A Detective’s Story

The Convict Coachman

Twenty years ago I was quite a young member of the profession to which I belong— a profession which is more characterized by romantic incidents and startling events than any other, and it was more on account of this fact than anything else that I joined it. My father, though not very wealthy, was a physician in comfortable circumstances, and, like most fathers, desired me to follow his profession. I however had a passion for a life of adventure, and the charms of such a life were only heightened by the possibility of danger; so at 20 I became a member of the secret police.

About the time I have mentioned above, all New York was in a fever of excitement over a shocking and mysterious murder recently committed. Henry Delavan, a young man of high connections and irreproachable character, the son and partner of a wealthy merchant, was found dead on the pavement of one of the principal streets. An examination showed but one wound, a deep fatal stab penetrating the heart. Near him was found a large pocket knife with two blades, a corkscrew and a screw driver. On the little piece of white metal in the center of the handle the initials J.B. were scratched as with a pin or needle. But what seemed unaccountable at the time, clasped tightly in the deceased’s right hand was found a small gold earring with a costly opal pendant there-from. There was one peculiarity about the ear-ring; engraved on the gold was a small anchor surrounded by delicate ornamental carving. Neither the knife or the piece of jewelry could be identified; and every effort of the police force to obtain some clue to this daring murder was utterly fruitless, and by degrees the search began to be abandoned. I obtained possession of the knife and earring, and always carried them on my person—perhaps with the faint hope that I might be able to identify them accidentally.

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