The first American King

The antechamber of the King, in the great Summer Palace on the hill, was crowded with officers of the Army and Navy, financiers and statesmen, diplomats and courtiers. The officers and the diplomats wore the uniforms of their respective services. The rest were clad in court costume, consisting of knee-breeches and tunic, strongly suggesting the court dress of the times of Louis XVI. It is said that fashions, like history, repeat themselves and here was a reversion to the models of the gay French court in the days of the Bourbons. With the splendor of color and the glittering crosses and orders upon the breasts of the men, the scene was a brilliant one.

A gorgeously attired attendant stood at the door leading into the inner audience chamber. At intervals someone who had been received in audience would pass out and the attendant, in a loud voice, would call a name and the favored one would pass to the audience chamber.

“General Mainwarren!” called the attendant, presently, and the General, leaving the side of Colonel Cuming, advanced and passed in.

The audience accorded the General was not prolonged. In a short time he returned to the antechamber. There was a slight flush upon his face and his mouth was set in a determined line.

“How did matters pass off?” inquired the Colonel anxiously.

“Nothing decisive,” replied General Mainwarren. “I am commanded to remain at Court pending further discussion. I had, though, a rather sharp passage of arms with Milord Ashley.”

“Colonel Sir Maynard Cuming and party!” the attendant at that moment announced; and the Colonel, followed by the Professor and Kearns, entered the audience chamber.

The King was seated in a massive chair of magnificently carved oak, beside a portentous-looking table, littered with documents of state and other papers tied together with pink or blue silk ribbon. As he sat there, he presented the appearance of a man slightly above the middle height, slight of figure and thin of face, with keen, bright blue eyes, a long and luxuriant brown moustache and short, closely clipped, lighter-brown beard. The face, deeply marked with lines of thought and care, showed keen perception and sharp intuition. His movements were quick and nervous. There was one noticeable mannerism. The face had a peculiar aptitude for breaking into a smile which at its moment of origin was bright and cheery and, so lasting for a moment, suddenly died away into a fixed, cold stare. It was as a gleam of sunshine, followed by frost. He was garbed in the dress of the Court and upon his breast glittered a single order.

Beside and slightly behind him stood Lord Cyril Ashley, Vice-Chancellor of the Empire and Master of the Imperial Household. Lord Ashley was a well-preserved man of middle age; tall, handsome, and of soldierly bearing. The face, with its dark eyes, strongly marked brows and sweeping black moustache, was that of a man of stern will and strong determination. He was dressed in the dashing uniform of a Captain of the Guards.

Colonel Cuming advanced, bowing low before the King, followed by his two companions. The Colonel was received by His Majesty with marked cordiality and at the royal invitation he presented the Professor and Kearns. As the latter was presented, the King turned upon him a sharp, scrutinizing glance.

His Majesty listened to the story of the resurrection of the two wayfarers from the past with an air of marked interest and after asking a number of questions signified that the interview was at an end. But it was the royal wish that Mr. Thomas Kearns should remain in special audience.

Colonel Cuming and the Professor accordingly backed out of the royal presence, leaving Kearns somewhat astonished and perplexed amid his novel surroundings.

“History records, Mr. Kearns,” said the King, “that you were the most skilful and the most successful Chief of Secret Service this country has ever known. Is not that correct, Milord?” he asked, turning to Lord Ashley.

“It is so recorded, Sire,” answered the Vice-Chancellor. “Our historians and our writers of fiction have alike presented to us Mr. Kearns as the great Chief of Secret Service of the Western world—the equal of Vidocq, or of Fouché, if not their superior.”

“Just so,” said the King; “and it is precisely a Fouché that we need at our court at the present time. Your old-time cunning is, doubtless, still with you?”

Kearns bowed somewhat awkwardly.

“I do not know, Sire,” he answered simply.

He had heard both Colonel Cuming and Lord Ashley address the King as “Sire,” and he thought it best to follow this form.

“How so—you do not know?” inquired the King.

“Well, Sire,” replied Kearns, “as such talents as I once had have not had a chance of being exercised during seventy-five years, they may have become somewhat rusty. Besides, your writers have, perhaps, taken liberties and have exaggerated somewhat.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the King, his face breaking into a pleasant smile; “the modesty of genius!” The smile faded suddenly into that peculiar frosty stare, and he continued: “We have, however, less need for modesty than for action. Do you feel your abilities impaired?”

“Not in the least, Sire,” came the quick answer. “I feel as well as ever I did in my life.”

“Why, then,” retorted the King, “should you question your ability? Is it not true that upon one occasion you detected the writer of certain letters from among a whole cityful of people?”

“I had so many cases in my time, Sire,” answered Kearns, with some hesitancy, “that I scarcely recollect the particular case you seem to have in mind. My memory has grown a little faint after this lapse of time. If you could give me a few details as to the circumstances——”

“The circumstances,” exclaimed the King, “were, as we remember them, as follows: An ancestor of one of our most distinguished subjects—Baron Gold—had been the recipient of a number of letters, written by some unknown writer, threatening him with assassination. He sent to you for aid in his peril and, it is recorded, within forty-eight hours, by a most ingenious plan, you had detected and apprehended the malefactor. Is this true?”

Kearns with difficulty restrained himself from laughing outright. Well he remembered the case now and the shrewd face of the ancestor of the distinguished Baron Gold rose with startling vividness before his mental vision.

“Quite true, Sire,” he answered gravely; “but the case was a rather simple one.”

“A rather simple one! We would have you tell us how you accomplished these things.”

“In this way, Sire,” replied Kearns. “As you have said, our friend—that is, I should say, the—ah—distinguished ancestor of the distinguished Baron Gold had been in receipt of letters threatening him with death, unless he paid a certain money tribute. He was a man of wealth—of very great wealth—but he had a constitutional aversion to parting with it. Almost equally he disliked the possibility of sudden death.”

Again the King smiled his peculiar smile of mingled sunshine and frost.

“How the characteristics of the ancestor are carried down through the generations!” he remarked to Lord Ashley.

The latter smiled and bowed a respectful acquiescence.

“Proceed!” said the King.

“Brought face to face with these two almost equally disagreeable alternatives,” continued Kearns, “he sent for me. Investigation quickly showed me that all the letters had been mailed within a certain radius in the city. I caused such action to be taken by the ancestor of Baron Gold as was likely to lead to an early reply from the unknown letter writer. Then I proceeded to throw out my net. I caused every drop box in the post offices and every pillar box in the streets within the suspected district to be watched by two persons—the one an employe of the Post Office, the other one of my men. The moment a letter was dropped, the Post Office employe would proceed to examine the address on such letter. If it was not addressed to the threatened person, a rubber band was twisted over the envelope to distinguish it from anything dropped later. In this way the Post Office man was readily enabled to distinguish all the examined letters from the latest one dropped.

“This method,” pursued Kearns, “was continued systematically for a day and a night without yielding any result. On the afternoon of the second day, however, a man approached a letter box in one of the side streets, deposited a letter and hastily walked away. The Post Office employe stepped to the box, opened it as usual and—up went his hand above his head. This was the agreed signal. In an instant my man was after the depositor of the letter and had him in custody. He was brought before me and the letter, opened in his presence by—ah—the ancestor of Baron Gold, contained conclusive proof of his guilt. The man turned out to be a monomaniac, hence his peculiar cunning and the difficulty experienced in catching him in any of the ordinary traps usually laid in such cases. But, you see, after all, the case was simple enough.”

“It was highly ingenious,” decided the King. “It is recorded also that out of a band of men you picked a murderer by an examination of the hands of these men. Is this so?”

“Yes, Sire,” answered Kearns; “that’s quite correct. The case was a more difficult one. The circumstances were somewhat repellant.”

“Nevertheless, we would learn them,” said the King.

“A woman had been murdered by one of that species of fiends, half criminal, half madman, who spring up from time to time. The murderer in this case, after killing his victim, had torn away certain portions of the body. In the course of his devilish work, he had cut into and mutilated a portion of the intestines. My investigations discovered that a short time before the murder the woman had eaten a certain kind of food. From other circumstances learned by me I was convinced that one of a certain number of men had slain her. I had these men brought before me and caused the lodgments under their finger-nails to be carefully scraped and preserved in separate packages. A scientific examination of the contents of one package disclosed the presence of human blood corpuscles, together with certain minute particles, the chemical resultants of that particular food of which the woman had partaken shortly before her death. In a word, I had the murderer.”

“Skilful, decidedly skilful,” commented the King. “It is precisely for such skill that we have urgent need at the present time.”

“In what direction, Sire?”

“Here—at our Court. We have decided to retain you in our service and we count upon your fidelity and the exercise of your uttermost skill.”

Kearns bowed. The ancestor of the distinguished Baron Gold and the numerous other great men who had been wont to invoke his services in the olden time had adopted a tone of supplication rather than of patronage. However, he accepted the change as part and parcel of the new order of things and Mr. Thomas Kearns was a man to adapt himself to any and all existing circumstances.

“Listen, then,” said the King. “For some time past our peace has been disturbed—nay, the safety of our very person threatened—from some unknown source which all the energy of our Secret Service has been unable to discover. We look to you to discover that source—to run to earth these arch-enemies of our peace and safety.”

“Will you furnish me with further details, Sire?”

“It was some months ago,” continued the King, “when we awoke one morning to find a paper on the table beside our bed. It is needless to recount what this paper contained. Suffice that it held demands and threats. You will realize the importance of this happening, for he who had the power to deposit that paper had also the power to have inflicted more material injury.”

Kearns bowed his assent.

“Our sleeping apartment,” resumed the King, “is some fifty feet from the ground. There are sentinels on the roof of the palace and in the grounds below. The sentinels were trebled and other precautions taken and yet again this occurrence came to pass.”

“Another document,” questioned Kearns, “of the same character, deposited under the same circumstances?”

“Precisely,” said the King, and a perceptible shiver passed over him; “but yet stranger things were to happen. Extraordinary precautions were now taken. The surroundings of the room were filled with sentinels, men were posted in the corridors, an officer of the guard stationed in the antechamber. At our side slept our faithful mastiff, Victor—a noble brute, of great sagacity and strength. The doors leading into our apartment were sealed from the inside by our own hand, so that no movement of these doors could be made without disturbing these seals. Were these not precautions enough?”

“The value of a precaution is best tested by its efficacy, Sire,” replied Kearns cautiously.

“Then,” exclaimed the King, “these precautions were without value, for one night, some four weeks ago, there was another visitation.”

“Indeed, Sire?”

“Our repose had lasted some two hours when we were sharply awakened by the furious barking of the dog, followed by his savage growls. His head was bent to the ground and he savagely clutched something between his teeth. Nothing in the apartment was disturbed; nothing beyond the actions of the animal was to be noted; the seals on the doors were undisturbed. And yet—between the teeth of the dog was a document, folded and tied together. It contained the same demands, repeated the same threats. With an apartment fifty feet above the ground, armed sentinels filling every avenue, the doors fastened by seals, how did it get there—how did it get there!” cried the King with agitation.

“The possibility of a trap door in floor or ceiling, or of a secret entrance of any kind to the chamber is not to be entertained, of course?” asked Kearns.

“Not for a moment!” exclaimed the King. “You may pass that by as not needing further consideration. Eh, Milord Ashley?”

“Oh, undoubtedly!” answered the Master of the Household. “The apartment has been thoroughly examined from every side. Any secret means of ingress through floor, walls or ceiling is absolutely impossible.”

“But there are chimneys—windows?”

“Chimneys, no,” replied Lord Ashley. “We warm to-day by electricity and there isn’t a chimney in the whole palace. As to windows, yes; there are four.”

“Were they shuttered, or screened?”

“Screened?” exclaimed Lord Ashley with bewilderment. “How do you mean—screened?”

“Why,” answered Kearns, equally astonished at this observation, “I mean, of course, screened against flies—mosquitoes.”

“Flies—mosquitoes!” exclaimed the King and Lord Ashley in the same breath. Both gave a hearty guffaw.

Kearns was visibly nettled. This was, indeed, different from the old days. He was certainly not accustomed to being laughed at. The last time this had occurred was when he had been outwitted upon one occasion by Converse, the so-called King of Counterfeiters—an experienced, clever and wily old wrongdoer. Kearns never forgave that laugh, and it was not long until Converse, in spite of his great ability, fell into an especially clever net set by Kearns. Incidentally, he paid the penalty of that laugh with a twenty years’ sentence. It was not a healthy occupation to laugh at Mr. Kearns in those days.

Lord Ashley noticed Kearns’ very evident chagrin.

“No, no,” he hastened to explain; “thanks to our modern scientists we have no flies or—ah—mosquitoes in these days. They are unknown to-day except as curiosities in the collection of some scientist, or under the glass cases in our museums. It is quite natural,” he added, with a conciliatory wave of the hand, “that you should have—ah—overlooked this fact.”

But Mr. Kearns’ chagrin was not to be so easily dissipated.

“Conditions have doubtless changed,” he said somewhat testily, “and I see nothing to be gained by any desultory examination of the facts. It will be necessary for me to make a personal investigation of the surroundings themselves.”

“Every facility shall be accorded you,” said the King. “Quarters shall be assigned you in the palace. Do you think,” he inquired anxiously, “that you will succeed?”

“I’m not accustomed to failure, Sire,” answered Kearns almost curtly.

“Succeed, then,” exclaimed the King, “and the reward which shall be yours shall be such as to emphasize the distinction between the liberality of a Court and the proverbial ingratitude of Republics.”

Kearns bowed.

“I can undertake to prosecute this investigation successfully,” he said, “under one condition only.”

“It is?” asked the King.

“I’ve been accustomed, Sire,” said Kearns with dignity, “to pursue certain methods peculiarly my own. Those methods I must continue if I am to be successful. You’ve doubtless had people at work on this case. They must be called off. In a word, I must not be interfered with. I must have sole and entire charge.”

“But suppose you should need assistance?”

“Then I’ll ask for it. Also, I reserve the right to select my assistants.”

Both the King and Lord Ashley seemed to hesitate. At last the King spoke.

“Those so far employed have failed,” he said. “It shall be as you ask.”

“Then, Sire,” said Kearns, “I’ve but one other request to make.”

“Name it,” said the King.

“That my companion, Professor Dean, be permitted to remain.”

“A most natural desire,” exclaimed the King. “Our Master of the Household will issue such orders as will insure every facility to you and every comfort to you both. You will attend the Court ball to-night; it will afford you opportunities of observation.”

His Majesty signified that the audience was at an end and Mr. Kearns withdrew.

“Professor,” said Kearns, after they had been conducted to the quarters assigned them in the palace, “didn’t I predict that there were special reasons why we should be welcomed here? With our services in demand and with the freedom of the Imperial Palace, we don’t seem to be doing so badly for wayfarers in a strange land.”

“That’s true,” said the Professor. “There is some danger, then, threatening the King?”

“Yes.”

“Serious?”

“From what I can judge of the case thus far,” said Mr. Kearns thoughtfully, “I should say yes! Serious—quite serious!”