Title: Book of brief narratives, Multum in parvo library, vol. 1, no. 12, December, 1894
Author: Frank Pemmon, - To be updated
Language: English
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MULTUM IN PARVO LIBRARY, VOL. 1, NO. 12, DECEMBER, 1894 ***


Transcriber’s Note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

Multum in Parvo Library.

Vol. I. DECEMBER, 1894. _Published Monthly._ No. 12.



Book of Brief Narratives.


  _Smallest Magazine in the World. Subscription
  price, 50 cts. per year. Single copies, 5 cents each._

  PUBLISHED BY
  A. B. COURTNEY,
  671 Tremont Street, Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

DETECTIVE STORIES.

From the Diary of a New York Detective.

EDITED BY FRANK PEMMON.



A Chance Meeting.


Several years ago I was detailed to undertake the solution of a mystery
surrounding a robbery which had baffled the police for a month or more.
Then two detectives had been set at work upon it and had failed to
locate the thief. I was given the case. I did not exactly succeed in
finding the thief, but I brought him to justice, just the same. How,
you shall see.

The house of Mr. Bond had been broken into and a large amount of
jewelry stolen. Among the latter was a handsome gold watch belonging
to the daughter of Mr. Bond. It had been a birthday present from her
mother, and was highly prized by her. Her father offered a large reward
for its recovery. I called at the home of Mr. Bond to get a description
of the missing jewelry and whatever other information the family could
give me. This was little enough. The jewelry had been stolen and no
trace of the thief was to be found. That was all. I was expected, with
no clue whatever to work upon, to ferret out and bring the thief to
justice, and at the same time recover Miss Bond’s watch. The only
thing that the thief had left behind him was a piece of paper on which
was written the words:

“Remember the poor.” I did not regard this as being of any importance,
and gave it little or no thought.

I was a young man at the time, unmarried, and, as it may be guessed,
susceptible to the charms of pretty girls. Miss Bond--Clara--was a
pretty girl, and I may as well confess, I fell in love with her at
first sight. I also made an impression upon her. This caused me all the
more eagerly to work up the case and try to bring it to a successful
conclusion. Who knows, thought I, what may be at the end of it? I made
a good many visits to the Bond house, nominally to seek information,
in reality to gaze upon the face of the charming Miss Bond. My search
for the thief did not progress very favorably. In fact, I had made no
progress whatever. It promised to remain an unsolved mystery. I could
not find the thief. Now comes the strange part of the story--how the
thief found me. I had just boarded a railway train when a man followed
me, and quietly slipped into the seat next to me. He carried a small
bag which he hid under the seat. I also had a bag somewhat similar to
his own.

“Well, Jimmy,” he remarked, “how did you succeed?”

“First rate,” I returned, in a whisper, so as not to betray my identity
by my voice. It was clear that I was in conversation with a thief--he
did not look to my well-trained eyes like an honest man--and I must
keep up the deception.

“Got the swag?” he asked.

I merely tapped my bag for reply. It was nearly dusk and the car lamps
had not been lighted. My companion had not yet discovered his mistake.
I didn’t feel exactly flattered at being mistaken, even in the half
light, for a thief.

“How with you?” I asked.

“Aint done much since I tapped ‘Remember the poor.’”

“Remember the poor!” The words flashed across my mind. Was I on the
track of the thief at last?

“Got the watch yet?” I asked.

“Yes, don’t dare to try to get rid of it. Where is Baggy John, now?”

What the deuce was I to say? Just then a man came down the car aisle.
I saw at once it was the man whom my companion had really expected to
meet. The resemblance between us was remarkable. My companion looked
from one to the other and then tried to get away. Not before I had a
pair of hand-cuffs encircling his wrists, however.

That is how I caught the thief, got my promotion, the reward, and last,
but by no means least, my wife.



How Was She Killed?


“If I ever do it, I’ll do it in that way.”

These were the words I accidentally overheard one day, many years
ago, as I was walking along the beach at one of our celebrated summer
resorts. The person who uttered the above mentioned remark, a young
man of about 28 or 30, spoke only half aloud and was evidently unaware
that there was anyone within hearing distance. It was not my purpose
to play eavesdropper. I was in a thoughtful mood myself, and with my
head bowed almost upon my breast I had overtaken the young man and
overheard his words. He had been reading a paper-covered novel of the
sensational kind. As I passed him I glanced at the title. It was, “How
was she killed?” I passed on my way as if I had not heard anything,
and the young man turned to his book, in which he was evidently much
interested. I had taken a sufficiently good look at the man to enable
me to recognize him again. My memory for faces and forms is very good.
On my return to the hotel I saw a number of copies of “How Was She
Killed?” on sale. Partly out of curiosity I bought one and read it. I
was afterward glad I did so.

Two years after the incident just narrated I was detailed to undertake
the solution of a mystery surrounding the death of an unknown young
lady. She had been found dead in the woods. It looked like a case of
suicide by poison, as there were no marks of any kind upon the body to
show that death had been the result of violence. An examination of the
stomach was held, but there was no trace of poison in it. It was in a
perfectly healthy condition. There was nothing to show that death had
resulted from natural causes. If it was a case of suicide, how had the
act been committed; if of murder, how had the murderer done his work?
No one claimed the body and it lay for several days in the morgue.

The examination of the doctors and others had evidently not been of a
very thorough nature. I examined the body myself very carefully and
found what they had apparently overlooked--a tiny mark near the heart,
so small that at first sight it was not observable. At my request the
heart was opened and examined. The result was as I had expected. The
organ contained a fine steel needle, pointed at both ends. This was
what had caused the unfortunate woman’s death. She had been murdered,
and the murderer had done his work in such a manner as to allay all
suspicion--almost. I immediately thought of the sensational novel, “How
Was She Killed?” The victim in that story had met her death at the
hands of her lover in exactly this way. Had this young lady a lover or
any one who wished to get her out of the way? It was a week before she
was identified; and when she was, her lover--a scheming rascal--was
found to be no other than the man I had encountered two years before
and had overheard make the remark with which this story opens. It was
an easy task to prove him guilty of the murder of his sweetheart, and
he saved himself from the gallows only by committing suicide after his
trial and conviction.



It Was Not Murder.


Old Farmer Bunker lived alone. His wife had died years ago and he had
never remarried. He had no children. People said he ought not to live
alone, that something was certain to happen to him; robbers would break
into his house and steal his valuables and perhaps kill him. For once
the people happened, so it seemed, to be right. One morning Mr. Bunker
was found dead in his bed, and an ugly knife wound over the heart
seemed to tell only too plainly what had been the cause of his death.
An autopsy was not considered necessary. The services of a detective
rather than those of the medical examiner were called into requisition.
I was the detective detailed to look into the case. The first thought
was that robbery had been committed. An examination of the house failed
to show any evidence that such had been the intention of the murderer.
Apparently nothing had been disturbed. A bureau drawer containing a
large sum of money had not even been opened. Then it was thought that
the old man must have committed suicide. A search was made for the
implement with which he had committed the deed, but it was nowhere to
be found. It was certain that death had been almost instantaneous, and
of course Mr. Bunker could not have had time to hide the instrument of
self-destruction. It was, therefore, unmistakably a case of murder.

I began an immediate and most thorough and systematic search for the
murderer. Although Mr. Bunker had lived alone he was neither a miser
nor a crank, and did not appear to have had an enemy in the world. The
crowds that flocked to the house came to view the body of their old
friend, and to express a wish that his murderer be brought to speedy
justice. Motives of mere curiosity did not actuate many of them. From
several of them I gathered a number of clues, all of which pointed to
one conclusion, namely, that a tramp had been seen coming from the
direction of the Bunker farm early in the morning of the day on which
the body of Mr. Bunker had been found. I now directed my efforts to
trace and locate the tramp. On the next day I had him in custody. He
had not gone far. He made some very extraordinary statements. He said
that Mr. Bunker was his friend, and that he had not killed him. When
searched he had in his possession over $20 in bills. He was also known
to have sent $30 to somebody in Virginia. This money he claimed had
been given to him by Mr. Bunker. He furthermore claimed that he was not
a tramp but a machinist in search of work.

“Was an autopsy held upon the body of Mr. Bunker?” inquired the
suspected man.

“No; the cause of death was too plainly apparent.”

“I thought as much. If an autopsy had been held it would have shown
that Mr. Bunker died a natural death.”

I was impressed with the man’s sincerity. He seemed to be no ordinary
tramp, and I was convinced that he was telling the truth, as he
believed it.

At my request an autopsy was held. The result of it went to prove that
Mr. Bunker’s death occurred from apoplexy, and he was dead several
hours before the knife wound in the heart had been inflicted.

“You evidently did not kill Mr. Bunker,” I said, “but do you know
anything about the knife wound which we supposed caused the death?”

“Yes,” replied the tramp, “I inflicted it myself.”

“You! Why did you do it?”

“I’ll tell you.”

And he told the following story:

  THE TRAMP’S STORY.

  “Joseph Bunker and I have been friends from boyhood. We always lived
  near each other and grew up together. We never quarrelled as most
  boys will. The families of both of us were in well-to-do condition.
  The war came and reduced us to poverty. I forgot to tell you that we
  were natives of and then living in Virginia. After the war I learned
  the trade of a machinist, while Mr. Bunker wandered North to try his
  luck. He succeeded pretty well, I have reason to believe, far better
  than I have. The incident I have to relate occurred just before he
  left for the North. Joseph’s father died. There are a number of
  people in Virginia who, as perhaps you know, have a peculiar custom
  as regards the treatment of their dead. Before burial, in order to
  guard against the terrible possibility of burying their friends alive
  while seeming to be dead, they run a dagger through the heart. The
  Bunker family, as well as mine, had always adhered to this custom.
  Joseph Bunker, however, was an exception to the general rule. He
  believed the custom to be as unnecessary as it was revolting. He
  chose to accept the word of the doctors that his father was really
  dead, and did not believe there was any possibility or probability of
  his being in a trance. He refused to allow his father’s remains to be
  mutilated, as he called it. It was winter time when his father died.
  It was an unusually severe winter, and to dig a grave was out of the
  question. So the body was deposited in the receiving vault to wait
  for spring. In the spring a grave was dug and everything made ready
  for the burial. Just previous to the interment, Joseph expressed a
  desire to look once more upon the face of his dead parent. The casket
  was opened, and a most horrifying sight met the gaze of those who
  stood around. The corpse, as it was believed to be, had evidently
  come to life, and in the struggle to get out of the casket, the
  lid of which had been only too securely fastened down, Mr. Bunker
  had torn his hair out by the handfuls, and had torn to shreds the
  interior furnishings of his narrow prison. Strong man though he was,
  Joseph Bunker fainted away and did not recover consciousness until
  the body of his father had been buried. He and I alone remained by
  the grave side when the others had gone. We then and there made a
  solemn vow that the survivor should perform for the dead man--what
  the doctor should call the dead man--the office which my companion
  had neglected to perform in the case of his father. Shortly
  afterwards, as I have said, Joseph Bunker went North. A week ago I
  wandered into this neighborhood, partly in search of work and partly
  to pay a visit to my old friend. I had his address, for we had
  always been in communication with each other. In nearly all of his
  letters of late, he referred to the fact that his health was failing
  and that he wished I could make it convenient to be present at his
  death. My visit to his house found him suffering from the effects of
  a recent shock of apoplexy. He told me he didn’t think he had long to
  live. He spoke in truth. He died that very night, a few minutes after
  midnight. His last words were: ‘Don’t forget our vow, old friend.’ I
  hadn’t forgotten, but I put off doing the unwelcome work until I was
  certain my old friend was dead. I waited five hours, then I fulfilled
  my vow. I was afraid to be found with the dead body. People would not
  believe my story, I feared. So I struck off and got away as far from
  the place as possible; guilty of no crime, yet fearing punishment at
  the hands of those who would perhaps not believe my story.”



A Freight Car Adventure.


The freight cars of the B. & R. Railroad were being systematically
robbed. During one month in 1891, the railroad company lost over
$5,000 in this way. It was impossible to catch the thieves. On several
occasions the conductor, engineer and brakeman had been shot at, and
narrowly escaped death. The thieves used to board the train either
before it left the freight yard, or during one of its numerous stops
along the road, and hold the train until they had secured what they
wanted, thrown it off, usually in a lonely spot far from dwellings,
and made their escape. On numerous occasions a posse of police were
secreted on the trains, but these nights (the robberies occurred always
at night) the thieves failed to put in an appearance, evidently having
learned that pains had been taken to give them a warm reception. I
suspected something more than the railroad officials seemed to suspect,
and when I was told to do my best to bring the thieves to justice, I
laid my plans accordingly. I sought leave from the conductor to ride on
his train in disguise.

“I can’t allow you to do so without permission from headquarters,”
declared the conductor.

“But I want to try to capture the thieves who have been robbing this
company’s trains and shooting at you, and I haven’t time to get the
necessary permission,” I protested.

The conductor still refused to let me ride.

“I must and shall ride on your train to-night,” I said. “To-morrow
night I shall be a good many miles away and I must carry out my orders
to-night.”

“I have my orders, too, to carry out,” declared the conductor.

“I shall ride, nevertheless,” was my parting shot.

I did not ride. I had no intention of doing so. There was nothing taken
from that train that night.

On the following night I secreted myself in the train, disguised as a
tramp. I lay in hiding in an empty hay car. At the various stopping
places, I took careful note of what occurred. Nothing suspicious
happened until we got about two miles beyond C----. Here the train
slowed up, although there was no station anywhere in sight. From my
post of observation I saw everything that occurred. The conductor
and some of the brakemen broke open the door of a car in which, as I
afterward learned, there was a big consignment of tobacco and cigars. A
large quantity of this was thrown out. Pretty soon one of the brakemen
left his fellows and started rapidly away from the train. Hastily
slipping from my place of concealment, I hurried after him. I had not
taken half a dozen steps when a pistol shot whistled past my head. I
stopped short, drew my revolver and prepared to open fire upon those
in my rear. Just as I turned I saw the conductor take off his hat,
and, holding it in his hand, deliberately fire his revolver at it. On
the morrow, he would doubtless tell a harrowing tale of adventure with
train robbers, and show visible proof of his own narrow escape from
death. I was immediately taken in charge by the train crew, and, it
being part of my plan, I made no resistance. We had not gone many miles
when the conductor came to me and magnanimously offered me my freedom
and promised not to turn me over to the authorities, if I would go
quietly about my business.

“Why do you hold me prisoner?” I demanded.

“For complicity in robbing this train,” replied the conductor, coolly.
“Your accomplice got away.”

“Yours, you mean,” I remarked.

“Who’ll believe that story?”

The conductor did not suspect my identity. He put me off the train. If
he had known whom I was, my life would probably not have been worth ten
cents.

I hurried to the nearest station, hunted up the telegraph operator, and
when the robbed train reached the end of its run, there were several
policemen on hand to put the conductor and his accomplices under arrest.

       *       *       *       *       *

For another lot of choice detective stories see No. 11 of Multum in
Parvo Library.



Two Ghosts.


The following extraordinary story came under my observation some years
ago:

Tom Johnson and Jack Spencer were close friends. One evening in
Johnson’s room they played cards and Spencer won every cent Johnson
had. Spencer was visiting his friend at the time, and retired to
sleep with him. Sometime after midnight Spencer awoke feeling very
uncomfortable. There was a strange silence in the room. Johnson,
usually a loud snorer, was sleeping as quietly and peacefully as a
baby. Was he really sleeping or was he dead? This question flashed
across Spencer’s mind. He leaned toward his friend to ascertain whether
he was breathing. He was not. He felt for his heart. It was not
beating. He raised his friend’s head from the pillow. It dropped back,
heavy as lead. The limbs were stiff. The _rigor mortis_ had already
come upon the body.

“Johnson must have committed suicide,” thought Spencer aghast. “It’s
all on account of his losing so much money at cards. Now that it
has been impressed upon me, I recall his strange remark on saying
good-night. It was, ‘Well, if I should die to-night, good-bye, old
fellow.’ And he seemed quite despondent. I also saw him drink something
out of a small phial, poison, no doubt. What shall I do? I have been
indirectly the cause of his committing suicide. I won all his money at
cards--money which he no doubt had intended to devote to some special
purpose. How can I face his mother under such circumstances? I can not
and shall not. I’ll get out of the way for a few days, until I recover
from the shock of this terrible affair.”

Another impulse came to him and he proceeded to set upon it. He took
nearly all the money from his pocket and put it on the table, where the
friends of the dead man would be sure to find it. He also placed near
it a note, inscribed as follows: “Please use this money to defray the
funeral expenses. Spencer.”

Then he quietly left the house, and he took the first train from the
city. He eagerly scanned the evening papers next day, for news of the
finding of the dead body of Johnson. There was nothing to that effect,
but instead he read the following item concerning himself:

  IS IT SUICIDE?

  John Spencer has mysteriously disappeared and is supposed to have
  committed suicide. Before committing the rash act, he left a sum of
  money which he directed to be used for defraying the burial expenses.
  The ponds in the neighborhood are being dragged in the hope of
  finding the body.

His surprise on reading the above can readily be imagined. He returned
home immediately. Almost the first person he met was his friend,
Johnson.

Spencer staggered and put his hand to his head. Was he awake? Johnson
showed similar signs of surprise.

“Then you didn’t commit suicide,” said Johnson.

“And you are not dead?” returned Spencer.

“Dead? Certainly not.”

“But I left you for dead in bed last night.”

“Dead! You must have been dreaming.”

“No; you were pulseless and cold and stiff.”

“Ah,” said Johnson, “that is easily explained. I was simply in one of
my cataleptic fits. No wonder you thought I was dead.”

“Yes, I thought you had committed suicide.”

“That’s what we all thought about you. What did you leave the money
for?”

“Why, to pay your funeral expenses.”

“Well, since I don’t need it, I shall return it,” said Johnson. “I was
afraid I’d have to use it to pay yours.”

“I am glad it has all turned out so happily, old fellow,” said Spencer,
and the two ghosts shook hands.



He Addressed the Jury.


A man who had never seen the inside of a courtroom until he was
introduced as a witness in a case pending in one of the Scottish
courts, on being sworn, took a position with his back to the jury, and
began telling his story to the judge.

The judge, in a bland and courteous manner, said,--

“Address yourself to the jury, sir.”

The man made a short pause, but, notwithstanding what had been said to
him, continued his narrative.

The judge was then more explicit, and said to him, “Speak to the jury,
sir; the men sitting behind you on the benches.”

The witness at once turned around, and, making an awkward bow, said,
with perfect gravity,--

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Note:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

The following change was made:

p. 7: married changed to remarried (never remarried. He)



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