The Pawn Of The Impostor
Lorient Montaner
That which is known merely as deductive reasoning is based on the foundation of a specific conclusion, as compared to inductive reasoning, which is a method of logic in which the main premise supports the absolute finality of the truth. The prima mobilia is particularly indicative of the irrevocable interest of the masterful criminal, with the indistinct pretence that inhibits the sine qua non of the intention of the crime, such as the one displayed with a duplicitous manner in the memorable case of 'The Pawn of the Impostor'.
The year was 1904, and I Chief Inspector Jack Cauvain was at the Hotel Seymour on West 45th Street in New York City with the Prefect of Paris, Hugo Bonheur, when we were informed of a heinous murder that had occurred in one of the rooms upstairs, adjacent to our own. The victim was a well-established broker of the New York Stock Exchange by the name of Mason Hurst.
We were in New York to attend an international conference, at which we were invited guest speakers, but the insoluble murder of Mr Hurst would involve us in solving an inimitable mystery that included other murdered individuals, as part of a deliberate plot to kill the President of the United States.
Because there were no other immediate police officers in the hotel or vicinity, we identified ourselves and demonstrated our credentials to the hotel staff, who, despite the macabre discovery, were extremely professional under the unpredictable circumstances.
It was at night when the unforeseen murder had happened. Once we entered the room and saw the dead body of Mr Hurst, it was apparent that he had obviously been murdered. He had a noticeable gash in his neck, caused by a sharp object that had slit his throat completely.
Bonheur was not confident in declaring whether his death had been sudden or gradual. After examining closely the area of the wound, I knew he had most likely succumbed to a rapid death in my adductive observation. Bonheur was not yet convinced by that unproven analogy.
'How can you be certain that he died a swift death, inspector?'
'It is simple, Bonheur. If you observe the gash on the neck keenly, you will see how precise and efficient the killer was in the murder of Mr Hurst'.
'I see, but it does not tell us much about the murderer, nor a palpable motive'.
'Perhaps! But it does establish the fact that a crime was committed'.
'The question is why?'
As we were discussing the matter of the horrific murder, a police officer entered the room and identified himself.
'I am Edward Gordon, from the New York Police. Who are you two gentlemen?'
The police officer had not fully recognised our peculiar European clothing—particularly Bonheur, who was dressed in his distinctive accoutrements of a French kepi and cape. I was dressed in my bowler hat and English three-piece suit.
We shook hands and I introduced us both. 'I am Inspector Jack Cauvain of London, and this is the Prefect of the Prefecture of Paris, Hugo Bonheur'.
'Inspector Cauvain, I have heard of you, but I have never met you until now. What brings you to New York?'
'An international conference'.
'The both of you are far away indeed from the familiar settings of Europe'.
'Oui, monsieur, but crime is always consequential and does not discriminate', Bonheur replied.
'What do you mean by that?' Officer Gordon enquired.
'What the amiable prefect is implying is that, regardless of the method, the outcome is predictably accomplished'.
'If so, then what are we to make of this murder, inspector?'
'If you allow me to proceed, Officer Gordon, I shall attempt to propound my theory on the unfortunate death of Mr Hurst'.
'Proceed'.
'First, judging from the wound in the neck displayed so patently, I would surmise that the victim was murdered by a sharp weapon that was lethal. Second, upon touching the victim, his cold rigidity has not reached complete rigor mortis. Third, there were no objects of real value purloined. Therefore, I deduce from the inference of the evidence established that Mr Hurst was indeed murdered'.
'The motive?'
'Presently, that I have not determined—but I shall discover the motive soon!'
It was then that Bonheur discovered, next to a phial, a singular object: a black chess pawn. At first, it did not seem to be a pertinent clue, but it intrigued my active perception. Officer Gordon subsequently took from within the victim's waistcoat a torn piece of paper with the number 322 clearly written.
I was not certain what these two unique intimations signified or had in common, but Bonheur was as baffled as I was—and Officer Gordon too. In all my years of investigation, I had never confronted such unusual clues of this nature left behind by a murderer.
Nevertheless, these were the only viable clues retrieved from the crime scene. Officer Gordon informed us that he would take charge of the investigation and have the body taken to the mortuary for the pathologist to examine.
'Perhaps the coroner can determine how long Mr Hurst has been dead. Although, I don't really know if the autopsy will reveal any further clues, inspector'.
'I doubt as well that he will find any more tangible evidence of this murder, Officer Gordon'.
The New York Police were in command, and we returned to our rooms to attempt to sleep for the remainder of the night, since the international conference we were to attend and address as guest speakers was scheduled for the next day. Upon the following morning, we awoke to the mention of the terrible death and name of Mr Hurst in the daily newspapers. From the information provided, Mr Hurst had been a successful broker and had gained a noteworthy reputation.
Notwithstanding that fact, there were numerous individuals who attested that he was involved in illicit activities of a criminal nature. I was not familiar with the full impact of criminal involvement in the city, but I had heard of the influential presence of the Italian Mafia in New York and other organised gangs. Thus, this suspicion was enough to satisfy the police in their conclusion, because it was discovered that Mr Hurst had insurmountable unresolved debts.
Bonheur assumed that the murder of the stockbroker Mr Hurst was due to his criminal affiliation with the Mafia. I, on the other hand, was not truly convinced of that eventual link being the contributing factor to Mr Hurst's ultimate demise.
'I know we must leave for the conference, Bonheur, but I am not satisfied that Mr Hurst was murdered by the Mafia, nor by someone sent by them to kill poor Mr Hurst'.
'What are you suggesting, inspector?' Bonheur queried.
'I am not suggesting anything out of the realm of possibility. Instead, I am merely stating the fact that from the few clues recovered, nothing would indicate the involvement of the Mafia'.
'How can you so easily exclude them?'
'I am no expert on the Mafia, but it seems highly unlikely that the Mafia would apply these measures—such as leaving behind a pawn'.
'Excuse me, but the black pawn does not imply anything. On the other hand, the number could—because he was a broker from the New York Stock Exchange'.
‘That I have not forgotten! There must be, in the end, a significant motive for this murder’.
‘The question is, what was that particular motive?’
‘If we assume the application of logic, then the motive must concur with the modus operandi of the murderer. Therefore, it is absolutely crucial to the facts’.
‘The facts have not yet indicated the motive’.
‘In due time, the motive will manifest, as the killer becomes more dauntless in his conduct’.
‘You speak as if the murderer will kill again’.
‘I hope not, but my incisive intuition tells me that we have not seen the last of the undetected murderer!’
We had left my chamber, in which we had been speaking, and proceeded afterwards to the international conference being held in the dining hall of the Hotel Seymour. The horrible death of Mr Hurst was still fresh in my mind, and I must confess it is an instinctive thought of an inspector to solve any unsolved murder that has been committed, regardless of the consequences.
Unbeknown to us, security at the hotel had been heightened. We were informed that this was due to the recent murder of Mr Hurst and that the New York Police considered his death as possibly connected with the international conference we were to attend that day. The police were extremely vigilant, and we sensed their presence as we made our way to the conference.
The assembled attendees were anxiously awaiting the commencement of the conference. As the people had gathered together, another disconcerting murder in the hotel was perpetrated. This time, the victim was a Mr Nichols, a prominent banker from the Bowery Savings Bank. He was found dead in his room, like Mr Hurst. There was little trace of evidence, except for the familiar number 322 and the black pawn of chess.
Bonheur and I did not enter entirely into the room, but we could see from the doorway Mr Nichols’s dead body. The nature of his murder was as horrific as that of Mr Hurst, and the mystery of the murderer was unfolding with impending celerity. There were now two inexplicable murders that the New York Police continued to believe were linked to the infamous Mafia.
On the contrary, my reflective impression was that these murders were more aligned to an undetermined group wishing to remain in total anonymity. Bonheur, who knew me well and had worked on several cases with me, began to consider that possibility. Neither of us was cognisant of the intimate details of the victims’ lives, but our general experience with criminal behaviour was exceedingly reminiscent, in its manner, of these calculated murders.
The pawn was not the telling evidence I had surmised; rather, it was the number 322 and its peculiar attachment to the case. Bonheur referred to the fact that the victims’ occupations might have something to do with the reference to that number. I agreed and acknowledged that conspicuous suggestion.
The postponement of the international conference had left us in New York City without an itinerary to follow. Our involvement with the case was directly intrinsic to its complex resolution. Instead of remaining at the hotel, we decided to visit the area where Mr Hurst had last been before returning to the Hotel Seymour. Subsequently, we took a cab to Broadway and 73rd Street. According to Officer Gordon, several witnesses had seen him in the company of an unidentified gentleman.
When we arrived at the area, there was a noticeable multitude of people, trolleys and carriages crowding the street in a veritable babel. I was accustomed to the hectic ramble of London, but the bustle in New York was quite incomparable. The thought of finding related clues there seemed a daunting prospect. To locate this unidentified stranger would prove a predictable challenge. Therefore, we concentrated our continued effort and investigation on the likelihood of a collusion behind the murders.
‘If there was a sinister collusion involved in the nature of the murders, then what exact motive could be applied to this affiliation?’ Bonheur queried.
‘Perhaps the most likely motive, Bonheur: the irresistible allure of power’.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If my theory is correct, then the number 322 is a mere subterfuge to conceal a larger agenda'.
‘Such as?’
‘I am afraid, at the present moment, I don't have that definite answer. But rest assured, if there is an inspector capable of solving the enigma, it is your assiduous compeer from London, Chief Inspector Jack Cauvain’.
‘Does this mean we are officially investigating these murders? You realise at present we have neither the jurisdiction nor the assistance of the New York Police’.
‘I am fully aware of that! Perhaps it is best that we return to the hotel forthwith and see if Officer Gordon has discovered any recent clues’.
Upon returning to the Hotel Seymour, we were fortunate enough to find Officer Gordon and converse with him. He appeared very concerned in his demeanour but was still convinced that the Italian Mafia were behind the two murders committed in the hotel. I felt I could not dissuade him from his assertion, although I attempted to do so in my usual persuasive manner.
‘I admit I am somewhat unfamiliar with the operations of the Italian Mafia here in New York City, Officer Gordon, but surely you cannot rule out other nefarious groups or even a lone madman—though I much prefer my first notion to the latter’.
‘With all due respect, inspector, we have been dealing with the expansion of the Mafia from Sicily for a decade now’.
‘If I may interject, what then was the ultimate objective of these murders?’ Bonheur asked.
‘Their objective, prefect, is the monopoly of the city, under their total control’.
‘I do not dispute your observation, Officer Gordon, but I am not absolutely convinced it was the Italian Mafia. Perhaps, as with the chess pawn, the murderer wants us to believe the Mafia are the culprits’.
‘Explain!’
‘I shall proceed to elucidate, Officer Gordon. You see, the deaths of Mr Hurst and Mr Nichols were planned with precision and executed within a specific timeframe’.
‘And?’
‘Naturally, it implies the killer had adequate time to commit the murders and, above all, must have befriended the victims’.
‘Then you believe the murderer knew the victims?’
‘Indeed, I do!’
‘If so, inspector, then it does not explain the number 322’, Bonheur said.
‘Yes, I was wondering the same thing’, Officer Gordon added.
‘True, gentlemen, but whatever that number means, it is the key to solving this case’.
‘That I do not doubt!’ Bonheur replied.
Officer Gordon left the hotel to resume the investigation, while we remained to ponder when the criminal might strike again. New York City was divided into five major boroughs, and it was easy to become lost or hide amongst the masses. The Second Avenue mansions, the row houses and the shabby tenements demonstrated a stark contrast between the wealthy and the impoverished citizens of this vast metropolis.
That night, the murderer struck again, this time outside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The victim, Mr Williams, was discovered dead on the pavement. The following morning, we read in The New York Times about his tragic demise. Bonheur immediately noticed my ruminative expression and realised I had been studying the details intently.
It was apparent to me that this murder was no isolated incident but a deliberate killing at the hands of the same unknown assailant. The retrievable clues were the familiar black pawn and the number 322. As with the previous deaths, nothing of value had been stolen. The pawn was found near the body, and the number tucked inside the victim’s waistcoat. When we arrived at the crime scene, Officer Gordon was present with other officers. I spoke to him about the crime, and I sensed his growing urgency to solve these murders.
'Three murders, yet no actual suspect until now, Officer Gordon', I said.
'Inspector Cauvain, it would seem to be the case. I am glad you and the prefect are here. I wanted to show you both something that was found at the crime scene but was not reported in the newspapers'.
He showed us a notebook that listed the names of reputable men of the city. If proven to belong to the murderer and deemed relevant, then this was substantial proof of a conspiratorial plot emerging. He demanded our discretion and asked for our assistance in the ongoing investigation.
We immediately offered our participation in solving the murders, as we were already directly involved in the procedure. Bonheur suggested that we search the registration records of hotels in Manhattan, including the Hotel Seymour where we were staying, to review the names of registered guests. The conceivable idea of our possible suspect being amongst the guests of one of Manhattan's hotels was a logical assumption that prevailed as a palpable option.
'That is indeed a possibility we cannot ignore so passively, gentlemen!' I uttered.
'I will have the officers check those hotels, inspector!'
'Pardon, messieurs, but I fail to understand the significance of the number itself!' Bonheur interposed.
'That is precisely what I have been pondering', I responded.
'What exactly have you determined, inspector?' Officer Gordon enquired.
'At first, I had the conventional impression that the number 322 was linked to an intricate code, but I am not convinced of that'.
'Then what?' Bonheur pressed.
'It could be the number of a hotel room, a building, or even a train ticket, gentlemen'.
'I must agree with that analogy also', Officer Gordon replied.
'The names written in the notebook?' Bonheur asked.
'Until we have more considerable information, we can only assume there is a mysterious correlation between the names and the murders'.
'You are correct, Inspector', Officer Gordon said.
'What is unmistakable, gentlemen, is that we are dealing with a sophisticated complot of great importance', I stated.
'The black pawn?' Bonheur asked with intrigue.
'As mentioned, the black pawn is nothing more than a deceptive ruse to befuddle the investigation'.
'Perhaps', said Bonheur.
'Officer Gordon, do you still believe the Italian Mafia is behind these murders?' I asked him.
'To be quite candid, I cannot rule them out yet, without more evidence'.
I thought much of the credible notion of a conspiracy attached to these horrid murders. The modus operandi was too similar to the activity of a complex nature that was typically employed by secret societies, surpassing the normal criminal operations of organisations like the Italian Mafia. Whoever we were searching for was resolute in achieving their ultimate objective.
Our task was to apprehend the murderer and decipher the case effectively. Before I could apply any punctilious retrospection, I had to understand the discordant mindset of the astute criminal. Bonheur and I returned to the hotel, for there was nothing else we could have done at the crime scene. I was well acquainted with the art of duplicity and, by rote of ordalium, when referring to criminal interaction. Our criminal was innovative ad hoc in his methods, and we had to be tenacious in our imposition.
Another day transpired and another calculated murder. The body of the victim, a Mr Robinson, was located at an abandoned building between Reade Street and Lafayette Street in the same borough of Manhattan. There were now four murders, with the same clues acknowledged and no suspect apprehended. Mr Robinson was the proprietor of the Lyric Theatre.
Apparently, he had been stabbed multiple times in the neck. I had previously dismissed the significance of the black pawn, but after finding another one, I began to conclude that it was perhaps an allusion intimating the proclivitous behaviour of the murderer.
That late afternoon, we received our first significant revelation about the identity of the unknown killer. A lone witness came forth with valuable information on our suspect. A gentleman by the name of Guido Calamonaci had seen a mysterious stranger speaking to Mr Robinson before his death.
We accompanied Officer Gordon to the shabby tenements of New York's Little Italy in Manhattan. The area was parlous and known for its abundance of crime. It was there we found and spoke to the witness. He ran a peanut stand and was not difficult to locate among the accolent onlookers. At first, he was extremely hesitant to respond to our enquiry.
After sensing the obligation to comply, he acquiesced willingly. We spoke to him in private about the murder. When asked to describe the murderer, he was very detailed in his vivid description. According to him, the stranger was of medium height and build. He had a pale complexion and was well dressed. He made a clear distinction of the man’s New Jersey accent, and he appeared to have been an acquaintance of the victim.
This interesting piece of information was tangible evidence that was ad rem. The question I pondered was whether it was sufficient to consign our trust to the testimony of a peddler with a glib tongue. Despite a potential suspect, we were unable to unravel the mystery of the number 322. The peddler had no idea what the number meant nor where we could locate the surreptitious man. The only thing he mentioned was that this man left in a cab, and his destination remained unknown.
Whilst we were with Officer Gordon, we were apprised of another dead body. A fifth victim was found in the East River, adjacent to South Street. The body was badly decomposed and had been in the river for some time. It was impossible to identify the person, except that the gender was male. We had no name for this latest victim.
Until the forensic pathologist–or, as it is known in America, the coroner– examined the body in the mortuary, our victim remained nameless. The newspapers of the city began to sensationalise the fathomless murders, attributing them to the Italian Mafia as a blatant vendetta. There was an intense search, then, for the criminal throughout Manhattan and the other major boroughs.
Days passed, and the murders abated for the nonce. Perhaps the killer had been frightened off and left the area, or he simply vanished. We discussed this amongst ourselves in Times Square, near the Pabst Grand Circle Hotel and Restaurant on 58th Street, where we had gathered that eerie morning to talk about any further developments.
'I find it very strange that the murders have ceased. What exactly do you believe is happening, inspector?' Officer Gordon enquired.
'Your guess is as good as mine, Officer Gordon', I replied.
'Could it be that the killer is watching us at this moment?' Bonheur insinuated.
'I prefer to believe the killer is on the run', Officer Gordon said.
'Whether the killer is observing us or is on the run, one thing is evident: the killer's awareness of our serious pursuit'.
'If I were the killer, what would I be thinking?' Bonheur asked.
'That all depends,' Officer Gordon interjected.
'If I were the murderer, Bonheur, I would finish the mission I had been assigned'.
'Then you believe the murderer will kill again?' Officer Gordon wondered.
'I would suggest we do not underestimate our foe, gentlemen', I responded.
We concluded the engaging and analytical conversation. Officer Gordon headed towards Chinatown to deal with another crime, and we returned to the Hotel Seymour. At the hotel, I perused the file composed of information on the murdered and those listed in the notebook found at one of the prior murder scenes. My initial thought was to approach this information subjectively, but it also required extrapolation to infer deeper connections. Bonheur was in his room taking his meal as I was engrossed in the file. There had to be a definite link between the selected victims.
After a meticulous study of the file, I soon uncovered that hidden connection. Not only had the men been killed, but they had all attended Yale University and were members of a fraternity called 'The Skulls and Bones'. The question that I ruminated on was whether this was a mere fraternity or a secret society in the grander scheme of an Aesopian vision.
My knowledge of this association was, I had to admit, non-existent, but if I were to resolve this pending case, I would need a broader reference to speculate on an irrefutable correlation. If proven reliable, this new revelation supported my theory that these were no random nor adventitious murders. Instead, they constituted scheming murders involving planning and direct participation.
I rose from my chair to summon Bonheur when an individual surprised me. He was pointing a gun at me and was determined to murder me. He was dressed as the hotel bellboy, and his eyes imposed a sudden, perceptible threat that produced a reaction in my circumspect mien that was far from pleasant.
'It seems that I am at a great disadvantage. Am I to deduce that you are the murderer?' I asked.
'You can call me what you wish, inspector', the murderer spoke.
'Have you come to murder me? If so, you must know that my dear friend, the prefect Hugo Bonheur, is nearby, in the other room'.
'By the time he arrives, I will be long gone!'
He was about to pull the trigger when I interposed, 'Before you shoot, and I succumb to your imposition, there is one thing I need to know. What is the purpose of the number 322 in these murders?'
He paused before replying, 'You are a clever man, Inspector, but I am afraid you will die not knowing!'
I sensed I had a moment to attempt a daring distraction. Thus, with my foot, I knocked down a glass that was on the table. This was enough to be heard by Bonheur, who promptly left his room. The murderer, perceiving his arrival, dashed out of the room to escape into the street outside. Once Bonheur entered, he quickly enquired about the incident.
'Are you all right, Inspector? What happened?'
'Yes, I am all right–and I was visited by our murderer'.
'Who was he?'
'I haven't the slightest intimation, Bonheur. Did you not see him scurry through the corridor?'
'Oui, but I could not see much of him!'
'Of course, because he was completely disguised as a bellboy. This must be how our manipulative murderer has been entering the rooms to kill his unsuspecting victims'.
'Then what are we to do next?'
'We must speak to Officer Gordon immediately! I have uncovered the mystery of the murders and the chain of evidence that establishes the truth'.
'What evidence are you referring to?'
'I don't have time to go into the details, nor will I expound on my theory here. I'll explain everything as we go!'
We left the hotel and took a cab to the New York Police Station in Manhattan to speak to Officer Gordon about the lethal encounter I had with the murderer. He was absorbed in the pathologist's report on the unrecognisable man found dead in the East River earlier. Little did we know, he had a shocking revelation to share.
The pathologist had determined that the victim was a middle-aged man suffering from a rare form of jaundice. One of the officers had mentioned that the Toronto Police in Canada had reported the disappearance of a wealthy aristocrat who matched the victim's description.
The man was later identified as Mr Oscar Chandler, a Canadian citizen. The pathologist concluded that he had been murdered before being thrown into the river, citing a stab wound in the neck.
When I told Officer Gordon about the events at the hotel with the murderer, he immediately suggested we leave the Hotel Seymour and find a safer place. While I appreciated his concern, my priority was catching the killer before he struck again.
'What do you propose we do next?' Officer Gordon asked.
'If this man is an impostor assuming the identity of this unfortunate victim, we need to understand what’s driving these murders'.
'The number 322?' Bonheur inquired.
'From what I know about the Skulls and Bones organisation, it’s a secret society, but I haven’t been able to tie that clue into the case. I can only speculate that it’s part of a larger conspiracy'.
'If that’s true, Inspector Cauvain, how do we prevent another murder?'
'We need to find out where he’s been staying. We’ve spoken to the staff at the Hotel Seymour, but they don’t know anything about the bellboy'.
'I’ll have the other officers check the hotels in New York for a man named Oscar Chandler', Officer Gordon said.
I wasn’t unsettled by the killer’s ruse as a hotel attendant, but I was deeply concerned about his involvement in the murders. His participation was no longer a theory or a vague suspicion—it was undeniable.
The few witnesses who had given us information after the murders hadn’t provided any concrete evidence about the murderer’s identity. What we had were a series of clues, but they were incomplete. Without assembling the sequence of events, we couldn’t understand the killer’s motive.
I focused on the timeline of the murders and the actions taken by the criminal. Piecing together the ideas was crucial for solving the case, and I sensed that sabotage was playing a role in these crimes.
The murderer had shown remarkable composure and little hesitation up until now. While there was no guarantee we would catch him soon, we all agreed that his relentless desire to finish his task made him a dangerous adversary.
Bonheur and I accompanied Officer Gordon to Hester Street, west of Norfolk Street in Manhattan. There had been an arrest at the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street. When we arrived, an officer informed us that the New York Police had a possible suspect.
We hurried to the room where the suspect was being detained. The man was identified as Mr Edwin Basford from Toronto, Canada. He was described as a middle-aged man of average height and build, much like the murderer’s profile. He appeared nervous and anxious when we entered. He seemed to resist answering our questions.
When we threatened him with imprisonment, he nodded, signalling his willingness to talk. I immediately noticed that he didn’t have a New York accent, contrary to the murderer’s described manner of speaking. Basford would soon reveal an astonishing story about his role as an accessory to the murders—and the larger plan behind them.
'Mr Basford, you’re telling us you were supposed to participate in the final crime? In what way?' I asked.
'I was to be a double for the actual killer', he answered.
'Who was the target of this criminal act?' I pressed.
He paused, clearly uncomfortable, before answering, 'The President of the United States and the mayor of New York'.
His confession left us momentarily speechless. I quickly regained my composure. 'This is a serious accusation, Mr Basford'.
'Where was this to take place?' Officer Gordon asked, his voice steady but tense.
'I don’t know. I was supposed to meet my double tonight'.
'Where?' Officer Gordon persisted.
'At this hotel', Basford replied.
We stepped out of the room to discuss what we had just learnt.
'What do we do now?' Officer Gordon asked.
'Should we wait for the killer to arrive?' Bonheur wondered.
'No', I replied firmly. 'I’m convinced the criminal is likely watching us right now'.
We returned to Basford’s room, and I confronted him again. 'Now that you understand the gravity of your situation, you’ll tell us where the final act is going down'.
'All the major areas in the city. The most populated ones', Basford said.
'Are you implying the killer is planning to plant a bomb somewhere?' Officer Gordon interrupted.
'I don’t know,' Basford said, shaking his head. 'All I know is I was paid to be the double'.
'Who paid you? Was he a member of the Skulls and Bones Society?' I asked, the pieces of the puzzle coming together slowly.
'I am afraid that I don't have the answer to that particular question!' Mr Basford affirmed.
'Surely, Mr Basford, do not take us for incompetent fools. If you think that your denial of any knowledge of this perfidious secret society will be accepted at face value, then you are sorely mistaken!' I said.
'You may think what you want, but I am telling you the truth'.
There was no absolute necessity to berate Mr Basford with any more questions at the time.
Immediately, Officer Gordon informed the other officers of the New York Police about the urgency to patrol the busy areas—such as Times Square at the junction of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, the New York Stock Exchange, Grand Central Station at Park Avenue, Macy's Herald Square, the Flatiron Building at Fifth Avenue, the New York Times Tower, the bridge of New York, and the New York Circa, amongst other locations.
There was no arbitrary notion about the concealment of the incorrigible motive, nor was Mr Basford’s revelation an improbable concoction. The irrefragable facts substantiated our avowal that there was indeed an agenda of a secret society that had manifested.
Mr Basford had inadvertently given us the principal motive for the murders—what was extrinsic evidence in the beginning. He was then taken to the nearest gaol to be further interrogated and processed. Before he was removed, he gave us the name of George Herford, an important man in Toronto society.
Officer Gordon spoke at once with Mayor McClellan about the plot to kill him and President Roosevelt. We knew of the treacherous plan and the intention, but there remained the irresistible question: where and when was this deleterious assassination to take place? President Roosevelt was a maverick, as they say in America, and he was not about to be petrified by any possible assassination attempt.
Despite the risk of public exposure to the murderer and the imminent threat to both the mayor and the president, they only ordered heightened vigilance in security and an increase in the number of officers. There was no specific date given for the assassination attempt, nor did we know where to locate the criminal.
As we stood before the Flatiron Building at Fifth Avenue, I pondered once more the meaning of the number 322. I told Officer Gordon that I wanted to speak to Mr Basford concerning the number. Bonheur naturally accompanied me, whilst Officer Gordon remained behind.
When I spoke to Mr Basford about the connotation of the number 322, he said that it was a reference to the year (322 BCE) of the death of the Greek orator Demosthenes, which marked a turning point in the transformation of ancient Athens from democracy to plutocracy. That was all he knew about the number. He was not a fervent member of the secret society. This all then had a political denotation in the end.
The constant thought of the motive obsessed and compelled me to solve this baffling mystery. I was soon told, after I had finished my conversation with Mr Basford, by Officer Gordon—once I saw him again—that the president was already in New York. He did not tell me the reason, nor did he know of the event yet.
Bonheur accompanied me to Toronto by way of the train. The trip was wearisome, but it was necessary to the incontrovertible facts of the case. We had to locate Mr Herford to confirm our suspicion. When we arrived in Toronto, we were informed by Canadian police that Mr Herford had been mysteriously found dead at his home. The cause of death was not determined, but I had the disturbing premonition that Mr Herford's death was related to our New York murderer.
It was scarcely a few hours after we had received the grim news from Toronto. Mr Herford—whose involvement had seemed tangential at first—had been found dead under suspicious circumstances, his lifeless body discovered in the backroom of a boarding house near Queen Street. The papers hinted at heart failure, but Bonheur and I were convinced otherwise. The timing was too precise, the nature of his death too conveniently abrupt.
‘A silencing,’ Bonheur muttered darkly, pacing our modest rooms in the early hours of the morning. ‘Someone knew he had spoken with us—or feared he might. And so they acted’.
It was then that my thoughts returned, almost obsessively, to my pocket watch. That nagging feeling I’d had before—the inexplicable urge to look at the time precisely at 3 o'clock—seemed suddenly loaded with new meaning. What if there was more to the watch than mere coincidence? The sense that something hidden lay within it pressed upon me with uncomfortable urgency.
‘We must consult someone skilled’, I said to Bonheur decisively. ‘If there is anything concealed in this timepiece, we can ill afford to overlook it now’.
Thus we found ourselves later that afternoon at Mr Feldman’s shop, a humble but respected establishment tucked between a tailor’s and a tobacconist’s on a quieter street of the Lower East Side. The doorbell tinkled as we entered, the familiar tick-tock of myriad clocks enveloping us immediately, like a chorus of whispered secrets.
‘Ah, gentlemen’, Mr Feldman greeted us warmly, setting aside his loupe and peering over his wire-rimmed spectacles. His manner was always calm, precise, and reassuring—a man for whom time was not only a trade but a calling.
I presented him with the watch, explaining as much as we dared without revealing too much of the grim web we were ensnared in. ‘It keeps good time, sir, but…we believe there may be something more to it than meets the eye’.
Mr Feldman’s brows lifted with professional curiosity, and he nodded briskly. ‘Let us see, then’.
What followed was a tense half hour. We watched as the master watchmaker dismantled the outer casing with careful, practised movements. His hands, though aged, were steady as stone, each tool he wielded a natural extension of his fingers. Bonheur and I sat in silence, our nerves taut as violin strings, the rhythmic ticking of a dozen clocks marking the weight of every passing moment.
Finally, Mr Feldman paused. His eyes, sharp and alert, narrowed. ‘Very clever,’ he murmured, almost to himself. ‘Most unusual indeed’.
With delicate precision, he pressed against an almost invisible catch within the casing, and—click!—a hidden compartment sprang open. Our breath caught. Inside, folded with extraordinary neatness, was a minuscule slip of paper.
Mr Feldman retrieved it and handed it to me wordlessly. My fingers tingled as I unfolded it—revealing a coded message, written in a tight, meticulous hand. Numbers, symbols, and unfamiliar marks filled the tiny sheet. It was a cipher of some kind—no doubt about it.
‘Do you have any idea what this might mean?’ Mr Feldman asked, eyeing us with polite concern.
I shook my head, though inwardly my mind was racing. ‘No—but it confirms what we feared. Someone has been using this watch to pass secret information’.
Bonheur, peering over my shoulder, added gravely, ‘And now we understand why Mr Herford was silenced. He must have known of this—perhaps even helped transmit such messages’.
We thanked Mr Feldman profusely, assuring him of his indispensable help, though naturally offering no full explanation. As we stepped back out into the grey afternoon, a light rain began to fall, soaking the pavements and blurring the city’s edges into a wash of dull colour.
I tucked the coded message deep into my pocket, glancing at Bonheur. ‘This,’ I said, my voice low, ‘is the next piece of the puzzle. And I fear it may lead us deeper into this unfolding intrigue yet’.
Bonheur placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his eyes bright despite the gloom. ‘Let them play their game of shadows, my friend. We have the key now. And we shall not be deterred’.
With that, we pressed forward, the rain trailing behind us like the ticking of an unseen clock—reminding us that time, always, was of the essence.
I was unaware of the significant events scheduled during this time period. When we returned to New York, I suddenly picked up the local newspaper from a nearby newsagent's shop and saw mention of the St Patrick's Day Parade in New York City, planned for the following day. I knew at that precise moment that the murderer would attempt to kill the mayor and president during the procession.
'What is it, inspector? You are on to something!' Bonheur asked me.
Immediately, I showed Bonheur the newspaper. 'Good God, if I am not mistaken, the murderer will attempt to strike at the St Patrick’s Day Parade tomorrow!'
'If this is true, then we must warn Officer Gordon and the others. They must cancel the parade at once!'
'Let us hope, for the sake of not only the mayor and president but the citizens of New York, that we are in time to prevent this catastrophic event from occurring'.
We left the area and found Officer Gordon at Fifth Avenue. When we told him of our suspicions, he was flabbergasted. He informed the mayor afterwards. Unfortunately, it was too late—the mayor was pressured not to postpone the parade, due to internal persuasion.
It was unthinkable to accept that decision and the process that was predetermined. There was no means to convince the mayor or the president, for that matter. The parade was not going to be cancelled, and it was to begin at eleven o'clock in the morning and abate at five o'clock in the late afternoon. That night none of us could sleep, as we remained in our rooms at a block of flats in Manhattan. We had the security of a dedicated officer patrolling the vicinity and our own observant eyes, in case the criminal had discovered our discreet hiding place.
The next morning, we awoke to the obstreperous sounds of flapping pigeons that startled us. We dressed and waited for Officer Gordon to arrive at the flat. The morning was chilly, and it was the 17th of March 1904. It was the day of the parade! Bonheur was as eager as I was to know what was to unfold on that day. I was determined to apprehend the criminal at last and reveal his actual identity. Officer Gordon arrived at precisely 9 o’clock, two hours before the commencement of the parade.
'What have you to tell us, Officer Gordon?' I asked.
'I wish I could tell you both that the parade was going to be cancelled, but the mayor has informed us that the parade will go on as planned, and that the president will be participating in the parade'.
'What do you mean by that?' Bonheur enquired.
'Yes, I would like to know that as well!' I said.
'President Roosevelt has told the mayor that he wants to be part of the group of the Rough Riders, who will be participating in the parade'.
'Rough Riders—who are they?' Bonheur asked.
'The Rough Riders was a nickname given to the 1st United States Volunteer Cavalry, one of three such regiments raised in 1898 for the Spanish–American War and the only one of the three to see action', I told Bonheur.
'I did not know you knew much about American history, inspector!' Bonheur remarked.
'Neither did I!' Officer Gordon replied.
'I pride myself in my knowledge of not only current events but historical events of pertinence as well, gentlemen. Now that we have finished with the historical reference, let us discuss what shall be our response'.
'We should leave at once and head towards the parade area in preparation'.
'Agreed!' I acknowledged.
We had left the flat and reached the area of Fifth Avenue from 44th Street to 79th Street, where the parade was to pass us. I had the killer in my mind, but the number 322 was also in my mind.
For some reason unknown to me, through an instinctive nature, I had looked at my pocket watch and stared at the hands that indicated 3 o’clock. Why? I do not know with precision, except that something I felt was going to transpire at around that hour. Time had elapsed, as we impatiently waited and observed for any strange and illicit activity to occur.
There were manifold persons on the streets during the parade. Men, women and children had gathered along the edges of the streets to see the parade in its entire grandeur. The killer could have been amongst the spectators watching or partaking in the parade.
Was he in one of the roofs or windows of an adjacent flat? It was 3.20 in the afternoon when the Rough Riders had approached from the distance. I could see the image of the president clearly as he walked forth. I knew then that the number 322 meant the time 3.22 in the day. The murderer would attempt to assassinate the mayor and the president.
I ran over to where Bonheur was and informed him. I pointed to Officer Gordon, who was near the Rough Riders. It was then that from amongst the crowd a stranger had burst onto the scene and attempted to shoot at the president. He had yelled out loud before he shot, ‘Death to the president and to the mayor!’ He fired one shot at the president as he fell to the ground.
The murderer had failed to kill the president, and the bullet had hit his shoulder only. Consequently, he was captured by the police, after several men from the crowd had taken the gun away and seized him. We scurried to where the president had fallen and learnt that it was not the president at all.
Instead, he was a double, who bore the likeness of the president. The president and the mayor were safe and secure in an undisclosed location. We were unaware of the switch and the plan of the president. The murderer was taken afterwards to the nearest gaol to be interrogated. We soon discovered that his name was Alton Hobbs, a miscreant from New Jersey. Mr Hobbs never revealed the names of his accomplices nor the members of the Skull and Bones. He took their names to his grave. His adamantine will was never broken. He was found guilty of attempting to assassinate the president and the mayor.
A month afterwards, he would be sent to the gallows to hang outside Sing Sing prison in the village of Ossining, 30 miles north of New York City. Mr Hobbs was a fond admirer of chess. Unfortunately for him, he was checkmated! We had learnt the meaning of the number, and as for the pawn, it was solved also. The black pawn that was left by the murderer was, as I suspected, a mere distraction.
Officer Gordon thanked us for our involvement in solving the case of the ‘Pawn of the Impostor’, and so did the president and the mayor. I admired the president for his maverick persona, and Bonheur, as a Frenchman, would too. He made the unusual comparison between the president and Napoleon, the antecedent crown emperor.
Our final stop before leaving New York was an impromptu visit to Sing Sing prison itself. Officer Gordon, ever the considerate ally, had arranged a brief tour for us, now that Hobbs’s fate had been sealed. We travelled by train to the village of Ossining, arriving just as dusk painted the Hudson River with golden hues. The name ‘Sing Sing’ struck a peculiar chord, both eerie and fascinating, for it was a place where justice was rendered in its most absolute form.
The approach to the prison was sombre. Massive stone walls rose grimly from the earth, their grey façade bathed in the dying light of day. Barbed wire curled menacingly along the top of the ramparts, and uniformed guards patrolled the perimeter with rifles in hand, their faces impassive. The air seemed heavy with finality, and even Bonheur, usually loquacious, was uncharacteristically silent as we made our way up the long, gravel path to the main entrance.
Inside, we were met by the warden, a tall, broad-shouldered man named Mr Hawthorne, whose gravelly voice carried the tone of someone long accustomed to hardship. His handshake was firm, his eyes sharp and probing.
‘Gentlemen’, he greeted us, ‘I trust you’re here to see the gallows and the cell of your notorious Mr Hobbs?’
‘Indeed, we are,’ I replied. ‘We hoped to gain a final impression before we depart New York’.
The warden nodded curtly and led us down a labyrinth of cold stone corridors. The clang of iron doors echoed through the halls, and occasionally we passed prisoners in striped uniforms, their eyes hollow and sunken. There was a stillness here, a quietude that belied the presence of so many souls, as though the walls themselves absorbed every whisper of sound.
At last, we reached the gallows—a stark, wooden scaffold erected in the prison yard, its silhouette stark against the evening sky. The noose hung motionless, swaying faintly in the breeze. It was a grim apparatus, a brutal reminder of Hobbs’s imminent fate.
‘He’ll meet his end here at dawn’, Mr Hawthorne remarked, nodding towards the scaffold. ‘He’s been stoic throughout. Plays chess by himself in his cell, barely speaks to anyone’.
‘Chess to the bitter end,’ Bonheur mused quietly, shaking his head.
On a whim, I asked if we might see Hobbs’s cell. The warden paused, then gestured for us to follow. ‘You’re fortunate; few get such a glimpse. But be quick’.
We wound our way deeper into the prison, until we reached a dim corridor lined with solitary confinement cells. The warden produced a hefty iron key and unlocked one of the doors, pushing it open with a low creak. Inside, the cell was bare and austere: a narrow bed, a washbasin, and a single chair and table.
But on the table sat a chessboard, its pieces frozen in mid-game. I stepped closer and saw that Hobbs had set the board meticulously, the black king lying on its side, toppled in resignation.
Bonheur examined the board carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration. ‘A message to us, mon ami’, he murmured. ‘He was saying: checkmate. But for whom?’
I glanced around the cell and noticed something else—etched faintly into the wooden frame of the bed was a cryptic inscription: ‘The game is not over. The next move belongs to the Order’.
A chill crept up my spine. This was no mere taunt; it was a warning. Despite Hobbs’s capture and impending execution, the machinations of the Skull and Bones continued unabated. Their network was alive, their ambitions undeterred.
We exited the cell in silence, the weight of this revelation settling upon us like a heavy shroud. The warden locked the door behind us and led us back through the winding corridors, the same hollow clangs of iron doors echoing ominously around us.
As we emerged once more into the cool evening air of the prison yard, Bonheur lit a cigarette, his hands momentarily trembling. ‘Do you believe, mon ami’, he asked, ‘that we have truly ended this? Or merely delayed it?’
I gazed up at the towering walls of Sing Sing, their shadows stretching long into the night. ‘We have won this round, Bonheur. But the game? The game is far from over’.
Our return to New York City was quiet, each of us lost in our own reflections. The city’s skyline twinkled in the distance as we journeyed back, but beneath its glittering façade lay a deeper, darker truth—that of an invisible war waged in secret, far beyond the reach of ordinary citizens.
We left New York City with mixed feelings—triumphant, yes, but ever vigilant. As our ship steamed out of the harbour the next morning, Bonheur lifted his hat towards the Statue of Liberty, remarking, ‘A symbol of freedom, yet even here, the shadows of conspiracy lurk’.
I nodded. We had played our essential part in thwarting a deadly game, but the board was far from cleared. Somewhere, in hidden chambers and behind closed doors, the next move was already being plotted.
And we would be ready to apply our acumen and diligence.
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