Francis Worcester - Doughty – författare

Excerpt: "Late in the evening on August 12th, 19—, one of the heaviest thunder storms known in many years broke over the city of New York. The storm was accompanied by a terrific gale; trees were blown down, sign boards wrecked, houses were unroofed, sewers overflooded, and there was a general shake-up all along the line. Of course, lives were lost here and there, especially on the rivers. It taxed the memory even of the oldest inhabitant to recall such another storm. During the height of the gale two gentlemen sat in the famous Tuxedo restaurant, that delight of chop suey fiends and slumming parties, on Pell street, Chinatown, indulging in a late supper, Chinese style. One was an elderly man of striking appearance and peculiar dress. He wore a long blue coat with brass buttons, an old-fashioned stock and stand-up collar, while hanging to a peg above his head was a big white felt hat with an unusually broad brim. His companion was a bright looking young fellow in his twenties. The two men were none other than the world-famous detectives, the Bradys of the Brady Detective Bureau, Union Square, New York."

Excerpt: "One foggy night a few years since at something after two o''clock, a good-sized motor boat containing five men might have been seen cruising close in to the water-front line of lower San Francisco. Three of the occupants were big, husky fellows, who sat idly in the boat looking like men waiting to be called upon to act and prepared for any emergency. A good-looking young fellow in his twenties was attending to engineer''s duty, while astern sat an elderly man of striking appearance and peculiar dress. He wore a long, blue coat with brass buttons, an old-fashioned stock and stand-up collar, and a big white hat with an unusually broad brim. Clearly he was the leader of this outfit, whatever their business might be out there on the silent bay in the early morning hours. He was a man accustomed to command, being none other than the world-famous detective, Old King Brady, chief of the Brady Detective Bureau of Union Square, New York."

Excerpt: "The Collector of the Port of New York sat in his office in the Custom House with a look of annoyance upon his face. Several of his chief inspectors were standing about the room with the most uneasy expressions, for they were being censured unmercifully. "I tell you, gentlemen," the Collector was saying, angrily, "I am very much disgusted with the poor service your department is giving. I am determined to stop this wholesale smuggling. If none of you are capable of doing the work for which you are liberally paid, I''ll have to get somebody to do the work for you. Do you understand?" "But, sir," began one of the inspectors, humbly, "we''ve done our best—" "And accomplished nothing!" snapped the Collector. "How could we, sir? The smuggler you want us to catch does not resort to the usual tricks such people adopt to avoid paying duty on the diamonds and other precious stones, which you say are smuggled into this country. It''s because he''s such a sly and clever rogue, that we can''t locate him. We''ve resorted to every known method to discover the villain, but can''t make any headway." "Then you admit you are beaten?" "Yes," was the hesitating reply. "Hum!" grunted the Collector, in tones of contempt. "A nice lot of government detectives you fellows are to admit such a defeat. However, I''ve taken the matter into my own hands now.""

Excerpt: ""Help! Police! Murder!" It was a dark, rainy night in March when this thrilling cry, in a man''s voice, came from a house in West Thirty-sixth street, New York. Two detectives were passing along from Seventh avenue, toward Broadway, when the wild appeal brought them to a sudden pause. "Hark, Old King Brady!" one of them exclaimed. "Did you hear that cry?" "Somebody in distress, Harry," replied the tall, gaunt old man, as he shot a keen glance around. "This is a dangerous neighborhood." The stylishly-dressed youth of twenty nodded, felt to see if he had a revolver in his pocket, and pointed at an undertaker''s wagon standing in front of one of a row of houses opposite. "Queer hour for that fellow to be doing business!" he remarked. "There isn''t a light in any of that row of houses, yet the undertaker must be in one of them." "Help! Help!" came the mysterious voice in smothered tones once more. This time the Secret Service men located the sound."

Excerpt: "“Help! Help!” This thrilling cry rang out upon the night air in one of the side streets of New York City. The few pedestrians in the bleak, storm-swept vicinity paused and instinctively looked for the cause of this blood-curdling appeal. Someone was in trouble. That was certain. But who was it and what was the nature of the trouble? As usual, no officer chanced to be within call. Two men who were on their way home from business, however crossed the street with long strides and plunged into a dingy area. It was illy lighted by a gaslight over the door of a wretched tenement. No person could be seen in the area, but one of the men, whose name was Mortimer Smith, bent over and cried: “My soul! This looks as if murder had been done! His companion, a merchant named Benjamin Hanks, echoed: “Murder beyond a doubt!” The snow in the area was trodden and saturated with blood. All the ghostly evidences of a crime save the body of the victim were there."