The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4020]
"It is worth my looking into. I have other work for you. Where does this Duclos family live?"
Sweetwater told him. It was in one of the Eighties, not a quarter of a mile from the Hotel Universal.
This settled, Mr. Gryce took from his pocket the mutilated photograph which had served as a target to the woman in Fifty-third Street.
"You see this," said he. "The face is all gone; only a sweep of the hair on one side, and a bit of collar and the tip of a shoulder on the other, remain to act as a clue. Yet I expect you to find the negative from which this photograph was printed. It should not be so difficult,--that is, if in the course of time it has not been destroyed,--for look here." And turning over what remained of the mutilated photograph he displayed the following:
Cor. 9th Street w York)
"New York! The portrait was made here and--at Fredericks'. His studio was on the corner of Ninth Street up to a few years ago. It's a trail after my own mind. If that negative is in existence, I'll find it, if I have to ransack half the photograph-studios in town. About how old do you think this picture is?"
"Old enough to give you trouble. But that you're used to. What we want to know--what we must know--is this: The name of the man who has incurred Madame's enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of the night in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph. If it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns out to be that of a private individual--well, in that case, I shall have a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we have just acknowledged you possess a limited share."
That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up and down a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in front of a certain drug-store to let an old man out. He seemed very feeble and leaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store. But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes the ills of life without bitterness or complaint. When halfway to his goal,--for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himself carefully with every one,--he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew out of his hand. Happily--because he seemed unable to reach it himself--a young girl just emerging from the drug-store saw his plight and stooping for the stick, handed it to him. He received it with a smile, and while it was yet in both of their hands, said in the most matter-of-fact way in the world:
"Thank you, little Miss Duclos." Then suddenly: "Where's your aunt?"
She did not stop to think. She did not stop to ask herself what this question meant or whether this old gentleman who seemed to know so much about her and the family's secrets had a right to ask it, but blurted out in nervous haste as if she knew of nothing else to do, "She's gone," and then started to run away.
"Come back, little one." His tone was very imperative, but for all that of a nature to win upon a frightened child. "I know she's gone," he added soothingly as she looked back, hesitating. "And I'm sorry, for I have something for her. I recognized you the moment you stepped out of the store; but I see that you don't remember me. But why should you? Little girls don't remember old men."
Again that benevolent smile as he poked about in one of his pockets and finally drew out a little parcel which he held out toward her.
"This belongs to your aunt. See, it has her name on it, Madame Antoinette Duclos. It came to the lodging-house in Fifty-third Street just after she left, and I was asked to bring it to her. I was going to your house as soon as I had done my little errand at this store, but now that I have met you, I will ask you to see