The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 31
“Under the circumstances, it is surprising that more lives were not lost, but the best information obtainable at the present time is that three of the inmates were fatally burned—including the clever and infamous Green-eye Gordon—that many were injured or temporarily overcome, and that one took advantage of the excitement to escape.
“As soon as it was seen that the fire was beyond control, so far as the prison’s fire-fighting facilities were concerned, and that there was danger of asphyxiation from the dense smoke, the cells of each tier in the threatened wing were unlocked simultaneously, and there was a general exodus of frightened prisoners. The scene defies description, for the delay in opening the cells had given the trapped men an opportunity to work themselves up into a frenzy, and, as a result, the guards were powerless to handle them.
“A general jail delivery might have followed if the convicts had realized their power, but fear had driven everything else out of their minds for the time being, and in consequence, only one man, Convict No. 9,371, made his escape. He is known to the world beyond the gray walls as “Shang” Libby, a yegg, who had made his headquarters at Buffalo. Libby must have followed one of the guards when the latter left the inclosure for help, and having waited until the door of freedom had been opened, he quietly struck the guard down and passed through. He was one of those who had hastily dressed himself in the prison uniform and unless he can manage to get other clothing there is no doubt that he will soon be rounded up.”
Then followed a long account of the fire, and references to those who had been killed or seriously injured. The article ended with the following:
“The death of Ernest Gordon, widely known as Green-eye Gordon, was the most ignominious one, and hardly in keeping with this notorious criminal’s career. There was nothing spectacular about it. Gordon might have been expected to play a conspicuous part at such a time—to rally the prisoners for a concerted attempt at escape, for instance—but he does not seem to have distinguished himself in any such way. Indeed, it would appear that his daring and initiative left him at the last, for there seems no very good reason for his death, when most of his fellow prisoners escaped.
“Of course, some accident must have happened to him, for he was found trodden to death by the others in their bestial rush. His face disfigured beyond recognition.
“Gordon hailed from New York, and those who know have long classed him as one of the cleverest and most dangerous criminals this country has ever produced. He came of a good family, and was well educated, but early showed a tendency to criminal pursuits. Apparently he reformed, however, and for several years was employed by one of the great detective agencies.
“In this capacity he showed himself to be very able and daring, so much so that he advanced rapidly, and long enjoyed the utmost confidence of his employers. In the end, however, it was learned that he had been using his position for his own ends, and had really never given up his career of crime. He must have known that a storm was brewing, for, as usual, he managed to get away a few jumps ahead.
“After that, thanks to the invaluable experience he had gained as a detective, he turned his attention to much more ambitious and lucrative pursuits, soon becoming one of the most troublesome thorns in the side of the police of this city and elsewhere. Gordon always was versatile, and handled many kinds of crime with remarkable success. Toward the last, however, he developed something approaching a specialty in the shape of blackmail on a large scale. He seemed to have an uncanny facility for learning the secrets of the wealthy and prominent, and using them for purposes of blackmail.
“Crimes of this sort are not easy to establish in a legal way, or to punish, for the victims seldom raise an outcry. Nevertheless, that lifelong foe of crime and criminals, Nicholas Carter, took up the trail, and finally brought Gordon to bay. The capture and trial of two years ago are doubtless fresh in the minds of many newspaper readers.
“Gordon acquired his nickname of Green Eye from the fact that he had a pair of peculiar, rather nondescript gray eyes, which were said to emit a green light when the man was angry or excited. In addition, his eyes showed an inclination to cross at such times, although perfectly normal at all others. In fact, it is claimed that these distinguishing characteristics more than once served to identify the clever rogue, whose remarkable histrionic ability and skill at make-up would otherwise have enabled him to defy detection.”
Of course, neither of the detectives read all of this. They did not need to, for they knew a great deal more about Ernest Gordon than any one else could have told them.
Chick followed his chief’s example in glancing through the article and getting the main points that were new to him. Then he looked up with an odd expression.
“Well, it certainly sounds final enough,” he remarked. “I find it hard to believe, though, that Green Eye is dead, and that he died in such a way.”
“It is somewhat difficult to credit it,” Nick agreed. “That’s the way things frequently happen, though. Fate isn’t always dramatic in its methods according to our theatrical standards. No, it seems safe enough to believe that Ernest Gordon won’t give us any more trouble, and I find a certain amount of relief in the thought. I’m willing to confess now that there were times when I doubted my ability to bring him to account. In other words, I felt myself nearer defeat at his hands than I had ever done in any other case.”
The detective pulled out his watch, glanced at it, and threw his napkin aside. “We must hustle if we are going to catch that train,” he announced.
Five minutes later he and Chick were whirled away to the station. Their well-earned vacation had begun, but they were far from carefree.
The thought of Ernest Gordon persisted in haunting their minds, and somehow it seemed to dull the edge of their anticipations.
CHAPTER III.
NOT SO DEAD, AFTER ALL.
Two days later a striking-looking, conspicuously well-groomed man presented himself at Nick Carter’s door.
He did not give his name, which is not to be wondered at under the circumstances, for the caller was Green-eye Gordon—not his ghost, but the man himself, substantial flesh and blood, escaped convict, and first-class criminal.
For once Chick’s intuitions had been keener than his chief’s. The younger detective had been inclined to question the validity of Gordon’s death in the absence of any more conclusive testimony than that given in the first accounts of the fire. Nick, however, had been in a mood to discourage such skepticism—perhaps because of that relief to which he had confessed.
The fact was that it was Green Eye who had escaped, and not the yegg from Buffalo. Gordon had stumbled over the latter’s body during that mad rush for safety. The yegg was by no means dead at the time, but had been overcome by the smoke, and, without a moment’s hesitation, Gordon had determined to profit by the encounter.
He had no definite plan, but it was characteristic of him that whereas the others were interested only in escaping the flames, he was looking for the opportunity to escape from the prison itself, and was prepared to profit by every promising circumstance.
It occurred to him at once that an exchange of coats would be to his advantage, and he proceeded at once to make the exchange, stripping off the unconscious man’s coat, and putting his own halfway on in place of it.
The reason for this may be easily guessed. The gray coats—for stripes are no longer in vogue in New York State—bore each man’s prison number, and, therefore, by such a simple exchange, identities could be shifted temporarily.
Gordon’s number was 39,470, and, of course, it was known to all the keepers and prisoners as standing for the identity of the formidable Green Eye. The other man’s number, on the other hand, had no particular significance, for the yegg was an ordinary criminal, of comparatively little intelligence, who had not made himself conspicuous in any way, either in or out of the prison.
Consequently, if there should prove to be later on any reason to believe that Libby was missing, his absence would not be likely to cause any great commotion, for it would be taken for granted that his capture was only a question of time.
Gordon had reasoned shrewdly, as usual, and had thus, by his own promptness and resourcefulness, put himself in the way of the luck that subsequently favored him.
He had feigned an injury, and had thrown himself down in the prison courtyard, after taking care to stagger close to the main gates, and a shadow of the projecting section of the wall. There he was ignored, for the flames in the burning wing were mounting higher and higher, and all the men were not yet out of it.
It was some minutes before Green Eye’s chance had come, but it did come, as he had felt sure it would. One of the guards rushed past him and approached a small door at one side of the big, double gates. Evidently the man had been sent on some important errand, which would take him outside the prison walls.
The keeper looked behind him with a wary eye to make sure that he was not followed. He had fears of a general break for liberty, but apparently no one was paying any attention to him.
Therefore he excitedly inserted a key in the lock, and, after some fumbling, opened the door. It was then that Gordon had pounced upon him.
One blow had been enough. It caught the unfortunate guard behind the ear and sent him hurtling through the opening. In a moment the convict had followed.
Gordon dashed across the road before the vanguard of the crowd from the town had reached the spot, and, dodging through the extensive lumber yard, made his way to the outskirts of Dannemora, his goal being a certain tumble-down, abandoned house.
There he found what he sought—a moisture-proof box of considerable size, containing a complete outfit of clothing, an automatic of the latest model, and no less than five hundred dollars in gold.
We have hinted that Ernest Gordon was no ordinary criminal, and the truth of that has doubtless begun to shine through this narrative. Here, at any rate, is striking evidence of it.
Green Eye had always preferred to work alone, as many of the most successful criminals have done. He had friends, however, and one of these had carried out his directions. The gates of Clinton Prison had not even closed behind Gordon, when the latter had begun to plan for a possible escape, and the planting of this box played an important part in the arrangement.
During his many months in the prison, Green Eye had not succeeded in liberating himself, but now that the fire had enabled him to escape, the box was waiting for him, thanks to his unusual foresight.
Thus it was that he had completely eluded pursuit. The authorities were looking for a commonplace, unimaginative yegg, who went by the name of Shang Libby, and who might be expected to retain some, at least, of his prison garments. It is little wonder, therefore, that they failed to capture the polished and superdaring Gordon, who lost no time in starting for New York City in a sleeping car.
The fugitive’s first thought when he reached the metropolis was one of revenge. He had no idea of killing Nick Carter for the part the latter had played in his downfall, for murder had never been in his line. There are many other kinds of revenge, however, and Gordon was determined to avail himself of one or more of them.
He wished to humiliate Nick to the utmost, if possible, and, incidentally, to do so in such a way that his success would line his pockets with gold.
He had a plan, when he presented himself at Nick’s door, but it was lacking in many details, for these he had decided to leave to the inspiration of the moment. In any case, however, he meant to palm himself off as a would-be client, and, having thus gained the detective’s confidence, to proceed with the rest of the scheme, or some modification of it.
“Is Mr. Carter in?” he asked anxiously, when the butler opened the door.
“No, sir,” the servant replied, noting with approval the visitor’s apparent prosperity and air of importance. “Mr. Carter is out of town at present.”
“Is it possible? For how long?”
“He went away day before yesterday, and expected to be absent for two weeks.”
“How unfortunate! I have a case of the utmost importance—the sort of thing no one else can handle,” the caller said, with the semblance of profound disappointment. “One of his assistants might help me to some extent, however, or bring the matter to Mr. Carter’s attention by telegraph.”
Again the butler shook his head regretfully. He was being very indiscreet, but he did not suspect it for a moment, owing to the impression the stranger made upon him.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, too, sir,” he answered. “There is no one at home who could attend to you. It’s the first time it has happened in years.”
The stranger seemed greatly distressed.
“This is terrible!” he cried. “I don’t know what I shall do if I can’t get hold of Mr. Carter. I would be very sorry to break up his vacation, but I’m sure if he knew the circumstances, he would not hesitate for a moment. Some very prominent people are involved, and, unless something is done speedily, there will be nothing short of a national scandal. Surely, you will give me Mr. Carter’s address, will you not?”
The butler hesitated—and fell.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DETECTIVE’S “HALFWAY HOUSE.”
Chick had been in favor of cutting off all communication with the detective’s residence in New York. It was not because he himself felt any great need of a holiday, but rather because he had an exaggerated notion that his chief was badly in need of a change.
Nick, however, had vetoed this suggestion, and left things largely to his butler’s discretion. The butler had been in his service for years, and had shown himself by no means a fool.
“If anything big develops,” Nick had told him, “do not hesitate to telegraph for me, or have me called on the long distance—if there isn’t time to write. I don’t want to miss an important case.”
The butler remembered these words now—and forgot that he did not even know the caller’s name. Carried away by the man’s air of authority, he blurted out the desired information.
“Mr. Carter is staying at the Buck’s Head Inn, Little Saranac Lake, sir,” he said.
“Many thanks! That’s all I need. I’m sure Mr. Carter will respond at once when he hears what’s in the wind,” Gordon declared importantly, and having made a note of the address, thanked the butler again, and returned to the waiting taxi.
Green Eye had seen a great light as a result of the butler’s incautious revelations, and all his previous plans had been discarded. In their place a new one was growing—a plan that promised to set a record for daring, and to bring the detective nearer to professional shipwreck than he had been in all of his career.
The new plan did not involve an interview with Nick. On the contrary, it was built upon the fact that the detective was hundreds of miles away, buried in the woods.
Therefore, as may be guessed, Green Eye did not make use of the address the butler had given him. He was quite satisfied to have created the impression that he intended to communicate with Nick at once, and that the latter might return in the course of a day or two.
The following morning an individual climbed the stairs leading to one of Nick’s “halfway houses,” that particular one being on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.
Nick Carter maintained a number of these places in different parts of the city, and in each of them he kept several complete changes of clothing and a supply of wigs, false mustaches, beards, make-up articles, and the like.
Their mission is perfectly obvious. Under ordinary circumstances, it was safe enough for the detective and his assistants to disguise themselves at home, and to return to their headquarters at their pleasure. When they were handling an unusually delicate case, however, or dealing with exceptionally clever lawbreakers, they found it necessary to take further precautions, and these so-called halfway houses then came in handy.
In other words, the secret bases of supplies—each of which had two exits—made it possible for them to leave and return to their headquarters openly, and without disguise, although the intervening hours might be devoted to the most relentless shadowing, carried on under all sorts of guises.
The man who climbed the stairs at the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street place, therefore, might easily have been Nick in the act of returning from some such expedition. He did not look in the least like the great detective, but that proved nothing, and his actions went far to indicate that he was Nick or one of the latter’s assistants.
He boldly approached the door of the room, the location of which did not seem to give him the slightest trouble, despite the fact that there was nothing on the door to guide him. He seemed to have some little difficulty in getting the door open, to be sure; but, after working at the lock for two or three minutes, he gained entrance.
Many criminals would have given a great deal to know the location of one of those rooms, but Nick did not dream that one rascal had long since discovered the halfway house in Harlem.
The man who had gained entrance by picking the lock was Green-eye Gordon, of course.
He had learned of the place shortly before Nick had caught him, two years or more back, and had been more or less uncertain as to the present use of the room. The detective might have given it up in the interval, for all he knew, but he had resolved to put his knowledge to the test, and now he was rewarded, for a glance about the place showed him that it was still employed by the detective.
Rows of clothing hung in orderly array on hooks along the walls. At one side there was a long mirror, which enabled one to view oneself from head to feet, and between the windows, at the rear, was a dressing table, which looked as if it might belong to some musical-comedy star, so cluttered was it with make-up materials of all sorts.
It was nearly an hour later when Ernest Gordon let himself out, locked the door behind him—after some further effort—and sauntered downstairs.
