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Title: Hidden Foes - A Fatal Miscalculation
Author: Carter, Nicholas (House name)
Language: English
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Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
NICK CARTER STORIES
New Magnet Library
Price, Fifteen Cents _Not a Dull Book in This List_
Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that
the books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the
work of a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no
other type of fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of
new plots and situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from
all sorts of troubles and landed the criminal just where he should
be--behind the bars.
The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories
than any other single person.
Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been
selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of
them as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth
covers which sells at ten times the price.
If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet
Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.
_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
850--Wanted: A Clew By Nicholas Carter
851--A Tangled Skein By Nicholas Carter
852--The Bullion Mystery By Nicholas Carter
853--The Man of Riddles By Nicholas Carter
854--A Miscarriage of Justice By Nicholas Carter
855--The Gloved Hand By Nicholas Carter
856--Spoilers and the Spoils By Nicholas Carter
857--The Deeper Game By Nicholas Carter
858--Bolts from Blue Skies By Nicholas Carter
859--Unseen Foes By Nicholas Carter
860--Knaves in High Places By Nicholas Carter
861--The Microbe of Crime By Nicholas Carter
862--In the Toils of Fear By Nicholas Carter
863--A Heritage of Trouble By Nicholas Carter
864--Called to Account By Nicholas Carter
865--The Just and the Unjust By Nicholas Carter
866--Instinct at Fault By Nicholas Carter
867--A Rogue Worth Trapping By Nicholas Carter
868--A Rope of Slender Threads By Nicholas Carter
869--The Last Call By Nicholas Carter
870--The Spoils of Chance By Nicholas Carter
871--A Struggle With Destiny By Nicholas Carter
872--The Slave of Crime By Nicholas Carter
873--The Crook’s Blind By Nicholas Carter
874--A Rascal of Quality By Nicholas Carter
875--With Shackles of Fire By Nicholas Carter
876--The Man Who Changed Faces By Nicholas Carter
877--The Fixed Alibi By Nicholas Carter
878--Out With the Tide By Nicholas Carter
879--The Soul Destroyers By Nicholas Carter
880--The Wages of Rascality By Nicholas Carter
881--Birds of Prey By Nicholas Carter
882--When Destruction Threatens By Nicholas Carter
883--The Keeper of Black Hounds By Nicholas Carter
884--The Door of Doubt By Nicholas Carter
885--The Wolf Within By Nicholas Carter
886--A Perilous Parole By Nicholas Carter
887--The Trail of the Finger Prints By Nicholas Carter
888--Dodging the Law By Nicholas Carter
889--A Crime in Paradise By Nicholas Carter
890--On the Ragged Edge By Nicholas Carter
891--The Red God of Tragedy By Nicholas Carter
892--The Man Who Paid By Nicholas Carter
893--The Blind Man’s Daughter By Nicholas Carter
894--One Object in Life By Nicholas Carter
895--As a Crook Sows By Nicholas Carter
896--In Record Time By Nicholas Carter
897--Held in Suspense By Nicholas Carter
898--The $100,000 Kiss By Nicholas Carter
899--Just One Slip By Nicholas Carter
900--On a Million-dollar Trail By Nicholas Carter
901--A Weird Treasure By Nicholas Carter
902--The Middle Link By Nicholas Carter
903--To the Ends of the Earth By Nicholas Carter
904--When Honors Pall By Nicholas Carter
905--The Yellow Brand By Nicholas Carter
906--A New Serpent in Eden By Nicholas Carter
907--When Brave Men Tremble By Nicholas Carter
908--A Test of Courage By Nicholas Carter
909--Where Peril Beckons By Nicholas Carter
910--The Gargoni Girdle By Nicholas Carter
911--Rascals & Co. By Nicholas Carter
912--Too Late to Talk By Nicholas Carter
913--Satan’s Apt Pupil By Nicholas Carter
914--The Girl Prisoner By Nicholas Carter
915--The Danger of Folly By Nicholas Carter
916--One Shipwreck Too Many By Nicholas Carter
917--Scourged by Fear By Nicholas Carter
918--The Red Plague By Nicholas Carter
919--Scoundrels Rampant By Nicholas Carter
920--From Clew to Clew By Nicholas Carter
921--When Rogues Conspire By Nicholas Carter
922--Twelve in a Grave By Nicholas Carter
923--The Great Opium Case By Nicholas Carter
924--A Conspiracy of Rumors By Nicholas Carter
925--A Klondike Claim By Nicholas Carter
926--The Evil Formula By Nicholas Carter
927--The Man of Many Faces By Nicholas Carter
928--The Great Enigma By Nicholas Carter
929--The Burden of Proof By Nicholas Carter
930--The Stolen Brain By Nicholas Carter
931--A Titled Counterfeiter By Nicholas Carter
932--The Magic Necklace By Nicholas Carter
933--’Round the World for a Quarter By Nicholas Carter
934--Over the Edge of the World By Nicholas Carter
935--In the Grip of Fate By Nicholas Carter
936--The Case of Many Clews By Nicholas Carter
937--The Sealed Door By Nicholas Carter
938--Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men By Nicholas Carter
939--The Man Without a Will By Nicholas Carter
940--Tracked Across the Atlantic By Nicholas Carter
941--A Clew From the Unknown By Nicholas Carter
942--The Crime of a Countess By Nicholas Carter
943--A Mixed Up Mess By Nicholas Carter
944--The Great Money Order Swindle By Nicholas Carter
945--The Adder’s Brood By Nicholas Carter
946--A Wall Street Haul By Nicholas Carter
947--For a Pawned Crown By Nicholas Carter
* * * * *
HIDDEN FOES
OR, A FATAL MISCALCULATION
BY NICHOLAS CARTER
Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures, which
are published exclusively in the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY, conceded
to be among the best detective tales ever written.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
* * * * *
Copyright, 1917 By Street & Smith Corporation
Hidden Foes
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
* * * * *
HIDDEN FOES.
CHAPTER I. A MYSTERIOUS FATALITY.
Nobody had heard the report of a pistol.
There had been no disturbance; in fact, no audible altercation, no
startling cry for help, or even a groan of sudden, terrible distress.
The man lay there as motionless, nevertheless, as if felled by a
thunderbolt. His life had been snuffed out like the flame of a candle
by the fury of a whirlwind. Death had come upon him like a bolt from
the blue. By slow degrees his face underwent a change--but it was not
the change that ordinarily follows sudden death, that peaceful calm
that marks the end of earthly toil and trouble.
Instead, the smoothly shaven skin seemed to shrink and wither slightly
over the dead nerves and lifeless muscles, and a singular slaty hue
that was hardly perceptible settled around his lips and nostrils,
partly dispelling the first deathly pallor. It was as if the blast
from a furnace, or the searing touch of a fiery hand, had withered and
parched it.
He was a comparatively young man, not over thirty, and he was
fashionably clad in a plaid business suit. He was lying flat on his
back on the floor of the second-story corridor of a building known as
the Waldmere Chambers, in the city of Madison.
Presently the door of one of the several adjoining rooms was opened
and a stylish young woman emerged. She was clad for the street, and
lingered to lock the door and put the key in her leather hand bag. Then
she turned, and her gaze fell upon the prostrate man, several yards
away and nearer the broad stairway leading down to the lower floor and
the street door.
“Good heavens! Is he drunk?” she gasped, shrinking involuntarily.
She feared to approach him, though her hesitation was only momentary.
For she heard the tread of some one on the stairs, obviously that of a
man, and she ventured nearer just as the other appeared at the top of
the stairs, a well-built, florid man of middle age.
“Oh, Doctor Perry, look here!” she cried excitedly. “What’s the matter
with this man? Is he drunk or ill, or what is the----”
“Well, well, I don’t wonder you ask.” Doctor Perry approached and gazed
down at him. “I don’t know, Miss Vernon. He appears to be----”
He stopped short; then crouched and raised the man’s arm, dropping it
quickly. It fell back upon the floor as if made of clay.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed, rising hurriedly. “The man is dead.”
“Dead!” Miss Vernon echoed, turning pale.
“Stone dead. Do you know him?”
“No. I just came from my rooms to go to lunch and saw him lying here.”
“Did you hear him fall, or any disturbance, or----”
“I heard nothing, Doctor Perry, not a sound.”
“We must call a policeman. I will wait here while you do so. Go down to
the street and find an officer.”
“Won’t it be better to telephone? I can do so in a moment.”
“Yes, yes, in that case,” Doctor Perry nodded. “Hasten.”
Miss Vernon ran back and entered her rooms, on the door of which a
modest brass plate stated that her business was that of a manicure and
ladies’ hairdresser. She ran to a telephone in one of the attractively
furnished rooms, crying quickly to the exchange operator:
“Give me the police headquarters. Hurry, please! It’s an emergency
case.”
Seated with Chief Gleason in the latter’s private office when the
telephone call was received in the outer office was the celebrated
American detective, Nicholas Carter, who had arrived in Madison early
that morning with two of his assistants, and who then was discussing
with the chief the business which had occasioned his visit, the nature
of which will presently appear. They were interrupted by a police
sergeant, who knocked and entered, saying quickly:
“A man has dropped dead, chief, in a corridor of the Waldmere Chambers.
Shall I send the ambulance?”
“What man? Is he known?” Gleason questioned, swinging around in his
swivel chair.
“No, sir.”
“Who informed you?”
“A woman telephoned that the body had just been found. Doctor Perry,
the dentist, was watching it while she telephoned. His office is in the
Waldmere Chambers. Neither of them knew the dead man.”
“Yes, send the ambulance,” Chief Gleason directed. “You had better go,
also, and look into the case. If----”
“One moment,” Nick Carter interrupted. “I think I’ll go with him,
chief, if you don’t mind.”
“What need of that? It is merely a case of----”
“We don’t know what kind of a case it is, Gleason, at present,” Carter
cut in again. “A sudden death always warrants more or less suspicion.
It is barely possible that this has some connection with the series of
mysterious crimes that we have been discussing, and which has finally
led you to call on me for assistance. Be that as it may----”
“Hang it, Carter, I’ll go with you myself, then,” Gleason interrupted,
rising and taking his cap. “You may be right, of course, and the
chance is worth taking. You remain here, sergeant, but send along the
ambulance. We’ll take a taxi.”
Chief Gleason started for the street while speaking, closely followed
by the famous detective, and they were so fortunate as to find a
taxicab just passing the headquarters building.
Thus it happened that Nicholas Carter arrived upon the scene of the
sudden fatality scarcely ten minutes after it was discovered. He
was not without an intuitive feeling, moreover, that he was to be
confronted with a mystery of more than ordinary depth and obscurity, a
case that would tax not only his rare detective genius, but also his
skill, craft, and cunning in every department of his professional work.
“I think, Gleason, that you had better not mention my name while we
are looking into this matter,” he remarked, as they were alighting from
the taxicab.
“Very well,” Gleason readily assented. “But what do you expect to gain
by suppressing it?”
“Just what is hard to say at this stage of the game,” Carter replied.
“If all you have told me is true, however, and Madison is afflicted
with a crook whose crafty work has completely baffled your entire
police department, it may be of some advantage to me, at least, if he
does not immediately learn that I have been employed to run him down.
That would serve only to put him on his guard.”
“I see the point,” Gleason nodded. “I agree with you, too.”
“The fact has not been disclosed, I understand.”
“Only to a few members of the force, Carter; all of whom were ordered
to say nothing about it. They may be trusted.”
“Very good! If there should be occasion to introduce me to others,
then, present me as Mr. Blaisdell,” Carter directed. “That is the name
under which I am registered at the Wilton House.”
“Blaisdell--I’ll bear it in mind.”
“Come on, then,” the detective added. “We are none too soon. A crowd is
beginning to gather.”
Their remarks had been made while they were entering the building.
A group of men had collected at the top of the stairs. They were
restrained by a policeman who had been called in from the street, and a
passageway was hurriedly made for Chief Gleason and his companion. That
the latter was the famous New York detective, not even the policeman
then suspected.
The scene in the second-floor corridor was about what Nick Carter
anticipated. Half a score of men and women had come from the adjoining
rooms and offices and were gazing with mingled awe and consternation
at the lifeless man on the floor. He was lying where he had fallen. A
physician had been hurriedly summoned and was bending over him, engaged
in making a superficial examination.
Chief Gleason started slightly when he beheld the upturned face of the
dead man.
“Good heavens!” he muttered. “It’s Gaston Todd.”
Carter heard his muttered exclamation. Restraining him, at the same
time furtively watching the physician, he said quietly:
“One moment, chief. Who is Gaston Todd? What about him?”
“He was born and brought up here,” Gleason replied. “He had been in the
stock brokerage business for ten years, cashier for Daly & Page. He was
a clubman and a figure in society.”
“Married?”
“No. He had a suite in the Wilton House. By Jove, it’s barely possible
that----”
“What is barely possible?”
“That you are right.”
“Right in what respect? Tell me.”
Carter had noticed the chief’s hesitation, his dark frown, as if he had
started to say something which discretion quickly led him to withhold.
He demurred only for a moment, however, then explained with lowered
voice:
“Right, perhaps in thinking there is knavery back of this. There had
been a feeling of bitter rivalry between Todd and a young local
lawyer, Frank Paulding, who is an exceedingly impetuous and hot-headed
chap. They had an ugly altercation in the Country Club last night, I
have heard, and it is said that they nearly came to blows. That may
have ended it, of course, though this sudden death of Todd, following
it so quickly----”
“Is somewhat significant,” Nick Carter put in quietly. “I agree with
you. In what have the two men been rivals?”
“For the hand of Edna Thurlow, by far the most beautiful and
accomplished girl in Madison. She inherited half a million when her
father died. Her mother, Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, is also very wealthy
and fashionable. She’s the acknowledged leader of the local smart set.
The two men may have met here this morning. Possibly the fight of last
night was resumed, resulting in----”
“Let it go at that,” the detective interrupted. “The physician has
ended his examination.”
CHAPTER II. NICK CARTER’S OPINION.
Chief Gleason immediately turned and approached the rising physician,
asking a bit brusquely:
“Well, Doctor Doyle, what do you make of it? The man is dead?”
“Yes, indeed, there is no question about that, Mr. Gleason.”
“What was the cause?”
“It appears to be a case of heart disease.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“One cannot be absolutely sure, Mr. Gleason, without performing an
autopsy,” Doctor Doyle said blandly, while he wiped his fingers with
his handkerchief. “I feel reasonably sure. There is no wound that I can
discover, nor does there appear to be any indication of foul play. Yes,
I feel reasonably sure of it,” he repeated.
“You don’t think, then, that there is any occasion to notify the
coroner?” Gleason said inquiringly.
“There seems to be none. I have no doubt that the man died from natural
causes. There is no superficial evidence to the contrary, or any----”
Doctor Doyle broke off abruptly, his gaze having fallen upon the
detective, who had passed back of the couple and approached the body.
Carter then was bending over it, and with his finger had raised one of
Todd’s eyelids. He studied the ball and pupil for several seconds, then
took a powerful lens from his pocket and inspected the dead man’s face
and lips. He looked up after a moment and said:
“I don’t agree with you, doctor. This man appears to have been a very
strong and rugged fellow.”
“That is true, sir, as far as it goes,” Doctor Doyle admitted, frowning
slightly when his professional opinion was thus questioned by a
stranger.
“It seems hardly probable that such a man died of heart disease,” the
detective said pointedly. “Nor do his eyes denote that apoplexy was the
cause.”
“You will have to go deeper, sir, nevertheless, to find positive
evidence of the cause,” Doctor Doyle said, rather coldly. “Superficial
evidence is not absolutely convincing.”
“Have you noticed this slight discoloration of the skin near the mouth
and nostrils?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How do you account for that?”
“Such slight changes immediately after death are not uncommon,” said
the physician. “There may be a slight settlement of blood in the
tissues in that locality.”
“You would not attribute it to a blow?”
“Surely not. There could be no mistaking the evidence of a violent
blow.”
“But the skin appears to be slightly withered,” said Carter. “Minute
wrinkles are discernible with my lens, particularly in the thin skin of
the lips.”
“That may be easily explained.”
“How so?”
“Death may have been preceded by a sudden terrible pain, causing a
contraction of the lips, and what may be termed a pinched condition
of the nerves and muscles in that locality. They may not have relaxed
yet, which causes the drawn appearance of the skin which, you say,
is discernible with your lens. No, I do not wish to examine it more
closely. I don’t think it signifies anything.”
“I do,” said the detective, rising abruptly. “I think----”
“One moment, gentlemen.” The interruption came from Doctor Perry, the
dentist, who still was among the people then gathered in the corridor.
“Here is Professor Graff, the chemist. His opinion ought to be valuable
in a case of this kind.”
Nicholas Carter turned to gaze at the man who then was approaching.
Professor Graff had come from a room at the rear end of the corridor,
and he appeared surprised that something unusual had occurred,
evidently having heard none of the disturbance. He was a man of medium
build, somewhat bowed, and appeared to be about sixty years old. His
hair and beard were gray, his complexion sallow, his expression serious
and reserved. He wore gold-bowed spectacles and looked as if he might
be of German or Swedish extraction. He was clad for the street, wearing
a soft felt hat and a coat with a cape, a style augmenting his foreign
appearance.
“Dear me, what has happened?” he said gravely, while others made way
for him to approach. “A gentleman injured--not dead, is he?”
“Yes.” Doctor Perry drew him nearer. “He was found lying here a few
minutes ago.”
“I heard nothing. I have just come up from my laboratory. Why, why,
this is Mr. Gaston Todd,” Professor Graff added amazedly, manifestly
shocked by the discovery. “I cannot be mistaken. I have seen him
frequently in the Wilton House.”
“There is no question as to his identity,” replied the dentist, who
appeared to be the only person acquainted with the chemist. “There is a
difference of opinion between Doctor Doyle and this gentleman, however,
as to the possible cause of his death. They----”
“Let me explain,” the detective interposed, addressing the chemist. “It
will take me only a few minutes.”
“Why, yes, certainly,” Professor Graff bowed, regarding the detective a
bit curiously.
Carter turned again to the body, briefly pointing out the conditions he
already had mentioned, and then added earnestly:
“Use my lens. You can see more distinctly.”
Professor Graff smiled faintly and shook his head.
“Really, sir, there is no occasion,” he replied. “My opinion in such a
matter is worthless. I know nothing about such things. I am a chemist,
not a physician. I can subject the physical organs to analysis and
detect poisons, or other foreign substances, perhaps; but I would not
wish to pass upon the conditions you have mentioned. It seems only
reasonable to me, however, that Doctor Doyle’s opinion ought to be
entirely reliable.”
“I think he will find it so,” said the latter, as Professor Graff moved
away and descended the stairs.
Nick Carter did not longer argue the point. Instead, turning to Chief
Gleason, he whispered quietly:
“You had better be governed by my opinion, nevertheless, and take the
necessary steps to insure an autopsy.”
“You really think, then, that----”
“Never mind what I really think. I’ll see you later and inform you. You
will make no mistake, however, in doing what I direct. Take it from me,
Gleason, this man was--murdered.”
“Murdered? Why do you----”
“Hush!” Nick quietly cautioned. “There will be nothing in immediately
disclosing my suspicion. It will be better to conceal it temporarily.
Has this man a family?”
“No; no family.”
“Or relatives who will be likely to interfere?”
“I think not. I am quite sure of it, in fact.”
“Very good. Notify the coroner, then, and have him take the necessary
steps to perform an autopsy later,” the detective directed.
“Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Chief Gleason nodded. “I will see to it.”
“And I will see you later, also the coroner, and explain my position,”
Carter added. “Just now I have something else in view and must get a
move on. Mum’s the word, mind you, until after the autopsy.”
He did not wait for an answer. He turned away and quickly departed,
leaving his observers wondering who he was and what he had said, his
instructions having been imparted in subdued and hurried whispers.
Returning to the street, Carter consulted a directory in a drug store,
and five minutes later he entered the Gratton Building and approached
the office of the lawyer whom the chief had mentioned. He listened at
the door for a moment, hearing nothing, and then opened it and entered.
A tall, clean-cut man of thirty swung around in his swivel chair
from a rolltop desk. He was of light complexion, with a smoothly
shaved, attractive face, and frank blue eyes. He was alone and looked
a bit curiously at his visitor, who, glancing sharply around the
well-equipped office, appeared somewhat surprised, and said:
“Pardon me. Are you Mr. Paulding?”
“Yes, I am, sir.”
“I thought I saw Mr. Gaston Todd come in here a moment ago. Was I
mistaken?”
“Humph!” Paulding straightened up with an expressive grunt. “Yes, sir,
very much mistaken. Todd never comes here, nor would it be wise for
him to do so. I would fire him out, head, neck, and heels, before he
could open his mouth. You may repeat that to him, if you like and are a
friend of his. I would say the same to Todd himself.”
Nick laughed, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and surveyed with
quizzical eye the somewhat impulsive speaker.
“Oh, I’m no friend of Todd,” he replied. “I know him only by sight.
There is a little matter, however, about which I would like to question
him.”
“All right, in that case, and I’ll do all I can to help you,” Paulding
said more agreeably. “I saw him in the Waldmere Chambers about fifteen
minutes ago. He still is there, perhaps, if you care to seek him.”
“In the rooms of one of the tenants, or----”
“No. He was in the second-floor corridor,” Paulding interrupted. “He
appeared to be waiting for some one. I passed him when I came out.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Not by a long chalk. I speak to Todd only under protest and when it
cannot be avoided. That’s all I can tell you. You may find him there,
perhaps.”
Nick Carter had accomplished his object. He was a keen physiognomist
and could read faces and characters much less frank and outspoken
than those of this lawyer. He now was absolutely sure, in fact, that
Paulding knew nothing about Todd’s death, nor had even heard of it. He
smiled and replied:
“Much obliged. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“No trouble at all, sir.”
“May I ask, Mr. Paulding, what took you to the Waldmere Chambers?”
“I went there to confer with a client who----” Paulding broke off
abruptly, gazing more sharply at the detective, then frowningly added:
“But why do you ask why I went there? What is it to you? It strikes me
that you are deucedly inquisitive.”
“I agree with you,” said Nick, coolly placing a chair near that of
the lawyer and sitting down. “There is serious occasion for it, Mr.
Paulding, as I now will explain: I happen to know that Mr. Gaston Todd
has not left that second-floor corridor in the Waldmere Chambers. He
was found dead there immediately after you left the building.”
“Dead--found dead!” Paulding stared amazedly. “What are you saying? Do
you really mean it--that Gaston Todd is--dead!”
If Nick had had even a lingering shadow of suspicion, it would have
been instantly dispelled by the expression of the lawyer’s face. It was
one that no man could have feigned, however accomplished an actor. He
bowed and replied:
“Yes, Mr. Paulding, that is precisely what I mean. Gaston Todd is dead.”
“Dear me, I can hardly believe it. It seems utterly incredible. Found
dead, you say----”
“Exactly. Where you last saw him. He was----”
“Stop a moment! What do you imply by that?”
Paulding’s face had changed like a flash. His brows fell and his eyes
took on a threatening gleam and glitter. He lurched forward in his
chair, adding quickly:
“Why did you say he was found immediately after I left the building,
and where I last saw him? What are you insinuating? What are you trying
to put over on me? Why, if you knew he was dead, did you come here to
pretend you were seeking him? Who the devil are you, that you impose
upon me in this way, implying that I----”
“Here is my card,” the detective blandly interposed, tendering it. “You
may, perhaps, know me by name.”
CHAPTER III. A FRIEND WORTH HAVING.
Nick Carter smiled amusedly when Frank Paulding, having fairly snatched
the card and read it, straightened up in his chair and stared at him
with almost ludicrous astonishment.
“Nicholas Carter!” he exclaimed; “the New York detective! Good
gracious!”
“Is it so very amazing?” the detective asked dryly.
“Yes, by Jove, it is,” said Paulding, pulling himself together. “I
do, indeed, know you by name, and who does not? Let the circumstances
be what they may, too, I am very glad to become acquainted with you.
I am not blind, nevertheless, to the fact that your visit is rather
significant; decidedly so, in reality, in view of your duplicity and
covert insinuations that----”
“That you know something about Todd’s sudden death,” Nick put in,
checking him. “Don’t let that annoy you. I did so, Mr. Paulding, only
to assure myself to the contrary. I have succeeded, too, completely.”
“But what was the occasion?” Paulding questioned. “I don’t see, Mr.
Carter, why you thought I knew anything about it.”
“I did not really think so,” Nick said dryly. “I foresaw, however, what
others possibly will think, sooner or later, and I wanted to look at
you and take your measure before circumstances might make it difficult
for me to do so with absolute certainty. He is a wise man and keen, you
know, who anticipates coming events.”
“By Jove, I fail to get you, Mr. Carter,” Paulding said more seriously.
“Take my measure, eh? What others will possibly think? Say, you
don’t--you don’t mean that--that Gaston Todd was killed, do you? Not
that he was--murdered?”
Nick glanced at the door, to be sure that he had closed it. He then
replied more impressively:
“I am a stranger to you, Mr. Paulding, but you will make no mistake in
meeting me halfway and taking my advice. I frequently am a good friend
to have in time of trouble.”
“I know of none I would rather have,” Paulding said quickly.
“That goes, does it?”
“You bet it goes.”
“What now passes between us, then, must be strictly confidential,” said
the detective. “You must, moreover, be governed by my instructions. You
will presently see, I think, that that will be the only wise course for
you to shape. If you are not inclined to meet me in this way----”
“But I am,” Paulding cut in earnestly. “I’m not blind. I now see there
is something wrong, Mr. Carter, and that you are here in my behalf. I
would be more than a fool, sir, if I did not take advantage of your
offer. I promise in advance to do what you direct.”
“Very good,” Nick said approvingly. “You will not regret it.”
“But how am I in wrong?” Paulding asked anxiously. “Has a crime been
committed? Was Todd murdered?”
“I think so,” said the detective.
“Good heavens! Is it possible that I am suspected of----”
“One moment, Paulding, and I will tell you about it.”
He then stated the circumstances briefly, in so far as he had figured
in the case, and then added pointedly:
“You now can see why I wanted to talk with you, Paulding, and get your
measure.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Paulding nodded. “But how did you know that I passed
Todd in the corridor just before he died, or was killed? I saw no one
else. I am sure, too, that no one saw me. How did you know I had just
left there?”
“For two reasons,” Nick replied. “One, because you told me so.”
“I told you so?” Paulding stared perplexedly.
“In effect,” smiled the detective. “You said you had passed Todd about
fifteen minutes ago, and I knew that was just about when his body was
discovered.”
“Ah, I see. You are a keen reasoner, Mr. Carter. You said there were
two reasons, however.”
“The other can be briefly stated: Todd did not look to me like a man
who had dropped dead of any organic trouble. He looked like a strong
and healthful fellow. I very soon suspected murder; and, after having
been told of your fight with Todd in the Country Club last night, I
reasoned that you had just met him, perhaps, and been seen by some
person who, for some reason and knowing all of the circumstances,
had taken advantage of them to craftily kill Todd and fix the crime
upon you, assuming that you had not done it. That’s why I lost no time
in sizing you up from personal observation. I wanted to do so before
you heard of Todd’s death, in case you were innocent, of which I was
quickly convinced. Have I made it plain to you?”
“Perfectly plain, Mr. Carter,” Paulding said earnestly. “I am more than
grateful. I don’t know how I can repay you for your interest in me, a
stranger----”
“Don’t speak of that,” the detective interrupted. “I am interested in
serving justice, mind you, and am taking what seems to be the best
way. I am not absolutely sure that Todd was murdered. An autopsy will
determine that. If he was, at such a time and in such a public place,
without any disturbance or any superficial wound, it was accomplished
by most extraordinary means and by a knave of exceeding boldness and
ability, who may be equally as skillful in hiding his identity and
covering his tracks. That’s why I have tackled the case in the bud, so
to speak, in anticipation of what may follow.”
“I understand,” said Paulding. “It now is perfectly plain.”
“We’ll get right down to business, then, for I wish you to answer a few
questions,” Carter replied.
“As many as you wish, Mr. Carter, and to the best of my ability.”
“Very good. Todd appeared to be waiting for some one, you have said.”
“Yes. That was my impression.”
“Do you know for whom, or how long he had been there?”
“No, neither.”
“Do you know of any person whom he visits, who has rooms or an office
in that building?”
“I do not. He was not the type of man I fancied, Mr. Carter, and we
never have been good friends.”
“I was told that he was a popular clubman.”
“He was, I admit, and there are many who liked him.”
“What was the trouble between you last evening?” the detective
inquired. “I was told----”
“I can tell you in a nutshell,” Paulding interrupted. “He spoke of a
young lady in terms that no gentleman should have used. I called him
down, Mr. Carter. One word led to another, and we nearly came to blows.
That’s all there was to it, however, for others interposed and Todd
immediately left the clubhouse. I did not see him again until we met
this morning in the Waldmere Chambers.”
“Do you know anything against him, so far as his character and habits
are concerned?”
“Well, no,” said Paulding, after a moment. “He was somewhat dissipated
at times and in with the fast set. He gambled more or less on the
quiet, and I know he was friendly with other women while paying
attention to----”
“To Miss Thurlow,” put in Carter, when the lawyer hesitated. “Her name
was mentioned to me, also, and the fact that a bitter rivalry existed
between you and Todd.”
“Well, there is some truth in that,” Paulding admitted, flushing.
“Regardless of my affection and whether she really cares for me, Mr.
Carter, I never considered Todd a fit man for Edna Thurlow. I would
not have permitted him to visit a sister of mine, if I had one. Edna
is young, however; only nineteen, and it’s not difficult for a man of
Todd’s type to deceive an inexperienced girl. I do not mean by that,
Mr. Carter, that he would not have cared to marry her. He was out to
get her, if possible, and----”
“So are you, Paulding, aren’t you?” Nick interrupted. “Tell me frankly.”
“Yes, indeed, I am, Mr. Carter, if she’ll have me.”
“Do you think she will?”
“I hope so, think so, in fact, though I have not yet ventured to
ask her. Bear in mind, Mr. Carter, that she is wealthy, prominent
socially, and a very beautiful and accomplished girl, while I am only
a struggling lawyer, bucking up against a hard game, and with only
patronage and income enough to keep me going. But I’ll make good, all
right, and then----”
“I think you will, Paulding,” the detective again interposed. “Let
it go at that, now, for my time is limited. I wish to give you a few
instructions, which you must follow to the letter.”
“I will do so,” Paulding assured him. “You may rely upon that.”
“Much may depend upon it,” Carter said impressively. “As I have said,
nevertheless, I am not absolutely sure that Todd was murdered. Nor,
if he was, am I sure that you will be seriously involved, or even
suspected. I think you may be, however, for the reason stated, and you
must in that case do precisely what I direct.”
“I certainly will, Mr. Carter,” Mr. Paulding again said earnestly.
“To begin with, then, say nothing about this interview, or the fact
that we have met and that I am interested in the case,” Nick directed.
“Do not confide in any one, not excepting Miss Thurlow, even, in case
you are arrested and charged with the crime.”
“Good heavens! Do you anticipate that?” Paulding asked anxiously.
“It is possible, if not probable,” the detective replied. “You must,
in that case, do precisely as if we had not met. Say not a word about
me until I countermand these instructions. My presence in Madison is
not generally known, and, while looking into this matter, as well as
other business that brought me here, I may derive an advantage from
concealing the fact.”
“I understand, and will act accordingly.”
“You may assert your innocence, employ another lawyer, get bail if you
can, and all that--but not a word about me.”
“That goes,” Paulding nodded. “I’ll be as dumb as an oyster.”
“Very good,” said Carter, extending his hand and rising to go. “I
will make it a point to see you as soon as possible, in case you are
arrested, but do not under any circumstances send for me. On the other
hand, do not fear that I will desert you. I shall know all that is
going on and will be hard at work for you.”
“That’s good enough for me,” declared Paulding, warmly pressing the
detective’s hand. “You can bank on me, Mr. Carter, let come what
may--as I’m going to bank on you.”
“Good enough, then,” the detective added. “We’ll wait and see how the
cat jumps.”
CHAPTER IV. THE MAN OF LAST RESORT.
Nicholas Carter did not return to the Waldmere Chambers after his
interview with Frank Paulding. It was not entirely due to his intuitive
perception, or to any evidence definitely involving another, that had
caused him to feel that Paulding had played no part in the killing of
Gaston Todd, and that he might be possibly the victim of a carefully
planned conspiracy.
It was due in part to what Chief Gleason had told him earlier that
morning, when they were discussing the business that had brought him
secretly to Madison with his two most reliable assistants.
Nick saw nothing to be gained by returning to the Waldmere Chambers,
and he hastened to the Wilton House, instead, going at once to the
suite assigned him, where Chick and Patsy then were waiting for him.
“Well, there must be something doing, indeed,” Chick exclaimed, gazing
at him when he entered. “Has it taken Gleason the entire morning to
tell you why we are needed in Madison?”
“No, not quite,” Carter replied, taking a chair. “There is more doing
than what Gleason confided to me, Chick, and I think there may be some
connection between them. Unless I am very much mistaken, there was a
deucedly singular murder committed about an hour ago.”
“The devil you say!” Chick returned. “Have you been looking into it?”
“Superficially.”
“Tell us, chief,” said Patsy, with immediate interest. “Why singular?”
“I will do so presently,” Nick replied. “I first will tell you why
Chief Gleason sent for me. It’s a rather remarkable story.”
“A mysterious crime, chief?”
“Quite a number of them, Patsy.”
“Gee whiz! We are booked for some hard work, then, if the local police
cannot handle them.”
“Crimes of what kind, chief?” Chick inquired.
“The first was committed several months ago,” said Carter, disposing
of the match with which he had been lighting a cigar. “It was the
robbery of a prominent local banker, named Wagner, whose statements are
entirely reliable.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“Briefly stated, he was going home from his club about nine o’clock one
evening, after having dined there with a friend. He is a well-built,
powerful man of forty, about the last whom a holdup man would venture
to tackle. He wore some valuable jewelry, however, and he had nearly a
thousand dollars in his pocket, which he wanted to use before banking
hours the following morning.”
“The crook may have known about it.”
“Possibly, though Wagner doesn’t think so.”
“Where was the crime committed?”
“In the grounds of his own house, a fine residence in Garside Avenue.
He was sauntering up a gravel walk leading to his front door, when a
man came down from the veranda and approached to meet him. Wagner did
not recognize him, but he naturally inferred that the stranger had
called to see him, and, not finding him at home, that he was about
departing.”
“Certainly,” Chick nodded. “That was perfectly natural.”
“What followed was quite the contrary,” Carter remarked dryly. “The
stranger stopped directly in front of him and asked whether he was
Mr. Wagner. He had an unlighted cigar in his mouth, or so Wagner has
stated. The latter replied in the affirmative, of course, and asked
what was wanted.”
“And then, chief?” queried Patsy.
“Then came the one singular feature of the case,” said the detective.
“Wagner felt a sensation as if a breath of air had hit his face.
He doesn’t know where it came from, nor can he explain it, for the
stranger still had the cigar between his lips and his mouth was closed.
Be that as it may, Wagner instantly felt very numb and confused, and in
another moment he lost consciousness.”
“Fainted away?”
“Not quite that, Patsy.”
“Great guns! What was he up against, chief?”
“That’s the question,” said Nick. “He was seen on the gravel walk a
little later by a passing policeman, who hastened to aid him. Wagner
still was unconscious, dead to the world, as he afterward expressed it
when revived by a physician. He had been robbed of his money and all of
his jewelry, and the thief had disappeared, leaving absolutely no clew
to his identity.”
“He has not been traced, nor any of the jewelry?”
“Neither.”
“Is any one suspected?”
“No.” Nick shook his head. “There have been numerous other robberies of
a like character, and under similar circumstances, but in no case has
any of the stolen property been recovered, nor a clew to the criminal
been found. The police have been at work for months on more than a
score of such cases.”
“By Jove! that’s very peculiar,” Chick said thoughtfully. “Is the
description of the crook the same in all cases?”
“Far from it,” Carter replied. “They vary materially.”
“There must be a gang at work, then.”
“It appears so.”
“Did the victim in each case experience the same sensations as those
described by Wagner?”
“Very similar, though the circumstances were not always the same.
All agree, however, that they suddenly became unconscious from an
unknown cause, while talking with a person who had accosted them on
one pretense or another. One stock broker was robbed in that way
while alone in his business office. The police are all at sea, and
the community is on nettles as to who will be the next victim of the
mysterious and elusive plunderers. That’s why Gleason sent secretly for
me to aid him.”
“How do you size it up, chief?” Patsy inquired. “What do you make of
it?”
“Well, take the case of Wagner,” Carter replied. “He is very much
mystified by the breath of air he felt on his face. His assailant’s
lips were closed around a cigar, and Wagner is sure he could not have
exhaled the breath he suddenly felt.”
“Surely not, chief, in that case,” said Patsy.
“Don’t be so sure of it,” Carter returned. “When a man confronts
another and has a full-length cigar between his teeth, the outer end of
it may be very near the other’s face.”
“That’s true, chief, but what of it?”
“Suppose it was not a cigar, but made to closely resemble one?”
“Gee whiz! I get you,” cried Patsy. “You mean a tube through which
one’s breath might be blown.”
“I mean a tube, Patsy, which contained something that may have been
forced outward by the man’s breath, and so directed that Wagner must
have inhaled it,” Carter explained.
“I see.”
“Just what it was, being powerful enough to immediately overcome him,
and how the tube was constructed so that the user would not be affected
by its contents when ejecting it, are open questions.”
“Do you really think that is how it was done?” Chick inquired, a bit
incredulous.
“I certainly do,” nodded the detective.
“Had Gleason thought of that device, or any of the police?”
“No, nor did I inform him,” said Carter, smiling significantly.
“Since we are about to investigate these mysterious cases, which I
have decided to do, we may derive an advantage by not disclosing our
suspicions.”
“Certainly,” Chick agreed. “That’s good judgment. It may be, chief,
that the crook has discovered an odorless and very powerful narcotic
gas; also various methods by which he can craftily and quickly
administer it.”
“Something of that nature, Chick, which also indicates that he is a man
of education, with a knowledge of drugs and mechanics,” Carter pointed
out. “All this is what leads me to think there may be some connection
between these numerous strange robberies and the mysterious killing
of Gaston Todd this noon, if an autopsy shows positively that he was
murdered.”
“That’s the case you mentioned?”
“Yes. I now will tell you about it.”
The detective proceeded to do so, covering all of the essential points,
both during his observations in the Waldmere Chambers and his call upon
Frank Paulding.
“By Jove! this case does have a striking likeness to the others,” Chick
declared, after listening attentively. “It may be a murder case, as you
suspect.”
“The similarity first led me to suspect it.”
“Naturally.”
“There are three other cases, too, about which Gleason told me, that
are fully as peculiar,” Carter added, knocking the ashes from his cigar.
“What are they, chief?” questioned Patsy.
“They involve three girls, or, more properly, young women, for all are
about twenty,” said the detective. “All were found unconscious in the
grounds of the local hospital.”
“At the same time?”
“No. There was an interval of several days between them.”
“Found when?”
“About midnight.”
“Had they been robbed?”
“No. There was no robbery in either case, nor has it been learned
that an outrage of any kind was attempted,” Nick explained. “Each of
the girls was first taken to the police headquarters, I understand,
and afterward sent to the hospital, where one of the physicians soon
succeeded in reviving her. She then was allowed to depart, after
stating that she could not account for her strange condition, nor
remember anything that had befallen her.”
“By gracious, that is peculiar, chief, for fair,” declared Patsy,
gazing perplexedly.
“More strange, perhaps, and somewhat significant, is the fact that not
one of these girls could afterward be found by the police, when they
tumbled to a possibility that the three cases might have some relation
to the many mysterious robberies.”
“Their names are not known?”
“So Gleason states. It appears that they were not learned by the
hospital authorities.”
“The whole business does seem strange, indeed,” Chick said more
gravely. “It looks as if we were up against a very curious and
complicated mess.”
“And crooks of extraordinary craft and cunning,” put in Patsy earnestly.
“I agree with both of you,” said Nick, glancing at his watch. “Come, we
are due for a late lunch. I will make further inquiries this afternoon,
and then--well, I will have decided by evening how we can begin our
work. The autopsy to-morrow may show us the way.”
CHAPTER V. ANOTHER STRANGE CASE.
The steeple bell of a church within a stone’s throw of Hamilton
Square struck twelve. The successive strokes fell with monotonous
reverberations on the midnight air, breaking with solemn resonance the
quietude of that reputable residential section of Madison.
For Hamilton Square, though not far from the business district, was in
an attractive part of the city, to which the extensive tract of land
had been donated years before, in part for a public square and the
remainder for the site, park, and gardens of the now locally famous
Osgood Hospital, established by the donor, and still largely supported
by the income from his bequests.
The last stroke of the bell scarce had died away to a customary
stillness, when a burly policeman, one James Donovan, appeared on one
side of the square flanking the hospital grounds, moving along near the
iron fence and pausing now and then to gaze across the broad avenue at
the opposite dwellings, the most of which were shrouded in darkness.
Presently, approaching a gate in the fence, he muttered to himself:
“I may as well have another look. It’s a hundred to one there has been
nothing doing, though, or I would have heard it. This evidently isn’t
one of the nights for their devilish doings. Hang it, I’m not sure of
it!”
He had stopped short, taking out his electric lamp and flashing the
beam of light on the ornamental gate. A padlock had been removed and
was lying on the gravel walk within. Nearly at his feet, discovered
after a brief search, was a piece of black thread.
“By thunder, I was wrong,” Donovan muttered, gazing around and scowling
perplexedly. “Have my ears gone back on me? Has this scurvy trick been
turned again? Some one has been through this gate since I tied the
thread on it. I’ll darned soon find out.”
Quietly lifting the latch, Donovan opened the gate and entered with
quickened steps. He did not follow the gravel walk, which led toward an
end door in a wing of the hospital some fifty yards away. Instead, he
strode straight across the broad lawn, through the deeper gloom under
the trees, until he came to one, the drooping branches of which formed a
sort of arbor in a secluded part of the extensive estate.
There was an iron seat under it, and the policeman flashed his light in
that direction. It fell upon a motionless figure in a huddled position
on one end of the seat--the figure of a young woman.
“Another, by thunder, as sure as I’m a foot high,” Donovan gasped
audibly. “In spite of my vigilance, too, and in the same place and
condition as the others. Sure, this beats me.”
Donovan drew nearer and bent over the motionless girl. She was about
nineteen, with a slender, neatly clad figure, a dark skirt and Eton
jacket. Her head was bowed forward, and her hat was somewhat awry. She
was of dark complexion, but the ghastly pallor of her cheeks caused
the policeman to catch his breath. He bowed over her, listening, and
presently could hear the faint breathing of the unconscious girl.
“By Jove, I feared for a moment she was gone,” he said to himself,
straightening up. “I’ll try to raise the sergeant. He said he’d show up
about midnight.”
Donovan walked away toward the gate again and blew his whistle, a
shrill, sinister sound on the night air. Thrice he had to sound it, and
then he heard a distant reply. Several moments later hurried footsteps
fell on the pavement, and an officer in plain clothes appeared at the
gate.
“That you, Jim?” he called quietly.
“Yes, sir.” Donovan’s hand went to his helmet. “I thought I might get
you, Sergeant Brady, as you said you’d drop around about this time.”
“Something doing?”
“Yes, sir, the same old job.”
“The devil you say! Have you seen no one, nor heard anything?”
“Not a soul, sir, nor a sound,” Donovan declared, approaching the gate.
“Faith, I think my eyes and ears have gone to the bad. I was round here
twenty minutes ago. The padlock then was on the gate, and this thread,
tied so that the gate could not be opened without breaking it, was
just as I had fixed it. It’s a cinch, now, that this is the gate the
rascals have been using. The chief thought, you know, that the padlock
might have been taken off only for a blind. The breaking of the thread
settles it.”
“That’s a clever scheme, Jim,” Brady said approvingly. “Yes, yes,
undoubtedly that’s the gate. Another woman, you say?”
“Yes, sir, and on the same iron seat.”
“I’ll have a look at her.”
“This way, sergeant.”
“The fourth in a fortnight.” Brady spoke with a growl while he and
his companion strode across the lawn. “I don’t understand it. I’ll be
hanged, Jim, if I can make head or tail to a mystery of this kind. I
don’t see why it’s done, or who could quit a winner.”
“Faith, it’s as black as dock mud,” Donovan vouchsafed grimly. “Here
she is, sergeant, dead to the world.”
Brady stopped and gazed down at the inanimate girl--the fourth who
had been found on this same seat, at the same time, and in the same
condition, within two weeks.
“Humph!” Brady grunted, rubbing his furrowed brow perplexedly. “Mystery
is no name for it.”
“Shall I send in an ambulance call?”
“No. It’s another case for the hospital. There’s nothing in taking her
to headquarters and then bringing her back here, as was done in the
other three cases.”
“Sure, sergeant, that’s right.”
“Go to that wing door and raise one of the attendants. Tell him what’s
up, Jim, and have him bring out a litter. I’ll wait here until you
return.”
Donovan hurried away and vanished around a corner of the wing. He
returned in about five minutes, accompanied by one of the hospital
attendants, bearing a folded litter, which he hastened to open and on
which he and the policeman placed the girl.
While they were doing so, Brady discovered a small leather hand bag on
the ground near the seat. He picked it up and tossed it on the litter.
“Go ahead,” he commanded, a bit gruffly. “Get a move on. I’ll go with
you.”
His companions picked up their burden and obeyed. They trooped across
the grounds and around the end of the wing, bringing up at a door over
which a red lantern was burning. It was opened by an orderly within,
and Donovan said familiarly:
“Here’s another for you, Bill, of the same sort. Faith, they seem to
drop out of the sky.”
“They more likely are sent up from the infernal regions, judging from
the character of the job,” returned the orderly. “What’s the matter
with you guns, anyway, that tricks of this kind can be repeated under
your very eyes? Bring her this way.”
He conducted them through a dimly lighted corridor and into an
adjoining room, in which there were several unoccupied cots, on one of
which Donovan and the attendant placed the girl.
The orderly turned to a wall telephone and summoned a night nurse, who
entered before he had fairly hung up the receiver.
“What physician is here, Agnes?” he asked curtly.
“Doctor Green has been here since eight o’clock,” said the nurse. “I
just saw a light in Doctor Devoll’s private room. I think he came in
about ten minutes ago.”
“Notify him,” said the orderly. “He can restore her, most likely, since
he was so successful in the other three cases. Notify him at once.”
The woman turned to the telephone to speak to Doctor Devoll, while the
orderly set about making a few necessary preparations to receive him,
apparently disregarding the presence of the two policemen.
Sergeant Brady, who had been gazing with a suspicious frown at the girl
on the cot, turned to the attendant who had assisted in bringing her in.
“Doctor Devoll is the head physician, isn’t he?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, sir,” said the attendant. “He runs the place.”
“The big finger, eh?”
“That’s what.”
“I have heard he’s very skillful.”
“None better, sir.”
“I wonder----” Brady dropped his voice to a whisper: “I wonder whether
there’s a telephone I can use on the quiet. I want to talk with Chief
Gleason, at headquarters.”
“Sure,” the attendant nodded. “There’s one in the operating room. No
one is there now. I’ll show you.”
“Half a minute,” Brady muttered. Then, turning to Donovan, he
whispered: “Have an eye on the girl, Jim, and keep your ears open when
she revives. Get me?”
“Sure!”
“I’ll return in time to leave with you.”
Donovan nodded, and Brady immediately departed with the attendant. Only
five minutes had passed when Doctor Devoll entered the room, bringing
a leather medicine case and quickly approaching the cot on which lay
the inanimate girl, whose jacket and the front of her silk shirt waist
had been opened by the nurse.
Doctor Devoll presented quite a striking picture, when he paused and
gazed down at her in the bright light of an electric bulb. He was close
upon sixty and of medium height, but very slender. His thinness was
accentuated by a tight-fitting black frock coat, the skirts of which
hung to his knees. His head was almost entirely bald. All that remained
to show that he was a son of Esau was a fringe of close-cut, gray hair
around the base of his skull, and a single silver-white tuft above his
high forehead.
He was smoothly shaven, his features wasted and wan, his thin lips of a
dull, grayish tint, instead of a wholesome red, as if the blood in his
veins had lost its crimson hue. His nose was long, his eyes a cold blue
and wonderfully penetrating. As he stood there with his slender hands
behind him, his fingers interlocked, there was something really quite
sinister in his aspect. He looked not unlike a bird of prey brooding
over his victim.
This was immediately dispelled, however, when he looked up at the nurse
and said, with a remarkably soft and ingratiating voice:
“She appears to be in the same condition, Agnes, as the others. She was
found on the same seat, did I understand you to say?”
“Yes, doctor.” The nurse bowed to him across the narrow cot. “This
policeman discovered her. He had her brought in, sir, instead of taking
her to the station house, as before.”
Doctor Devoll turned and eyed Donovan narrowly for a moment; then
suavely inquired:
“Is your beat in this locality?”
“It is, sir,” said Donovan respectfully. “I’m the night patrolman, sir.”
“Are you the officer who previously found the other girls who were
brought here under similar circumstances?”
“I am, sir.”
“Did you see any one to-night, or hear anything, that might shed a ray
of light on this mystery?”
“I did not, sir,” said Donovan. “I’m all in the dark. I’m blessed if I
can fathom how and when the girl went there. I had my eyes open all the
evening because of the other cases, but how----”
“Yes, yes, no doubt.” Doctor Devoll checked him with a deprecatory
gesture. “I must apply for more night men in this district, if these
extraordinary episodes are to continue. The cause must be found and the
culprits discovered. That is, of course, if it’s a case for the police.”
“She may be a drug fiend, sir, or perhaps----”
“It is useless to speculate,” Doctor Devoll interrupted. “I could learn
nothing from the others. I will try this one.”
He opened his medicine case while speaking, taking from it a small
sponge and a slender vial filled with an amber-colored fluid, a few
drops of which he poured on the sponge. Then he held it with his long,
lean fingers near the nostrils of the unconscious girl.
The effect appeared almost magical. A tinge of color instantly
dispelled her ghastly paleness. She caught her breath with a gasp and
a convulsive heave, as if some potent stimulant had suddenly filled her
lungs, and Doctor Devoll quickly drew away the sponge and replaced it
in his case, hastily closing it.
He scarcely had done so when, with a low moan, the girl opened her eyes
and stared around, then at her observers, with the mute wonderment
of one awakening amid strange surroundings and in view of unfamiliar
faces. They seemed to alarm and further stimulate her, for she started
up, gasping amazedly:
“Where--where am I? Who are you? What has happened?”
“Don’t be alarmed, my girl.” Doctor Devoll’s thin face took on an
assuring smile. “You are in no danger. You are in the casualty ward of
the Osgood Hospital.”
CHAPTER VI. DOCTOR DEVOLL.
Patrolman Donovan drew a little nearer to the cot, that nothing said or
done should escape him. The orderly had departed, and the announcement
by the physician seemed to surprise and further mystify the reviving
girl.
“A hospital--in a hospital?” she repeated perplexedly.
“Yes, you were brought here by this policeman, who found you on a seat
in the hospital grounds,” Doctor Devoll informed her. “You appeared to
have fainted or to have been drugged.”
“I cannot believe that I fainted,” said the girl. “I don’t understand
it. It seems to me as if I had just awakened from a deep sleep.” She
gazed around, still dazed and deeply puzzled; then asked abruptly:
“What time is it?”
“It is after midnight, nearly one o’clock.”
“One o’clock! Oh, I must go home! I must go home!”
She started up from the cot, and stood beside it. She appeared to have
regained her strength. Her color had returned, her eyes were normal,
though expressive of mingled uncertainty and dread.
“Do you feel quite well again?” Doctor Devoll asked, with sharper
scrutiny. “Are you able to go home?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly able. I must go home; I must go at once.”
“Before leaving you must give me a few particulars about yourself,”
interposed the physician. “Where were you when you were overcome? Tell
me what you last remember.”
“I am not sure,” she replied, with a manifest effort to comply. “I
went to the Alhambra, a moving-picture theater. I had come out and was
walking along Main Street when I----”
She stopped short, glancing apprehensively at the policeman. A deep
flush suddenly mantled her cheeks. She hesitated, obviously embarrassed
and somewhat frightened, and Doctor Devoll asked somewhat sharply:
“Why did you stop? What were you about to say?”
“I don’t know--nothing more, sir, I think,” she faltered. “I have told
you all I know--all I can remember.”
Donovan suspected that she was lying, but he did not venture to
interfere, and Doctor Devoll said quite sternly:
“Don’t try to conceal anything, my girl. What happened to you in Main
Street? Can’t you remember?”
“Only that I was there, sir; nothing more,” she insisted. “I was alone
and on my way home when suddenly everything became a blank. I don’t
know what followed, what I did, or where I went. I remember nothing
more until I awoke in this place and saw you bending over me. I am
telling the truth, sir, and----”
“Oh, I don’t question your honesty, my girl,” Doctor Devoll interposed
less austerely. “What is your name?”
“Mabel Smith, sir,” she admitted, after a moment.
“Where do you live?”
“I board at No. 81 Flint Street with Mrs. Morton, a widow. I must go
home. She will be very anxious about me and may--did I have anything
when I was brought in here? I mean my purse.” She digressed abruptly;
then stopped again, with a somewhat guilty expression in her troubled
eyes.
There was a small table near the foot of the cot, on which the nurse
had placed the girl’s hat and a small, knit purse. The physician
glanced at them, replying:
“Here is your purse, Miss Smith. Was there anything else?”
“I--I think I had a small leather bag,” she replied.
“That appears to be missing.”
“I’m not sure,” she quickly added. “I don’t know positively that I had
it with me. If I did, sir, I suppose I must have dropped it.”
Of the three men who had brought her in from the seat on which Donovan
had found her, Sergeant Brady was the only one who had seen the small
leather bag, which he had picked up from the ground and placed on the
litter. But Sergeant Brady then was absent with the attendant, and
no further search was made for the missing bag, for the girl said
indifferently:
“It don’t matter, sir. I may not have had it. May I go home? I really
must. You have no right to detain me here.”
Donovan did not hear what then passed between Doctor Devoll and
his mysteriously afflicted patient. The ward door had been opened,
and Sergeant Brady beckoned to the policeman and drew him into the
corridor, closing the door.
“Well, what has she said for herself, Jim?” he inquired, gazing grimly
at the policeman.
“Faith, it’s the same old story, sergeant,” Donovan replied
significantly. “She can’t tell what happened to her. She don’t know
enough to last her overnight.”
“Humph!” Brady grunted. “I suspected as much.”
“She seems to be on the level, though.”
“Level be hanged!” Brady spoke with a derisive snarl. “None of them was
on the level, Jim, or we would have been able to trace them and find
some solution of the mystery. Not one of them could be found after she
left the hospital.”
“That’s true, sergeant. Sure, it does seem a bit strange.”
“I got Chief Gleason on the phone by calling up his house. He had gone
home from headquarters. I reported the case to him, as he directed,
and--say nothing about this, mind you.”
“Not a word, sergeant.”
“It’s not known by many that the big dick is in town, and he don’t want
it known at present,” Brady impressively explained. “Nicholas Carter is
at the Wilton House under the name of Blaisdell.”
“Faith, is that so?” Donovan’s face lighted. “Sure, he can dig out the
truth, sergeant, if any man can.”
“Gleason said he would telephone to him at once and send him here to
size up the case,” Brady added. “He ought to show up within twenty
minutes. You return to your beat. I’ll stay here and detain the girl
until Carter comes.”
“All right, sergeant.”
“You can leave by that door through which we came in. Go ahead. We’ll
not want more of you to-night.”
Donovan touched his helmet and hurried away.
Sergeant Brady gazed after him for a moment; then turned and entered
the wardroom, when an ominous frown instantly settled on his face.
Miss Mabel Smith had departed.
There remained only the nurse, Agnes, then engaged in putting the
narrow cot in order. Brady strode toward her, asking roughly:
“Where’s that girl? Not gone, has she?”
“Yes, sir. She went with Doctor Devoll, sir, through the corridor
leading to the front office,” said the nurse, pointing to a door at the
opposite end of the wardroom.
“When? How long ago?” Brady demanded.
“Not more than two or three minutes. You might overtake them, sir, if
you hurry. I’ll show you the way.”
“Do so. I want the girl detained here.”
The nurse hurriedly led the way, Brady striding after her. They passed
through a long corridor leading to the main part of the building and
entered a brightly lighted office fronting on Hamilton Square.
Doctor Devoll was alone there, closing a roll-top desk.
“Has that girl gone, doctor?” Brady demanded the moment he entered.
The physician’s brows fell slightly, and his cold blue eyes took on a
sharper glint. He appeared to resent the officer’s brusqueness. He no
further betrayed it, however, and said, with characteristic blandness:
“She has, sergeant. Why do you ask?”
“Because I wanted to detain her.”
“Detain her? For what?” The physician gazed more intently.
“For what!” Brady echoed him derisively. “It strikes me, Doctor Devoll,
that this business has gone far enough. This is the fourth girl brought
here in the same condition, under the same mysterious circumstances,
and allowed to depart before a thorough investigation was made. Not
hide nor hair of them could afterward be found. She should have been
kept here until we could----”
“Pardon me, sergeant,” Doctor Devoll checked him with a gesture, “you
overlook one fact.”
“One fact?”
“This is a hospital, not a police station. I am a physician, not a
detective. My duty is to care for a patient, if necessary, but not to
hold one in custody after one has recovered. I have no right to do
that. The young lady insisted upon going home, and I had no proper
course but to let her go.”
“All right, doctor, if you look at it in that way,” said Brady, still
frowning darkly.
“There is no other way for me to look at it,” Doctor Devoll said
suavely. “As a matter of fact, however, you can easily find and
question the girl. I learned her name and address, which I neglected
doing in the previous cases.”
“Ah, that’s better!” Brady declared. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Mabel Smith. She boards at No. 81 Flint Street.”
“Good enough! The matter now can rest until to-morrow,” said Brady.
“May I use your telephone? I wish to say a word to Mr. Blaisdell, at
the Wilton House.”
CHAPTER VII. GROUNDS FOR SUSPICION.
Sergeant Brady got in communication with Nicholas Carter that night
just in time to prevent him from visiting the hospital, following the
telephone talk he had with Chief Gleason, after the latter had been
notified of this fourth mysterious case.
Carter had not quite finished his breakfast the following morning,
however, at which he was seated with Chick and Patsy in a private
dining room of the Wilton House, when their waiter brought in a sealed
missive, which the detective opened and read. It consisted of only two
lines:
“I want to see you. I am waiting in the hotel parlor.
“BRADY.”
The detective thrust the note into his pocket and waved the waiter from
the room.
“It’s from Sergeant Brady,” he then said to his companions. “He is up
in the parlor. There must be something doing, or he would not have
called so early. I’ll drink my coffee and take him up to our suite. You
can join us there.”
“It probably relates to that girl,” said Chick.
“Very likely. He may want my advice or assistance.”
“You haven’t forgotten the autopsy this morning, chief, in that Todd
case, have you?” Patsy reminded him inquiringly. “You said you wanted
to be there.”
“No, I’ve not forgotten it, Patsy,” said his chief, rising. “I’ll be
there all right, after learning what Brady has on his mind.”
“We’ll be with you again in five minutes,” Chick remarked, as the
detective was leaving.
Carter found Brady at the parlor door, and he at once conducted him to
his suite on the floor above, where he produced a box of cigars and
invited him to be seated.
“I slipped in through the side door and sent my note by your waiter,
after learning that you were at breakfast,” Brady informed him while
lighting his cigar. “If it were known that a police sergeant was
calling upon you, your identity might be suspected.”
“Possibly,” Carter admitted. “You did the right thing, Brady, at all
events. What’s on your mind?”
“Gleason sent me. It’s about that girl. I could not telephone any of
the particulars to you last night, for Doctor Devoll was in the office
and heard all I was saying. He might have suspected that I was talking
with a detective.
“So I merely told you that the girl had gone and that it would be
useless for you to follow the suggestion made you. I referred, of
course, to Chief Gleason’s communication.”
“I understood you.”
“This morning, however, I have made other discoveries,” Brady added.
“They shed still a worse light on the case.”
“Did the circumstances last night differ materially from those of the
three other cases about which Gleason informed me?” the detective
inquired.
“No, they were almost identical.”
“You need not state them, then. What more have you discovered?”
Brady told him what Donovan had seen and heard, nevertheless, and he
then added, replying:
“Doctor Devoll asked the girl for her name and address in this case.
She said it was Mabel Smith and that she boarded at No. 81 Flint
Street. I have been there this morning. The house is occupied by a man
with whom I am well acquainted, and who is entirely reliable. He knows
no girl named Mabel Smith. She gave Doctor Devoll a fictitious name.”
“I see,” Carter nodded. “That is somewhat significant.”
“I also learned from Donovan, who was present when the girl revived,
that she claimed to have had a small leather bag. I happen to know that
she had, for I picked it up from the ground near the seat on which she
was found. I placed it on the litter on which she was taken into the
hospital, and I know it was there when she was taken into the ward.”
“Couldn’t it be found?”
“No. Since learning that she gave a false name, and, thinking the bag
might contain something that would reveal her identity, I have been to
the hospital in search of it.”
“Whom did you see or question?”
“The night nurse and the orderly. Both appear to be trustworthy. They
deny having seen the bag. The attendant could not have taken it, for he
went with me to the operating room and did not return. It’s absurd, of
course, to suppose Doctor Devoll took it, and there remains only the
girl herself.”
“Did she have any opportunity to get possession of it without being
seen?” Carter inquired.
“I asked about that, and was told that she was not seen to find it,”
said Brady. “It is barely possible that she did, nevertheless, and that
it contained something which she did not wish Doctor Devoll to see.”
“Very possibly,” the detective allowed.
“Otherwise, she would have admitted having found it.”
“That’s reasonable, sergeant.”
“That’s how I size it up,” Brady added. “It seems to me the only
plausible explanation. What I can’t fathom, however, is why these girls
are repeatedly found unconscious in the hospital grounds, and why this
last one lied in order to hide her identity. Why were they all so
anxious to get away and avoid publicity?”
Nicholas Carter did not express his views. He did not care to
indulge in vain speculations. As a matter of fact, moreover, he was
nearly as puzzled as the police sergeant by the quite extraordinary
circumstances. He looked up from a figure in the Wilton carpet, at
which he had been thoughtfully gazing, and asked:
“Have any charges been made at headquarters or a complaint of any kind
that might even indirectly relate to any of these cases?”
“No, nothing of the kind,” said Brady confidently. “I’m dead sure of
that.”
“Have the police tried in each case to trace and identify the girl?”
“Yes, indeed, for all they were worth.”
“But with no success at all?”
“None whatever. If we could hit upon any motive for such a job, or
see anything to have been gained by it, we might get on the track
of the crooks. For the fact that all the girls told the same story,
and plainly enough had been drugged or rendered insensible by some
mysterious means, shows that there must have been trickery of some
kind.”
“I agree with you, Brady, in that respect.”
“Strange to say, nevertheless, the victims appeared anxious only to
leave the hospital as quickly as possible and to bury themselves in
obscurity.”
“Have the newspapers reported the previous cases?”
“Yes, indeed, in display type.”
“They must have been read by these girls, then, and there must be
some serious reason for their reticence,” said Nick. “Very evidently,
Brady, there is something under the surface, something quite out of the
ordinary. Gleason wants me to look into this last case?”
“That’s just what he wants, Carter.”
“Who is the chief director or head physician of the Osgood Hospital?”
“Doctor Devoll.”
“He who looked after the girl last night, eh?”
“Yes. He ranks high among the local physicians. He’s all right, too, I
guess.”
“No doubt,” the detective agreed. “Well, Brady. I’ll look into the
case. I am to see Chief Gleason during this morning, and I then will
have a talk with him about it. I infer that you have nothing more to
tell me.”
“No, nothing,” said Brady, rising to go. “You have got all that I can
hand you.”
Carter sat smoking and frowning at the carpet for several moments
after the sergeant had departed. The several cases were so unusual, so
exceedingly inexplicable, that they interested him. Had there been only
one such case, only one girl found in the hospital grounds, he would
have considered it hardly worthy of his serious attention; but four in
such close proximity to each other, and so much alike, plainly proved
that they were victims of some person or persons.
His reflections were ended by the entrance of Chick and Patsy only
two or three minutes after Brady departed, and he briefly told them
what the sergeant stated, both already being informed of the other
circumstances.
“Gee whiz!” said Patsy, after hearing him attentively. “It sure is a
curious puzzle, chief. What do you make of it, and how are you going to
tackle it?”
“I don’t make much of it, Patsy, at present,” his chief frankly
admitted. “There must be a very potent cause for the reticence of all
four girls and for their obvious wish to remain in the background.”
“Sure thing. That goes without saying.”
“It’s barely possible that they are in league with crooks who were
responsible for what befell them, and that they do not dare to come
forward and tell the truth.”
“Mebbe so, chief,” Patsy nodded.
“On the other hand, the whole business may be the work of some
exceedingly keen and clever rascal who, alone and with some ulterior
object in view, has been experimenting with these girls and paving the
way to a much more knavish project,” the detective added. “If that
is correct, it’s a hundred to one that he is the unknown crook who
committed the mysterious robberies mentioned by Gleason, and whom he is
so anxious to round up.”
“By Jove, there may be something in that!” Chick said quickly. “It
appears to be the most probable explanation.”
“I think so, too.”
“But what are your plans, chief?” asked Patsy earnestly. “How are we to
pick up a trail worth following?”
“By finding that girl who said her name was Mabel Smith,” the chief
replied pointedly. “That must be done, to begin with, and then we’ll go
a step further.”
“But how can we trace her?”
“That’s up to you, Chick.”
“Up to me, eh?”
“It’s the task you must tackle this morning,” said Carter. “We have a
great deal to accomplish to-day, and each must do his part. I wish to
follow up the Todd case, with Patsy to aid me. You had better go to
the hospital, Chick, and get after that girl. I have no great faith in
Brady’s discernment and acumen. You could discover more in a minute,
Chick, than he would learn in a month of Sundays.”
“Oh, I’ll take it on, chief,” Chick said agreeably. “I may perhaps pick
up a thread. I’ll report when we meet for lunch.”
“In the meantime, Patsy, in anticipation of what I expect an autopsy to
reveal, I want you to visit the office of Daly & Page, stock brokers,
and see what you quietly can learn about Gaston Todd,” the detective
directed. “You are not known in Madison, and your motive will not be
suspected. You may cover that, if you like, by pretending to be a
newspaper reporter.”
“Enough said,” replied Patsy. “I’ve got you, chief.”
“Not entirely,” Nick rejoined. “Find out at just what time Todd left
the office yesterday, and whether it was his customary time of going
out in the middle of the day. If not, make it a point to learn, if
possible, why he went out at an unusual time. He may have received a
letter, or a telephone call, or a communication by messenger.”
“I understand,” said Patsy. “Leave it to me.”
“In other words,” said Carter, “I want to learn why Todd went to the
Waldmere Chambers about noon, and why he was waiting in the corridor,
where Frank Paulding saw him.”
“I’ll find out, chief, if possible.”
“It may be necessary to take other steps later in order to hit the
right trail,” Carter said in conclusion. “I will decide about that
after learning what the autopsy reveals. I’ll see the coroner and
medical examiner this morning.”
“We may as well be off, then, and get in our work,” said Chick.
“The sooner the better,” the detective declared, glancing at his watch.
“It is now nine o’clock. We’ll meet here again at one.”
CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW COUPON.
It was half past nine when Chick sauntered across Hamilton Square and
sized up the buildings and grounds of the Osgood Hospital. He had
learned from his chief the general lay of the land, so to speak, and
continued around the extensive park and grounds, seeking the rear
gate through which Mabel Smith, so called, had either entered or been
carried into the place.
He was not long in finding the gate, and he then discovered a gardener
at work near by with a lawn mower. Entering with an air of cursory
interest only, he approached him and inquired:
“Is there any objection to my looking around a bit?”
“No, sir, I reckon not,” said the laborer.
“I’ll not disturb anything.”
“Go ahead, sir. Go as far as you like.”
Chick sauntered up the gravel walk, and presently discovered the iron
seat on which the girl had been found. He walked over to it across the
lawn and sat down, in seeming enjoyment of the shade tree overhanging
it, but in reality to make a careful inspection of the surrounding
ground.
He could discover in the greensward at first only the marks left by
the feet of the two policemen, whose heavy and lingering tread had
obliterated any other imprints that might have been there when they
arrived upon the spot. As he was about to go, however, he caught sight
of a small piece of a yellow card half hidden in the grass back of the
seat. He leaned over and picked it up.
It was part of a theater ticket, the coupon for a seat, and it was
dated for the previous evening.
“The Alhambra,” Chick read. “By Jove, that’s the theater from which the
girl said she had come. She evidently did not lie from start to finish.
H’m! This may help.”
He had detected a faint aroma from the coupon, and he held it nearer to
his nostrils.
“Violet perfumery, but of an inferior quality,” he said to himself.
“That indicates that she’s a girl of only moderate means, who cannot
afford an expensive extract. She carried the ticket in a bag with her
handkerchief, which was scented. This may start me on the right scent,
too, and I’ll proceed to follow it up.”
Placing the coupon in his notebook, he sauntered back across the lawn
and passed out through the gate. He then saw that there was a narrow
court beyond a row of dwellings on the opposite side of the street,
which evidently was an outlet into the streets beyond.
Crossing over, he walked in that direction, and as he was passing
the third house from the court he saw a polished brass plate on the
vestibule door:
“Gordon Barclay. Artist.”
Chick stopped short and gazed up at the door.
“By Jove, this must be Don Barclay,” he muttered. “It’s not likely that
there are two artists by that name. I’ve not seen him for years. I’ll
take a chance that I’m right and will meet an old friend.”
He mounted the steps and rang the bell. A butler admitted him and
vanished with his card on a silver tray. Presently, with hurried steps
that evinced a very genuine eagerness, a well-built, handsome man in a
velvet jacket rushed into the room, with eyes and cheeks aglow and his
hands extended in cordial greeting.
“Holy smoke, Chick Carter! The one and only Chick himself!” he shouted.
“Gracious, but I’m glad to see you! How the dickens came you here?
You’re not after me, are you?”
Chick laughed, and returned the speaker’s cordial greeting.
“No, indeed, Don, nothing like that,” he replied. “I’m in Madison on
other business. I was passing this house only by chance, and I saw your
door plate.”
“Thank Heaven, you didn’t overlook it!”
“And it occurred to me that we have not met for three years----”
“Four, you rascal!” Barclay cut in boisterously. “It was on a boxing
night at the Hudson Athletic Club. I remember it perfectly.”
“That’s right, Don.”
“Sure, Chick, it’s right. By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes!
Come to the dining room and we’ll fire a ball. Then I’ll take you
up to my studio and show you where I’m winning fame and fortune by
slinging paint. That’s on the top floor. We’ll have a smoke and a good
old-fashioned chat. By gracious, I’m glad to see you!”
There was no doubting it. It stuck out all over the genial, vivacious
artist, and for nearly an hour Chick complied with his wishes and
responded to his running fire of questions. Then, during a lull in
their conversation, he turned it upon the matter more seriously
engaging him.
“Now, Don, a word about my mission in Madison,” said he, dropping the
end of his cigar on a tray. “I know you may be trusted to say nothing
about it.”
“Not a word, Chick,” Barclay assured him. “Come on with it.”
“You read the newspapers, I suppose.”
“Only the headlines,” laughed the artist. “The details give me a
confounded headache.”
“You may not know about it, then,” said Chick. “I’m here to help clear
up quite a sensational mystery in this immediate locality.”
“Thunder! You don’t say so. Why, I thought the old fogies who dwell
in this locality were too slow and sedate to get into anything more
sensational than the death column.”
“I will confide the case to you.”
He did so briefly, merely stating the main features of the previous
night, and a look of mingled surprise and amusement then appeared in
the artist’s eyes.
“Well, by gracious, that’s jolly funny!” he declared, drawing up in his
chair.
“Funny! What do you mean?” Chick inquired.
“Why, it’s like this,” Barclay proceeded to explain. “I use this top
floor for my studio, where I get the best light. I was at work here
quite late last night. It must have been nearly midnight. Here, come
this way. Come to the window.”
Chick arose and accompanied him to a broad window overlooking most of
the square, including the hospital building and grounds. Only a small
part of the grounds was hidden from view by the building itself.
“Last night, just after I finished my work, I looked out here for a
breath of fresh air,” Barclay resumed. “It was quite dark down below,
but I caught sight of a motor cab, one of the noiseless type that is
run by electricity, for it moved without a sound. I followed it with my
eyes, having nothing better to do, and I saw it stop at a gate leading
into the hospital grounds.”
“That rear gate beyond the west wing?”
“Yes, the same.” Barclay turned and nodded. “Do you suppose it figured
in the case you mentioned?”
“I would not be surprised,” Chick said a bit grimly. “Continue. What
more did you see?”
“Nothing very definite,” Barclay said. “I was not watching the cab
suspiciously or with a very lively interest, though it struck me as
being rather singular that it stopped at that gate, instead of in front
of the hospital, or at a house on this side of the street, if the
occupants were going there.”
“Did you see any one enter the cab or leave it?”
“I did not. Notice that the trees obstruct the view somewhat, and the
lamps are all on this side. I am sure, however, that no one crossed the
street,” Barclay quickly added. “I would have seen him in that case.
Obviously, therefore, if any one left the cab, he must have gone into
the hospital grounds.”
“That is what I suspect,” said Chick. “Which way did the cab go when
departing?”
“Straight on and around the square. I know it did not return for ten
minutes at least, if at all, for I stood here smoking as long as that.”
“You saw no one, then, nor heard anything?”
“No, neither.”
“From which direction did the cab come?”
“Through the court at the end of this block,” said Barclay, pointing.
“It leads out into Belmont Street.”
“You think it was an electric cab?”
“I’m almost sure of that.”
“How long did it remain at the gate?”
“Not more than a couple of minutes,” said Barclay. “Do you really think
it figures in your affair?”
“As a matter of fact, Don, I think there is hardly any doubt of it,”
Chick said seriously. “In a way, however, it serves only to increase
the mystery.”
“I don’t quite see your point.”
“My point is this,” Chick explained. “Why did the person, or persons,
responsible for this curious affair go to the trouble to bring the
victim, if she was a victim, and place her on a seat in the hospital
grounds? She could have been left in many places with much less danger
of detection. In the court itself or a dark doorway. It surely is a
singular mystery.”
Barclay puckered his brows thoughtfully, but he could suggest no theory
for the circumstances. Moreover, he could not give the detective any
additional information.
Declining an invitation to remain to dinner, Chick remained only to
warn the artist to say nothing about the affair, and he then bade
him farewell and departed. He did not retrace his steps. Instead, he
sauntered through the court mentioned, which was only wide enough for
a single vehicle, and he presently found himself in Belmont Street, a
quiet residential avenue, with a traffic-filled thoroughfare to be
seen in the distance.
“By Jove, it looks very much as if I am hitting the right trail,” Chick
said to himself, now shaping a course toward the business section.
“If the girl left the Alhambra when the show ended, it then must have
been about eleven o’clock, and if she lost consciousness while walking
homeward through Main Street, it’s a safe gamble that she did not go
far in her abnormal condition. She may have been picked up by the cab,
therefore, and brought this way and through the court just as Barclay
was gazing from his window. It would have taken only a couple of
minutes to place the girl on the seat and move on, as he stated, which
would show plainly that one or more men had a hand in the job. But
what was the object? That’s the question. By Jove, I’ll head for the
Alhambra and see what I can learn.”
He arrived at the moving-picture house ten minutes later. He found the
manager, Mr. Hewitt, in the ticket office with one of his sellers.
Addressing him through the lattice window, at the same time tendering
the yellow coupon, he inquired:
“Do you know, or have you any way of learning, who occupied this seat
in your theater last evening?”
Hewitt gazed at him a bit sharply through his glasses; then shook his
head and tossed the coupon aside, saying indifferently:
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Are you the manager?”
“Yes.”
Chick did not fancy being treated in that way. He pressed a little
nearer to the window, and said, with sinister intonation:
“You take a tip from me, Mr. Manager, and have another think. Make it a
more serious one this time.”
“What do you mean by that?” frowned Hewitt.
“Just what I say,” Chick replied, turning the lap of his vest and
displaying his detective’s badge.
Hewitt started perceptibly, and flushed deeply.
“Oh, that’s different; very different,” he said in tones of hasty
apology. “I did not suppose it was a matter of any importance.”
“I don’t waste my time or encroach upon that of others with unimportant
matters,” Chick replied coldly. “Have a look at the coupon now, and
give me the information I want, if possible. Can you tell who occupied
the seat?”
“Well, really, sir, I hardly think so,” Hewitt now said regretfully.
“In a theater of this size----”
“Stop a moment, sir,” interrupted his assistant, who was also
inspecting the coupon. “This was torn from a ticket sold by telephone
and held until called for. Here is a mark of my indelible pencil on the
back of it.”
“Do you write the patron’s name on the back of a ticket when it is to
be held till called for?” asked Chick.
“Yes, certainly. But only the tail of the last letter happened to fall
on the coupon,” said the assistant. “It contains no part of the name.
See for yourself.”
“Very true,” Chick admitted. “But what has become of that part of the
ticket taken at the door?”
“The stubs?”
“If that’s what you call them. Have they been destroyed? No two coupons
are torn off exactly alike. We might find the ticket that this coupon
perfectly matches, as well as these pencil lines, that would give us
the name of the purchaser.”
“By Jove, sir, that’s as true as gospel!” Hewitt declared. “No, the
stubs have not been destroyed. I threw them into my wastebasket last
evening after making up the house. They still are there.”
“Let’s have a look at them.”
“Certainly, sir, and I’ll assist you,” Hewitt readily assented. “Open
the door, Jim, for the gentleman to enter. Walk into my private office,
Mr.----”
“Chickering,” said Chick dryly.
“We’ll very soon examine them, Mr. Chickering,” Hewitt added, pulling
a wastebasket from under his desk. “Take a seat. We need to examine
only the yellow stubs and those having a name on them, and that may be
quickly done.”
It was not in Chick’s nature to nurse resentment, and he now met the
much more gracious manager halfway. Less than fifty of the stubs had
been inspected and compared with the coupon when the desired one was
found. There could be no mistaking it, and on the back of it was
written the name: “Nellie Fielding.”
Hewitt called in his assistant and questioned him, showing him the
ticket.
“That’s your writing, Jim,” said he. “Do you remember selling the woman
the ticket, or----”
“Remember--sure thing,” interrupted the other. “She comes here every
week. I know her well by sight and where she works.”
“Very good,” said Chick, suppressing his elation. “Where is she
employed?”
“She’s a waitress in Boyden’s restaurant, in Middle Street. You’ll find
her there at any hour of the day.”
“Thank you,” Chick bowed, with a glance from one to the other. “I’m
obliged to both of you.”
He lingered only to warn them not to communicate with the girl; then he
shook hands with both and hurried from the theater.
“Now, by Jove, there’ll be something doing,” he said to himself, much
as if he had thus far been idle. “I’ll mighty soon find out why the
milk is in the coconut.”
CHAPTER IX. SUSPICIONS VERIFIED.
Nicholas Carter and his assistants were never slow in beginning
to weave a net in which to catch a culprit when the evidence and
circumstances in a case convinced them that a crime had been committed.
Patsy Garvan, while Chick was engaged as described, was nearly as
successful as the latter in picking up the first strands with which the
net might be formed. Hastening to the brokerage office of Daly & Page,
he introduced himself to the latter, the former then having gone to the
local stock exchange, and requested a few facts concerning the history
and character of Mr. Gaston Todd, whose very sudden death had greatly
shocked his many friends in Madison.
“He was a fine fellow,” Page glibly informed him. “Genial, honest, and
capable, devoted to our interests, and always at his desk in business
hours. That’s pretty good, isn’t it? That’s all we require of a man.”
“That would seem to fill the bill, sir,” Patsy observed a bit dryly.
“It does,” said the broker. “And what such a man does out of business
hours, of what his habits and deportment consist, are of little
importance to us. Todd served us faithfully for ten years. We shall
miss him. We shall, indeed!”
“He died very suddenly,” said Patsy. “Had you any idea that he was
afflicted with any ailment?”
“No, not the slightest. His death came like a bolt from the blue.”
“Was he regular in his habits?”
“Very.”
“I understand that he left here about twelve o’clock. Did he usually go
out at that time?”
“Well, no, he did not.” Page gazed more sharply at his questioner. “He
usually lunched at one o’clock.”
“He may have had some mission to attend to for the firm, or----”
“No, nothing of that kind. He was our cashier, and his duty kept him
here. You raise a point, young man, that has not occurred to me. By the
way, Archie,” Page called to a clerk who had served in Todd’s place
when the latter was absent, “come here a moment. Do you know why Todd
went out an hour earlier than usual yesterday?”
“Well, I’m not sure, sir,” replied the clerk. “I think it was because
of a telephone message.”
“Do you know from whom?”
“No, sir. I know only that he was called to the telephone just before
noon. When he returned he asked me to take his place in the cage,
saying that he was going out for a few minutes. That’s all I know about
it.”
That was all of any importance that Patsy was able to learn, but it
was sufficient to send him posthaste to the office of the telephone
exchange. There he stated his mission to the manager, who conducted
him into a room where three girl operators were seated at a large
switchboard.
“Look at your record sheets for yesterday,” said the manager,
addressing them. “Which of you made a connection for Daly & Page, 442
West, just before twelve o’clock?”
One of the girls replied in a few minutes, after inspecting a large
sheet of paper taken from a drawer:
“I did, sir, and I now remember it distinctly,” she said. “It was the
last I made before going to lunch.”
“Is there any way of learning who made the call?” Patsy inquired.
“Only by ringing up Daly & Page and asking them,” said the manager.
“They do not know,” said Patsy. “The call was not for the firm.”
“It was for a man named Todd,” put in the operator.
“How did you learn that?”
“I heard a few words that were said before I removed my receiver,”
explained the girl. “The man who rang up the number said he wanted to
talk with Mr. Todd, and half a minute later I heard him ask: ‘Is that
you, Todd?’”
“Are you sure it was a man’s voice?”
“Yes, positively.”
“Did you hear him say anything more?”
“I heard Todd reply in the affirmative. The other then said, as near
as I can remember, that he was Todd’s running mate who was talking,
and that Todd must go at once to the Waldmere Chambers and wait in the
second-floor corridor until the speaker could join him.”
“That was all?”
“Yes, sir. I heard the last while I was removing the receiver. It is
only by chance that I remember it. His calling himself Todd’s running
mate, however, sounded so singular to me that I listened for a moment
longer. That is all I can tell you.”
Patsy thanked her, also the manager, and departed.
It then was about the time when Nick Carter entered the Madison
mortuary, to which all that remained of Gaston Todd had been taken,
and where the autopsy was to be performed. It was finished, in fact,
or all that then could be done, when Nick entered, and he found only
Coroner Kane and Doctor Marvin, the district medical examiner, in the
superintendent’s office. He scarce had arrived there, however, when
Chief Gleason followed him in from the street.
Nick already had introduced himself to the others, with whom an
appointment for him had been made by the chief, and, after a few
conventional preliminaries, he brought up the business engaging them.
“Well, what’s the verdict, Doctor Marvin?” he inquired. “You say you
have made a thorough examination of the body.”
“Not quite,” corrected the physician, glancing at a leather bag on
the floor. “There are parts of the body of which I wish to make a
microscopic examination and subject to chemical analysis. I do say,
however, that you should have been a physician, Mr. Carter, despite the
fact that you would be badly missed in your present vocation.”
“You mean, I infer, that you wonder why I so quickly suspected that
Todd did not die from natural causes,” said the detective.
“Exactly. On what do you base your suspicion?”
“On several facts, doctor, which are hardly worthy of mention,”
Nick said indifferently. “The surrounding circumstances, Todd’s
outward indications of good health, a lingering expression denoting
mingled fright and horror, evinced also by an unusual dilation of his
pupils--these, together with a singular abnormal appearance of the skin
near the lips and nostrils. But the result of your own examination is
much more material,” he abruptly digressed. “What is your opinion?”
“The same as your own,” said Doctor Marvin more gravely.
“You found----”
“That there was absolutely no organic disease. His vital organs were
apparently in a perfectly healthy condition. I can discover no natural
cause for Todd’s sudden death.”
“Did you notice the singular condition I have mentioned?” Nick inquired.
“I did,” said the physician. “I detect it, or a somewhat similar
condition, in the tissues of the lungs. They have a curious, withered
or cauterized appearance.”
“Have you any opinion as to the cause?”
“I would say it was caused by inhaling some very powerful corrosive
gas, possibly of a deadly nature, though from what it was derived or
how administered I cannot imagine, even if I am right. I am going to
submit them to tests, however, also the blood, that may enable me to
form a more definite opinion and solve the problem.”
“Do you think there is any problem, doctor, or any doubt, to put it
more properly, that Gaston Todd died an unnatural death?”
“No, not the slightest, Mr. Carter.”
“Do you think it the result of a crime?”
“Well, I think the circumstances warrant very serious suspicions,”
Doctor Marvin said gravely.
“So do I,” Nick declared. “As a matter of fact, gentlemen, I feel
reasonably sure that Gaston Todd was, with some strange and atrocious
means, most foully murdered.”
“We agree with you,” Coroner Kane now asserted. “There are other
circumstances which warrant that suspicion.”
“You mean?”
“They involve a young man known to have had feelings of bitter enmity
for Todd, with whom he had an angry altercation night before last and
who was seen leaving the Waldmere Chambers only a minute or two before
Todd was found dead on the corridor floor.”
“Do you refer to Frank Paulding?” the detective inquired.
“Yes. How did you learn about him, Mr. Carter?” inquired the coroner,
with a look of surprise.
“Chief Gleason spoke of him to me and mentioned their unfriendly
relations,” Nick explained, but he said nothing about his interview
with Paulding. “He was seen leaving the Waldmere Chambers, you say?”
“Yes. We have found two witnesses and the time is definitely fixed.
Though they were not seen to meet, we are reasonably sure that they
did, and that Paulding hurried out of the building and up the street
immediately afterward.”
“All that does appear suspicious,” Nick agreed, not without an object.
“Have you questioned Paulding?” he added, turning to Chief Gleason.
“No, not yet,” replied the latter. “I have followed your advice and
waited until after the autopsy. I have had Paulding under espionage
since last evening.”
“A wise precaution, chief.”
“What do you now advise?” Gleason added. “It strikes me----”
“If the circumstances are incriminating, as you say,” Nick interrupted,
“I think it will be wise to arrest Paulding and hold him until after
Doctor Marvin’s further investigations. If we can prove positively that
Todd was murdered, we may build up a strong case against the lawyer and
possibly force a confession from him.”
“I already have decided on that step, Mr. Carter,” said the coroner.
“See to it, Gleason. Have Paulding arrested as soon as possible, chief,
and held on suspicion.”
CHAPTER X. THE DEEPER MYSTERY.
Nick Carter returned to the Wilton House at one o’clock. He found Chick
and Patsy waiting for him, both of whom quickly told him what they
had learned that morning, and then heard his own brief report of the
inquest.
“By Jove, you were right!” Chick then said seriously. “It now is a
cinch that Todd was murdered.”
“I felt reasonably sure of it from the first,” the detective replied.
“But who killed him?” put in Patsy. “That’s the question. You say you
are sure, chief, that Paulding did not do it.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“What’s your game, then? Why did you frame up a deal with him, telling
him he might not be suspected and afterward advise having him arrested?”
“Superficially, Patsy, that does appear quite inconsistent,” said Nick,
smiling. “In reality, however, I called on Paulding only to get his
measure and convince myself of his innocence. I want him arrested,
nevertheless, in order that Todd’s assassin, as to whose identity and
motive we are entirely in the dark, may think the police are sure they
have the right man. That will relieve him of fears that otherwise
would put him on his guard. We then can get in our work with much less
difficulty.”
“There is something in that, chief, all right,” Patsy quickly allowed.
“It’s up to us to find the right man, however, and now a word about
your report,” Nick added. “From what little the telephone girl heard,
it is very evident that Todd was called to the Waldmere Chambers and
directed to wait in the corridor either by the man who killed him or by
a man in league with or acting under the instructions of the assassin.
In other words, Todd was lured there only to be murdered.”
“Plainly enough,” Chick agreed. “We can safely bank on that.”
“We know, too, that Paulding then was in the building to confer with a
client,” Carter continued. “Being convinced of his innocence, I know it
was not he who telephoned to Todd.”
“Surely not.”
“The fact that he was there, however, is very significant.”
“Of what, chief?” questioned Patsy.
“He may have been seen by some person anxious to kill Todd and who,
knowing their unfriendly relations, and that Paulding would presently
leave, took advantage of the situation to lure Todd there, taking a
chance that he could kill him unobserved by others immediately after
Paulding departed, believing that the latter then would be suspected.”
“That’s plausible,” Chick nodded.
“And that’s why Todd was directed to wait in the corridor,” Carter
pointed out. “The assassin wanted him to be there when Paulding left
the building. The fact that he was not seen by Paulding, however,
and that he could confidently plan such a crime, as well as commit
it, without being seen or heard, shows that he must have had several
advantages. He may be a tenant in the building. It would not be easy or
discreet for an outsider to have undertaken it.”
“That’s true, by Jove, and quite suggestive.”
“Furthermore, he evidently knew that Todd would obey his instructions
or his commands, which indicates that he may have had a hold on him of
some kind. Otherwise, Todd might not have left his desk in business
hours to keep the appointment.”
“True again, chief.”
“He referred to himself as Todd’s running mate, moreover, if the
telephone girl heard correctly,” said Nick. “Plainly, then, they
have been intimately related in some way, either in business or as
friends, and Todd naturally would not have apprehended anything like
assassination.”
“Surely not, chief,” said Patsy.
“We next must learn, therefore, with whom Todd was specially friendly,
and whom he has been visiting in the Waldmere Chambers.”
“That’s the stuff, chief, for fair.”
“You set about it this afternoon, Patsy,” Carter directed. “Now, Chick,
concerning Nellie Fielding. You have not seen her?”
“Not yet,” said Chick. “It was nearly one o’clock when I left the
Alhambra, and I decided to report to you and have a bite to eat
before seeking the girl. I warned Hewitt and his ticket seller not to
communicate with her.”
“See her after lunch, then, and be governed by what she says and how
she appears,” Carter directed. “It may be wise to shadow her, in case
she is playing a deeper game than appears on the surface. If alarmed by
your inquiries, she may attempt to warn others.”
“Possibly. I’ll keep an eye on her, chief, at all events.”
“There may be a connection between the several cases, Todd’s murder and
the mystery involving these four girls,” Carter added. “I shall see
Doctor Devoll this afternoon. I want to know just what he thinks about
them, and the strange condition in which they were found.”
It was three o’clock when Chick approached Boyden’s restaurant in
Middle Street. A man of middle age was standing in the doorway, whose
interest in the appearance of one of the adjoining windows denoted that
he was the proprietor. He walked out, and was to leave in a moment,
when Chick, without having approached near enough to be seen from
within, paused and asked:
“Are you Mr. Boyden?”
“I am,” said the latter. “Were you looking for me?”
“I want to inquire about a girl in your employ. It is in connection
with some legal investigations, but in which the girl figures only
indirectly,” Chick blandly explained. “Her name is Nellie Fielding.”
“What do you wish to learn about her?” Boyden questioned.
“How long has she been working for you?”
“About a year.”
“Is she married?”
“No, indeed. She is only nineteen, and is the only support of a
crippled sister.”
“That speaks well for her,” Chick remarked tentatively.
“Not more so than she deserves,” Boyden quickly assured him. “Nellie
is a very good girl, none better, sir, as far as that goes. She has no
means beyond what she earns, but she is strictly honest and reliable.”
“Her character and habits are good?”
“Yes, indeed, or she would not be in my employ.”
“I want to talk with her for a few moments.”
“Go ahead. You’ll find her at the office counter. She acts as my
cashier when I am out. I have an appointment, or I would go in and
introduce you.”
“Thank you, but that is not necessary,” said Chick. “I want only a few
words with her.”
Boyden bowed and departed without replying, and Chick turned toward the
restaurant door. The information he had received was all to the girl’s
credit. It denoted that evil and deception were entirely foreign to her
nature. Chick knew that she had lied to Doctor Devoll, nevertheless,
and he was determined to learn for what reason.
There were only a few scattered patrons in the restaurant at that
hour, and he found Nellie Fielding at leisure, standing behind a small
counter on which were a cash register and a cigar case. He approached
and bought some cigars from her, at once favorably impressed with her
neat appearance and modest bearing.
“You are Miss Fielding, I believe,” he remarked while paying her.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, smiling at him over the cash register. “That
is my name.”
“There is a little matter about which I wish to question you,” said
Chick. “I refer to what occurred last evening when you--there, don’t be
alarmed!” he quickly digressed. “There is nothing for you to fear, Miss
Fielding, if you have done nothing wrong, and I feel quite sure that
you have not.”
She had turned very pale, with a frightened expression leaping up in
her eyes. She shrank from him, trembling perceptibly, until his hasty
assurance somewhat relieved her.
“No, no, I have done nothing wrong, sir,” she protested, with quite
pathetic fervor. “How did you know--how did you learn about it? I did
only what I--oh, sir, I could see nothing else to do! I--I wanted to
avoid publicity.”
“Compose yourself,” Chick said quietly. “I can see quite plainly that
you were more sinned against than sinner. You have nothing to fear from
me, Miss Fielding, if you tell me the truth, and I think there will be
no need for any publicity.”
“Are you a policeman?” she asked tremulously.
“I am a detective,” Chick admitted. “You must not mention it to others,
however, or the fact that I have questioned you. There have been other
cases very like your own, Miss Fielding, and I am quietly investigating
them. You must tell me the truth, therefore, and I think I can safely
assure you that it will be only to your advantage. Will you do so?”
“Yes, yes,” she replied, much relieved by Chick’s kindly voice and
manner. “As a matter of fact, sir, I really have nothing to conceal. I
am anxious only to avoid publicity.”
“That is why you gave Doctor Devoll a fictitious name?” Chick asked,
smiling.
“Yes, yes,” Nellie admitted, coloring deeply. “But I had one other
reason also.”
“What was that?”
“I will tell you just what occurred. You then will understand and
perhaps will appreciate my feelings.”
“I think so.” Chick bowed. “Tell me frankly. I would be glad to
befriend you in any way.”
“It was like this, sir.” The girl leaned nearer to him over the show
case and spoke with lowered voice. “I had been alone to the Alhambra,
and the show was an unusually long one. It was after eleven o’clock
when it ended. I came out with the crowd and turned up Main Street to
go home. I had walked only a short distance, not more than a block,
and the sidewalk still was quite crowded, when I felt something touch
my hand. I turned quickly and glanced at the nearest person, but none
seemed to have any interest in me or to be the one who had left it.”
“Left what?” Chick inquired curiously.
“The leather bag.” Miss Fielding gazed at him more intently, as if
really glad to have found some one in whom she could confide and depend
upon for advice. “The leather bag--it had been placed in my hand by
some person. That is to say, sir, I now think that it was, though I
then was not quite sure of it.”
“Why so? Explain,” said Chick attentively.
“Well, sir, there were many people passing in each direction at the
time, and it all occurred so quickly and was so very singular that I
was quite confused. But there was the leather bag in my right hand,
and I thought at first that I might accidentally have torn it from the
belt or the long neck chain of some passing woman. I could see no woman
near me, however, and I now feel sure that the bag was quickly and
stealthily placed in my hand.”
“That was, indeed, a strange experience,” said Chick. “What did you do
about it? What followed?”
“I looked for some one from whom I could have accidentally taken it or
who might have given it to me,” Nellie continued. “As I already have
said, however, no one appeared to have any interest in me, and there
was no woman near me.”
“Was it a woman’s hand bag or a purse?”
“It was more like a small purse, one that could be easily held in one
hand,” Nellie explained. “I felt the shape and heard the clink of coins
in it, moreover, which made me think it was a purse. And then I--oh,
sir, I’m only a poor girl, dependent upon what I earn to support myself
and a crippled sister--I thought I had come into possession of some
money. I did wrong. I was impelled to keep it. I yielded to temptation.
I----”
“All that was perfectly natural, Miss Fielding, under the
circumstances,” Chick kindly interposed when tears suddenly appeared in
her blue eyes. “You cannot be consistently blamed. Tell me what you did
and what followed?”
“When I saw that I was not observed, or so it then appeared, I
concealed the bag under my coat and hurried on for a short distance,
until I could safely look into it and learn what it contained. I did so
under a lamp on a corner, when well away from the crowd that had left
the theater.”
“What did you find in the bag?” Chick inquired.
“It contained a small handkerchief, some gold coins, and a diamond
ring. Oh, how it glittered!” she exclaimed, with quiet enthusiasm. “I
gasped with amazement when I saw it. I bent my head nearer to peer into
the bag, and then--oh, what a strange feeling came over me!”
“Explain,” said Chick. “Describe it.”
“I don’t know that I can,” Miss Fielding replied. “I never felt so
before. I seemed to be losing myself, so to speak, and everything
suddenly grew dim.”
“Did you feel ill or----”
“No, sir, not at all. The sensation was only momentary, as when one
suddenly faints. Then all became dark. I don’t know what I did or what
followed. I knew nothing more, sir, until I revived on a cot in the
hospital and saw the physician and the nurse bending over me. That is
all I know about it, sir, all I can tell you.”
Chick had been watching her intently, and he was sure that she had
told the truth. It was a strange story, nevertheless, a remarkable
experience, and he began to rack his brain for an explanation.
“I believe all you have said, Miss Fielding,” he assured her. “Have you
any idea what overcame you?”
“No, sir,” said she earnestly. “Not the slightest idea. It is terribly
mysterious.”
“Did it occur immediately after you opened the bag?”
“Yes, sir, almost immediately; surely within two or three seconds.”
“When you bent nearer to look into the bag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Had you removed the handkerchief?”
“No, sir. The gold coins and ring were on top of it.”
“Had you detected any odor from it, that of perfumery or----”
“No, sir, nothing,” Nellie interposed. “I would have done so, perhaps,
if there had been any, for I held it quite near my face.”
“That is the very point,” said Chick, smiling. “I now suspect that the
handkerchief was impregnated with some odorless, but very powerful
drug, which instantly affected you. Naturally, in your surprise, you
would have inhaled it freely, and I think that is how you were so
quickly overcome.”
“That may explain it,” Miss Fielding admitted. “But it all was very,
very strange.”
“Can you recall anything that immediately followed?”
“No, sir, absolutely nothing.”
“But you can tell me just where it occurred?”
“Oh, yes,” Nellie nodded quickly. “It was on the corner of Main and
Maple Streets. There is an all-night lunch cart nearly opposite. I
remember seeing it, and that is why I am sure of the precise location.”
“Very good,” said Chick, smiling again. “Now tell me, Miss Fielding,
why you asked for the leather bag before leaving the hospital. You
claimed to have missed it.”
“I did, sir,” she readily admitted. “I suddenly remembered it and
thought I would take it and try to find the owner. I did not think of
its having been the cause of my trouble.”
“But why did you not explain the circumstances to Doctor Devoll and
insist upon searching for the bag? You afterward said you were not sure
you had it.”
“Well, sir, it suddenly occurred to me that I might be suspected of
stealing it,” Nellie explained, blushing again. “That thought alarmed
me, and I was anxious only to leave the hospital and go home as quickly
as possible. That is why, too, I gave the physician a false name and
address. I wanted to wash my hands of the whole affair and avoid any
publicity.”
“Very good. I don’t much blame you,” Chick laughed, with a nod of
approval. “I guess you have told me a straight story, Miss Fielding.”
“I have told you the truth, sir,” she said earnestly. “I hope nothing
more will----”
“Oh, there is nothing for you to fear,” Chick hastened to assure her.
“Say nothing about it to others or about me, and you probably will hear
no more of it. If you do learn anything more, however, write for me to
call and see you. A line to John Blaisdell, Wilton House, will reach
me.”
Miss Fielding promised to comply, and wrote the name on a sheet of
paper.
Chick said a few more words to reassure her, and he then departed
and hastened to the corner of Main and Maple Streets, where the girl
had so mysteriously lost consciousness. He saw at a glance that the
surroundings, aside from the lunch cart a few rods away, would have
been favorable at midnight for the knavish trick that he now was sure
had been turned.
Crossing over, he found the proprietor of the lunch cart alone, and he
called him to the door, a shrewd, keen-eyed Irish chap in the twenties.
“I’m looking into a job that was pulled off about twelve o’clock
night before last,” Chick informed him. “Did you happen to see a girl
standing alone on the opposite corner about that time?”
“Faith, sir, I did,” nodded the other quickly. “I was here at my door,
sir, hoping to hook onto some customers from the theater. The girl
stopped under the lamp and was looking at something.”
“That’s the one,” said Chick. “Do you know how long she remained there?”
“Not more than a couple of minutes. Then a man joined her and a motor
cab showed up. They got into it and rode away.”
“With the cabman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you describe either man?” asked Chick.
“Faith, I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I didn’t notice them
closely, not thinking of anything wrong. Besides, the cabman didn’t
leave his seat. The other was about medium size, I’d say, and wore a
dark suit. I would not swear to it, but I think he had a dark beard,
too.”
“Quite likely,” Chick said dryly. “Do you know from which direction he
came?”
“Up the street, sir. I reckoned that he was following the girl, and
that she was waiting for him. That’s how it struck me.”
“Did the cab come from the same direction?”
“It did. I supposed the man had called it.”
“Did the girl go with him willingly?”
“She sure did, sir, for all I could see. The man took her arm and
helped her in, and then they rode away. That’s all there was to it.”
Chick saw that this man could tell him nothing more definite, and he
left him, to believe, as he had said, that there was nothing more to it.
“All the same, by Jove, the mystery seems only the deeper,” he said
to himself while walking away. “Why was Nellie Fielding, as well as
three girls before her, temporarily abducted and left unconscious in
the hospital grounds? Neither was subjected to any further harm, any
personal outrage, and robbery surely was not the motive. What was it,
then? What could be gained? Why were such chances repeatedly taken?
There must have been something to gain, but I’ll be hanged if I can
fathom what. Deeper mystery is right. There must be a big game or a
most knavish one, somewhere under the surface.”
CHAPTER XI. THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.
Doctor David Devoll, whose will and word were law in the Osgood
Hospital, gazed intently at the card brought in by his personal
attendant. He was seated at a broad, flat desk in the middle of his
private room, a sanctuary into which few would have dared to intrude
after having once offended in that way.
For of all the rules and regulations of this institution, there
was none more inflexible, none more rigorously enforced, than that
forbidding intrusion upon the privacy of Doctor David Devoll.
And when, perchance, it was violated, which was very, very seldom,
the unfortunate offender had cause to long remember that suavity and
smoothness in a man may sometimes serve only to hide, like the sleek
coat of a leopard, very sharp claws and merciless teeth.
Doctor Devoll rubbed the top of his bald head with his slender hands,
gazing at the card and muttering the name inscribed on it.
“Blaisdell--John Blaisdell--I do not place him. Written with a pen, eh?
Do you know the man, Shannon?”
“Not from a side of leather.”
“Not even by sight?”
“Never laid eyes on him. He’s a new one to my lamps.”
Shannon’s terse replies seemed to issue with husky quietude from
the uppermost depths of his throat. They were neither refined nor
respectful. They smacked of closer relations than those of master
and servant, as also appeared in his confidential attitude and air
of assurance. For he was bowed over the desk, with both hands spread
upon it, a broad, compact, muscular man of fifty, with the bullet
head of a pugilist and the strength of a bull. He was clad in livery,
nevertheless--a bottle-green jacket and trousers, trimmed with black
braid.
“He stated, you say, that he has private business with me.” Doctor
Devoll gazed up from the card with a sinister gleam in his cold blue
eyes.
“That’s what he said.”
“But not to what it relates?”
“Not he!” Shannon grinned. “He ducked my question, as if it were a
right swing. When I have private business with a man, says he, I don’t
confide it to his servant. That was how he countered.”
Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a smile that did not improve
his facial expression, usually very agreeable and benign. He said
deliberately:
“You may show him in, Shannon. Wait. Don’t let his business be too
private, not too private, Shannon,” he added significantly, pointing to
a curtained door. “Slip around there after admitting him and wait until
he goes. You may be needed.”
“I’ll do better than that. If needed, Dave, I’ll be--here!”
“Very good. Show him in.”
Shannon straightened up, smoothed his bottle-green jacket with his
palms, and stalked with stilty stiffness through the opposite door,
closing it after him.
Doctor Devoll reverted to the card.
“Written with a pen,” he repeated, his eyes squinted and gleaming.
“But not on one of our office blanks. Most men have a printed card
or engraved. Written with a pen. One might rightly infer from that,
perhaps, that his name is not--Blaisdell.”
Obviously, Doctor Devoll was more than ordinarily discerning.
Shannon had, in the meantime, returned to the man waiting in the
hospital office. He then had all the earmarks of a well-trained butler,
thoroughly conscious of his dignified functions.
“Pardon the delay, sir,” he said sedately. “Doctor Devoll was talking
by telephone with a patient. He will see you. This way, sir.”
Nick followed him through the main corridor, then into a narrow
diverging passageway, then down three steps and through a second narrow
entry, at the end of which was the door of the physician’s private
room. Shannon knocked and then opened it.
“Mr. Blaisdell, sir,” he announced.
The detective entered and Doctor Devoll arose to meet him, bowing and
placing a chair.
“Take a seat, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said blandly. “I’m sorry to have kept
you waiting. I was busy with the telephone.”
“Don’t mention it,” Nick replied. “I shall not take much of your
valuable time.”
He sat down while speaking, and his trained eyes quickly took in
most of the details of the spacious, handsomely furnished room. Two
windows overlooked the rear grounds. Each was entirely covered with
an interior, painted wire screen, which precluded observation from
outside, but through which one within could see plainly. There were
roller shades and shutters, also, that would insure privacy after the
lamps were lighted.
The detective saw at once that he was in a rear room in the main
building. He could see the broad sweep of the rear lawn, the back
street in the near distance, a gravel path leading out to it through
the park, evidently from a near rear door. He no sooner was seated,
moreover, than he saw something else--which would have been seen and
appreciated by only one detective in a million.
The broad, flat desk was between him and one of the windows, the light
from which struck the top of the desk at an angle, causing a slight
glare on its smooth leather surface. Two spots that broke this glare,
however, apart from some books and papers nearer the chair from which
the physician had arisen, instantly caught the detective’s eye.
There was no mistaking the shape of them, nor what had caused them.
They were the broad outlines of a man’s hands, outspread while he
leaned over the desk, and the moisture from which still lingered on the
smooth leather.
“By Jove, I’ve hit a pair of liars!” thought Nick instantly, though
his strong, clean-cut face did not change by so much as a shadow.
“That fellow in livery was leaning over the desk, with both hands
spread on it, directly opposite the chair from which this doctor arose.
The dampness from them has not yet dried from the leather, nor would
it have been imparted to it unless the hands were there for several
moments. That’s an unusual and remarkably confidential attitude for
a servant. The telephone is in one corner and ten feet from the
desk. I’ll wager, by Jove! that the doctor was not using it, and that
something else occasioned the delay, possibly a conference concerning
me and my mission. Both lied about the telephone, as sure as I’m a foot
high, but for what reason?”
Obviously, of course, these shrewd deductions were mere impressions
that flashed very swiftly through the detective’s mind, rather than
a process of deliberate reasoning. Naturally, too, they instantly
gave rise to new and somewhat startling suspicions, which, with
characteristic self-control, Carter was careful to conceal.
Doctor Devoll had pattered around his desk, in the meantime, and was
taking the chair from which he had arisen.
“I am not busy just now, Mr. Blaisdell,” he said. “I can give you what
time you want. What’s the trouble? You don’t look like a man afflicted
with any physical ailment.”
Nick laughed lightly and shook his head, sizing up with augmented
interest this bald, thin-featured, smooth-spoken physician who, so
singularly and unexpectedly, had now incurred his distrust.
“No, nothing of the kind,” he replied. “If all men were as strong and
healthy as I am, Doctor Devoll, those of your profession would find it
hard sledding.”
“That is fortunate for you, at least,” smiled the physician.
“My business with you relates to another matter,” the detective added.
“Private business--or so my man informed me.”
“Yes.”
“Concerning what?” Doctor Devoll’s narrow eyes took on a searching
squint.
“I want to ask you about the girl who was found unconscious in the
hospital grounds late last night,” Nick explained. “More precisely, I
want your opinion of her condition and the cause of it, as well as of
the three previous cases very closely resembling it. It strikes me----”
“One moment, sir,” Doctor Devoll interrupted. “Why are you specially
interested in the case?”
“Is that material?” Nick inquired, smiling.
“Quite so. I am not in the habit of discussing my cases with strangers.
I want to know to whom I express an opinion, and for what reason and by
what right it is asked.”
“Otherwise, Doctor Devoll, you do not express it?” queried the
detective, noting a subtle ring in the other’s voice. “Is that what I
am to infer?”
“Exactly.” Doctor Devoll nodded. “Reticence would denote a covert
motive on your part in seeking my opinion. I would not stand for that
for a moment. I must be met halfway or I will not discuss a case with
any visitor.”
“That seems to be a consistent position, I’m sure,” Carter admitted.
“I will tell you, therefore, why I am interested in this case. It was
brought to my notice by Chief Gleason, of the police department, at
whose request I am investigating it.”
“You are a detective, then.”
“Well, merely to that extent,” Nick allowed evasively.
“I see.” Doctor Devoll stroked his black frock coat and drew up in his
chair. “Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Blaisdell.”
“Certainly.”
“Why is an investigation thought to be necessary?”
“Don’t you consider it wise?”
“For the police to butt in?” Doctor Devoll said a bit sharply. “I can’t
say that I do.”
“No?”
“Why should they interfere? What was there in either case that demands
police investigation?” Doctor Devoll curtly questioned. “A girl was
overcome, was addicted to a drug, or a dope of some kind, and wandered
into the hospital grounds. She was found and brought in here. I revived
her and she immediately insisted upon going home. That’s all there
was to any one of the cases. Why, I repeat, do they require police
investigation?”
“I cannot conceive, Doctor Devoll, that you have any personal objection
to an investigation,” Nick remarked dryly, smiling again.
A tinge of red leaped up in the physician’s cheeks. A sharper gleam
shot from his squinted eyes. He detected a covert insinuation in his
visitor’s tone. He felt that he had said too much, perhaps, for he
quickly retorted:
“Not the slightest objection, Mr. Blaisdell, not the slightest
objection. I merely fail to see why an investigation is necessary.
There are hundreds of dope fiends in every large city, but in none of
them have the police a very great interest. Why their activity, then,
in these cases? What do they suspect?”
“Don’t you think that four such cases warrant suspicion?” the detective
blandly inquired.
“Not more than the hundreds I have mentioned.”
“But all were found in the hospital grounds,” Carter pointed out
suggestively.
“What of that?” Doctor Devoll demanded. “A coincidence. Nothing else.
One may have been influenced by having read of the others. There is no
accounting for the doings of a drug fiend.”
“There is some truth in that,” Nick admitted.
“Let it go at that, then,” said Doctor Devoll, with a wave of his
slender hands. “I wanted only to learn your opinion, your grounds for
suspicion. You now are welcome to mine. I will answer any question you
care to ask.”
“Thank you,” said the detective, who now was taking a somewhat
different course than he would have shaped if he had detected nothing
denoting duplicity in the physician. “You think these girls were drug
fiends, do you?”
“I don’t know positively,” Doctor Devoll said quickly. “I am not sure
that the coma in which I found them was the cause of a drug. There is a
possibility, of course, that the cause was a temporary atrophy of the
cerebral nerves.”
“But you intimated to Sergeant Brady that they were drugged,” Nick
reminded him.
“That was and still is what I suspect, but I am not sure of it,” Doctor
Devoll retorted. “I had not time to look deeply into either case. My
duty was to restore my patient, which I succeeded in doing, and each of
them then insisted upon departing and going home.”
“Why didn’t you detain them?”
“I had no right to do so. One may leave here as soon as able. This is
not a police station.”
“But why didn’t you question them about their habits, Doctor Devoll,
and insist upon knowing their names?” the detective asked more
pointedly.
“I did so in the last case.”
“Why not in the others? It strikes me----”
“Stop a moment,” Doctor Devoll interrupted, lurching forward in his
chair. “I run this institution, Mr. Blaisdell, and I’m not going to
be bothered in this way nor have my conduct picked to pieces by the
police. When another case turns up, I would advise your having her
taken to headquarters. You then can call another physician. Get him to
restore her. He may know more than I.
“You can hold the girl, charge her with something, frame her up in
any way you like, which is quite in a line with police methods, and,
perhaps, you can force her to impart all the information you want. I
know no other way by which you can learn the truth.”
Doctor Devoll arose with the last, signifying that he would not prolong
the interview. Carter had let him run on without interrupting, noting
his impatience and a more threatening shrillness in his voice. He
decided not to question him further. He arose and took his hat, saying
with ominous quietude:
“There is another way, Doctor Devoll, and I shall find it. I’m going
to dig out the whole truth, not only in these cases, but also in
the sudden mysterious death of Gaston Todd. There is, I now feel
sure, quite a close relation between all of these cases and the many
mysterious robberies that have recently been committed in Madison. I
want the whole truth, Doctor Devoll, and I’m out to get it. Take it
from me--I’ll find the way.”
“I wish you much success.” Doctor Devoll’s thin lips took on a rather
sardonic smile. “I wish you much and speedy success, Mr. Blaisdell.
This way, sir, if you are going. Call again. I shall be interested
to know how you succeed and to learn the true inwardness of these
mysteries. Ah, here is my man. Show Mr. Blaisdell the way, Shannon, if
you please. Call again, sir; call again.”
“Thank you. I think it highly probable,” said Carter, with singular
dryness.
Doctor Devoll bowed, still smiling, and closed the door, to which he
had accompanied the detective.
Nick Carter followed Shannon out by the way he had entered, departing
without so much as a word to the burly attendant. There was a
suspicious gleam in the latter’s eyes, however, while he watched
the departing detective through one of the office windows. Turning
abruptly, as if hit with a sudden idea, he closed the office door and
then called up the police headquarters by telephone.
“Hello!” said he, with a voice very unlike his own. “One of Carter’s
assistants is talking from the Wilton House. Do you know where I can
find him?”
A sergeant answered, one who happened to know of Carter’s relations
with the chief, but upon whom the above inquiry made no impression and
was not afterward recalled.
“I do not,” he replied. “He has not been here since morning.”
Shannon hung up the receiver; then arose and hurried back to rejoin the
physician.
“I’m wise, Dave,” he announced, with an exultant snarl. “I’ve nailed
him.”
Doctor Devoll swung around from the fireplace, near which he was
standing.
“Wise to what?” he demanded. “Do you mean that you know him?”
“You bet I know him. Brady, you remember, telephoned to a man named
Blaisdell last night, who is at the Wilton House. It just struck me
that Gleason has employed outside detectives. There is just one crack
sleuth whom he most likely would want. I have phoned to headquarters,
saying I was his assistant and asking if he was there. I was told that
he was there this morning. That does settle it. You have just been
talking, Dave, with the famous New York detective, the worst ever--Nick
Carter.”
Doctor Devoll started slightly and for a moment appeared incredulous.
Then his teeth met with a vicious snap. His face changed as if he had
been suddenly turned to a devil incarnate.
“You are sure of it, Shannon, sure of it?” he questioned, with a
sibilant hiss.
“Dead sure, Dave,” Shannon insisted. “There’s nothing to it.”
“Nick Carter, eh? The worst ever, eh?” Doctor Devoll gave way to a
mirthless, derisive laugh. “We’ll see about that. We’ll see about that,
Shannon. He shall find that he has met one worthy of his steel, one who
will balk, thwart, and laugh at him. Or, if need be, Shannon, who will
wipe him from the face of the earth!”
Shannon shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled grimly. It was not the
first time that he had heard such sentiments as these, and seen that
same gleam and glitter in the eyes of the man confronting him, eyes
with a glare like that of madness.
“You will not quit, then?” he said inquiringly.
“Quit!” Doctor Devoll sneered scornfully. “Only curs and cowards quit,
Shannon, and throw up the sponge. Sit down at my desk. Sit down and
write what I dictate. Your hand will never be suspected.”
Shannon obeyed him without a protest. He was accustomed to yielding to
this man, to obeying him without question. He sat down at the desk,
taking the pen and paper which the physician provided. Half an hour had
passed when Doctor Devoll ended his dictation and gave the other his
instructions.
Shannon arose and went to change his livery for street attire.
Doctor Devoll, with face still reflecting his vicious sentiments, gazed
intently at his desk for several moments. Then he started abruptly,
having decided what course he would shape, and hurriedly opened a safe
in one corner, taking from it a small rubber mask, which he quickly
adjusted over his mouth and nostrils. Then he took from an inner
compartment--a small leather bag.
Out of the latter he drew a crumpled handkerchief, lady’s size, and
hurriedly cast it with the bag into the fireplace. A blue flame sprang
up, hissing audibly, denoting that the handkerchief was saturated with
a very volatile and inflammable substance of some kind. The physician
watched them burn, smiling sardonically; then forced the charred
remains deep among the glowing embers.
“Nick Carter, eh?” he muttered, relocking the mask in his safe. “He
suspects me, does he? He’ll corner me, will he? We shall see--we shall
see!”
When Shannon returned, he had a disguise in his hand, which he was
placing temporarily in his pocket.
Doctor Devoll started up from his desk with two sealed letters, which
he had hurriedly written. He gave them to his attendant, saying
sharply, with eyes gleaming again:
“This to Toby Monk. This to Tim Hurst. Be wary when leaving the other,
Shannon, both wary and watchful. Nick Carter, eh? We shall see,
Shannon, we shall see!”
CHAPTER XII. NICK CARTER’S DEDUCTIONS.
It was six o’clock when Nick Carter returned to the Wilton House.
Daylight was deepening to dusk. The last editions of the local
newspapers were out, and the shrill voices of juvenile venders could be
heard from all directions. The detective glanced at the papers, which
in headline luridness proclaimed:
“Leading Lawyer Suspected in Todd Murder! Frank Paulding Arrested!
Chief Gleason Sure of His Man!”
Nick Carter smiled faintly, but with a more threatening gleam and
glitter deep down in his eyes, when these varied cries of the newsboys
reached his ears. He bought a paper from one, thrusting it into his
pocket, and entered the hotel.
“Gleason has made good, all right,” he muttered while seeking the
elevator. “That will make it easier for me, as well as all this, which
is precisely what I expected. But it’s up to me, by Jove! and must be
done quickly, or good night to my reputation.”
He referred to what he had overheard while threading his way through
the unusual throng in the hotel office. There was much excitement and
only one matter under discussion--the alleged murder, the mystery
shrouding it, the strange death of the victim, and divers opinions
regarding the suspected man.
The detective went up to his suite, where, as he expected, he found
Chick and Patsy waiting for him, the former eager to report what he
had learned from Nellie Fielding. It took him only a few moments,
and apparently, as Chick had reasoned, it seemed only to deepen the
mystery. It brought a look of grim satisfaction, however, to the face
of the listening detective.
“I cannot see that it sheds any light on the case,” Chick added
perplexedly.
“It does, Chick, nevertheless,” Carter said confidently.
“Does it dovetail with something you have discovered?”
“You may judge for yourself. I’ll tell you what I saw and learned
during my call on Doctor Devoll.”
He proceeded to do so, but the look of perplexity still lingered on
Chick’s face, and Patsy appeared dubiously puzzled.
“It is somewhat significant, if you are right, chief, that both Doctor
Devoll and his man lied to you,” Chick said thoughtfully. “But I don’t
see that what the physician said to you or the position he took cuts
any ice.”
“You don’t, eh?” returned Carter, smiling grimly. “It cuts quite thick
ice, Chick.”
“Why so? I don’t get you.”
“Gee whiz, chief, nor do I,” put in Patsy. “What do you mean? Come
across with it.”
“First, a word about the girl, Nellie Fielding, and what befell her,”
said Carter. “It probably is precisely what befell the others, and all
were victims of the same crook and his assistant. Just what game he was
playing and with what object remains to be learned.”
“But----”
“Wait a bit!” Carter cut in. “You’ll get me presently. Nellie Fielding
evidently told you the truth. The mysterious bag was deftly slipped
into her hand. She did what the others did, when she could discover no
owner for it. She kept it until well away from the crowd, then opened
it to see what it contained. As you have inferred, Chick, something
in the bag, probably that with which the handkerchief was saturated,
immediately overcame her. A very powerful and mysterious gas may have
been liberated from the bag, and it naturally would have been inhaled
by the girl when she peered into it.”
“That seemed to me the most plausible theory,” said Chick.
“It has become rather more than a theory,” Carter replied. “I now am
almost sure of it.”
“For other reasons?”
“Yes. To continue, it is safe to assume that the girl was constantly
watched. The moment she lost herself, for she certainly lost
consciousness to some extent, at least, she was taken away by two
men and placed on the seat in the hospital grounds, then wholly
unconscious, where Policeman Donovan found her.”
“Barclay was right, then,” said Chick. “That was the cab seen by the
artist.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But why was the girl taken into the hospital grounds?”
“That’s one point,” said Carter. “So that, when discovered, she would
surely be taken into the hospital--where Doctor Devoll would be the one
to treat her.”
“You think----”
“One moment. Don’t force me ahead of my story. These circumstances
require careful and thorough analysis.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“Bear in mind that Doctor Devoll treated all four of these cases. He
treated them successfully. They did not appear to baffle him, or even
mystify him, I suspect. Bear in mind, too, that he did not detain the
girls, did not question them closely, or seek to learn their names,
even, with the exception of Nellie Fielding. Remember, too, that the
mysterious leather bag, which Sergeant Brady knows was taken into the
wardroom, could not be found. Take it from me--Doctor Devoll was the
one who got away with it.”
“By Jove! all that does appear deucedly suspicious,” Chick now
declared. “It may explain, too, Devoll’s attitude this afternoon.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly, chief, is right,” cried Patsy. “Gee! things are beginning to
brighten up.”
“Let’s go a step farther,” Carter continued. “All of the mysterious
robberies and holdups during the past three months, which we were
called here to investigate, were of a very similar character, and all
bore a striking likeness to what befell Nellie Fielding. The victims
invariably were found unconscious after the crime, though afterward
were quite easily restored, and all told the same story--that of being
confronted by a person who, in some mysterious way, caused them to
immediately lose consciousness and then deliberately robbed them.”
“You think all of these cases, then, were the work of the same gang of
crooks.”
“That is precisely what I think,” Carter said more forcibly. “I am
convinced of it by their similarity and the mysterious means employed,
which show plainly that the knave back of the whole business is an
exceedingly capable and well-informed rascal. He must be an expert in
drugs, or have discovered some chemical compound the quality and effect
of which are not known by other physicians and scientists.”
“Do you suspect that Doctor Devoll is the criminal?” Chick inquired.
“I do not like his looks, his conduct in these cases, or the position
he took when I questioned him.”
“But it seems really improbable that a man of his prominence and
profession would be engaged in such knavery,” Chick argued.
“That’s what every one would say, and it would be deucedly difficult to
convince them of his guilt,” Carter replied. “That could be done only
by producing positive evidence of it.”
“Very true.”
“It may be equally difficult to find that evidence,” Carter added. “It
must be found, nevertheless, assuming that I am right. In no other way
can we make good.”
“True again,” Chick admitted.
“I was very careful, therefore, not to betray that I suspected him. I
pretended to swallow all that he handed out, and let it go at that. One
word more, now, and I will have covered all of the ground. That relates
to the Todd murder.”
“What about it?”
“The mystery is as to how and with what means it was committed. You
know what the autopsy revealed----”
“Next to nothing,” put in Patsy.
“That’s the very point,” said Nick. “Chemical tests may reveal the
presence of poison. Doctor Marvin thinks, however, and I am of the same
opinion, that Todd was killed with some kind of poisonous gas.”
“Great Scott! that seems next to impossible,” Chick declared.
“Consider the time, the public place, and all of the circumstances.
Todd was telephoned to come to the Waldmere Chambers and wait in the
corridor. It was done at a moment’s notice, so to speak, with a view
to incriminating Frank Paulding, if your suspicions are correct. How
in thunder could a poisonous gas be administered to a man under such
conditions?”
“Gee whiz! it does look like an utter impossibility, chief,” said Patsy.
“Or the work of an exceedingly bold and accomplished crook, the same
crook who committed these other mysterious crimes,” Carter insisted.
“Their similarity convinces me, as I have said, that all were the work
of the same man and same gang.”
“That much does seem probable,” Chick allowed. “There is no getting
around it.”
“And it’s up to us to get after them and find the evidence needed to
identify and convict them,” Carter said flatly. “Now, Patsy, what have
you learned? Is there any man who might properly term himself Todd’s
running mate? That’s what the telephone girl heard.”
“I have not been able to find one, chief,” Patsy reported. “There
seems to be no man with whom he was specially friendly.”
“Nor any tenant in the Waldmere Chambers whom he was in the habit of
visiting?”
“Not that I could learn,” Patsy again replied in the negative. “I
questioned the janitor and several others. Not one of them had ever
seen Todd in the building. So far as I could learn, chief, he never
visited the Waldmere Chambers.”
“All the more reason, then, for suspecting that he was lured there that
day only to be killed.”
“But I have learned one fact, chief,” Patsy added.
“What is that?”
“Todd had a suite here in the Wilton House for the past two years.
About a month ago, however, he changed his quarters to the Studley.
That is an apartment house in Dale Street. His suite is on the second
floor.”
“He may have had some secret motive for the change,” Carter said
thoughtfully. “The hotel may have been too public a place for
something in which he was secretly engaged. We must look into that. No
investigation in his apartments has yet been made.”
“We had better make one, then,” Chick suggested.
“I was coming to that. You go there this evening and see what you can
find. Search for letters, papers, or anything that might shed a ray of
light on the case.”
“Leave it to me,” Chick nodded. “I’ll go through his suite with a
fine-tooth comb.”
“Accomplish it secretly, however, if possible,” Carter quickly
directed. “I don’t want our doings and designs suspected by the
miscreants back of this knavery. I want to keep them in the dark as
long as possible.”
“Leave it to me. I’ll turn the trick without being seen,” Chick
predicted confidently.
“In the meantime, Patsy, you go at once to the Osgood Hospital and
watch for any move by Doctor Devoll,” said Nick, abruptly turning to
him. “My visit may, if my suspicions are warranted, alarm him into
taking steps that would clinch them. Shadow him, if he goes out, and
watch him constantly.”
“Enough said, chief,” cried Patsy, springing up to get his hat. “He’ll
be a good one, indeed, if he gets by me with a move of any kind. I’ll
soon have my lamps on him.”
Patsy did not wait for an answer. He was out and away almost as soon as
the last was said.
CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN WITH A MASK.
Nick Carter met with a surprise when he went down to dine with Chick,
after the hurried departure of Patsy Garvan. The office clerk, seeing
them going to the dining room, took a letter from a rack and beckoned
to the detective, saying, when he approached:
“This appears to be for you, Mr. Blaisdell.”
Nick took it and glanced at the pen-written address--Mr. John
Blaisdell, Wilton House.
He saw that it was not stamped, however, and wondered who had left a
letter for him, instead of seeking a personal interview. Much more to
his surprise, upon removing the inclosed sheet, he found that it bore
no signature and was addressed, not fictitiously, but to--Mr. Nicholas
Carter.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he muttered, frowning. “Has it leaked out
that I am in Madison?”
He lingered in the office and read the letter, while Chick approached
and joined him, noting his ominous expression. For the letter read as
follows:
“MR. NICHOLAS CARTER: You may fool others with a false name, but not
the writer. He is not so easily blinded. Your identity is known, also
your mission, but you are barking up the wrong tree and are booked
for failure. You will make the mistake of your life, a fatal mistake,
if you remain here and persist in the work you have undertaken. It
will cost you what man holds most dear--your life.
“I am very well aware, Carter, that you are not easily influenced by
threats, and ordinarily ignore them. I want to impress it upon you,
therefore, that I am not an ordinary person, and that I invariably do
what I threaten.
“You will doubt my ability to do so. Your abnormal bump of conceit
will cause you to think you can protect yourself and avert your
impending fate. Disabuse yourself of that idea. You cannot possibly
escape me.
“On the other hand, Carter, I do not wish to wipe you off the map
unless you force me to do so. Don’t make it imperative. Don’t fly
into the face of fate. Your safety lies in returning to New York and
minding your own business. Madison is too small for both of us.
“Lest you underestimate your danger and disregard this warning,
however, and that I may be spared needless bloodshed, if possible,
I will try to convince you that I am right, that I am vastly your
superior, and that I hold your life in my hand. You are said to be a
past master of the art of detecting and preventing crime.
“On Thursday evening next an elaborate reception and ball are to be
held by the National Guards. Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow will be among the
guests. She is very wealthy. She owns a superb rope of pearls. It is
worth eighty thousand dollars. She will wear it that evening.
“I am going to steal it.
“I invite you to prevent me.
“If you succeed, you will have convinced me that you are capable of
guarding yourself from the fate I have threatened.
“If you fail--you should be wise enough to realize your peril and
take my advice. I repeat it. Lose not a moment in leaving Madison--or
you will return to New York in a coffin.”
Nick Carter’s brows knitted closer while he read this threatening
letter. He had turned so that Chick might also read it, and the latter
muttered, when both had finished:
“Great guns! Who the devil wrote that?”
“It comes suspiciously soon after my call on Doctor Devoll,” Nick said
pointedly.
“Do you think he sent it?”
“I don’t know, of course, nor do I care.”
“It’s an infernal bluff.”
“Less a bluff than you suppose,” corrected Carter, a bit grimly. “The
writer means what he says.”
“That he will kill you?”
“If I give him a chance or don’t kill him.”
“You will ignore it, and----”
“And accept his challenge--surely!” Nick cut in. “Wait one moment. I
want to question Burton.”
They had remained near the office inclosure, to which he now turned and
called the clerk, asking quietly:
“Who brought this letter, Mr. Burton? I see it is not stamped.”
Burton laughed a bit oddly and shook his head.
“I don’t know, Mr. Blaisdell,” he replied. “I found it on the cigar
case. I was somewhat mystified when I saw it, for I had sold two men
some cigars only a moment before, and the letter was not there.”
“One of them left it there, perhaps,” Nick suggested, intending to get
a description of the men, in that case.
“Impossible.” Burton spoke decidedly. “They walked away before I closed
the show case, and I saw them leaving the house.”
“Did you see any one else near the show case?”
“Not a person. I discovered the letter, nevertheless, within a couple
of minutes.”
“How long ago?”
“Not more than five minutes. I was intending to send the letter up to
your room. I hope the delay is of no consequence,” Burton added.
“None whatever,” Carter assured him. “Come, Chick, we’ll go in to
dinner.”
“It’s plain enough that some one slipped in here and seized an
opportunity to leave the letter without being seen,” Chick remarked.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Will you do anything more about it?”
“Not at present.”
“Or change your plans?”
“Not an iota,” said Carter decidedly. “I am not to be intimidated by
threats. I may decide, however, to attend the ball of the National
Guards. If Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow wears her rope of pearls, and the
writer of this letter attempts to steal it, he will end with having
it stuffed down his knavish throat. Vastly my superior, eh? We’ll see
about that.”
The detective thrust the threatening letter into his pocket with the
last, obviously averse to further discussing it, and the subject was
abruptly dropped.
None could have sized up the letter more correctly or more keenly have
realized its full significance. Carter knew that his identity had
been discovered by the very crooks he was seeking, by the evil genius
directing them, in spite of his precautions to prevent it. He knew that
a ball had been set rolling which, urged on by the mysterious criminal
forces back of it, would tax his utmost powers to successfully oppose.
It was about eight o’clock when Chick left the hotel, suitably clad
and well equipped for the stealthy work assigned him. A brisk walk of
about ten minutes took him to Dale Street, in a desirable residential
section, and presently the lofty brick walls and numerous lighted
windows of the Studley, a somewhat exclusive apartment house, loomed up
on the opposite side.
He paused and viewed it briefly, noting that a narrow court flanked one
end of the building. He saw that there was no public office, also that
the broad, main entrance and vestibule were brightly lighted.
“A suite on the second floor,” he said to himself. “The windows
don’t appeal to me. It ought not to be very difficult to get into an
unoccupied suite without being seen. I believe it can be more easily
done from within than without. I’ll have a look.”
Crossing over, he entered the vestibule and consulted the tiny placards
under the numerous electric bells, on one of which he presently found
the number of Todd’s suite. At the same moment he heard the heavy inner
door opened, and two fashionably clad women came out.
“Pardon!” Chick approached them, instantly seizing the opportunity
presented. “If you will be so kind, it will save me from using my key.”
“Certainly.” One of the women smiled, while she prevented the door from
closing.
The other eyed Chick a bit sharply, but he bowed and murmured a word of
thanks; then passed both and entered, as complacently as if he owned
the house.
“Very opportune,” he muttered dryly. “They would think me a crook, all
right, if they were to see the key I intended to use. Without having
seen it, in fact, one appeared to have a vague impression that I had
no legitimate business here. I must contrive to avoid other eyes.”
He had closed the door and was gazing up a broad, dimly lighted
stairway while indulging in these reflections. He could hear no sound
from the corridor of the second floor. He stole up noiselessly and
found it deserted.
Glancing at the numbers on the nearest doors, he quickly learned in
which direction he must turn, and he brought up within a minute at the
door he was seeking--that of the suite lately occupied by the murdered
man. It adjoined a diverging corridor, and its windows overlooked the
narrow court mentioned.
In the meantime, for so fate sometimes brings opposing forces together,
and often with disastrous results, a man moving with the stealth of an
evil shadow, which any chance observer would surely have thought him,
had entered the narrow court and paused under one of the several small
platforms some ten feet above the ground, each the base of a rise of
iron stairs forming a fire escape.
This man was clad from head to foot in black. It seemed to mingle
with the almost ebon gloom in the court. He lingered only briefly. He
quickly fastened a black mask on his bearded face; then took a coiled
rope from under his coat. He cast it deftly around a corner standard of
the platform railing, up both lengths of which he then drew himself,
with the wiry strength and agility of an ape. Kneeling on the platform,
he quickly drew up the rope and laid it aside; then turned to crouch
with a thin strip of steel at the near window.
It was at precisely the same moment that Chick Carter, alone in the
corridor, set to work with a picklock to open the door of the suite.
It took him about a minute. The bolt of the lock was shot back with a
sharp, metallic sound--just as the fastening of the window was forced
aside with an audible snap.
Each sound was mingled with the other. Each stealthy intruder heard
only that which he had caused. The window was noiselessly raised,
moreover, just as Chick entered and quietly closed the door.
He had stepped into a handsomely furnished parlor. The other had
entered a dining room. Between the two rooms was an open door, with a
drawn portière. The feet of both men fell noiselessly on the carpets
and rugs.
Chick moved toward the middle of the room and took out his electric
lamp. Its beam of light leaped outward--just as the portière was drawn
and a second beam of light appeared.
The two lenses were illumined at the same moment; in fact, confronting
one another like two startled, suddenly opened eyes, with a glare that
completely dispelled the gloom.
Two more astonished men seldom met. For an instant the sudden glare
blinded both.
Chick’s first thought was that he had flashed the light upon a panel
mirror, reflecting it and himself. On the instant, however, he saw the
door, the black-clad figure, the masked face and the glittering eyes
gleaming through it.
“Great guns!” he gasped involuntarily. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
The question was echoed with icy composure by the man backed by the
swaying portière. His voice came with a sinister, metallic ring through
his black mask. He did not stir from his position or move foot or
finger.
Chick watched him to be sure of it. If a gun was to be drawn, he
was resolved to be the first to draw it. He kept the glare of his
searchlight on him, distinctly revealing him, while the masked unknown
used his with like effect, but neither reached for a weapon. It
impressed Chick as one of the most singular and sensational situations
in which he had ever figured with a solitary man.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“What are you doing?” demanded the other.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Nor have you answered mine.”
“I don’t intend to answer yours,” Chick said sternly.
“Nor I yours,” the masked man retorted coldly.
Chick felt almost inclined to laugh. He would have done so, if the case
engaging him had been a less serious one, his mission less important,
and with no occasion to conceal his visit. He frowned, instead,
however, and shaped another course.
“You’d better change your mind,” he advised. “If you don’t----”
“Hold on,” snapped the “mask.” “Don’t you reach for a gun. I can pull
one as quickly as you and shoot as straight. You keep your empty hand
in sight or you’ll be a dead one.”
“You do the same, then,” Chick said sharply.
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“Watch your step, then, and see that you don’t slip.”
“I’ll watch you, all right. You can bet on that.”
“You talk like a crook,” said Chick tentatively.
“You’ve got nothing on me in that respect,” the mask retorted dryly.
“You sneaked in here like a thief.”
“But I’m not a thief--nor are you.”
“Is that so?”
“Not of the ordinary type. I’m hit with the truth.”
“That beats being hit with a club. What’s the big idea?”
“I know, now, why you are here.”
“Solomon had nothing on you, then.”
“Not much.”
“Come on with it. What’s the brainy hunch?”
“You are one of the gang that killed Gaston Todd,” Chick again said
sternly, and the shot was not entirely a random one. “You have come
here to search his rooms, and to see whether he has left evidence that
might expose you. You are here to find it and get away with it.”
“You’re a real Willie Wisewinker,” the masked man said with a sneer,
and a threatening hiss crept into his voice. “But you have got nothing
on me. I know you, too, all right. You are one of the Nick Carter
bunch, out to cut a wide swath in Madison, if your tools don’t go dull.
You state only your own mission. You are here to search for evidence,
hoping to find and get away with it unsuspected--but you have slipped a
cog. You’ll not search for it, much less get it.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” said Chick, who now had decided how he best could
end the situation and quietly accomplish his object. “I’m going to get
it, all right--and get you.”
“Get me, eh?” The masked man laughed icily. “You have as good a chance
of getting me as a hailstone would have on a red-hot stove.”
“That so?”
“I know so.”
“Why so confident?” Chick was edging nearer the man by imperceptible
degrees. “You must have pals in the next room.”
“No, no pals,” sneered the other. “I don’t need any.”
“You’re game to play a lone hand, eh?”
“Bet you! I’m the gamest ever.”
“Nevertheless, I shall get you.”
“Not much! You have not a look in, not even the ghost of a chance. You
have not----”
“Haven’t I? We’ll see.”
Scarce six feet divided the two men, and Chick had steadied himself for
a lightninglike leap. He felt sure that he could quickly overcome the
unknown man, despite his brazen assurance, if he could grapple with
him before a revolver could be drawn, the discharge of which he wished
to prevent, knowing it would alarm the house and be contrary to his
chief’s instructions.
He leaped while he spoke, and covered the distance with a single bound,
dropping his searchlight.
The masked man dropped his, venting a wolfish snarl, and on the instant
the two men were grappling in close embrace in the almost inky darkness.
Chick aimed to seize and confine both arms of his antagonist, but in
the sudden gloom he missed them. The masked man had instantly raised
both above his head, and the detective’s muscular arms closed only
around his black-clad figure.
It was a lithe, wiry figure, one that Chick felt sure he could crush
and bend at will in his viselike embrace. Contrary to what he expected,
however, and which he lurched to one side to avoid, no blow was dealt,
no fist fell upon his head, no fierce fingers sought his throat.
Instead, the hands of the masked man dropped quickly and found those of
the detective.
Then Chick felt a wire touch each wrist. Instantly ten million needles
seemed to have been thrust full length into him. He tingled from head
to foot with excruciating pain. His every muscle relaxed as if palsied.
He gasped, tried vainly to shriek, and then the darkness of the room
was turned to that of utter oblivion--and the masked man dropped him,
as inert as a bag of sand, on the carpeted floor.
CHAPTER XIV. A MARATHON PURSUIT.
Patsy Garvan arrived at the Osgood Hospital soon after six o’clock that
evening, more than two hours before Chick encountered the masked man in
Gaston Todd’s apartments.
It then was dark, the sky clouded, with no stars to reveal his stealthy
movements to chance observers. Only the scattered street lamps and the
numerous lighted windows of the great building, with those of a few
more distant dwellings, relieved the prevailing gloom. It was even
darker in the deserted grounds, and Patsy took advantage of the trees
and shrubbery, entering the extensive estate near one corner, and
stealing quickly around the west wing toward a rear part of the main
building in which the private room of Doctor David Devoll was located.
Patsy knew from Carter’s description, nevertheless, where to find him,
and he presently paused near the rear door and the gravel walk leading
out to the back street.
“I must find out, to begin with, whether the blooming sawbones is
here,” he said to himself. “There are the two windows of his room, all
right, but there’s no sign of a light. It looks very much as if he were
absent.”
Hugging the wall, and stealing closer, nevertheless, he cautiously
crouched under the nearer of the two windows and tried to peer into the
room. He then found that the roller shade was lowered and an interior
shutter carefully closed, but through a chink below them he could see
the reflection of a dim light on the varnished sill.
“Gee whiz! he makes dead sure that no outsider can see what’s doing in
there,” thought Patsy. “He may be in some other part of the hospital,
since only a dim light is burning. I’ll have to stick round till I can
get an eye on him.”
As a matter of fact, however, Patsy had arrived there in the nick of
time. The light in the room was suddenly extinguished. Half a minute
later the sound of a turning knob, that of the rear door, broke the
outside stillness, and, as quick as a flash, Patsy dropped flat on the
ground close to the building.
He scarce had taken this precaution when the door was opened and the
physician came out. Though Patsy never had seen him, Nick Carter had
described him carefully and there was no mistaking him. His slender
figure, invariably clad in a black frock coat, which accentuated his
leanness, was one very easily identified. His smooth-shaven face was
dimly discernible through the darkness, while a considerable portion of
his bald, white skull could be seen in vivid contrast under his tall,
black hat.
“Gee! I’m playing lucky, after all,” thought Patsy, cautiously watching
him. “That’s my man, all right, and he’s bound off. The chief was right
in thinking he would make a move of some kind.”
Doctor Devoll had paused to lock the door with a key taken from his
pocket. He did not so much as glance toward the window under which
Patsy was lying, as flat as he could make himself on the damp
greensward. With his head and shoulders thrust forward and his hands
clasped behind him, an habitual attitude when he was walking, Doctor
Devoll proceeded down the gravel walk toward the rear gate.
At that moment, too, Patsy caught sight of an approaching motor car in
the back street. Its lamps shone through the trees, and he could see
that it was slowing down to stop at the gate.
“By Jove! I may not be as lucky as I thought,” he muttered
apprehensively. “If he leaves in that car it will be a racking stunt
for me to keep track of it. I’ll make a bid to do so, all the same.”
Rising noiselessly, he now darted after the physician, stealing from
tree to tree, and seeking a point from which he could get the license
number of the car, and also a look at its driver. He saw him quite
plainly a moment later, a powerful man wearing a slouch hat and with
the collar of his overcoat turned up, partly hiding his face, a face
that immediately increased Patsy’s suspicion.
Doctor Devoll paused and said a few words to him; then entered the car
and disappeared, for its leather curtains were on and completely hid
the interior. Then the chauffeur threw in the clutch and the car moved
away.
Patsy Garvan appreciated the difficulties confronting him, but he did
not let them daunt him. Running diagonally across the gloomy grounds,
he vaulted the low iron fence immediately after the car had passed
that point, so near that he could easily read the rear number plate.
He fixed the number in his mind; then darted stealthily after the car,
which was entering the narrow court through which Chick had passed
that morning.
Sprinting after it at top speed, though at a discreet distance behind
and in the deeper gloom near the buildings, Patsy followed the car
into Belmont Street and saw that it had turned toward a more brightly
lighted business section in the distance. He could see a passing
trolley car, also several slowly moving wagons, all of which was
somewhat encouraging.
“They’ll have to slow down in that quarter,” he muttered, already
breathing hard from his exertions. “That must be Main Street. It’s
just the time when the business thoroughfares are blocked with
homeward-bound teams. I may be able, after all, to keep my quarry in
sight. I must contrive in some way to find out where this baldheaded
suspect is going.”
It appeared like a hopeless pursuit, nevertheless, for the motor car
was speeding much more rapidly through Belmont Street and leaving Patsy
farther and farther behind, in spite of his utmost exertions. Suddenly,
too, it turned down a street running parallel with Main Street,
evidently seeking a less-congested way.
Patsy rushed on all the while, hoping to arrive at the corner in time
to keep the car in view, but he was booked for failure. He paused,
panting for breath, and gazed vainly up and down the street. The only
vehicle to be seen was an approaching wagon nearly a block away.
Sprinting on to meet it, determined not to be thwarted, Patsy shouted
to the driver:
“Did a motor car pass you half a minute ago?”
“Yes,” cried the teamster. “Some one stolen it?”
“Yes.” Patsy took the quickest and surest way to get the information
he wanted. “Which way did it go?”
“Through the next street to the right, toward Main Street. You’ll have
to fly, kid, to catch it.”
Patsy rushed on again, scarce waiting for the last, but again he was
marked for failure. He arrived at the corner too late to see the car.
Only the moving people and vehicles in the electric glare in Main
Street, then only a block away, met his anxious gaze.
“I’ll keep on, by thunder!” he muttered, instantly resuming the
pursuit. “It may have been held up for a moment. It must have turned to
the left, too, or it would have gone direct if intending to cross Main
Street. I’ll not quit, by gracious! while there’s a ghost of a chance
to overtake it.”
Patsy’s grit was good, but his quest proved vain again, and he had
no alternative but to end the futile pursuit. He gazed with bitter
disappointment up and down the broad thoroughfare, still walking
briskly in the direction in which he knew the motor car had gone, and,
though he was not then aware of it, he presently came to a crosstown
street and trolley line within a stone’s throw of the Waldmere Chambers.
Then, as he was about to return to the hotel to report to his chief,
the gloom of disappointment was suddenly dispelled. The motor car was
passing rapidly through the crosstown street. There was no mistaking
it--the same number plate, the same muffled driver, the same closely
curtained tonneau, yet in which Patsy caught a mere momentary glimpse
of a solitary figure.
“Holy smoke! I’m in luck again,” he said to himself, with a thrill of
elation. “The doctor must have stopped somewhere and now is off in a
new direction. This looks like soft walking, for fair, if they will
only follow the trolley line.”
An electric car going in the same direction was passing, and Patsy
quickly boarded it, joining the motorman on the front platform.
Slipping him a bank note, he said confidentially:
“Don’t ask any questions, but help me to keep that motor car in sight.
Do you get me?”
The motorman glanced at him with a look of surprise; then thrust the
bank note into his pocket and grinned.
“Sure I get you,” he replied. “No questions, eh? That’s good enough for
me, though they do say money talks. I’ll do the best I can for you.”
The automobile then was fifty yards in advance, but the trolley car
was unobstructed and rapidly gaining speed through a street running
straight toward an outskirt of the city.
“Good for you,” replied Patsy. “Only a mutt would expect more.”
“I’ll keep it in sight, all right, unless I get the bell too often. But
we’re not carrying many this trip.”
“Where do you run?”
“To Ashville, six miles from here. But we hit the suburbs soon; then
can cut loose, if necessary. Do you know where the buzz wagon is going?”
“If I did, I would not bother you,” smiled Patsy. “I have reasons
for wanting to find out, if possible. Did you see the driver when he
slipped in ahead of you?”
“I didn’t notice him.”
“You don’t know who owns the car, then?”
“I don’t, but you can find out from the number.”
“I’ve got that in my head, all right,” Patsy nodded. “I’ll look him up
later.”
The motorman glanced at him again, and wondered at his interest in a
car and persons whom he did not know or even their destination. He
kept the trolley car moving rapidly, nevertheless, and, in spite of an
occasional stop to drop or pick up passengers, he lost but little on
the somber black touring car, the tail light of which gleamed like a
sanguinary eye through the gloom in the near distance.
A mile run took them into the suburbs, beyond which was a stretch of
almost open country, and Patsy then had the satisfaction of seeing that
the trolley car was gaining on the other.
Through this open country and into a belt of woods the trolley car
boomed on, and when nearly three miles out it sped over the brow of
a hill, and Patsy quickly saw the lights of scattered dwellings amid
clumps of trees in the distance.
“What place is that?” he inquired of the motorman.
“Only a small settlement. There’s a stone quarry over the hill on the
left, and the workmen live in those houses. That one off to the right
is in a side road running to Lakeville, where there’s pretty good
fishing and gunning in the season. It’s a road house run by a man named
Leary. I guess that’s where your buzz wagon is going. It’s taking that
road.”
Patsy had an eye on it all the while, and saw that the time had come
for him to leave the trolley car. He thanked the motorman again; then
added:
“Slow down when near that road and let me drop off without stopping. I
don’t want a certain party to hear the car stop. He might think he had
been followed.”
“I’m on,” said the motorman, laughing. “You know your business, all
right.”
“I ought to,” smiled Patsy. “I was tutored by the best in the business.”
“I guess not,” said the motorman incredulously. “There’s only one
best--Nick Carter.”
“So I have heard.”
“Now’s your chance. So long, and good luck.”
Patsy slipped through the folding door and sprang down in the road,
then darted to the shelter of a wall, while the trolley car again
sped on and presently crossed the diverging road and approached the
settlement beyond it.
A hundred yards to the right the lights of the road house could be seen
through the trees, also the brighter glare from the motor car, then
slowly approaching it.
Patsy leaped over the wall; then hurried across a strip of meadowland,
quickly reaching a point from which, sheltered by some shrubbery, he
could plainly see the broad driveway and front veranda of the old and
somewhat weather-beaten house.
The automobile had stopped near the rise of steps. The chauffeur was
springing down to open the door. Patsy could see him distinctly in the
light from the deserted veranda.
“This bald-headed doctor may have legitimate business out here,” he
muttered, frowning grimly at the mere thought of it and the possibility
that his own desperate efforts might prove futile. “If the chief’s
suspicions have feet to stand on, however, it’s a thousand to one that
Doctor Devoll’s mission is a very different and probably a very lawless
one. It’s up to me to clinch it and find out just what’s doing. If he’s
here to confer with others, or frame up a job, I’ll find some way to
overhear him----Thundering guns! Am I in wrong, in dead wrong, after
all?”
Patsy felt a chill of disappointment and his heart sank like lead.
The door of the motor car had been opened. The solitary occupant, and
Patsy could plainly see there was no other, was stepping down upon
the driveway. He was an elderly man with gray hair and beard, with a
compact, apparently muscular figure, clad in a plaid woolen suit and
soft felt hat--utterly unlike the long frock coat and tall black hat of
the suspected physician.
“In wrong, in dead wrong!” Patsy repeated, quite crushed with sudden
dismay. “That’s not my quarry--not Doctor Devoll. He’s too straight,
too erect, too square and stocky, for Doctor Devoll. I’ve gone lame,
for fair, as lame as an army mule. That chauffeur must have dropped the
physician and picked up another passenger.”
CHAPTER XV. PROFESSOR KARL GRAFF.
Patsy Garvan’s disappointment was as deep and bitter as one could
imagine. He scarce could contain it, in fact, and his first impulse was
to bolt from his concealment and demand of the chauffeur where he had
left Doctor David Devoll.
Brief reflection, however, convinced Patsy that that would be a fatal
mistake, that the chauffeur might be in league with the physician,
after all, and that this stranger who had unexpectedly alighted from
the motor car might also be one of Doctor Devoll’s confederates,
sent by him to his road house on a mission which he had thought it
indiscreet to personally undertake.
“I’ll hold my horses,” thought Patsy, with hopes reviving. “There may
be something doing, after all, that will set me right. I’ll wait and
see. He seems to be giving that driver important instructions.”
The two men had been talking quietly in the driveway, too low for
Patsy to hear so much as a single word, but the elderly man now turned
abruptly up the steps and peered into the hall for a moment, and then
entered the house.
The chauffeur closed the door of the car, then turned and shot a
searching glance in each direction, causing Patsy to crouch lower in
his concealment.
Presently, approaching the corner, the driver gazed toward the rear
of the house, then started abruptly and walked completely around it,
returning to the same corner and taking a position from which he could
continue to watch the side windows, also the driveway leading to the
stable yard, on that side of the house nearest to Patsy.
It was a situation that now precluded any move on Patsy’s part.
To approach any of the windows, or even to steal away and seek an
advantage elsewhere, was out of the question. Detection would be
inevitable. He had no alternative but to lie low.
Minutes passed, and the chauffeur continued to wait and watch, scarcely
stirring from his position--all of which convinced Patsy that his
suspicions were correct, that the elderly man was holding a conference
with some one and that the chauffeur was guarding against spies outside.
That he was right appeared in what occurred when the elderly man
entered the house. He met no one in the hall, save an aged black cat,
and he quickly entered a side room, in which a solitary man was waiting
with an empty whisky glass on the table near which he was seated.
He was a tall man, close upon forty, very well clad, having dark
eyes and complexion, but a rather weak cast of features. He was
smooth-shaven. A combination false mustache and beard had been removed
and was lying on the table. He looked up when the other entered, saying
a bit irritably:
“Well, you’re here, Graff, at last. What kept you? I’ve been waiting
half an hour.”
“But not idle!”
Graff spoke with a fiery gleam leaping up in his eyes. He was the same
Professor Graff, chemist, with an office and a laboratory in the
Waldmere Chambers, who had appeared in the corridor soon after the
corpse of Gaston Todd was found, and who had blandly asserted, when
questioned by Nick Carter, that he was not a physician and that his
opinion regarding the fatality would be worthless.
There was no blandness in his low voice just then, however, nor any
such quality.
“But not idle!” he repeated, with a fierce, sibilant hiss, pointing to
the whisky glass and then dashing it to atoms in the fireplace. “You
cut that out, Dorson, while doing business with me. Booze is a damned
bad partner. It has brought you where you are and made you my tool. Cut
it out--entirely! Obey me, Dorson, or--God help you!”
A resentful scowl appeared on Dorson’s face, which was not without
signs of past dissipation, but the frown vanished quickly under the
fiery rebuke of his companion. He pulled himself up, nevertheless, and
said sullenly:
“I’m not so sure, Graff, that I’ll consent to be your tool.”
“Not consent?” Professor Graff sneered icily. “What are you saying? You
have consented.”
“I can revoke----”
“Not with me!”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so sure.”
“I am.” Graff’s voice was cold, but his eyes were like balls of fire.
“There will be no revocation. You will not withdraw from our compact.”
“What’s to prevent me?”
“Fear. If not fear--this.”
Professor Graff thrust his hand into his pocket and drew a singular
weapon. It resembled an automatic revolver, with a cylinderlike device
attached to the barrel. There was no trigger, however, but only a
small, round button, on which the finger of the chemist lightly rested.
He displayed the weapon in his hand, his lips parting with a mocking
smile, while Dorson started slightly and gazed at it incredulously.
“This will, if necessary, be our arbiter,” Graff sneered. “I can end
you with it in the hundredth part of a second.”
“You would not dare,” gasped Dorson. “You would bring Leary and the
bartender. You would be caught red-handed.”
“There would be no red hand, no bloodshed, no sound,” Graff retorted.
“It makes no noise, discharges no bullet. But the effect is no less
deadly. I could leave you here as if you had fallen lifeless from your
chair, or as if--perdition! Are you still doubtful? You shall see.”
There was something even more terrible in the aspect of this man at
that moment than in his threatening words. He swung around quickly and
quietly opened the door. The black cat he had seen in the hall still
was there. He stepped out and seized the animal, then returned and
tossed him to a corner of the room, closing the door.
The black cat was gazing with dilated yellow eyes at the lowering
chemist, as if surprised at such extraordinary treatment.
“Watch!” Graff snapped fiercely, with one swift glance at his horrified
companion.
He extended his right hand and the strange weapon. His piercing gaze
leaped over the glistening barrel. His finger pressed the round button
in the cylinder. There was a quick, explosive puff, yet hardly audible,
but the black cat dropped in a crumpled heap, with his yellow eyes gone
dim and glassy. The animal was dead, as crimp and shriveled as if the
hot breath of a withering blight had passed over him.
Dorson caught his breath convulsively and tried to speak, but his voice
seemed to die in his throat.
Professor Graff kicked the lifeless cat farther into the corner, then
sat down directly opposite his ghastly companion, as unconcerned as
if nothing had transpired. He replaced the mysterious weapon in his
pocket, saying coldly, yet pointedly:
“It is a very handy thing to have when circumstances make it necessary.”
“It is devilish!” Dorson found his voice, shuddering, and wiped the
sweat from his brow. “It is fiendish!”
“But convincing?” queried Graff, with searching scrutiny.
“Convincing--yes!” Dorson shuddered again. “Enough has been done and
said, but I wish I never had seen you, never conspired with you.”
“But, having done so, there can be no revocation, no retreat,” Graff
said sternly. “I have seen signs of it, Dorson, and I have to convince
you.”
“Enough has been done and said,” Dorson repeated, pulling himself
together.
“Besides, there are other reasons,” Graff added. “We are up against a
tough proposition, one that is hourly becoming more threatening; but of
that a little later. We’ll get right down to business.”
“The windows----”
“Fear nothing. Toby Monk is watching them.”
“The door----”
“None can approach it unheard. I have the ears of a rat.”
“Be quick, then,” said Dorson more calmly. “The sooner we leave here,
Graff, the better.”
“Your identity has not been discovered?” questioned the chemist quickly.
“No, no, nothing of that kind. It is not even suspected.”
“Nor will I be seen,” Graff said confidently. “I’ll make sure of that,
and have guarded against other contingencies. Toby is disguised. His
car bears a false number. None will learn of our rendezvous, nor even
suspect it. Now, Dorson, have you brought the invitations?”
“Yes, two of them,” said Dorson, producing two sealed envelopes and
placing them on the table.
“Good!” Graff seized them and put them in his pocket. “From whom did
you get them?”
“I stole them from those with which my aunt, Mrs. Thurlow, was supplied
to dispose of,” replied Dorson. “She is one of the sponsors for the
affair, and that was the only way to get them without disclosing the
names of the persons who are to use them. No one will be admitted
without a card bearing his name. It’s an exclusive affair. Fictitious
names can be inscribed on these.”
“Capital!” Graff nodded, smiling maliciously. “What if your aunt misses
them?”
“She will think she mislaid them, and can easily explain to the
managers. Her word is good.”
“None better,” Graff dryly admitted.
“What more must be done?” Dorson questioned.
“Take my final instructions.” Professor Graff drew nearer the table
and fixed his penetrating eyes on those of his confederate. “You are
in the social swim, Dorson, and can execute them without incurring the
slightest suspicion.”
“That was the agreement. You promised that no harm should come to me.”
“None will. Remember, too, that I promised you ten thousand dollars for
your share of the plunder. That will more than pay your debts and set
you on your feet. It’s not a bad reward, Dorson, for a mere bit of safe
and important work.”
“That’s the only inducement.” Dorson’s face was haggard and clouded.
“I’ll chuck everything, honor and self-respect, in order to square
myself. But what is this safe and important work? What must I do?”
Professor Graff took from his pocket a small celluloid box with a
close-fitting cover. He caressed it fondly for a moment, with an
abnormal gleam and glitter in his narrow eyes, then leaned forward and
said impulsively:
“Listen! You are to take this, but do not for your life venture to open
it before the fateful moment arrives. The box is air-tight, but its
cover can be easily removed. It contains only a lady’s handkerchief.”
“What am I to do with it?” Dorson asked, gazing curiously at the smooth
white box.
“Take it to the reception,” Graff directed. “You are familiar with the
ballroom and its surroundings, with the row of French windows that open
upon the west balcony roof near the porte-cochère.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Dorson said impatiently. “I know all that.”
“Note me, then,” Graff continued. “I will be at the ball to give you a
signal. We must not be seen together, however, nor in any way betray
that we are acquainted.”
“Well?”
“Upon getting my signal, which you will receive at an opportune moment
when she is alone, you must immediately join Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, at
the same time stealthily opening the box and removing the handkerchief.”
“And then?”
“Give it to her at once, without a moment’s delay, and remark she
dropped it,” said Graff. “She will infer that it is her own. If not,
she will at least raise it toward her face to examine it. Step back
a little, meantime, covering your nostrils, that you may inhale
no appreciable quantity of that with which the handkerchief is
impregnated.”
“What’s the stuff?” growled Dorson, brows knitting.
“Do not be curious.” Professor Graff spoke with a frown. “I
have confederates, but to none do I confide my secrets. Take my
instructions--and obey them.”
“Well, what more?”
“Watch the woman,” Graff continued. “Only her eyes will change
perceptibly. A fixed expression will immediately appear, and her pupils
will contract to mere pin points. Take her arm, then, and lead her out
through the nearest French window.”
“Suppose she refuses to go, or----”
“She will not refuse or do anything else,” Graff interrupted. “She
will go willingly and without a word or a subsequent recollection of
what occurs. Place her in the nearest chair on the balcony. Get the
handkerchief and return it to the box, then hasten to the ballroom
and go after a glass of water. You can afterward assert that she sent
you for it and said she felt faint. She will admit it, for she will
remember nothing and cannot consistently deny it.”
“But the pearls?” Dorson questioned, eyes glowing. “What of the rope of
pearls?”
“There will be no rope of pearls.” Graff’s teeth met with a vicious
snap. “All that must be done can be done in a single minute. When help
comes, when you return, when the woman revives, though all occurs
within a minute, there will be no rope of pearls. It will have been
stolen--mysteriously stolen.”
“But I may be suspected,” argued Dorson.
“Absurd! You could not possibly steal and dispose of it under the
seeming conditions. The woman will believe she was faint only for a
moment. She will not be sure it was then that she lost the pearls. She
is your aunt, moreover, and would refuse to suspect you.”
“But your infernal stuff may fail to work,” Dorson suggested.
“It will not fail. It cannot fail.” Graff spoke with convincing
assurance. “I have tested it upon no less than four subjects, Dorson,
to make sure of success in this undertaking. There is nothing for you
to fear, absolutely nothing.”
“I’ll tackle it, then, and take the chance.” Dorson abruptly declared,
thrusting the celluloid box into his pocket. “Is there anything more?”
Professor Graff hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.
“No, nothing for us to discuss,” he replied.
“But you mentioned a tough proposition that you would speak of
presently. What did you mean by that?” Dorson demanded suspiciously.
“Only that an unexpected force is at work against us, one that many
would fear, and with which few could successfully cope.” Graff’s voice
took on a more virulent intensity. “But I do not fear. I can oppose and
overcome it. My agents are already at work. I have given warning, too,
as I have warned you, and if pressed too hard, if threats prove futile,
if the peril becomes really alarming--well, you see! You have seen for
yourself, Dorson, how I can overcome it. There is always a way--always
a way.”
Graff had swung around in his chair and was pointing to the lifeless
black form in the corner.
Dorson gazed at him, at his extended hand and quivering fingers, at his
drawn, bearded face, indescribably malevolent, and with that terrible
abnormal gleam and glitter in his frowning eyes, and Dorson felt, with
blood chilled and flesh gone cold and clammy, that he was gazing at a
madman or a devil incarnate.
“Yes, yes, I have seen enough, Graff, more than enough,” he said
hoarsely, lips twitching. “What more need be said?”
“Nothing more.” Professor Graff turned coldly calm again. “You have my
instructions. I know you will obey them. We must not meet again until
after the trick has been turned, and then only secretly.”
“That suits me. Let’s be moving.”
“How did you come out here?”
“In a trolley car.”
“You may return part way with me. I’ll drop you before entering town.
Resume your disguise, then see whether the hall and veranda are
deserted.”
Dorson arose and hastened to obey. He returned in a few seconds, saying
quietly:
“Come on. There’s no one around.”
There was one still around, nevertheless, still lying low amid the rank
grass and shrubbery that had served to conceal him.
CHAPTER XVI. VAIN INQUIRIES.
Patsy Garvan had been waiting and watching about fifteen minutes, the
circumstances precluding any further action, when he saw the two men
come out of the road house.
They hurried down the steps and entered the motor car. Toby Monk, the
chauffeur, also saw them, and ran to resume his seat at the wheel. They
were away within half a minute, departing with very significant haste
and returning to Madison at a rate of speed precluding pursuit, but
leaving Patsy gazing with an ominous frown after the rear red light
till it vanished in the distance.
“That does settle it,” he muttered grimly. “I’ve lost track of them
for a time, at least, in spite of anything I can do. But I’ve got the
number of that car, all right, and I’ll identify them later as sure
as there’s juice in a lemon. I can find out, perhaps, by inquiring of
some one in the house. The third man may hang out there, however, and
I might get in wrong. I think I can turn the trick at that, without
incurring suspicion,” he added to himself after a moment’s thought.
“I’ll take the chance, by gracious, let come what may.”
Leaving his concealment, he walked out to the driveway, where, having
made sure there were no observers, he threw himself on one side in the
sand and dirt and ground the palm of his right hand into the gravel,
a performance that might cause one to wonder what advantage could be
derived.
Patsy knew, however, and he immediately arose and entered the road
house. Though the hall still was unoccupied, he could hear the voices
of men in the rear rooms, also the clinking of glasses, and he rightly
inferred that there was a public bar in one of the rooms. He hastened
thither and entered, with a pretense of brushing his soiled garments
and with an indignant frown on his face.
“Say!” he exclaimed, approaching a bar on one side of the room. “Who
are the ginks that just left here in a buzz wagon?”
Three men were playing cards at a table in one corner, evidently
quarry workmen from the near settlement, each with a mug of ale at his
elbow. Back of the bar stood a burly man in his shirt sleeves, with a
much-bloated and pimply face, the redeeming feature of which was an
expression of habitual good nature. He gazed at Patsy and laughed,
replying to his impetuous question, but the three card players merely
glanced at him.
“Buzz wagon, eh?” he said huskily. “I didn’t know one was here.”
“Well there was.”
“Funny I didn’t hear it.”
“I came near feeling it, all right,” grumbled Patsy, displaying his
soiled hand. “It came out to the road as if shot from a gun. It nearly
ran over me. I fell down while dodging it, as you see, but I reckon I
was lucky to get away with that. You don’t know them, eh?”
“Mebbe ’twas the bloke who rang for the booze, Jim,” suggested one of
the players, looking up. “Have you forgotten him, Leary?”
“The man who runs the house,” thought Patsy; then, as if the identity
of the visitors was of no great consequence, he said agreeably: “I’ll
have a mug of ale. See what these gents will have and get in yourself.”
The invitation was readily accepted by all, and Patsy paid willingly,
thus paving the way for further inquiries.
“I’m going to Madison,” he said, in reply to a question. “I came from
Ashville on the trolley line. How soon can I hit another?”
“Twelve minutes, if she shows up on time,” said Leary, glancing at a
nickel watch. “It might have been the man in the side room. I’ll have a
look.”
“Twelve minutes, eh?” said Patsy, more quickly drinking his ale when
Leary swaggered out from the bar and into the hall. “That’s not long. I
don’t want to miss it.”
He added the last to warrant his following the burly proprietor, who
obviously was so void of distrust that Patsy very soon decided that
none of these men had had any intercourse with the two visitors and
very probably knew neither of them.
“No danger of missing it,” replied Leary, as they approached the side
room. “The motorman always stops on the corner and rings his gong. He
often picks up a bunch from here.”
“I see,” returned Patsy pleasantly. “I needn’t be in any rush, then.”
“No rush at all.”
“We’ll have time for another drink?”
“Sure thing. Time enough for----Huh, I’m blessed if Kelly wasn’t right!
The bloke has gone.”
Leary had knocked on the door, and then opened it. He entered while
speaking, Patsy following, and again asking carelessly:
“Didn’t you know the man? Was he a stranger here?”
“Sure he was.” Leary turned and gazed at him. “I didn’t know him from
a hole in the wall. He must have known this room was for customers,
though, for he nailed it and rang for a drink.”
“He must have been here before, then, or he wouldn’t have known it,”
said Patsy.
“That’s right, too.” Leary nodded. “I brought him the booze he ordered,
and then he said he wanted to wait for a friend and have a private talk
with him. He chucked me a buck for the booze and told me to keep the
change. That looked good to me and like more coming, so I told him he
could stay as long as he liked, and would not be interrupted.”
“I see,” said Patsy, now sure that Leary was telling him the truth.
“His friend came, all right, and they went away together. There were
three in the car when----”
“But where’s the booze glass?” cried Leary, who now had turned toward
the table. “That ought to be here. They would not steal a whisky glass,
unless----”
“Stop a bit!” Patsy interrupted. “It was thrown into the fireplace.
Here are pieces of it, and--holy smoke! This cat is dead!”
Patsy had caught sight of it a moment before, and he at first had
thought the animal was asleep. A second look, however, evoked the last
startling exclamation and brought Leary to his knees near his lifeless
pet.
“Good God! What’s the meaning of this?” he growled, with a scowl,
convincing Patsy of his sincerity. “Dead as an iron bolt! What’s the
meaning of it?”
“Has the cat been sick?” Patsy inquired.
“Sick--no!” cried Leary. “There’s been nothing the matter with him. He
was getting a bit old, but was well enough. Poor old Gimblet!” Leary
added, with genuine feeling.
“Was he in this room when you were here?” asked Patsy.
“No. He was asleep in the hall.”
“He may have wandered in here.”
“How could he? The door was closed.”
“H’m, is that so?” Patsy murmured, as puzzled as the other and much
more suspicious.
“He’s dead, all right, as a smelt.” Leary now turned the animal over.
“But I’ll be hanged if I can see why the booze glass was smashed or
why the cat should have died. Something must have killed him. Say, you
don’t s’pose they gave him poison in that glass, then smashed it, do
you?” he added, quickly turning to Patsy. “If I thought that, I’d go
after those mongrels with a gun, by thunder, and stick till I got them!”
This possible fate was suggested to Leary by a momentary expression
that had passed over Patsy’s face. He had detected a peculiar,
shriveled appearance in the fur on the cat’s breast and neck, and it
instantly recalled to his mind what his chief had said concerning the
man found dead in the Waldmere Chambers two days before.
Patsy concealed his immediate misgivings, however, but pretended to be
impressed with Leary’s suggestions.
“That may explain it, Mr. Leary, if they had any reason for wanting to
kill the cat,” he replied. “The fellow you saw probably did not do it.
More likely the old man was the one who killed him.”
“What old man?” Leary demanded, with a vengeful glare in his eyes.
“The one I saw in the motor car,” said Patsy, now aiming only to
identify him, if possible. “He’s quite a stocky man, with gray hair and
whiskers. He wore a plaid suit and soft felt hat. His chauffeur was
bigger and broader, with dark hair and a pointed beard. I got a look at
them when they flew by me.”
“I dunno any such men,” Leary earnestly protested. “The whole business
beats me to a frazzle.”
“It does seem a bit strange,” Patsy allowed. “You’ll find out later,
perhaps. I reckon I’ll be getting a move on, as I don’t want to miss
that car. I’m sorry you have lost the cat. I’ll drop in again, when I’m
returning to Ashville.”
“All right, kid,” said Leary, brightening up and following Patsy to the
door. “If you see those two blokes again, do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that, Mr. Leary?”
“Get the truth out of them, if you have to get it with a club.”
“I will,” Patsy promptly assured him. “Take it from me, Mr. Leary, I’ll
get it--and all there is to it.”
“Good for you!” Leary shouted after him heartily.
For Patsy already was hastening toward the road leading out to the
trolley line, something like a hundred yards away. He had seen plainly
that he could learn nothing more at the road house. The negative
reports he had obtained, however, together with the startling discovery
he had made, convinced him that his mission had not been a futile one.
“Leary’s all right,” he said to himself while walking on rapidly. “He
told me all he knows and gave it to me straight. That rendezvous had
been agreed upon and the road house selected for a safe place. But
who are they and what came off in there? Why was the whisky glass
broken and the cat killed? In view of all of the circumstances, by
Jove, there’s a mighty strong similarity between that fatality and the
killing of Gaston Todd. It becomes doubly important now to trace and
identify these rascals, and I reckon I’m in a fair way to accomplish
it. All this, moreover, seems to put Doctor Devoll in the background.
That is, if I size it all up correctly. I’ll hike back to the Wilton
House, by Jove, and report to the chief.”
CHAPTER XVII. CRAFT AND FORESIGHT.
Nick Carter’s strong, clean-cut face took on a more serious expression
while he listened. It was half past eight when Patsy returned, just as
Nick was about leaving the Wilton House, and only half an hour after
Chick set forth to search the apartments of Gaston Todd.
“That’s all, chief,” said Patsy, when ending his report. “As far as I
can see, it lets Doctor Devoll out of the circle of suspicion and rings
in another, no less than three, in fact--the chauffeur, his elderly
passenger, and the man he met at the road house. For I’ll wager my
pile, chief, that the chauffeur knew there was something doing and was
acting as a sentinel.”
“Are you absolutely sure that the elderly passenger was not Doctor
Devoll?” Nick inquired.
“Reasonably sure, chief, at least,” said Patsy confidently. “He is too
solid and compact for Devoll, more erect and with broader shoulders.
Devoll is somewhat bowed and very slim. He looks like a string bean.”
“He may have disguised himself while in the motor car,” Nick suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Patsy quickly objected. “He would hardly have
covered all of the features mentioned. Besides, I could see the
interior of the car distinctly when the door was open, and I would have
seen his discarded hat and garments.”
“That does seem probable,” Carter thoughtfully admitted. “Don’t you
overlook one fact, however?”
“What’s that, chief?”
“That you saw Doctor Devoll leave the hospital and ride away with the
chauffeur. You could not then have been mistaken as to the physician’s
identity, and the circumstances convince me that he is in some way
associated with the two men who met in the road house.”
“I think so, too, chief, as far as that goes,” said Patsy.
“It appears probable, too, that the chauffeur is one of the gang,”
Carter added. “Also that we are up against more of a gang than I have
suspected. I at first was inclined to attribute the many mysterious
robberies here, as well as the killing of Gaston Todd, to a single
exceedingly crafty and accomplished crook. I now believe, however, that
he is the chief director of a gang, instead of at work alone.”
“That must be right, too,” nodded Patsy. “There’s no getting around it.”
“But here’s another point,” said Carter. “The mysterious killing of
Leary’s cat, whatever the motive of it, and the similar strangeness in
connection with the murder of Todd denote that both were committed by
the same man or some of his gang.”
“That’s how I size it up.”
“You are sure, however, that neither of the men at the road house was
Doctor Devoll,” Nick continued. “I may in that case be mistaken in
thinking he is the man behind the gun, the evil genius back of the
whole business. There may be another, and Doctor Devoll only indirectly
associated with him.”
“You mean the elderly man who took Doctor Devoll’s place in the motor
car?”
“Exactly.”
“Devoll may have sent him out to the road house to meet that other
fellow,” Patsy suggested.
“Possibly,” said Nick. “It is more probable, however, that Devoll
informed him of my visit this afternoon and of the threats I made.
The other may have become alarmed and set about thwarting my designs.
All this appears the more probable, Patsy, because that threatening
anonymous letter and all these very, significant episodes have followed
so quickly after my call on Doctor Devoll.”
“Right again, chief, as sure as I’m a foot high,” Patsy declared. “It’s
long odds, too, that the road-house conference was held only to frame
up a job on you.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” his chief replied. “They may have met to
plan the theft of Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow’s pearls or to alter plans made
before the threatening letter was sent to me.”
“Mebbe so,” Patsy allowed. “It’s a pity I couldn’t overhear the
discussion and see what came off.”
“We’ll make use of what you have discovered, not mourn over what was
impossible,” said Carter dryly. “We must now contrive to identify those
three men. All wore beards, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly, then, all were disguised. You have the number of the motor
car, however, and that may help, barring trickery of some kind. Such
crafty rascals as these don’t often let a license number expose them.
There is a possibility, nevertheless, that they overlooked it.”
“The chance is worth taking.”
“Surely. You go over to the garage and see what you can learn,” Carter
directed, rising and taking his hat. “I have other business in the
meantime, and will return about ten o’clock. Chick then will have shown
up perhaps and have something to report. Get your information on the
quiet, mind you.”
“Trust me for that, chief,” said Patsy, as they were leaving the room
together.
Nick Carter’s other business, or part of it, consisted of keeping a
promise he had made the previous morning. He called at the city prison,
confiding his identity and mission to the warden, and was promptly
accorded an interview with Frank Paulding in the warden’s private
office.
Nick did not expect, however, that Paulding would have any information
to impart. He called on him only because of his promise and to say a
few words of encouragement to the suspected man, also to direct him to
maintain the negative position he had taken.
“Oh, I’ll continue to do so, Mr. Carter, as I agreed with you yesterday
morning,” Paulding assured him. “It’s a bitter pill for an innocent man
to swallow, but I’ll not weaken. I’ll stick, sir, as long as I know you
are working for me.”
“You may depend upon that,” the detective said simply.
“Thank Heaven, too, there is one rift in the clouds,” Paulding added.
“What is that?”
“A letter from Edna Thurlow. It came this morning. She expresses her
sympathy for me, her belief that I am a victim of circumstances, and
assures me of her absolute faith in my innocence.”
“Good for her!” said Carter, smiling. “It’s very significant, too.”
“Significant?”
“Surely,” laughed the detective. “A girl writes like that only to one
she loves. You were not quite sure of it, you remember. This ought to
convince you and really make it worth while to be suspected.”
“I’m not sure but it does,” replied Paulding, brightening up. “I do
regret one restriction, however, that you have imposed on me. It’s a
thorn in my flesh.”
“I know it,” said the detective tersely.
“You know it? How the deuce can you know it? You don’t know to what
restriction I refer.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Nick laughed again. “Though not a lover, I know how
lovers feel. You itch to relieve Miss Thurlow’s anxiety by telling her
of our relations.”
“By Jove, you’re a keen cuss, Carter!” Paulding declared, now joining
in the detective’s laugh. “You’ve called the turn, all right, but itch
doesn’t express it. Really, I ache to do so.”
“Well, stop aching,” Nick said dryly, rising to go. “I shall see Miss
Thurlow this evening, and will tell her all that she needs to know.”
“See her!” Paulding sprang up, eyes glowing. “Oh, I say, then----”
“No, no, don’t say it,” the detective cut in with affected alarm. “I’ll
not take any love messages to her. I draw the line at that. I have
passed that stage, you know, and would only make an awful mess of it,
to say nothing of making a fool of myself. I will tell her enough,
Paulding, however; so rest easy with that until I can see you again.”
Nick left him with a much lighter heart than when he had entered, which
was what he chiefly desired, but his mission to the Thurlow residence
was of greater importance.
It was nine o’clock when he arrived at the house, one of the most
costly and beautiful dwellings in Madison. He was admitted by an
elderly butler, who invited him to a seat in a handsomely furnished
reception room.
Nick had given him a card on which he had written only his first name,
stating that he called on important business, and he had been waiting
only a few moments when a graceful, strikingly pretty girl in an
evening gown joined him, still with the card in her hand.
“Good evening,” she said agreeably, with an inquiring look in her blue
eyes. “I am Miss Thurlow, Mr. Nicholas, but I infer that your business
is with my mother. She has gone up to her room, but I have sent for her
to come down. Your name does not suggest any business which----”
“It might, perhaps, if I had written my full name--Nicholas Carter,” he
interposed, bowing and smiling.
“Nicholas Carter!” gasped Edna, staring at him. “Not the famous New
York detective?”
“Well, yes, thanking you for the complimentary adjective.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Edna amazedly. “Are you a wizard? Do you
ride on the wind? How did you get here so quickly?”
“Get here?” queried Carter, though he at once guessed the truth. “You
were expecting me then?”
“Well, not so quickly, of course,” said the girl. “But I telegraphed
to you no less than an hour ago, asking you to come immediately to
Madison. I did not suppose you could cover hundreds of miles in as many
seconds. I thought when the bell rang that you had wired back, and this
name on the card meant nothing to me. Really, Mr. Carter, I am quite
mystified.”
Nick Carter laughed pleasantly, and replied:
“I will presently explain. Why, may I ask, did you send for me to come
to Madison?”
“I want you to investigate a very mysterious murder,” Edna now
earnestly explained. “A very dear friend of mine is suspected and is
under arrest. I am sure he is innocent, however, absolutely sure; but
I can see no way to prove it. I want you to find a way. Money is no
object, Mr. Carter, for he is very dear to me and----”
“Pardon.” Nick checked her more gravely. “It would be unkind for me
to leave you in the dark and let you continue to speak so feelingly.
I know all about your friend. I left him only a few minutes ago. Like
you, too, I know that he is innocent. I already am at work to prove
it, Miss Thurlow, and Paulding has from the first been acting under my
instructions.”
It would be impossible to describe the expression of astonishment
on Edna Thurlow’s pretty face upon hearing these disclosures, but
before she could collect herself and reply a stately, very handsome,
and distinguished-looking woman entered from the hall, saying quite
graciously:
“What was that I heard? Mr. Paulding acting under your instructions,
sir?”
Carter turned and bowed, while Edna immediately introduced her mother,
hastily informing her of the detective’s identity and his startling
statements. The detective then accepted an invitation to accompany them
to the library, where he not only dispelled their perplexity, but also
greatly relieved their anxiety by telling them of his relations with
Paulding and, in a strictly confidential way, the nature of his mission.
“As a matter of fact, however, I have called to see you on other
business, Mrs. Thurlow,” he said a little later. “It is your intention,
I have heard, to attend the reception ball of the National Guards
to-morrow evening.”
“Yes, indeed, both of us,” Mrs. Thurlow replied. “I am one of the
sponsors and the director of the ladies’ reception committee.”
“Is it to be quite an elaborate affair?”
“Yes, Mr. Carter, quite so.”
“I understand that you own a very valuable rope of pearls, which you
intend wearing.”
“Yes, surely.” Mrs. Thurlow regarded him with a look of surprise. “When
would I wear it, if not on such an occasion? I wonder at your having
heard of my pearls, however.”
“I have heard something more,” Carter informed her. “I cannot honorably
conceal the fact from you, property of such value being in jeopardy,
but I hope you will consent to act upon my advice and instructions.”
“In jeopardy?” Mrs. Thurlow questioned, turning pale. “What do you
mean, Mr. Carter?”
“I mean, Mrs. Thurlow, that an attempt will be made to steal them.”
“Good heavens!” gasped Edna. “How shocking, mamma!”
“Steal them?” Mrs. Thurlow smiled expressively. “Well, well, that can
be easily prevented. I will not wear them.”
“I thought you would say so,” Nick replied. “On the contrary, however,
I want you to wear them and to conduct yourself precisely as if you
knew nothing about the danger, which I felt constrained to disclose.
Let me tell you the circumstances.”
He then proceeded to do so, showing her the anonymous letter, and then
interrogating her about nearly every feature of the complicated case.
His inquiries proved vain, however, for both Mrs. Thurlow and her
daughter were entirely in the dark as to the identity and motives of
the criminals involved.
“But why, Mr. Carter, having informed me of the danger, do you want me
to wear the pearls?” Mrs. Thurlow inquired. “That will be indiscreet,
at least.”
“Less so than you suppose,” the detective assured her. “I will take
every possible precaution to protect them and prevent the theft. Your
wearing them, however, will give me an opportunity to identify and
capture these miscreants.”
“Ah, I see!” Mrs. Thurlow exclaimed. “But do you think you can
accomplish it?”
“I am very sure of it.”
“Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Carter, I have great confidence in you,”
Mrs. Thurlow said earnestly. “Your frankness in this matter, moreover,
when you could have had what you ask by leaving me in ignorance,
constrains me to take the risk. It would be a benefit to rid this
community of the knaves with which it long has been infested, and I’ll
take the chance and do my part. I will wear the rope of pearls, Mr.
Carter.”
“Good for you, mamma!” said Edna, with some enthusiasm. “I’ll wager
that Mr. Carter will make good.”
Nick smiled and thanked her; then added more seriously:
“But you must conduct yourselves, both of you, precisely as if ignorant
of the circumstances. Do not mention them to any person or the fact
that I have called here. Much may depend upon your doing exactly what I
direct.”
“You may rely upon us to do so,” Mrs. Thurlow assured him.
“Very good,” said the detective. “Tell me, now, who is to be your
escort.”
“My nephew, John Dorson.”
“Jack will look after both of us, Mr. Carter, owing to Mr. Paulding’s
dreadful predicament,” Edna added.
“My instructions include him also,” Nick said, though not then dreaming
the actual need of it. “Do not confide anything to Mr. Dorson. He
might be so vigilant and attentive to you, Mrs. Thurlow, that the
crooks would not attempt the theft. That would, of course, preclude my
catching them.”
“We will be governed accordingly,” Mrs. Thurlow again assured him.
Nick lingered only to add a few minor instructions. It was after eleven
o’clock when he returned to the Wilton House, now feeling sure that he
would outwit the unknown crooks in any game they might attempt to play
and that more definite discoveries concerning them would speedily be
made.
The detective had further proof of their craft and sagacity, however,
upon entering his suite. For he found Patsy Garvan waiting for him, who
had learned that the automobile having the State license number he had
looked up was owned by one of the leading bankers in the State, who
dwelt more than a hundred miles from Madison.
“It could not have been his car that I saw,” declared Patsy, after
reporting the facts. “That’s a cinch, chief, and it admits of only one
conclusion. That chauffeur had false number plates, or had altered his
own in some way.”
Nick Carter’s brows knitted ominously, but he did not comment upon this
further evidence of knavish foresight. Instead, he asked a bit abruptly:
“Have you seen Chick?”
“Not yet,” said Patsy. “He has not returned.”
“That looks bad, too.” Nick spoke with a growl. “It ought not to have
taken him three hours to search Todd’s apartments. It could have been
done in half that time. Can it be that anything has gone wrong there
also and that these rascals----Get your hat, Patsy,” he abruptly
digressed. “Get a move on and go with me. We’ll have a look at Todd’s
apartments.”
It was nearly twelve o’clock when, having aroused the night manager
of the Studley, they obtained admission to the rooms of the murdered
man and switched on the electric light. The scene that met their gaze
brought a horrified ejaculation from the manager and a cry of dismay
from Patsy Garvan.
Chick was lying where he had fallen, with his arms extended, his right
sleeve drawn up a little, and with his face upturned in the bright
light, as ghastly white as the face of a dead man.
The rooms were in shocking disorder. A roll-top desk had been broken
open and looted from top to bottom. Table drawers, those of a bureau
and chiffonier, a trunk in the wardrobe closet--the contents of all had
been pulled out and scattered broadcast over the floor. From end to
end, in fact, the apartments had been thoroughly searched.
“By thunder, this was not Chick’s work!” cried Carter, with features
turning flinty. “We have been balked again, balked by this gang of
infernal----What do you say, Patsy? He’s not dead, surely! I can see
that plainly.”
Patsy then was crouching on the floor beside the prostrate detective.
CHAPTER XVIII. NICK DECLARES HIMSELF.
Nick Carter was right as to Chick’s condition. He had seen at a glance
that he was not dead. He quickly noticed, too, the sleeve drawn up
above his right wrist, exposing part of the arm, and he immediately
joined Patsy and pointed to a tiny puncture in the white skin.
“He has been drugged,” said he, with an indignant ring in his subdued
voice. “That’s the prick of a hypodermic needle.”
“Surely,” muttered Patsy. “But how did they contrive to get him and
the----”
“Don’t ask me how. It’s useless to speculate,” Carter interrupted.
“They shall pay dear for it, nevertheless, take my word for that. Is
there a physician in the house, Mr. Vernon?” he added, turning to the
astonished manager.
“Yes, there is,” was the hasty reply. “Doctor Percy. His suite is on
this floor.”
“Bring him as quickly as possible,” the detective directed. “Tell him
that stimulants will be needed to counteract a drug, but don’t create a
stir or cause any excitement. There is no occasion to arouse the house.
He soon can revive this man.”
Carter had no doubt of it after a hasty examination, and in a very
few minutes Doctor Percy came in and set to work over the unconscious
detective, applying such restoratives as the case seemed to require.
In the meantime, with Patsy at his elbow, Nick made a thorough
inspection of the several rooms. He found a window in the bedroom
unlocked, and on the platform of the fire escape he discovered, with
the help of his search light, the faint tracks left by the masked man
whom Chick had encountered about three hours before.
“How it was done, Patsy, now is quite obvious,” Carter said grimly.
“Some one, probably more than one, was here in advance of Carter or
entered about the same time. Chick was caught unawares, I think, and
overcome by the rascals.”
“But how could they have anticipated his visit?” questioned Patsy
perplexedly.
“They did not,” Nick replied. “They did, however, anticipate something
else.”
“What was that?”
“That I would search these rooms, Patsy, and the same farsighted rascal
who sent me the anonymous letter undertook to get in his work ahead of
me.”
“By Jove, I guess that’s right, chief.”
“He knew that I would seek for any evidence that Todd might have left
here, and he sent one or more of his gang to prevent me from getting
it. They have succeeded, too, if Todd really left anything, for they
have cleaned up completely.”
“Gee whiz! I should say so,” Patsy agreed. “They didn’t miss nook or
corner.”
“It was the work of the same gang, but other members of it than you
saw at the road house,” Carter added. “Their chief, or the director of
these various steps, is certainly an infernally keen and farsighted
knave. He not only discovered my identity and presence in Madison, but
also has contrived to anticipate and balk my every important move. But
I’ll finally get him and every mother’s son of them. We’ll not rest
until we have run down the entire gang and----Ah, by Jove, that was
Chick’s voice.”
They had been briefly talking in the bedroom, from which both hastened
upon hearing the familiar voice, and they found Chick propped up
against a chair, with his eyes open. He was responding rapidly to the
stimulants given him, and he soon was able to clearly describe his
encounter with the masked man.
Not until the following morning, however, being averse to discussing
his suspicions in the presence of Vernon and the physician, and knowing
that no further steps could be taken that night, did Carter express his
views on the subject. He then was at breakfast with Patsy and Chick,
the latter having entirely recovered from the effects of the drug.
“Your sudden collapse, Chick, and the sensations preceding it admit of
only one explanation,” said Carter. “Your assailant was provided with
a powerful storage battery, so ingeniously contrived and carried on
his person that he could impart an overwhelming shock to an antagonist
without incurring danger from the electric current.”
“That’s how I size it up,” Chick agreed. “The sensations were very
convincing.”
“It could be accomplished with an ingenious arrangement of wires,”
Carter added. “Having knocked you out, so to speak, and knowing you
soon would throw off the effects of the brief shock, he immediately
drugged you with a hypodermic injection, and then proceeded to
deliberately do what I had sent you there to accomplish.”
“He got the best of me, all right,” Chick admitted.
“All this is very significant, however,” Carter said more earnestly.
“The ingenuity displayed, this use of electricity, of drugs, of strange
poisonous gas, with a knowledge how it can be administered so as to
mysteriously cause death, as in Todd’s case, together with the similar
circumstances in the remarkable robberies committed here, also in the
cases of the four girls found unconscious in the hospital grounds--all
evince a profound knowledge of such things, that of the one man by whom
all of these crimes were devised and directed.”
“I agree with you,” Chick nodded, laying aside his napkin. “Only one
man would probably be so well informed and knavishly original.”
“He is either a criminal genius or a madman whose perverted mind has
turned to crime for profit and excitement. That man must be found,
though we turn heaven and earth to discover his identity.”
Though he still had Doctor Devoll in mind as being the one whom several
minor circumstances had led him to suspect, Carter did not once think
of Professor Karl Graff, whom he had seen only for a couple of minutes
when investigating the death of Gaston Todd, and whose appearance and
deportment were in no degree impressive, to say nothing of inviting
suspicion.
“Gee whiz!” Patsy exclaimed, replying. “It strikes me, chief, that that
motor car is a clew worth following. We know that one of the two men
at the road house killed Leary’s cat, and it’s dollars to fried rings
that he is the man we want to identify. In spite of the false number
plates used last night, I think I can run down that car, if I go on a
still hunt for it.”
“Think you can, eh?” queried Carter tersely.
“I sure do,” said Patsy confidently.
“There are about a thousand cars of that type in Madison. You’ll do
good work, Patsy, if you round up that particular one.”
“Good work is my long suit, chief,” Patsy earnestly argued. “You ought
to know that.”
“So I do, Patsy.”
“Let me try, then. I’ll bet I can make good.”
“Very well,” Carter abruptly decided. “Set to work as soon as you like.
In the meantime, Chick, I will see Chief Gleason and get cards for
to-night. I want you to accompany me. If this master criminal, whoever
he is, can put one over on us and get away with Mrs. Thurlow’s pearls,
I’ll chuck my vocation and start a peanut stand.”
Nick arose from the table with the last, all having finished their
breakfast, and Patsy was so eager to be off on the work he had
voluntarily assumed and the outcome of which he had so confidently
predicted that he hurried up to their suite in advance of the others,
getting such articles as he required and leaving the house without
further instructions.
Nick Carter sauntered into police headquarters about ten o’clock that
morning, and found Chief Gleason in his private office.
“Too busy to see me?” he inquired carelessly when the chief looked up
and then swung quickly around in his swivel chair.
“Too busy? I should say not!” he exclaimed, with a perceptible frown.
“I was expecting to see you.”
“That so?” queried Nick, while he drew up a chair.
“Very much so,” Gleason said brusquely. “See here, Carter, what are you
putting over on me?”
“Putting over on you?” Nick’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t quite get you, Gleason.”
“You ought to get me. Why haven’t I seen you since yesterday morning?
Why haven’t you reported? In other words, Carter, what are you doing
about this Todd murder and these other cases?”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Nick, who had been wondering what was
coming. “I had begun to fear there was something wrong. Putting over on
you, eh? Did you really expect me, Gleason, to run in here every hour
or two and report the progress of my work? That’s not my way of doing
business.”
“I know, Carter; I know,” Gleason more quietly protested, warned by a
subtle ring in the detective’s voice. “But we really have nothing on
Paulding, nothing at all definite, nothing that warrants holding him in
custody. It was upon your advice that we arrested him.”
“I guess you have made no mistake.”
“But----”
“He has not kicked against it, has he?”
“No, no, not exactly, yet----”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “How long were you and your score
of subordinates at work on these mysterious crimes before you sent for
me?”
“Why, several months, as you know.”
“And accomplished nothing.”
“Why, nothing material.”
“Several months and nothing accomplished,” said Nick pointedly. “I have
been in Madison only two days, Gleason, yet you expect me to begin
turning in reports and possibly to have solved the problem that has
baffled you for months. Don’t be foolish, Gleason. Rome was not built
in a day.”
“But you might at least keep me informed now and then as to----”
“Nonsense!” Nick cut in again. “I’ll report, Gleason, when I have
anything worth reporting, and not until then. If that doesn’t satisfy
the Madison chief of police, I’ll chuck the whole business and hike
back to New York.”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Chief Gleason quickly entreated. “I may have
been a bit impatient, Carter, but only because of my anxiety concerning
Paulding, who really is a very decent fellow. I don’t want to put him
in wrong, you know.”
“I am the one who has done the putting, Gleason, and I will take all
of the responsibility,” Nick replied. “But do not be impatient or
needlessly anxious. There will be something doing sooner or later, and
you shall know all about it.”
“Well, well, that ought to satisfy me, I suppose, coming from you,”
Gleason said more agreeably. “I should have known better than to have
questioned your judgment. Have you discovered anything worthy of
mention?”
“Not yet, but I’m on the way,” the detective said evasively. “I can
tell you nothing definite at present. Incidentally, however, I wish to
attend the reception and ball of the National Guards this evening. I
suppose you have been called upon to take the customary precautions.”
“Yes, indeed,” Gleason quickly nodded. “Ten of my men are to be there
in plain clothes. It will be a swell affair, with much costly jewelry
worn, no doubt, and we are taking unusual precautions.”
“Quite right,” Carter said approvingly. “I want you to get me two
tickets and the necessary cards.”
“I can give them to you now.” Gleason opened a drawer in his desk. “I
was supplied with a dozen, but need only ten. Here are the other two.”
“Good enough.” Nick slipped them into his pocket. “Say nothing about my
going, by the way, for I don’t want that generally known. After this
ball, Gleason, I may have something to report,” he said significantly,
while he arose to go.
CHAPTER XIX. PATSY ON THE TRAIL.
“Good work is right. It sure will be some stunt to find that particular
car, as the chief said, but there’s more than one way to kill a cat.
I’ll find it, by gracious, or lose a leg.”
These were Patsy Garvan’s mental declarations when he left the Wilton
House at nine o’clock that morning, not only determined to find the
motor car he had seen the previous night, but also to identify its
chauffeur and his two passengers.
“I’ll go the whole hog,” he added to himself. “If I discover the
chauffeur, I’ll not quit till I have learned who was with him. I’ll
make good the limit, if I make good at all.”
His first visit proved futile, and he then consulted a directory and
noted the location of every public garage. He then proceeded from one
to another as quickly as possible, searching each in the same way, but
with the same negative result.
In only one was he questioned by the proprietor, but Patsy was ready
for him, and politely explained.
“I am thinking of buying a car next month, sir, and am merely having a
look at these. I hope you have no objection.”
“Certainly not in that case,” was the reply. “Go as far as you like.”
“I’ll go far and go some, I reckon, before I hook onto the right one,”
thought Patsy, who then had been thus at work for several hours,
stopping only for lunch in a convenient restaurant. “The car might be
out, of course, even if I were to hit the right garage, providing it is
kept in a public one. I’ve got to take the chance. I’ll stick, too, by
ginger, till I find it.”
It was after three o’clock when he emerged from the last garage on his
list, and his face wore a look of irrepressible disappointment, though
his ardor and determination had not waned.
“Where next?” he asked himself. “The day is two-thirds gone and I’m no
better off than when I started. It would be impossible to visit every
private garage. Nor could I identify that chauffeur in a passing car if
he was in disguise last night, or tell whether the number plates have
been removed or temporarily changed by some means. If changed, by Jove,
there’s one way that might be done. There may be something in this.”
He was hit with a new idea, one that immediately struck him as
promising. He had in mind, of course, that all of the license plates of
that State were blue and numbered with white figures. Returning to the
business section, from which his long search had taken him, he again
consulted a directory and made a list of the paint stores, one of which
he presently entered and questioned the proprietor.
His inquiries proved vain, however, and he hastened to another. Not
until close upon five o’clock was he successful, when, accosting the
proprietor of a small shop in a side street, he began the same line of
inquiries.
“Do you keep vaseline or a paste of any kind that I could color with a
pigment?”
“I have vaseline in small jars. What color do you want to make it?”
“Prussian blue,” said Patsy, that being the body color of the number
plates.
“You can mix the Prussian blue powder with the vaseline all right?”
“Making a paste that would stick for a time and then wipe off easily?”
“Yes, surely.”
“Do you have many calls for Prussian blue?”
“Not many. You are the second one within a week, though,” said the
proprietor. “Toby Monk bought a box three or four days ago. That’s the
second, by the way, that he has bought within a month. He uses it mebbe
the same as you do.”
“What’s his business? I’m an artist,” said Patsy, lest these inquiries
might reach the ears of the said Toby Monk.
“He’s a chauffeur,” replied the storekeeper. “He owns a car and runs
it as a jitney part of the time, when he’s not driving for a man who
frequently employs him.”
“What man is that?” inquired Patsy, suppressing any betrayal of his
elation.
“I don’t know his name.”
“Or where he lives?”
“No.”
“He’s a merchant, perhaps, or a doctor, or----”
“I don’t know anything about him. Why are you so anxious to know who
and----”
“Oh, I’m not anxious,” Patsy cut in quickly. “I was only wondering how
the fellow you spoke of used the color. Give me one can of it, smallest
size, and a small jar of vaseline.”
Patsy’s explanation was glibly made, and the storekeeper appeared to
attach no further significance to his customer’s curiosity. He wrapped
up the two articles, and Patsy paid him and departed, afterward tossing
the package mentioned among some weeds in a vacant lot.
“Only a lunkhead would have questioned him further,” he said to
himself, now feeling almost sure that he had hit the right trail. “Toby
Monk, eh? I’ll soon find out where he lives and what is generally known
about him. Bought Prussian blue twice, has he? It’s a hundred to one
that he has been using it to temporarily blot out a figure with blue
paste matching the background of his number plate, or to so cover part
of one or more figures as to form others, apparently giving the plate
an entirely different number when engaged in a job like that of last
night. Blue paste could be quickly wiped off after the job was done.
I’ll find out mighty soon whether I am right and have nailed one of the
suspects.”
He hastened to a near drug store, and again resorted to the city
directory. He found that Toby Monk lodged in Green Street, and thither
he then hastened.
He learned, after a little roundabout questioning in an opposite cigar
store, that Toby Monk kept his car in an unused stable about a block
away, and that he could usually be found between six and seven o’clock
in Foley’s saloon and restaurant in Prince Street, where he often went
for his beer and supper.
It then was nearly six, with dusk beginning to gather, and Patsy lost
no time in seeking the stable mentioned. It stood in the back yard of
an inferior wooden dwelling. The stable door was open, and the car
stood within, apparently the one he had pursued the previous night,
though he could not now see the number plates.
“I must make dead sure of it,” he said to himself, after sauntering by
the house and turning merely a furtive gaze toward the stable. “Toby
Monk may be in this house, since his car is here, and I’d better not
venture through the yard. I’ll go round to the next street and steal
between those two houses back of the stable. There may be a back
window, and I could easily climb the fence.”
It took him about three minutes to reach the rear of the stable, which
he accomplished without being seen, and he found the window he was
seeking. He found it unlocked, moreover, and within half a minute he
was crouching back of the touring car, inspecting the number plate.
It was as clean as a whistle, though the rest of the car was quite
dusty. Obviously it had been recently wiped. Plainly, too, the number,
12674, could be apparently changed to 2671, the very number he had
seen the previous night, by eliminating the 1 and the loop of the 4 by
covering them with the blue paste.
“By Jove, this does settle it!” Patsy muttered, after a brief
inspection. “Here’s a smooch of dirty blue grease, too, on the tire.
Possibly I can find the----”
Turning quickly, he discovered what he had in mind. A wad of cotton
waste soiled with greasy blue paste had been tossed amid some rubbish
in one corner. On a beam near by was an open can of Prussian blue
powder, and near it a tin box containing some of the paste and a soiled
brush.
Patsy did not want more convincing evidence. He stole out by the way he
had entered, easily departing unseen in the deepening dusk, and feeling
reasonably sure that Toby Monk then would be found in the saloon
mentioned.
“I’ll have a look, at all events,” he said to himself. “Toby was the
chauffeur, all right, and through him I may identify the others. Gee
whiz! It’s lucky I thought of that method to alter the number plate.
It put me on the right track. I’ll drop the chief a line in the next
letter box, lest I unexpectedly throw a shoe, and then I’ll keep up my
good work. I’ll be hanged if I’ll quit a trail that’s just warming up.”
It was half past six, and dusk had turned to darkness, when Patsy
approached Foley’s saloon in Prince Street, within a block of police
headquarters. It was a restaurant and barroom of the better class, with
a corresponding patronage, and he paused briefly on the opposite side
to gaze through the broad plate-glass windows.
He could see nearly a score of men in the saloon, some talking and
drinking at the bar, others seated in a row of side booths, and nearly
as many in the rear restaurant. He was unable to discover one so like
the chauffeur in height and figure as to be sure of his identity,
however, and he then decided to enter and use his wits. Approaching the
bar, he bought a glass of beer and lingered to drink it moderately.
Taking a moment when one of the bartenders was idle and near him, he
inquired carelessly:
“How far must I go to hit a jitney?”
“Main Street, two blocks east,” said the bartender tersely.
“Don’t any of them go through this street?”
“Sometimes, but not regular. Mebbe, though, that----” The bartender
stopped and looked searchingly toward the restaurant, until his gaze
fell upon a man at one of the side tables. “Ah, there he is! I thought
he was there.”
“Thought who was here?”
“Toby Monk. He runs a jitney, but he is eating his supper. His car may
be outside.”
“Where does he leave it?”
“Just above here.”
“There is no car out there,” said Patsy. “I just came in and would have
seen it.”
“He’s put it up until later, then, as he often does about this time.”
“It don’t matter,” said Patsy. “The walking’s good.”
He turned away indifferently, and was pleased to see that other
customers then claimed the attention of the bartender. Having
carefully noted in which direction he had gazed a moment before, Patsy
easily determined on which man his eyes had lingered, and he now
furtively sized him up--a well-built man in the thirties, with a dark,
smooth-shaven face, a square jaw, and thin lips, having a downward
curve that gave him a sinister expression.
But Patsy’s train of thought was cut short when Toby Monk, rising
abruptly from a seat at the table, took his cap from a wall rack and
strode out through the saloon.
At the same moment a burly, red-featured man entered from the street,
and the two met just within the swinging doors and scarce six feet from
that end of the bar at which Patsy was standing. He saw Toby Monk start
slightly, as if surprised, and then heard him exclaim, with inquiring
scrutiny:
“Hello! What’s up, Shannon?”
“Shannon!” Patsy echoed the name mentally, with a thrill of increasing
elation. “That’s the name of the attendant the chief saw in Doctor
Devoll’s private room. He answers his description, too. Gee whiz, the
net is tightening for fair! It now is a cinch that Doctor Devoll is one
of the gang, and very possible the big finger.”
Patsy missed nothing that was said while these thoughts flashed through
his mind. Shannon had stopped short the moment he saw the chauffeur, to
whom he quickly replied, and with his gruff voice only slightly subdued:
“You’re wanted, Toby.”
“Wanted by----”
“You know,” Shannon cut in quickly. “I have orders for you.”
“What’s doing? Why did you come here after me?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. This is no time or place. Get a move on and
go with me.”
“I’ll go with you also if it’s all the same to you two rascals--or
whether it is or not,” thought Patsy as he edged toward the door and
followed the two men to the street.
CHAPTER XX. BIRDS OF PREY.
The trail picked up by Patsy Garvan was becoming so hot, indeed, as he
had expressed it, that he now had absolutely no idea of quitting it. He
followed the two suspects through Prince Street, noting that they were
engaged in a subdued and very earnest discussion, with Shannon doing
most of the talking, but Patsy did not venture to attempt overhearing
them.
“I could pick up only a word or two at the most, and must take a chance
of being seen and suspected,” he rightly reasoned. “That would put them
on their guard and knock a further espionage on the head. I’d better
keep them in the dark and try to see what’s coming off. If Shannon
brought orders from some one to this sinister-looking scamp, it’s long
odds that Doctor Devoll was the one. There sure is something in the
wind.”
It soon was evident to him that the two men were heading for the stable
in which Toby Monk kept his car, and he began to fear that he was
booked for the same difficulties he had had the previous night. He felt
quite sure of it, in fact, when both men entered the stable and Toby
Monk partly closed the front door, precluding a view from the street.
Presently, however, a feeble light from a smoky lantern could be seen,
and Patsy muttered perplexedly:
“What do they want of that? They can’t be going out with the car, after
all, or a lantern would not be needed. They may have come here only to
escape observation while planning a job. I can very soon find out by
making use of the back window again.”
He was on his way with the last thought. A couple of minutes brought
him to the back fence, over which he climbed noiselessly, and then
crept near enough to see and hear through the dusty back window.
Toby Monk was on his knees with a box of blue paste and a brush,
engaged in altering the figures on the rear number plate of the touring
car.
Shannon was seated on a box near by, with his brawny arms resting on
his knees, while he grimly watched the chauffeur’s artistic alterations.
“You’d better let the top down, too, Toby,” he advised, after a moment.
“That will help.”
“Mebbe so, Jim, since I’m never seen with it down,” Monk replied. “I’ll
drop it before leaving.”
“Besides, it might be a bit in the way,” Shannon pointedly added. “It’s
easier to get into an open car. This trick has got to be turned on the
jump, mind you.”
“I know that, Jim, all right, and you can bet I’ll do my part.”
“Have I made it perfectly plain to you?”
“As plain as twice two.”
“The signal----”
“There’s no need to repeat it, Jim,” Toby protested, interrupting, much
to Patsy’s disappointment. “I’ve got the whole business down pat, so
far as my part in the job goes. You may tell his nibs he may bank on
that.”
“The hour----”
“I know,” Monk again cut in impatiently. “You need never repeat an
order that he sends me. There’s too much coming, Jim, for me to go
lame.”
“I’ll be off, then, Toby, and tell him I found you,” said Shannon,
rising abruptly. “He’ll be waiting for me by this time.”
“Go ahead, then, and I’ll see you later.”
“Sure thing, Toby, bar a slip-up of some kind,” Shannon paused to add.
“You know what we are up against.”
“Rats! Trust his nibs to get the best of that bunch. No dicks can fool
him. He’ll put something over on them that they never heard of.”
Shannon laughed grimly, picking his way around the touring car, and
left the dingy, dimly lighted stable.
Patsy Garvan hesitated only for a moment. He remembered the previous
night. He knew that he might find it utterly impossible to follow
Toby Monk, who evidently was soon going to use his car, and Patsy
immediately stole around the stable, taking advantage of the darkness
to dart back of the rear dwelling, and in another moment he was
stealthily following Shannon up the street.
“Going to tell his nibs, is he?” thought Patsy, with ever-increasing
elation. “If I don’t learn who is back of this whole business, then
there’ll be something wrong with the cards. Get the best of the chief,
will he? I guess not!”
He found it easy to shadow his unsuspecting quarry. He trailed him to
an outskirt of the business section, where Shannon paused briefly in
a gloomy doorway and put on a disguise. Five minutes later, after
looking sharply in each direction, he entered a court flanking one end
of a large stone building.
“By gracious!” thought Patsy, gazing up at it. “This is the Waldmere
Chambers, the building in which Todd was killed. Has the gang a
headquarters here, or is it where only the chief himself hangs out? In
either case, by Jove! I’m getting in right at last.”
Stealing nearer, he peered cautiously into the court. Shannon had
disappeared in the deeper darkness. Following noiselessly, Patsy
brought up at a solid wooden gate about six feet high, and he then
heard a door closed and the snap of a lock. It told him plainly enough
that Doctor David Devoll’s burly attendant had entered the building.
“Gee whiz! I must not lose track of him,” Patsy muttered under his
breath. “I’ll take chances to guard against that. Locked, by thunder!”
Patsy had vainly tried to open the gate. He saw that it closed an alley
about five feet wide between the rear of the Waldmere Chambers and
the blank back wall of another lofty building. He drew himself up and
looked over it. He could see a door some ten feet away, and directly
above it a single-lighted window, the roller shade of which was drawn
nearly to the sill.
“That’s a rear office on the second floor,” Patsy rightly reasoned.
“That door must open into a basement, however, for the land slopes
toward the front of the building. By Jove! I must find out what’s
doing.”
Without a sound that could have been heard in the office mentioned, he
climbed over the gate and dropped upon the pavement in the alley, then
picked his way through the gloom toward the door. He then found that it
was an ordinary storm door, opening outward and protecting an interior
one, which was securely locked.
He listened vainly for any sound from within, also at two ground-glass
windows near by, evidently those of a basement, then as dark as a
pocket. Both were securely fastened.
“Gee! I’m no better off,” he said to himself. “If I could get up to
that lighted window, I might learn whether Shannon is there, or--by
gum! I have it. I can both see and hear, all right, by standing on
the top of this outer door. It’s some stunt to get up there, though,
without being heard.”
He demurred only briefly, seeing no other way to accomplish his object.
He opened the door, then hung by his hands from the top for a moment,
finding that the hinges would support him. He then drew himself up,
working one leg over the outer corner, and finally worming himself to
a seat on the unsteady perch. Twice he had swung against the building,
but met the wall noiselessly with his shoulder.
Reaching up, he then could grasp the stone sill of the lighted window.
He drew himself up, hanging clear of the door, then nearly closed it
with his feet, bringing it to a position directly under the window,
enabling him to stand in a crouching posture on it, still grasping the
stone sill.
A beam of light from under the roller shade then fell on Patsy’s grimly
determined face. Voices from within reached his ears. He peered into
the room and saw, seated in opposite chairs, Jim Shannon and Professor
Karl Graff.
“The man I trailed to Leary’s road house! The man who killed the cat!”
The thoughts flashed swiftly through Patsy’s mind. “By gracious, it now
is a cinch! He’s the big finger of the gang. But who the deuce is he?”
Though puzzled as to his identity, Patsy read plainly in Professor
Graff’s gray-bearded face that he was discussing something of serious
importance. His narrow eyes had a vicious gleam and glitter. He was
drawn forward in his chair, with his hands clenched on his knees and
his gaze riveted on Shannon’s dark face, from which he had removed his
disguise.
“You made it clear to him, Jim, perfectly clear?” Graff was asking.
“There must be no mistake, no delay.”
“There’ll be none,” Shannon gruffly informed him. “You can bank on
that.”
“The number plates----”
“I left him changing them.”
“The position he is to take with the car----”
“He knows the very spot.”
“The signal----”
“Your flash light--he knows,” Shannon cut in again. “He’ll be watching
for it.”
“And what he then must do?”
“The whole business. He has it down pat from A to Z.”
Graff settled back in his chair. He appeared satisfied with these
forcible assurances. He fell to rubbing his hands, his eyes gleaming
with malicious triumph, a gleam and glitter so intense that Patsy
Garvan felt that he was gazing at a madman.
“If he isn’t dippy, a pronounced victim of criminal mania, I’m no judge
of human faces,” he said to himself. “Human be hanged! He has the look
of a devil, and all the makings of one, if I’m not mistaken.”
“We’ll balk him, thwart him, turn this trick on him, Shannon, in spite
of all he can do,” Graff snapped viciously after a moment. “Then, if he
dares to remain in Madison--well, God help him! His fate will be on his
own head. I have told him. I have warned him.”
“He means the chief,” thought Patsy. “This was the rascal who sent
him the letter, and he refers to the theft of Mrs. Thurlow’s pearls.
They’ve been planning it, and that’s the job Toby Monk is booked for
to-night. If I can but learn the details of their scheme, it will be
soft walking for the chief to foil their game and collar the entire
gang. I’m on the way, all right.”
Patsy felt reasonably sure of it, indeed, and he was missing nothing
that passed between the two conspirators. Shannon appeared oblivious to
Graff’s display of feeling, though he smiled a bit grimly and said:
“You can turn the dick down, all right, if need be, and none would get
wise. All I hope is that he won’t be able to queer this job. There
would be something coming to us from it, a deal more than usual.”
“It’s as sure as if you already had it in your pocket, Shannon, if my
instructions are carefully followed.”
“They will be,” Shannon nodded. “What does Tim Hurst think about it?
Where does he fit in?”
“He’s to work the trick with me.”
“Any one else?”
“Only Dorson.”
“Is it safe to rely upon him?”
“There will be no safety for him if he disappoints me,” Graff declared,
with vicious asperity. “He knows what it will cost and that he’ll pay
the price. You know what befell the one treacherous cur who dared to
defy me and threatened to expose----”
“Enough of that,” Shannon cut in, with a growl. “I don’t like to think
of it, much less talk about it. What has become of Hurst, anyway?”
“I have not seen him since last night, after he searched the rooms of
that servile cur.” Graff spoke with an ugly snarl. “He found papers
that would have exposed us, but they now are ashes only. Luckily, too,
he was in time to down one of the Nick Carter gang, who otherwise would
have found the same and had us by the ears.”
“We’ll get you all right, sooner or later,” thought Patsy. “Tim Hurst,
eh? The masked man whom Chick encountered. Give us a little more time
and we’ll uncover all of these hidden faces.”
“Downed him, did he?” queried Shannon. “He must be a lightweight dick
that Tim could down, for all he’s quick and clever.”
Professor Graff laughed for a moment as if much tickled, but his mirth
had qualities that sent a chill down Patsy’s spine.
“I had made it easy for him,” Graff replied, still chuckling with evil
pride. “He wore an unsuspected weapon, an electrical device of mine
that would overcome a horse. Let Tim alone to make good when in a
tight place.”
“But it’s near seven,” Shannon growled, glancing at the clock. “If he’s
to work with you to-night----”
“He’ll come,” Graff cut in quickly. “He’ll show up on time. He’s due
here now.”
“Due here! Will he sneak in this way, or enter from the front street?
If he comes while I’m up here----”
Patsy caught his breath, scenting speedy trouble.
A key had been thrust into the lock, and almost instantly the gate was
opened and hurriedly closed. A slender, black-clad figure had entered
the alley, a thin-featured, keen-eyed man of about thirty, who quickly
jerked the key from the lock.
Patsy had as quickly decided what he would do. He knew he could not
leap down from his unsteady perch undetected and retreat farther into
the alley. He took, therefore, his only chance to escape observation,
knowing that he could not hold up the intruder without alarming his
confederates. Firmly grasping the stone sill of the window, he drew up
his legs and raised his feet from the top of the door, hoping the man
would pass under him and enter without seeing him.
The ruse came near proving successful. Tim Hurst strode quickly to the
storm door and flung it open, then fished out a key to the inner one.
He had heard nothing alarming nor seen the crimped figure hanging close
to the dark wall directly above him.
Just then, however, a bit of cement broke from the stone under Patsy’s
rigid grasp, and it fell straight down upon Hurst’s head. He drew back
as if electrified, looking up, and as quick as a flash he guessed the
truth. On the instant, too, while he uttered a short, sharp whistle, he
leaped up and seized Patsy’s legs, snarling fiercely:
“Come down here! Let go, blast you, or----”
Hurst was not given time to say more.
Patsy heard Graff and Shannon spring up and rush down a back stairway
in response to the whistle, and he realized that only quick work could
save him. He let go of the sill and dropped straight down upon Hurst’s
head and shoulders, worming quickly around as he pitched over him, and
trying to grapple him around his arms and waist.
The lithe and wiry rascal was alert, however, and as quick of motion
as a cat. He also twisted around when Patsy fell, spreading his feet
to steady himself, and then, with a lightninglike lurch toward the
building, he brought Patsy’s head against the stone wall, a blow that
nearly cracked his skull and dazed him so that he hardly knew what
immediately followed.
In a vague way, however, he realized that he was being roughly handled,
that Graff and Shannon had rushed out into the alley, and that the
three men were hurriedly taking him into the building.
He heard both doors closed and locked, then was conscious of being
placed roughly on a cold cement floor, with two of the ruffians nearly
crushing him in the inky darkness. This was dispelled in a moment by
a glare of electric light, and the cobwebs then had cleared from his
brain sufficiently for him to size up the surroundings.
He saw at a glance that he was in a chemical laboratory, a large,
square room with shelved walls, laden with bottles, jars, carboys, and
the like. A zinc-covered table was littered with the customary articles
required by a chemist. There was a closet in one corner. Near by was an
open door, an adjoining entry, and a narrow stairway leading up to the
room in which the two men had been seated.
Patsy still was gazing around when Graft approached him, commanding his
two confederates to bind him, which they quickly proceeded to do with
cords brought from the closet, while Tim Hurst hurriedly stated where
he discovered their captive.
“Who are you? Who sent you here to play the spy?” he fiercely
questioned.
Though he keenly realized that he was in wrong, and that much of his
good work might prove futile, Patsy lost neither his head nor his nerve.
“No one sent me,” he answered curtly. “I came on my own hook.”
“You lie!” Graff snapped harshly. “You are in Nick Carter’s employ.”
“By Heaven, I guess that’s right,” Shannon agreed, with a snarl. “He’s
one of the dicks.”
“We’ll dick him! We’ll dick him all right when the time comes,” Graff
fiercely declared. “But not now, not yet. The Thurlow pearls are of
first importance, and I have only time to prepare for that job. We’ll
settle with him later. Gag him, Shannon, and lock him in the closet.
You must wait here and watch till we return. Make sure the whelp can’t
escape. I’ll fix him later. I’ll fix him.”
“Gee whiz!” thought Patsy. “If he makes good as he looks, I can see my
finish.”
CHAPTER XXI. STOLEN PEARLS.
Nick Carter wore a worried look at eight o’clock that evening. Both
he and Chick then were dressing for the elaborate reception and ball
tendered to the local National Guards, generally admitted to be the
chief social event slated for that season in Madison, and during which
the unknown crook whom the detectives were so anxious to identify had
threatened to commit the crime the latter were grimly determined to
prevent.
Nick Carter’s anxiety, however, was not because his life also had
been threatened and might possibly be taken, in case he became an
insurmountable obstacle to the designs of the mysterious and daring
desperado. He was thinking of Patsy Garvan, his prolonged absence, the
occasion for which he could not fathom, knowing that Patsy ordinarily
would have reported by telephone, at least, in view of the work
engaging him, unless something very unexpected and equally serious
prevented him.
The detective did not blind himself, moreover, to the fact that his own
designs had been repeatedly anticipated and balked by the unknown knave
or by members of his gang, in spite of his own expeditious work and
the precautions he had taken. He realized most keenly that he was up
against a remarkably crafty and resourceful scoundrel. He began to fear
that Patsy had fallen into his hands and, in spite of his confidence
in his own skill and prowess, that he also might be booked for failure
and utterly unable to prevent the threatened theft of Mrs. Mortimer
Thurlow’s pearls.
“It would be perfectly easy to foil the rascals, if that was all we
wished to accomplish,” said the detective, while he and Chick were
discussing their plans. “But that is not enough.”
“Certainly not,” declared Chick. “We must take advantage of the
circumstances to discover their identity and in some way contrive to
arrest them.”
“Exactly. We must allow them enough leeway, therefore, to be sure they
will attempt the crime,” Carter pointed out. “They know what they are
up against and that we are out to get them. If we remain too near to
Mrs. Thurlow, as if ready to instantly grab any one that lays a finger
on her, there will be nothing to it. The miscreants will throw up the
job.”
“Surely,” Chick agreed. “No sane man would attempt it under such
conditions.”
“The fact that we are carefully disguised, moreover, would not deceive
them. They would suspect any men who constantly hung around within
reach of Mrs. Thurlow, and would very soon identify us. We must give
them enough leeway, therefore, as I have said, to be sure they will
make the attempt.”
“I agree with you,” Chick nodded.
“It goes without saying, nevertheless, that we must be in a position
to constantly watch the woman,” Carter added. “Having no idea just
when the theft may be attempted, we must not lose sight of her for a
moment.”
“What plan had we better adopt?”
“We can lay no elaborate plan. It will be of advantage, however, if we
keep an eye on one another, as well as on the woman, and contrive to
keep her constantly between us. That will enable us to head off a thief
in two directions, at least.”
“I see the point.”
“We must be alert, also, to detect any person whose looks or actions
warrant suspicion,” Carter continued. “It is barely possible that one
of us can discover the crook before the theft is attempted.”
“I’ll put you wise, chief, in that case, and you do the same.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Her nephew is to be her escort, you say.”
“Yes. His name is Dorson. He will accompany both Mrs. Thurlow and her
daughter, and we can identify them when they arrive.”
“And our work must begin at that moment.”
“Exactly. Naturally, of course, Dorson will pay considerable attention
to Mrs. Thurlow, and I don’t think his presence will deter the crooks,
for I have directed her to say nothing to him about expecting a crime.
There is no occasion for any one to suspect him, of course, even though
he is with her much of the time.”
The detective added the last while they were about to leave. It was a
perfectly natural supposition, of course, that the man of whom he was
speaking was entirely trustworthy. He did not have a thought to the
contrary, and, therefore, he could not foresee the fatal result of this
misplaced confidence in Mr. John Dorson.
It was a brilliant scene upon which the two detectives arrived soon
after eight o’clock, which they knew would be sufficiently early. The
streets adjoining the park in which the handsome new armory building
was situated, in the vast hall and drill room, on the second floor
of which the ball was to be held, were crowded with costly, brightly
lighted automobiles of nearly every type, leaving as rapidly as
possible a throng of fashionably clad men and elaborately gowned women,
many lavishly adorned with radiant gems and jewels.
Fortune favored the detectives at first. They had been waiting only
a few minutes in the broad reception hall on the ground floor, when
Carter saw Mrs. Thurlow and Edna arrive in company with a tall,
somewhat cadaverous man, who he knew must be Mr. John Dorson.
“There they are, Chick,” he said quietly. “The woman has not weakened.
She is doing her part, indeed, to help us nail our man. She is wearing
the rope of pearls.”
“Some pearls, too,” Chick muttered admiringly. “By Jove! they warrant
taking a desperate chance. That tall fellow is Dorson, I suppose.”
“Surely.”
“He’s not very attractive. He has the look of a rounder.”
“Not as bad as that, I guess,” said Carter. “I think Mrs. Thurlow would
have told me. Step down that way and keep an eye on her. We now must
watch her constantly.”
Both had been standing in an alcove formed by the rise of the broad,
main stairway. The latter led up to a wide corridor flanking three
sides of the ballroom, which was accessible from each through several
broad, pillared doorways. In the end wall of the room was a row of open
French windows, leading out upon the balcony roof of a wide veranda
overlooking an avenue through the park mentioned, in which numerous
automobiles already had gathered to await the end of the festivities.
One among them had arrived quite early and obtained a position of
special advantage, close to the broad avenue and within easy view of
the veranda and balcony. It attracted no more attention than any of the
others, neither did the chauffeur, who sat motionless at his wheel.
None would have recognized his bearded face, nor could the car have
been traced from the license number it then appeared to bear.
It was to these conditions and surroundings that Professor Karl Graff
had referred while talking with Dorson in the road house, and of which
he and his knavish confederates were prepared to take every advantage.
Chick slipped away from his chief, as the latter had directed, and
took a position from which he could watch the door of a room to which
Mrs. Thurlow and Edna had gone to leave their outside garments, while
Dorson hastened to another to check his crush hat and Inverness. Though
his face was unusually pale and grave, it wore no expression inviting
suspicion.
He returned in a few moments and rejoined Edna Thurlow, departing with
her through the throng in the lower corridor and mingling with the
stream of wealth and fashion then seeking the ballroom.
Mrs. Thurlow came out a little later and joined a group of women acting
as a reception committee, and for nearly an hour she remained in the
lower hall, apparently undisturbed by the threats of which she had been
informed, and conducting herself precisely as if ignorant of them, as
Carter had directed.
Both detectives, though they then were separated, had an eye on her
all the while and on the rope of lustrous pearls adorning her shapely
neck and perfect shoulders. Neither could detect any person near her
inviting suspicion, however, and it really seemed improbable that so
daring a theft could be successfully committed, in view of the fact
that it had been predicted and prevention audaciously invited.
It was ten o’clock when Mrs. Thurlow went up to the lavishly decorated
ballroom. There, and in the adjoining corridors, a throng of several
hundred guests were assembled. A dance then was in progress, however,
and the corridors were less crowded than during the intervals between
the dances.
Carter and Chick met on the stairs while following the woman quite
closely, and Carter said a bit hurriedly, noting the direction she was
taking:
“She’s going to that end of the hall overlooking the balcony. I’ll
follow her. You hurry around through the corridor, so as to watch her
from the opposite side of the hall. We then will have her guarded from
both directions.”
“Suppose she goes out on the balcony?”
“Slip out through one of the other windows. You must not lose sight of
her.”
“I’ve got you,” Chick muttered, as he turned at the head of the stairs
and hurried away.
Carter followed the woman in the opposite direction, admiring her
outward composure and the nerve she was displaying. He saw her enter
the last of the broad doors and thread her way by the throng of
dancers, finally halting near one of the windows leading out to the
balcony, where she was immediately joined by a colonel of the Guards,
in full-dress uniform, and a lady, with whom he had been dancing.
Carter paused in the broad doorway, with a quick and searching glance
in each direction. He caught sight of Chick, just entering a door
directly across the broad, brightly lighted hall. He saw Edna Thurlow
amid the throng of dancers, and noticed that she was pale and paying
little attention to the remarks of her partner. He saw, too, the tall
form of Mr. John Dorson, who then was standing alone near the second
window beyond that near which Mrs. Thurlow had halted.
Though none could know it save the miscreant who had planned the daring
job, the situation then was one for which he had been waiting, the
crucial moment when conditions assured him of success, when the avenue
fronting the veranda was unobstructed, when flight would be easy, when
the throng in the ballroom were absorbed in the dance, when the strains
of orchestral music drowned all other sounds, and when the victim of
his designs had paused at a time and place that perfectly served his
purpose.
Two inconspicuous, bearded men in evening dress, who had apparently
been talking carelessly on the balcony, suddenly separated.
One of them glided quickly toward the window near which Mrs. Thurlow
was standing, taking a position close against the wall.
The other moved in the opposite direction, stopping short near the
second window and taking a small electric flash light from his pocket.
Hooding it with both hands, so that its glare might not be observed
by any of the persons then on the balcony, he lighted the lens for a
moment, so holding it that it could be seen from the grounds, on which
motionless motor cars then were parked.
The signal was answered almost instantly. The lamps of one of the
motionless motor cars shot a quick glare outward over the avenue, and
in another moment it was moving moderately in that direction.
The man with a searchlight turned quickly and entered the French
window. He passed directly back of Dorson, and, without stopping,
whispered hurriedly:
“Now, Dorson, be quick! Get in your work!”
Dorson started as if stung. He did not recognize the bearded man, but
there was no mistaking his voice, that fierce, sibilant hiss that he
had heard at the road house--the threatening voice of Professor Karl
Graff.
Dorson instantly pulled himself together, nevertheless, and nerved
himself for what he had undertaken. He took the celluloid box from his
pocket, concealing it in his hand, and removed the cover, at the same
time walking toward Mrs. Thurlow, at whom he had been gazing when he
heard Graff’s threatening command.
When nearly back of her, Dorson stooped to the floor and pretended
to pick up a handkerchief--which he had deftly removed from the box,
quickly replacing the latter in his pocket.
“Pardon me,” said he, stepping in front of her. “You have dropped your
handkerchief, Aunt Clara.”
The colonel talking with her turned at once to his partner, and they
whirled away amid other dancing couples.
“My handkerchief, Jack?” Mrs. Thurlow took it, but with a look of
surprise.
“I think so.” Dorson drew back a step and with one hand covered his
mouth and nostrils.
“No, this is not mine. You are mistaken.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Clara? It was on the floor behind you. I thought
you had dropped it.”
Mrs. Thurlow bowed her head a little closer to examine it, still much
crumpled, unfolding it and seeking an initial.
“No, it is not mine, Jack,” she repeated. “It may be marked, however,
or--or----”
Her voice suddenly died away to a whisper. She looked up at Dorson, as
if strangely dazed, and he saw her eyes quickly taking on the vacant
expression that had been predicted, the pupils contracting to mere
pinpoints, abnormally bright, while her lips turned from red to a dull
gray.
Though his every nerve was quivering with secret terror, Dorson kept
his head and continued to play his part. He instantly took the woman’s
arm, saying quietly:
“You are pale and look tired. Step out on the balcony with me. The air
will revive you.”
Mrs. Thurlow obeyed him as if in a trance or a victim of an hypnotic
spell. She walked out with him through the French window. There was a
large wicker chair near by, and Dorson placed her in it, then whisked
the fateful handkerchief from her fingers and thrust it into his
pocket. Then he hurried back into the ballroom, through which he passed
as if in haste to obtain water, as he really was.
The man lurking near the wall in the dim light instantly approached the
woman. Pausing beside her chair, he bowed as if to converse with her.
His keen, black eyes shot one swift glance at a few persons on a remote
part of the balcony. None was observing him. His deft hands quickly
lifted the rope of pearls and dropped it into his pocket. Then he took
out a small glass vial, poured the contents of it upon a sponge, and
held the latter to the woman’s nostrils for a few seconds.
Mrs. Thurlow gasped and caught her breath.
The man accidentally dropped the vial and it rolled out of sight. He
did not wait to search for it, did not dare to delay his departure.
He walked quickly toward a corner of the balcony, where the top of a
vine-covered trellis rose just above the railing.
Toby Monk was at that moment passing the corner with his motor car.
Both Nick Carter and Chick had witnessed the episode in the ballroom,
and the same thought arose in the minds of both--that Mrs. Thurlow was
perfectly safe while with her nephew.
The moment that Dorson returned alone, however, both detectives felt
a quick thrill of suspicion, an instinctive feeling that the fateful
moment had arrived, and both hurried toward the nearest of the French
windows, making their way as quickly as possible through the maze of
whirling dancers.
Chick was the first to reach the balcony. Coming from the glare in
the ballroom, he could not immediately see the seated woman in the dim
light outside. He discovered her in a moment, however, and ran toward
her--just as his chief hurriedly approached from the opposite direction.
One glance at Mrs. Thurlow’s white face, at her vacant eyes and lax
figure, at the neck, then bare of its lustrous adornment--one glance
was enough.
“By thunder, they’ve turned the trick!” Chick cried, staring. “That man
Dorson must----”
Carter did not wait to hear him. He had swung around like a flash,
seeking the thief, knowing that scarce a minute had passed since the
woman left the ballroom. The few persons then on the balcony had not
observed any disturbance, but the detective instantly caught sight of
the swaying top of the trellis mentioned.
He ran in that direction, reaching for his revolver, but he arrived
at the corner of the balcony rail only in time to see a slender,
black-clad figure leap into a moving motor car, that instantly sped
away down the avenue--Tim Hurst, with the rope of pearls in his pocket.
CHAPTER XXII. WHERE THE TIDE TURNED.
Nick Carter did not attempt to stop the fleeing crooks. He saw that the
avenue was unobstructed, that the motor car already was attaining high
speed, that a shot from his revolver would probably be wasted, and that
pursuit was utterly out of the question. He turned back and hastened to
rejoin Chick--just as Jack Dorson returned from the ballroom, bringing
a glass of water.
Chick was the first to see him, and, having at once suspected him of
aiding the crooks, he impulsively started to call him down.
“See here!” he exclaimed. “What motive did you have in bringing this
woman----”
“A glass of water! Presumably, of course, because Mrs. Thurlow wanted
it. She must have felt ill, for she appears to have fainted.”
Carter had cut in quickly with the interruption, but with a blandness
that at once told Chick that he did not want his suspicions revealed to
Dorson, and he immediately permitted his chief to take the ribbons.
The entire episode had transpired in far less time than is required
to describe it. Scarce three minutes had passed since Professor Karl
Graff, most skillfully disguised, an art in which his proficiency soon
will become obvious, had seen the opportunity for which he had been
waiting.
Mrs. Thurlow was beginning to recover, nevertheless, though still too
dazed to realize what had occurred. But the stimulant or counteracting
agent held to her nostrils by Tim Hurst, even while he robbed her of
her pearls, was rapidly reviving her--as rapidly as in the case of the
girl on a cot in the Osgood Hospital.
Nick had glanced in Dorson’s direction when interrupting his assistant,
and in the light shed through the French window he caught sight of
something glistening back of Mrs. Thurlow’s chair. He picked it up and
slipped it into his pocket--the vial accidentally dropped by Tim Hurst
in his hasty departure.
Though the stir had been noticed by a few of the persons on the
balcony, none supposed that a robbery had been committed, and none had
approached to aid or interfere.
Jack Dorson saw at a glance that the rope of pearls was gone, however,
and, with nerves now as tense as bowstrings, he quickly took advantage
of the detective’s remarks, not for a moment dreaming that they had
been designedly made.
“Yes, yes, she said she felt faint,” he replied, holding the glass of
water to his aunt’s lips. “I noticed in the ballroom that she was quite
pale. I had picked up her handkerchief, or one I supposed was hers.”
“I happened to see you,” Carter nodded. “Wasn’t it hers?”
“She said not.”
“It appears to be missing.”
“She must have dropped it again.”
“Very likely.”
“I told her she had better come out in the air,” Dorson was explaining
very glibly, each moment feeling more sure of successfully hiding his
guilt. “I came with her and placed her in this chair, and she then
asked me to bring her some water.”
“Exactly.” Carter agreed with him readily. “I saw you returning
hurriedly, and I thought there might be something wrong. That’s why I
came out here.”
“Good heavens!” Dorson now exclaimed, as if suddenly alarmed. “There is
something wrong. See? Her rope of pearls is gone. She was wearing it
when I left her.”
“It may have unclasped and fallen to the floor,” the detective said
quickly. “Look around. Try to find it.”
Dorson obeyed with alacrity, thinking it the most consistent course for
one anxious to appear entirely innocent, and Chick hastened to assist
him in the search, now seeing plainly that his chief had some covert
object in the negative steps he was taking.
Carter had seen, just as the theft of the pearls was mentioned, that
Mrs. Thurlow was sufficiently recovered to appreciate the loss and also
the mystifying situation. She had started up in her chair, and was
feeling with frantic haste for the stolen treasure, when Carter bent
nearer and grasped her arm, unobserved by the others.
“Collect yourself and listen,” he whispered impressively. “I am Nick
Carter, disguised. The pearls are gone, but that is part of the game
I am playing. They will be returned to you to-morrow. Say not a word
about me, not even to your nephew. I will return the pearls to you
to-morrow evening.”
“But----”
“Don’t oppose me,” Carter forcibly insisted. “Do only what I direct.
All depends upon it. Tell Edna not to mention me in the hearing of
others. Pretend, now, that you have been robbed and that I am a
stranger.”
The scene that immediately followed, for Mrs. Thurlow understood and
yielded to him, was about what he expected, and also what he wanted.
Amid the ensuing stir and confusion, for an excited throng gathered as
soon as the robbery was announced, he informed Dorson that he would
go and notify the police, and in company with Chick he immediately
departed.
Not until they were on their way down the avenue, however, did Chick
make any comments or ask any questions. He then began with saying a bit
disgustedly:
“We seem to be playing a losing game. Is that the size of it, chief, or
what have you up your sleeve?”
“The crooks have the rope of pearls,” Carter replied, with grim
dryness. “There is no denying that.”
“And we are beaten to a frazzle.”
“Oh, no, not quite as bad as that,” the detective quickly protested.
“We are not done brown, Chick, by any means.”
“What do you mean? Do you suspect Dorson?”
“Yes, certainly. It was he who made the crime possible. He was
coöperating with the rascals who did the more hazardous work.”
“That’s what I suspected.”
“It’s as plain as twice two, Chick, in view of what we know about the
girls found unconscious in the hospital grounds. The handkerchief used
by Dorson was impregnated with the same mysterious substance with
which the girls were temporarily overcome. Obviously, too, the crook
who got the pearls administered the antidote or Mrs. Thurlow would not
have revived so quickly.”
“The same antidote that restored the four girls.”
“Undoubtedly. Those were experimental cases, Chick, as sure as I’m a
foot high, in anticipation of this job. Doctor Devoll was trying out
his narcotic, so to speak.”
“You still think he is the chief culprit, the man behind the gun?”
“He was in every instance the man who revived the girls, the physician
who appeared to perfectly understand each case.”
“That’s true,” Chick nodded. “I see the point. But why did you conceal
your suspicions from Dorson?”
“Because nothing could be gained by revealing them.”
“That’s true, also. Wouldn’t it be well to shadow him, in case he----”
“Not at present,” Carter interrupted. “He will make no immediate move.
All that he said was, plainly enough, designed to avert suspicion from
himself, and he will continue to conduct himself along the same line
for a time. We may get him later.”
“But what are your plans? Where are you going?” Chick impatiently
questioned. “Great Scott! we must get on the track of those pearls.”
“I’m on their track, all right,” his chief said grimly. “More surely on
their track than at any stage of the game. I told Mrs. Thurlow that I
would return them to her to-morrow evening.”
“Is that so?” Chick gazed at him, surprised. “Wasn’t that a rather
chesty prediction?”
“Quite so, Chick, but, having got the worst of it, I had to keep her
quiet till I could get the best of it.”
“There’s something in that.”
“Besides, I expect to have recovered them by that time.”
“Why so? I thought you had something up your sleeve.”
“It is in my pocket,” Carter corrected dryly.
He took it out; the vial he had picked up unobserved by others.
Displaying it between his thumb and fingers, he told Chick where he had
found it; then added pointedly:
“It will help some.”
“You mean----”
“I mean that I now intend to corner Doctor David Devoll,” Carter
interrupted. “It now is ten o’clock. Before this time to-morrow, Chick,
I’ll have Devoll where the wool is short. Take my word for it.”
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WHEEL WITHIN.
Nick Carter finished his breakfast at eight o’clock the following
morning. He needed no one to tell him that Patsy Garvan, who still was
absent, had fallen into the hands of the remarkably clever and thus
far successful gang he was seeking. It was only half an hour later
when Carter entered the Osgood Hospital, where he was received in the
business office by Jim Shannon, then in his customary livery.
“Doctor Devoll is not here, sir,” he said respectfully, in reply to the
detective’s question. “He seldom comes here before noon. He has outside
patients, sir, and other business. You might catch him before he goes
out, sir, if your business is important.”
“Out from where?” Carter asked curtly.
“From his apartments, sir. He has a suite in the Pemberton.”
“Where is that?”
“About ten minutes’ walk from here,” Shannon said suavely. “I can find
out for you, sir, whether he is there.”
“By telephone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do so,” the detective said shortly.
He sat down and kept an eye on the man, who did not appear in the
least disturbed by the detective’s visit. One less quick to suspect
subterfuge would have apprehended that his suspicions were misplaced,
that Shannon knew nothing about the anonymous letter, and that Doctor
Devoll was not the sender of it, after all.
Nick Carter, however, had no such apprehension. He knew that he was up
against as cool and crafty a gang of knaves as ever stood in leather.
He now was accepting nothing that appeared on the surface. He was
seeking the wheel within.
He watched and listened while Shannon telephoned, readily getting
Doctor Devoll on the wire and stating that Mr. Blaisdell, who had
called the previous day, would like to come to the Pemberton to see
him. That was all that Shannon said, noncommittal it was, too, and he
immediately hung up the receiver and turned to the detective.
“Yes, sir, Doctor Devoll is there, and it’s all right,” he said, with
the air of one glad to have conferred a favor. “He will wait for you.
You can go right up.”
Nick took all this for what he thought it was worth. He lingered only
to inquire the way, then turned on his heel and departed.
Shannon watched him hasten across Hamilton Square, and then, with a
scowl as black as a thunder-cloud, he darted to the telephone.
Ten minutes had passed when the detective knocked on the door of a
second-floor suite in the Pemberton, and he was immediately admitted by
the man he was seeking.
Doctor Devoll looked more lean and bald than usual in the sunlight shed
into his attractively furnished parlor. He wore a short, velvet jacket,
his customary black vest and trousers, and he greeted the detective
with an ingratiating smile.
“Come in, Mr. Blaisdell, and take a seat,” he said, waving Carter to a
chair. “I remembered your visit, of course, when Shannon called me up.
You were very lucky, however, in finding me this morning.”
“Yes?” queried Carter tentatively.
“I usually leave here about half past eight, but I overslept this
morning. I was very busy at the hospital all of last evening, and did
not retire till after midnight.”
“A serious case or an operation?”
“Neither. I was doing some writing in my private room, with the help
of my attendant,” Doctor Devoll explained blandly. Then he added,
with a covert leer deep down in his squinted eyes: “But it’s an ill
wind, indeed, that blows no one any good. What can I do for you, Mr.
Blaisdell?”
Nick Carter heard him without a change of countenance, but with no
faith in the alibi so quickly volunteered. He remembered the location
of the physician’s room, the strict privacy that was possible, and his
grounds for having suspected Shannon of duplicity. He felt sure that
they already had framed up a story to show, if it became necessary,
that they were not on the scene of the robbery the previous evening.
“You can, I think, give me some very desirable information,” Carter
replied, with steadfast scrutiny. “Speaking of doing some writing,
Doctor Devoll, have a look at this anonymous letter. Read it, please,
and tell me what you think of it.”
Doctor Devoll took it, smiling, and glanced at the address.
“Dear me!” he exclaimed, looking up quickly. “It is addressed to Nick
Carter.”
“I am Nick Carter.”
“The famous detective?”
“I am a detective.”
“Well, well, this is most surprising.” Devoll appeared greatly
astonished. “I thought your name was Blaisdell. Why are you using a
fictitious name? What could----”
“I will presently explain,” Nick interrupted. “Kindly read the letter.”
Doctor Devoll complied. Nothing denoted that he was reading his own
threatening letter. His crafty face took on, instead, a look of mingled
wonderment and indignation.
“Goodness!” said he, gazing straight at Nick. “This is most amazing. A
robbery predicted and your life threatened. What audacity! What daring
knavery!”
“I agree with you.”
“Do you know who sent it or suspect?”
“I do not. Can you help me?”
“Help you? What a question! Why had you any such idea?” Doctor Devoll
demanded, frowning. “I cannot imagine who would send you such a letter.”
“I thought you might know the hand.”
“It is not familiar to me. Why did you think so?”
“I will presently tell you,” said Carter. “The sender has in one
respect made good. Mrs. Thurlow’s rope of pearls was stolen last
evening.”
“Good heavens, is it possible?” Devoll’s brows rose again with a look
of surprise. “In that case, Mr. Carter, you have only one course.”
“What is that?”
“That stated in this anonymous letter. No sane man would ignore such a
warning. Leave Madison as quickly as possible. Otherwise, the sender
may again make good and kill you. I would advise you to lose no time in
returning to New York.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind.”
“No?”
“I shall remain in Madison until I have stuffed that letter down the
sender’s throat.”
“Well, that’s up to you, of course, and I admire your nerve.” Doctor
Devoll smiled again and returned the letter. “It strikes me, however,
that you will take a desperate chance, a foolhardy one, in view of the
threat that has been executed. I would expect, if I were in your shoes,
to have my head blown off at any moment.”
“I’ll risk it.”
“As I have said, then, it’s up to you.” Doctor Devoll drew forward in
his chair and spread his hands on his knees. “But why have you called
to show me the letter, and what do you expect to learn from me? I know
nothing about it or about the theft of the pearls.”
Nick glanced down at the physician’s hands. He noticed that they were
white and slender, that the nails were neatly manicured, and that that
on his right thumb was a bit discolored, as if from a slight bruise. He
looked up and replied:
“On the contrary, Doctor Devoll, you do know something about the theft.”
“Nonsense! What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said.”
Doctor Devoll did not reply immediately. He sat meeting the
detective’s searching scrutiny without a sign of flinching. His
narrowed eyes were taking on a threatening glint, instead, and he said
a bit sharply:
“If you repeat that assertion, Mr. Carter, I will order you out of my
apartments. I insist that I know nothing about that letter or about the
robbery. If you think I am lying----”
“One moment,” Nick interposed, checking him. “Don’t misunderstand me or
go over the traces. You will presently agree with me, Doctor Devoll.”
“Agree with you?”
“You have not forgotten, of course, the four girls found unconscious in
the hospital grounds.”
“No, certainly not.”
“You treated all of them successfully, but you let them go without
making an investigation. Now, Doctor Devoll, I happen to know that
their abnormal condition was due to inhaling a powerful narcotic of
some kind from a handkerchief found in a small leather purse or bag.”
“Ah! You know more about it, then, than I do.”
“I know, too, that Mrs. Thurlow was overcome by like means and robbed.
I also know that the thief administered an antidote that soon revived
her--presumably the same antidote that you administered to the four
girls. That is why I said that you know something, at least, about the
robbery.”
“You mean----”
“I mean that you know, of course, of what the antidote consists,” Nick
cut in again. “Otherwise, you would not have used it. That is a logical
conclusion, isn’t it?”
“Perfectly--if your premises are correct.”
Doctor Devoll did not appear at all disturbed. If these unexpected
discoveries of the detective alarmed him, he did not betray the fact.
Only the gleam that shone in his narrow eyes was steadily becoming
brighter--and Nick saw and rightly interpreted it.
“They are correct, doctor, all right,” he replied a bit grimly. “If
you----”
“Wait!” Doctor Devoll spoke more suavely. “I now see what you meant,
Mr. Carter, and at what you are driving. I beg to assure you, too,
that I would be very glad to aid you in this matter or give you any
information I possess.”
“I had no doubt of that, of course,” Nick said dryly.
“I hope not.” Doctor Devoll smiled again. “But why do you infer that
the restorative I used was the same as that given to Mrs. Thurlow. I
may have employed only an ordinary stimulant.”
“I doubt that an ordinary stimulant would have been effective,” the
detective returned. “Furthermore, a policeman who was present in the
case of the last girl saw you saturate a sponge with an amber-colored
fluid poured from a small fluted vial. Here is one like it, Doctor
Devoll. You may recognize it.”
Doctor Devoll’s nerve did not weaken for an instant. He merely glanced
at the vial Nick was displaying, and said blandly:
“You should not have said recognize it, Mr. Carter, for that implies
ownership. I never saw that vial before. I admit, however, that I have
one precisely like it.”
“And that it contained the antidote you used?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” Nick echoed incredulously. “Do you mean to assert, Doctor
Devoll, that you blindly used----”
“Oh, I admit that it sounds incredible,” Doctor Devoll interrupted.
“It is true, sir, nevertheless. The vial and its contents were given
to me by a friend, a chemist in whom I have absolute confidence, with
directions how and in what cases to use it. I tried it successfully on
the first of the four girls, and I since have repeatedly used it. I
have not yet learned, however, what ingredients the fluid contained or
how it is compounded.”
“Speaking plainly, Doctor Devoll, that story----”
“Oh, I see you are still incredulous,” the physician again interrupted.
“It is not surprising, Mr. Carter, under the circumstances. But there
is one way to settle it. You can easily verify my statements. Go with
me to my friend and he will corroborate----”
“Where must we go?” the detective cut in.
“Not far. He has an office and laboratory in the Waldmere Chambers.”
“H’m, is that so? Who is he?”
“Professor Karl Graff.”
“Humph!” Nick ejaculated. “I remember him.”
He now recalled for the first time, in fact, the elderly man who
had approached from the rear of the corridor in which the corpse of
the mysteriously murdered Gaston Todd was lying. He remembered the
negative statements this man had made. He recalled, too, Patsy Garvan’s
description of the gray-bearded man seen at Leary’s road house and
the mysterious killing of Leary’s cat. All this flashed upon him
with sudden startling significance, giving color to the physician’s
story--though Nick decided to keep an eye on him.
“That’s a good idea,” he said abruptly. “Get ready at once. We will go
together and see him.”
Doctor Devoll complied with alacrity. A leer lurked in his eyes when he
hastened into his bedroom. He quickly returned, wearing his black frock
coat and tall silk hat.
“Now, Mr. Carter, I am ready,” he said, smiling. “I will speedily set
myself right in your estimation.”
Nick had convictions to the contrary, but he did not express them. In
reality, nevertheless, he was considerably puzzled by the increasing
complications, and he began to suspect that Professor Karl Graff might
be the guilty man, after all--the discoverer of the potent narcotic
that had made possible the long series of mysterious crimes.
It was ten o’clock when they entered the Waldmere Chambers and hastened
up to the second-floor corridor, toward the rear of which Doctor Devoll
conducted the detective, remarking agreeably:
“This way to Professor Graff’s office. We are old friends, and I
frequently call here to see him. I have known him for years.”
Carter followed him, with a glance at the spot where Gaston Todd had
been found dead, scarcely twenty feet from the door opened by the
physician. He led the detective in, and a man arose from a table at
which he appeared to have been at work--Tim Hurst.
“Ah, good morning, doctor,” he said respectfully, hastening to place
chairs for both visitors.
“Good morning, Tim,” Doctor Devoll said familiarly. “Is Karl in his
laboratory?”
“No, sir.” Hurst appeared as frank as a schoolboy. “He has not come
down yet. He has not been coming in much before noon lately, sir.”
“Ah, well, I can expedite matters,” Devoll said glibly. “Sit down, Mr.
Carter, while I ring him up. His telephone is in the laboratory.”
He passed out of a side door while speaking, and Nick did not detain
him, supposing he had merely entered an adjoining room. The door closed
automatically. Tim Hurst tendered a morning newspaper, asking politely:
“Have you read the news, sir? There was another robbery last night,
Mrs. Mortimer Thurlow, sir, the swell society woman.”
“Yes, I know about it,” Nick nodded, sizing Hurst up more intently.
“How long have you been in Professor Graff’s employ?”
“About a year, sir; ever since he came here.”
“He is not an old resident of Madison, then?”
“No, sir. He came here a year ago next month.”
“Where from?”
“I am not sure, sir, but I think he--ah, he is coming right now, sir,”
Hurst broke off abruptly. “That’s his step in the corridor.”
Professor Graff entered at that moment, wearing a baggy plaid suit,
his overcoat and cape, and with a rusty felt hat on his gray head.
His bearded face took on a look of mild surprise when he saw the
detective, who immediately arose, while Tim Hurst explained glibly:
“This gentleman came with Doctor Devoll to see you. The doctor has gone
down to the laboratory to telephone to you, thinking----”
“We’ll go down, Timothy, and save him the trouble,” Professor Graff
interposed blandly, dropping his coat and cape over a chair. “Will you
go with us, sir, or----”
“I think I will,” Nick put in, bent upon keeping the physician under
his eye, and noting that the chemist did not appear to recall him.
Professor Graff led the way, Nick following, and Tim Hurst bringing
up in the rear. Half a minute took them down the stairs, through the
basement entry, and into the laboratory.
The detective flashed a swift glance around the room, at the
zinc-covered table, the bottle-laden shelves, the ground-glass windows,
and at a telephone on one of the walls. But he failed to see the
suspected physician, and he drew back a step, instinctively reaching
for his revolver.
Graff turned at the same moment, however, and thrust a weapon nearly
under the detective’s nose.
“Don’t stir, Carter, foot or finger!” he commanded sternly. “If you do,
you’ll be a dead one on the instant. I’ll send a bullet through your
meddlesome head.”
Nick Carter was surprised, but not entirely, by the sudden threatening
situation. His eyes were turned, not upon Graff’s bearded face, but
upon his revolver and the rigid hand that held it--and upon the
slightly discolored nail of his right thumb.
Nick recalled where he last had seen it. His gaze leaped up to the
bearded face. In spite of beard and wig and slouch hat and padded coat,
he now discovered the wheel within. He was gazing not at the remarkably
artistic disguise, but, through it, at the thin face and threatening
eyes of--Doctor David Devoll.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE LAST RESORT.
Chick was not idle that morning while his chief was engaged as
described. He was not without equally serious misgivings concerning
Patsy Garvan and the wisdom of Carter’s going alone to interview Doctor
Devoll.
Chick’s anxiety was materially increased, moreover, when the Wilton
House clerk brought him a letter to the smoking room about an hour
after the chief’s departure, saying inquiringly:
“This may be important, and perhaps you would care to open it, though
it is addressed to Mr. Blaisdell. It just came in with the first batch
of mail.”
Chick took it eagerly and instantly recognized the hand of Patsy
Garvan. He tore it open and read--the hurried letter Patsy had dropped
in a street box while trailing Jim Shannon and Toby Monk.
Hurried and brief though it was, it told Chick enough to instantly
start him in search of Toby Monk, and fortune favored him ten minutes
later. He found the crook jitney driver about to depart with his car,
which he had just finished washing in the stable yard where Patsy had,
indeed, picked up a trail worth following.
Chick sauntered toward him, hands in his pockets, and glanced at the
number plate on the front of the car. It was wiped as clean as cotton
waste and elbow grease could make it.
Toby Monk gazed at him inquiringly, wondering whether he was to have an
unexpected passenger.
“This your car?” Chick questioned, as he came nearer.
“Yes, sir, sure,” Monk nodded.
“That the number of it?”
“Yes, of course. What d’ye think?”
“I think, then, that you are Toby Monk. Am I right?”
“That’s my name, but----”
“Shove your hands in these, then, and be quick about it,” Chick snapped
sharply, jerking out a pair of open handcuffs. “Don’t get gay or try to
bolt or I’ll bring you down with a bullet. In with them, or I’ll break
your wrists when I lock them.”
Toby’s face had gone as gray as ashes, and he was trembling from head
to foot.
“Oh, I say!” he gasped. “I say----”
“Stop!” Chick cut in sternly. “We’ve got Devoll, Shannon, you, and the
rest of your thieving gang where we want you. If you have anything to
say, out with it. What you say now may determine what you’ll get for
last night’s job and a hundred others, including the murder of Gaston
Todd. Come on with it, if you have anything to say.”
Toby Monk, cornered and thus sternly confronted, wilted like a drenched
rag. The last vestige of color had left his cowardly face. He gazed
wide-eyed at Chick and asked hoarsely:
“Are you a detective--one of the Nick Carter crowd?”
“That’s just who I am.”
“I’ll squeal, then! I’ll squeal,” Toby said hurriedly, taking the last
resort of a treacherous coward. “I’ll blow the whole business, if that
will save my skin. On the level, God hearing me, I did not kill Todd. I
knew nothing about it. I was out with my jitney when it was done. I----”
“But you know who did it, and why,” snapped Chick, striking while the
iron was hot.
“Yes, yes, I know that,” gasped Toby. “Graff did it--Devoll.”
“Both----”
“Both--there ain’t any both!” cried Toby. “They are one and the same,
Graff and Devoll. He’s a nut, a loon, if ever there was one. He’s got
the criminal bee in his bonnet, and----”
“Wait!” Chick sternly checked him, suppressing his surprise at the
startling disclosure. “Devoll is back of the whole business, I know,
but what started him into crime?”
“He’s a nut, gone dippy, I tell you,” Toby forcibly insisted. “Besides,
he has doctored the hospital books, stolen some of the funds, and has
turned to crime to get square.”
“Oh, that’s it, eh?”
“He began playing two parts a year ago, as a cover for his jobs, and he
rang in three or four of us to aid him, whacking up part of the plunder
with us. He’s infernally crafty and clever. He poses as Graff mornings
and as Devoll the rest of the time. He lets only Shannon into his
private room in the hospital. He comes and goes like an evil genius,
and that’s just what he is. He has discovered a narcotic that instantly
dulls the brain and causes sleep till something else is given. He has
invented a noiseless revolver that shoots a globule of poisonous vapor
so deadly that it instantly kills, and----”
“That’s what killed Todd?”
“Yes. He was short in his accounts with his brokers, but they haven’t
discovered it yet. He joined our gang, hoping to get even, but kicked
against robbing Mrs. Thurlow. He was hoping to marry her daughter. He
threatened to expose Devoll unless he cut out that job.”
“And Devoll killed him to prevent it?”
“That’s what. He saw Frank Paulding going to visit a client, and he
knew that he and Todd were rivals. So he thought he could incriminate
Paulding and escape suspicion. He telephoned Todd to come there and
wait in the corridor. Then he watched from his office till he saw a
chance to kill him with his infernal weapon. He then----”
“Enough of that,” Chick interrupted. “How many are with you in this
gang?”
“Devoll, Shannon, and Tim Hurst.”
“Who is Hurst?”
“He looks after Graff’s office and laboratory in the Waldmere Chambers.”
“Isn’t Dorson in it, Mrs. Thurlow’s nephew?”
“Yes, but only for last night’s job.”
“I thought so,” snapped Chick. “Where is that rope of pearls?”
“In Graff’s rooms. Hurst got away with it. He’s to keep it until----”
“Until I relieve him of it,” Chick cut in sternly, dropping the
handcuffs into his pocket. “Get into your car and take me to the
Waldmere Chambers. Pick up two policemen on the way. If you attempt
any monkey business, mind you----”
“I’ll not, so help me!” Toby hurriedly protested. “I’ve thrown up my
hands.”
“Get a move on, then. I want Hurst, to begin with, and that rope of
pearls.”
It was not in Chick’s nature to let grass grow under his feet after
having clinched the entire case in this way. Ten minutes later, leaving
Toby Monk in his car in charge of a policeman, and with two others at
his own heels, he entered Graff’s office in the Waldmere Chambers. He
found it deserted, but upon quietly opening the side door, he heard
voices from below.
This was about three minutes after Graff held up Nick Carter with a
genuine revolver. Not in the least dismayed by the situation, though
greatly surprised at detecting Devoll’s double identity, which at once
suggested much that Chick had just learned, the detective temporarily
threw up his hands, saying curtly:
“Well, well, I appear to have walked into a trap. Don’t be careless
with that gun, Professor Graff, or it might go off. We can discuss this
matter without bloodshed.”
“It will go off all right, Carter, and not miss its mark, if you
venture to show fight,” Devoll retorted, with suppressed fury beginning
to blaze in his evil eyes. “I warned you of this. I told you what to
expect if you remained in Madison.”
“Oh, you’re the rat who sent me the anonymous letter?”
“Yes--and I meant what I said.”
“So, I see--among other things.”
“All, you recognize me, and----”
“Perfectly,” Nick sternly interrupted. “I know all about you now, and
of what you are guilty. I know that----”
“You know too much!” Devoll cut in fiercely. “But it will do you no
good. I have you trapped, as I have trapped others. I warned you, and
you have ignored the warning. You now shall pay the price. I will end
you with a gas that----”
“That sent Gaston Todd to his death!” snapped Carter. “I knew it from
the first and wanted only the man.”
“You know too much!” Devoll fiercely repeated. “Ho, Shannon, come out
here! Bring a rope and bind him from behind. Lend him a hand, Tim, and
be quick about it! I’ll end him as I ended----”
What more the frantic man would have said was cut short by the heavy
tread of many hurrying feet.
Jim Shannon had thrown open the door of a closet, on the floor of which
Patsy Garvan then was lying, gagged and securely bound, and the burly
ruffian, who had hurried from the hospital after planning with Devoll
this capture of the detective, rushed out with a rope in each hand,
while Tim Hurst darted nearer and seized Nick from behind.
Mingled with all this, however, was the rush of other feet, those of
Chick and the policemen, together with the threatening cries of the
former, as they rushed with weapons drawn upon the startled crooks.
But the thunder of one weapon drowned all other sounds--again the last
resort.
Doctor Devoll, with his glaring eyes half starting from his head,
hesitated only for an instant. There leaped up in his frenzied brain a
vision of the electric chair. With a quick turn of his wrist, he thrust
the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Then he pitched
forward, hands in the air--a corpse when he hit the floor.
There was little to it after that, and but little remains to be said.
Shannon and Hurst were easily overcome, and soon were lodged with Toby
Monk in the city prison, the first step toward the punishment they
righteously deserved.
Patsy Garvan was speedily liberated, none the worse for his experience,
and only his statements were needed, if at all, to make a complete
and perfect case against the singular criminal who had ended his evil
career with his own hand.
Mrs. Thurlow’s rope of pearls was found in a jar in the laboratory.
Nick Carter returned it to her that afternoon, and told her how and why
Dorson had figured in the theft. Because of his kinship, however, she
refused to prosecute the scamp, and the detective did not insist upon
it.
Nor did Nick Carter go alone to the Thurlow mansion that afternoon. He
took with him the suspected man who had at his request spent three days
in prison, and by that humiliation aided him to solve the mystery and
secure the guilty.
The gratitude of Edna Thurlow and her mother, as well as that of Frank
Paulding, could not be verbally described; but it found expression in
something much more substantial than words, and Nick Carter and his
assistants returned to New York well repaid for their fine work in the
Madison mystery.
THE END.
No. 1010 of the NEW MAGNET LIBRARY, entitled “The Gamblers’ Syndicate,”
is another fine story in which the skill, foresight, daring, and
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in running down a gang of organized crooks.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.
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