Lawrence Lynch - Dangerous Ground - or, The Rival Detectives

“Tell him that I accept the proposition. A man can’t afford to lose so splendid a chance for friendship’s sake. Besides,” his eyes darkening and his mouth twitching convulsively, “it’s time for Dick and I to find out who is the better man! ”

Returning to the inner office, the Chief of the force found his strange patron walking fiercely up and down the room, with a newspaper grasped firmly in his hand, and on his countenance traces of agitation.

“Look!” he cried, approaching and forcing the paper upon the astonished Chief; “see what a moment of waiting has brought me!”

And he pointed to a paragraph beginning:

WANTED. INFORMATION OF ANY SORT CONCERNING one Arthur Pearson, etc. etc.

“An advertisement, I see;” said the Chief. “But I fail to understand why it should thus excite you.”

“A moment ago it was my intention to keep the identity of the murdered man a secret. This,” indicating the paper by a quick gesture, “changes the face of affairs. After twenty years, some one inquires after Arthur Pearson – ”

“Then Arthur Pearson is – ”

“The man who was murdered near the Marais des Cygnes!”

“And the child?”

“I never knew her name until now. No doubt it is the little girl that was in Pearson’s care.”

“What became of the child?”

“I never knew.”

“And how does this discovery affect your movements?”

“I will tell you; but, first, you saw Vernet?”

“Yes; and he accepts.”

“Good! That notice was inserted either by some friend of Pearson’s, or by the child’s father, John Ainsworth.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Nothing; I never met him. But, as soon as you have seen Stanhope, and I am sure that these two sharp fellows are prepared to hunt down poor Pearson’s assassins, I will meet him, if the notice is his, for I am going to Australia.”

“Ah!”

“Yes; I can do no good here. To-morrow morning, business will take me out of the city. When I return, in two days, let me have Stanhope’s answer.”

When Richard Stanhope appeared at the office that night a little later than usual, the story of Arthur Pearson and his mysterious death was related for the third time that day, and the strange and munificent offer of the stranger, for the second time rehearsed by the Chief.

“What do you think of it, my boy? Are you anxious to try for a fortune?”

“No, thank you.”

It was said as coolly as if he were declining a bad cigar.

“Consider, Dick.”

“There is no need. Van and I have pulled together too long to let a mere matter of money come between us. He would never accept such a proposition.”

The Chief bit his lip and remained silent.

“Or if he did,” went on Stanhope, “he would not work against me. Tell your patron that with Van Vernet I will undertake the case. He may make Van his chief, and I will gladly assist. Without Van as my rival, I will work it alone; but against him, as his rival for honors and lucre, never! ”

The Chief slowly arose, and resting his hands upon the shoulders of the younger man, looked in his face with fatherly pride.

“Dick, you’re a splendid fellow, and a shrewd detective,” he said, “but you have a weakness. You study strangers, but you trust your friends with absolute blindness. Van is ambitious.”

“So am I.”

“He loves money.”

“A little too well, I admit.”

“If he should accept this offer?”

“But he won’t.”

“If he should ;” persisted the Chief.

“If such a thing were possible, – if, without a friendly consultation, and a fair and square send off, he should take up the cudgel against me, then – ”

“Then, Dick?”

Richard Stanhope’s eyes flashed, and his mouth set itself in firm lines.

“ Then ,” he said, “I would measure my strength against his as a detective; but always as a friend, and never to his injury!”

“And, Dick, if, in the thick of the strife, Van forgets his friendship for you and becomes your enemy?”

“Then, as I am only human, I should be his enemy too. But that will not happen.”

“I hope not; I hope not, my boy. But – Van Vernet has already accepted the stranger’s proposition.”

Stanhope leaped to his feet.

“What!” he cried, “has Van agreed to work against me – without a word to me – and so soon!”

His lips trembled now, and his eyes searched those of his Chief with the eager, inquiring look of a grieved child.

“It is as I say, Stanhope.”

“Then,” and he threw back his head and instantly resumed his usual look of careless indifference, “tell your patron, whoever he may be, that I am his man , for one year, or for twenty!”

Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had been brother detectives during the entire term of their professional career.

Entering the Agency when mere striplings, they had at once formed a friendship that had been strong and lasting. Their very differences of disposition and habits made them the better fellow-workmen, and the role most difficult for one was sure to be found the easier part for the other to play.

They had been a strong combination, and the Chief of the detectives wasted some time in pondering the question: what would be the result, when their skill and courage stood arrayed against each other?

Meantime, Richard Stanhope, wasting no thought upon the matter, hastened from the presence of his Chief to his own quarters.

“It’s my last night,” he muttered, as he inserted his key in the lock, “and I’ll just take one more look at the slums. I don’t want to lose one bird from that flock.”

Half an hour later, there sallied forth from the door where Stanhope had entered, a roughly-dressed, swaggering, villainous-looking fellow, who bore about with him the strongly defined odors of tobacco and bad whiskey.

This individual, armed with a black liquor flask, two revolvers, a blood-thirsty-looking dirk, a pair of brass knuckles, and a quantity of plug tobacco, took his way through the streets, avoiding the more popular and respectable thoroughfares, and gradually approaching that portion of the city almost entirely given over to the worst of the bad, – a network of short streets and narrow alleys, as intricate as the maze, and as dangerous to the unwary as an African jungle.

But the man who now entered these dismal streets walked with the manner of one familiar with their sights and sounds. Moving along with an air of stolid indifference to what was before and about him, he arrived at a rickety building, somewhat larger than those surrounding it, the entrance to which was reached by going down, instead of up, a flight of stone steps. This entrance was feebly illuminated by a lantern hung against the doorway, and by a few stray gleams of light that shone out from the rents in the ragged curtains.

Pushing open the door, our visitor found himself in a large room with sanded floor, a counter or bar, and five or six tables, about which a number of men were lounging, – some at cards, some drinking, and some conversing in the queer jargon called thieves’ slang, and which is as Greek to the unenlightened.

The buzz of conversation almost ceased as the door opened, but was immediately resumed when the new comer came forward toward the light.

“Is that you, Cull?” called the man behind the bar. “You’ve been keepin’ scarce of late.”

The man addressed as “Cull” laughed discordantly.

“I’ve been visitin’ in the country,” he returned, with a knowing wink. “It’s good for my health this time o’ year. How’s business? You’ve got the hull deck on hand, I should say.”