This is not a story of the Maharajah's emeralds; only a knot in the
landing-net of which I have already spoken. I may add with equal
frankness that Haggerty, upon his own initiative, never proceeded an
inch beyond the keyhole episode. It was one of his many failures; for,
unlike the great fictional detectives who never fail, Haggerty was
human, and did. It is only fair to add, however, that when he failed
only rarely did any one else succeed. If ever criminal investigation
was a man's calling, it was Haggerty's. He had infinite patience, the
heart of a lion and the strength of a gorilla. Had he been highly
educated, as a detective he would have been a fizzle; his mind would
have been concerned with variant lofty thoughts, and the sordid would
have repelled him: and all crimes are painted on a background of
sordidness. In one thing Haggerty stood among his peers and topped
many of them; in his long record there was not one instance of his
arresting an innocent man.
So Haggerty had his failures; there are geniuses on both sides of the
law; and the pariah-dog is always just a bit quicker mentally than the
thoroughbred hound who hunts him; indeed, to save his hide he has to be.
Nearly every great fact is like a well-balanced kite; it has for its
tail a whimsy. Haggerty, on a certain day, received twenty-five
hundred dollars from the Hindu prince and five hundred more from the
hotel management. The detective bore up under the strain with stoic
complacency. "The Blind Madonna of the Pagan--Chance" always had her
hand upon his shoulder.
Kitty went to Bar Harbor, her mother to visit friends in Orange.
Thomas walked with a straight spine always; but it stiffened to think
that, without knowing a solitary item about his past, they trusted him
with the run of the house. The first day there was work to do; the
second day, a little less; the third, nothing at all. So he moped
about the great house, lonesome as a forgotten dog. He wrote a sonnet
on being lonesome, tore it up and flung the scraps into the
waste-basket. Once, he seated himself at the piano and picked out with
clumsy forefinger Walking Down the Old Kent Road. Kitty could play.
Often in the mornings, while at his desk, he had heard her; and oddly
enough, he seemed to sense her moods by what she played. (That's the
poet.) When she played Chopin or Chaminade she went about gaily all
the day; when she played Beethoven, Grieg or Bach, Thomas felt the
presence of shadows.