept open, but this ismerely a conjecture.Last Wednesday afternoon a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door ofTictocq's room in the hotel. The detective opened the door."Monsieur Tictocq, I believe," said the gentleman."You will see on the register that I sign my name Q. X. Jones," saidTictocq, "and gentlemen would understand that I wish to be known assuch. If you do not like being referred to as no gentleman, I will giveyou satisfaction any time after July 1st, and fight Steve O'Donnell,John McDonald, and Ignatius Donnelly in the meantime if you desire.""I do not mind it in the least," said the gentleman. "In fact, I amaccustomed to it. I am Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee,Platform No. 2, and I have a friend in trouble. I knew you were Tictocqfrom your resemblance to yourself.""Entrez vous," said the detective.The gentleman entered and was handed a chair."I am a man of few words," said Tictoq. "I will help your friend ifpossible. Our countries are great friends. We have given you Lafayetteand French fried potatoes. You have given us California champagneand--taken back Ward McAllister. State your case.""I will be very brief," said the visitor. "In room No. 76 in this hotelis stopping a prominent Populist Candidate. He is alone. Last night someone stole his socks. They cannot be found. If they are not recovered,his party will attribute their loss to the Democracy. They will makegreat capital of the burglary, although I am sure it was not a politicalmove at all. The socks must be recovered. You are the only man that cando it."Tictocq bowed."Am I to have carte blanche to question every person connected with thehotel?""The proprietor has already been spoken to. Everything and everybody isat your service."Tictocq consulted his watch. "Come to this room to-morrow afternoon at 6o'clock with the landlord, the Populist Candidate, and any otherwitnesses elected from both parties, and I will return the socks.""Bien, Monsieur; schlafen sie wohl.""Au revoir."The Chairman of the Democratic Executive Committee, Platform No.2, bowedcourteously and withdrew.* * * *Tictocq sent for the bell boy. "Did you go to room 76 last night?""Yes, sir.""Who was there?""An old hayseed what come on the 7:25.""What did he want?""The bouncer.""What for?""To put the light out.""Did you take anything while in the room?""No, he didn't ask me.""What is your name?""Jim.""You can go."CHAPTER IIThe drawing-rooms of one of the most magnificent private residences inAustin are a blaze of lights. Carriages line the streets in front, andfrom gate to doorway is spread a velvet carpet, on which the delicatefeet of the guests may tread.The occasion is the entree into society of one of the fairest buds inthe City of the Violet Crown. The rooms are filled with the culture, thebeauty, the youth and fashion of society. Austin society is acknowledgedto be the wittiest, the most select, and the highest bred to be foundsouthwest of Kansas City.Mrs. Rutabaga St. Vitus, the hostess, is accustomed to draw around her acircle of talent, and beauty, rarely equalled anywhere. Her eveningscome nearer approaching the dignity of a salon than any occasion,except, perhaps, a Tony Faust and Marguerite reception at the IronFront.Miss St. Vitus, whose advent into society's maze was heralded by such anauspicious display of hospitality, is a slender brunette, with large,lustrous eyes, a winning smile, and a charming ingenue manner. She wearsa china silk, cut princesse, with diamond ornaments, and a couple oftowels inserted in the back to conceal prominence of shoulder blades.She is chatting easily and naturally on a plush covered tete-a-tete withHarold St. Clair, the agent for a Minneapolis pants company. Her friendand schoolmate, Elsie Hicks, who married three drummers in one day, aweek or two before, and won a wager of two dozen bottles of Budweiserfrom the handsome and talented young hack-driver, Bum Smithers, ispromenading in and out the low French windows with Ethelbert Windup, thepopular young candidate for hide inspector, whose name is familiar toevery one who reads police court reports.Somewhere, concealed by shrubbery, a band is playing, and during thepauses in conversation, onions can be smelt frying in the kitchen.Happy laughter rings out from ruby lips, handsome faces grow tender asthey bend over white necks and drooping beads; timid eyes convey thingsthat lips dare not speak, and beneath silken bodice and broadcloth,hearts beat time to the sweet notes of "Love's Young Dream.""And where have you been for some time past, you recreant cavalier?"says Miss St. Vitus to Harold St. Clair. "Have you been worshipping atanother shrine? Are you recreant to your whilom friends? Speak, SirKnight, and defend yourself.""Oh, come off," says Harold, in his deep, musical baritone; "I've beenhaving a devil of a time fitting pants on a lot of bow-legged jays fromthe cotton-patch. Got knobs on their legs, some of 'em big as gourds,and all expect a fit. Did you every try to measure a bow-legged--Imean--can't you imagine what a jam-swizzled time I have getting pants tofit 'em? Business dull too, nobody wants 'em over three dollars.""You witty boy," says Miss St. Vitus. "Just as full of bon mots andclever sayings as ever. What do you take now?""Oh, beer.""Give me your arm and let's go into the drawing-room and draw a cork.I'm chewing a little cotton myself."Arm in arm, the handsome couple pass across the room, the cynosure ofall eyes. Luderic Hetherington, the rising and gifted night-watchman atthe Lone Star slaughter house, and Mabel Grubb, the daughter of themillionaire owner of the Humped-backed Camel saloon, are standing underthe oleanders as they go by."She is very beautiful," says Luderic."Rats," says Mabel.A keen observer would have noted all this time the figure of a solitaryman who seemed to avoid the company but by adroit changing of hisposition, and perfectly cool and self-possessed manner, avoided drawingany especial attention to himself.The lion of the evening is Herr Professor Ludwig von Bum, the pianist.He had been found drinking beer in a saloon on East Pecan Street byColonel St. Vitus about a week before, and according to the Austincustom in such cases, was invited home by the colonel, and the next dayaccepted into society, with large music classes at his service.Professor von Bum is playing the lovely symphony in G minor fromBeethoven's "Songs Without Music." The grand chords fill the room withexquisite harmony. He plays the extremely difficult passages in theobligato home run in a masterly manner, and when he finishes with thatgrand te deum with arpeggios on the side, there is that complete hush inthe room that is dearer to the artist's heart than the loudest applause.The professor looks around.The room is empty.Empty with the exception of Tictocq, the great French detective, whosprings from behind a mass of tropical plants to his side.The professor rises in alarm."Hush," says Tictocq: "Make no noise at all. You have already madeenough."Footsteps are heard outside."Be quick," says Tictocq: "give me those socks. There is not a moment tospare.""Vas sagst du?""Ah, he confesses," says Tictocq. "No socks will do but those youcarried off from the Populist Candidate's room."The company is returning, no longer hearing the music.Tictooq hesitates not. He seizes the professor, throws him upon thefloor, tears off his shoes and socks, and escapes with the latterthrough the open window into the garden.CHAPTER IIITictocq's room in the Avenue Hotel.A knock is heard at the door.Tictocq opens it and looks at his watch."Ah," he says, "it is just six. Entrez, Messieurs."The messieurs entrez. There are seven of them; the Populist Candidatewho is there by invitation, not knowing for what purpose; the chairmanof the Democratic Executive Committee, platform No. 2, the hotelproprietor, and three or four Democrats and Populists, as near as couldbe found out."I don't know," begins the Populist Candidate, "what in the h----""Excuse me," says Tictocq, firmly. "You will oblige me by keeping silentuntil I make my report. I have been employed in this case, and I haveunravelled it. For the honor of France I request that I be heard withattention.""Certainly," says the chairman; "we will be pleased to listen."Tictocq stands in the centre of the room. The electric light burnsbrightly above him. He seems the incarnation of alertness, vigor,cleverness, and cunning.The company seat themselves in chairs along the wall."When informed of the robbery," begins Tictocq, "I first questioned thebell boy. He knew nothing. I went to the police headquarters. They knewnothing. I invited one of them to the bar to drink. He said there usedto be a little colored boy in the Tenth Ward who stole things and keptthem for recovery by the police, but failed to be at the place agreedupon for arrest one time, and had been sent to jail."I then began to think. I reasoned. No man, said I, would carry aPopulist's socks in his pocket without wrapping them up. He would notwant to do so in the hotel. He would want a paper. Where would he getone? At the Statesman office, of course. I went there. A young man withhis hair combed down on his forehead sat behind the desk. I knew he waswriting society items, for a young lady's slipper, a piece of cake, afan, a half emptied bottle of cocktail, a bunch of roses, and a policewhistle lay on the desk before him."Can you tell me if a man purchased a paper here in the last threemonths?" I said."Yes," he replied; "we sold one last night.""Can you describe the man?""Accurately. He had blue whiskers, a wart between his shoulder blades, atouch of colic, and an occupation tax on his breath.""Which way did he go?""Out.""I then went----""Wait a minute," said the Populist Candidate, rising; "I don't see whyin the h----""Once more I must beg that you will be silent," said Tictocq, rathersharply. "You should not interrupt me in the midst of my report.""I made one false arrest," continued Tictocq. "I was passing two finelydressed gentlemen on the street, when one of them remarked that he had'stole his socks.' I handcuffed him and dragged him to a lighted store,when his companion explained to me that he was somewhat intoxicated andhis tongue was not entirely manageable. He had been speaking of somebusiness transaction, and what he intended to say was that he had 'soldhis stocks.'"I then released him."An hour afterward I passed a saloon, and saw this Professor von Bumdrinking beer at a table. I knew him in Paris. I said 'here is my man.'He worshipped Wagner, lived on limburger cheese, beer, and credit, andwould have stolen anybody's socks. I shadowed him to the reception atColonel St. Vitus's, and in an opportune moment I seized him and torethe socks from his feet. There they are."With a dramatic gesture, Tictocq threw a pair of dingy socks upon thetable, folded his arms, and threw back his head.With a loud cry of rage, the Populist Candidate sprang once more to hisfeet."Gol darn it! I WILL say what I want to. I----"The two other Populists in the room gazed at him coldly and sternly."Is this tale true?" they demanded of the Candidate."No, by gosh, it ain't!" he replied, pointing a trembling finger at theDemocratic Chairman. "There stands the man who has concocted the wholescheme. It is an infernal, unfair political trick to lose votes for ourparty. How far has thing gone?" he added, turning savagely to thedetective."All the newspapers have my written report on the matter, and theStatesman will have it in plate matter next week," said Tictocq,complacently."All is lost!" said the Populists, turning toward the door."For God's sake, my friends," pleaded the Candidate, following them;"listen to me; I swear before high heaven that I never wore a pair ofsocks in my life. It is all a devilish campaign lie."The Populists turn their backs."The damage is already done," they said. "The people have heard thestory. You have yet time to withdraw decently before the race."All left the room except Tictocq and the Democrats."Let's all go down and open a bottle of fizz on the Finance Committee,"said the Chairman of the Executive Committee, Platform No. 2.

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