ARTHUR.T Stories ------The Woman in the Case --I---Page 02

however, genuine detectives, and some of them are to be found upon the
New York police force. The magnifying glass is not one of the ordinary
tools of the professional sleuth, and if he carries a pistol at all it
is because the police rules require it, while those cases may be
numbered upon the fingers of two hands where his own hair and whiskers
are not entirely sufficient for his purposes in the course of his
professional career.

The next morning Peabody donned the most disreputable suit in his
wardrobe, neglected his ordinary visit to the barber, and called at 110
West Thirty-eighth Street, being, of course, at this time entirely
unaware of the fact that the girl was Parker's wife. He found her
sitting in a rocking chair in a comfortable, well-furnished room, and
reading a magazine. Assuming an expression of sheepish inanity he
informed her that he was an old pal of "Jim's" who had been so
unfortunate as to be locked up in the same cell with him at
Headquarters, and that the latter was in desperate need of morphine.
That Parker was an habitual user of the drug could be easily seen from
the most casual inspection, but that it would prove an open sesame to
the girl's confidence was, as the detective afterward testified, "a
hundred-to-one shot."

"Poor Jim!" exclaimed the girl. "Couldn't you smuggle some into the Tombs for him?"

Peabody took the hint. Of course he could. It would be a hard job--those
turnkeys were so suspicious. But _he_ could do it for her if anybody
could. He rambled on, telling his experiences with Parker in the past,
how he had been in Elmira Reformatory and elsewhere with him, and
gaining each moment valuable information from the girl's exclamations,
questions, and expression. He soon learned that she was Parker's wife,
that they were living in comparative comfort, and that she was an
exceedingly clever and well-educated woman, but she said nothing during
the conversation which would indicate that she knew anything of her
husband's offenses or of any persons connected with them.

After a few moments the girl slipped on her coat and hat and the two

started down to the Tombs, where, by prearrangement with the officials,
the detective succeeded in convincing her that he had been able to send
in to her husband a small hypodermic syringe (commonly called "the
needles") which she had purchased at a neighboring drug store.

The apparent success of this undertaking put Mrs. Parker in excellent
humor and she invited the supposed crook to breakfast with her at the
Broadway Central Hotel. So far, it will be observed, Peabody had
accomplished practically nothing. At breakfast the girl inquired of her
companion what his particular "graft" was, to which he replied that he
was an expert "second story man," and then proceeded to indulge his

imagination in accounts of bold robberies in the brown stone districts
and clever "tricks" in other cities, which left Mrs. Parker in no doubt
but that her companion was an expert "gun" of long experience.

Then he took, as he expressed it, "another chance."

"Jim wanted me to tell you to put the gang 'wise,'" said he.
The girl looked at him sharply and contracted her brows.

"Gang?" she exclaimed. "What gang? Oh, perhaps he meant 'Dutch' and 'Sweeney.'"

Peabody bit his lip. He had had a close call.

"Don't know," he replied, "he didn't say who they were--just to put them
'wise.'"

A second time the detective had made a lucky hit, for Mrs. Parker suddenly laid aside all pretense and asked:

"Do you want to make a lot of money?"
Peabody allowed that he did.

"Do you know what they have got Jim for?" asked the girl. "'Phoney' paper, wasn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Parker, "but Jim didn't write those checks. I wrote

them myself. If you want to go in with me, we can earn enough money to get Jim out and you can do a good turn for yourself besides."

The detective's blood leaped in his veins but he held himself under control as well as he could and answered indifferently.

"I guess not. I never met a woman that was very good at that sort of
game."

"Oh, you don't know _me_," she persisted. "Why, I can copy anything in a few moments--really I can."

"Too dangerous," remarked Peabody. "I might get settled for ten years."

"No, you wouldn't," she continued. "It's the easiest thing in the world.
All you have to do is to pick the mail out of some box on a corner. I
can show you how with a copper wire and a little piece of wax--and you
are sure to find among the letters somebody's check in payment of a

bill. There at once you have the bank, and the signature. Then all you
have to do is to write a letter to the bank asking for a new check book,
saying yours is used up, and sign the name that appears on the check. If
you can fool the cashier into giving your messenger a check book you can
gamble pretty safely on his paying a check signed with the same name. In
that way, you see, you can get all the blank checks you need and test
the cashier's watchfulness at the same time. It's too easy. The only
thing you have to look out for is not to overdraw the account. Still,
you find so many checks in the mail that you can usually choose
somebody's account that will stand the strain. Do you know, I have made
_hundreds_ of checks and the banks have certified every single one!"

Peabody laughed good naturedly. Things were looking up a bit.

"What do you think I am, anyhow?" he asked. "I must look like a 'come-on.'"

"I'm giving it to you straight," she said simply. "After you have made

out a good fat check, then you go to a store, buy something, tell them

to forward the check to the bank for certification, and that you'll send

for the goods and the change the next day. The bank always certifies the check, and you get the money."

"Not always," said Peabody with a grin.

"No, not always," acquiesced Mrs. Parker. "But Jim and I have been averaging over a hundred dollars a day for months."

"Good graft, all right," assented the detective. "But how does the one who lays down the check identify himself? For instance, suppose I go into Tiffany's and pick out a diamond, and say I'm Mr. John Smith, of 100 West One Hundredth Street, and the floorwalker says, 'Sorry, Mr. Smith, but we don't know you,' what then?"

"Just flash a few letters on him," said the girl. "Letters and envelopes."

"Where do you get 'em?" asked Peabody.

"Just write them, silly, and send them to yourself through the mail."

"That's all right," retorted the "second story man." "But how can I mail
myself a letter to 100 West One Hundredth Street _when I don't live
there_?"

Mrs. Parker smiled in a superior manner.

"I'm glad I can put you wise to a new game, I invented it myself. You