The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 36
“He never did before, Mr. Jones, but his heart seemed to be set on this place, and I let him have his way. The openness seemed to appeal to him very strongly. I’ve been living in a row for years, you know.”
“Ah, the openness!” murmured Cray. “I can see how that might have attracted him. Have you noticed anything unusual about your husband lately, Mrs. Simpson? Has he seemed his normal self all the time?”
His hostess seemed at a loss to know how to answer the question, to judge by her hesitation and knitted brows.
“If you think there may be anything the matter with his mind, Mr. Jones, I’m sure you’re wrong,” she said, at length. “I haven’t noticed anything of that sort at all, and I would have been sure to do so. I can’t say that he has been himself, though. Buying this house on his own responsibility, and in such a hurry would be enough to show that he wasn’t. Besides that, though, he has been nervous and irritable, but I laid that to the extra work he was doing. I’m afraid I shall have to call him freakish, but nothing more. He seems to have suddenly developed whims, and acquired rather expensive tastes. I’m afraid his advancement at the office has turned his head somewhat.”
“You are still referring to the house?”
The woman hesitated again, but seemed to decide that frankness would be best.
“No,” she answered, “that isn’t all. He has got the automobile fever, as well.”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE TIRE PRINTS.
Jack Cray barely avoided a sudden start at that last remark of Mrs. Simpson’s. He had been hoping for some light on the electric car, but had thought it improbable that he would find any clue at the fugitive’s home.
“So he’s a fool at times, is he?” he thought. “Good enough! That ought to make things easier.”
“So the bug caught him, too, did it?” he asked aloud, with a careless smile. “Did he buy a machine?”
“Oh, no, sir! He rented one in the village, but his idea was to buy one as soon as he could afford it. In fact, he has had a gate made in the back fence, and one of those little, portable garages put up.”
“He meant to enjoy himself, didn’t he?” Cray asked lightly, though the role he was obliged to play was becoming more and more irksome. “There’s a driveway at the side of the house, though, isn’t there? I thought I noticed one as I came in.”
“Yes, there is,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “That was another queer thing. I didn’t see how in the world John was going to afford a car—even a secondhand one, as he talked of buying—but if he was going to have one, I didn’t see why it should not be driven in from the front, since that was what the drive was made for. He wouldn’t hear of it, though.”
“Why not?”
“He said he was going to drive his own car, and he didn’t want everybody to be watching him and criticizing the way he was doing it. He thought he would prefer to come in the back way, where there wouldn’t be so many spectators. That was ridiculous, though, because you can see for yourself that there are not many people living here on the hill. Besides, he would soon have learned to drive well enough not to mind if he were watched.”
Cray nodded, but his heart was pounding. This was certainly a queer whim on Simpson’s part, and the detective was sure there must be some reason for it. In fact, he was inclined to believe that there was a reason for the choice of the house itself, and that both had to do with the fugitive’s crime. The thought was an exciting one, but Cray was at a loss to explain Simpson’s actions.
It might be well to see how the land lay, and the best way to do that, he believed, was with Mrs. Simpson’s knowledge, rather than furtively.
“I don’t want to alarm you too much,” he said, “but these things look rather queer, you know. You seem sure that there wasn’t anything the matter with Mr. Simpson’s mind, and yet you admit that he has done some peculiar things. You’d rather think that his mind was temporarily clouded, wouldn’t you, than that he was dead, or had deliberately left you in the lurch?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Simpson agreed. “It would be terrible, though—terrible!”
“So are the other possibilities,” Cray pointed out. “Let’s work along this line—for a while. Would you mind letting me see this gate and garage you speak of?”
“No, certainly not,” the woman said, but it was plain that she thought the proceeding a senseless one. “I’ll show you.”
The lot was perhaps sixty feet wide, and one hundred and fifty feet deep, possibly more. The grass had not yet obtained a fair start, and the shrubs and trees were very small, although they had evidently been planted the season before.
The gravel drive ran along one side of the lot, from front to rear, and beside it, close to the rear fence, was the little, portable garage of which Mrs. Simpson had spoken. It was built of metal, as a precaution against fire, and when the detective tried the door, he found it locked.
“Your husband has the key, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Cray had noted the graveled surface of the drive on his way from the house, and had seen that it had not been used. There were footprints on the soft surface, but no evidence of tires.
“The garage has never been used, I suppose?” Cray inquired.
“Oh, no, Mr. Jones.”
“And no car has been driven into the yard?”
“No, sir.”
There was no doubt that she was telling the truth, so far as she was aware, but Cray had evidence that she was mistaken. To be sure, no car had been driven in from the front, but it was plain that one had entered the yard through the new back gate.
Evidently the machine had not entered the garage, but had halted in front of it, and had then been backed out again. The marks were not very recent, however, and at least one rain had fallen since they were made.
Cray walked on to the rear gate and peered over. There was a newly graded road beyond, and in its surface were the marks of other tires—or, rather, the marks of the same tires repeated several times, a number of sets of them being more recent than those in the yard. And all were made by tires of the sort in common use on electric machines.
“Been here often,” Cray concluded. “Hasn’t been in the yard but once, but has come as far as the gate on a number of occasions. Seems to have been undecided about something, or had cold feet. What’s more, unless I’m ’way off the track, that machine has been here not later than night before last, and those freshest marks look suspiciously as if they were made last night.”
He actually forgot Mrs. Simpson for the time being, and, opening the gate, passed through. He had seen something which interested him, the print of a rather small shoe in the soft ground just beyond the gate, where one would naturally have stood to open the gate from the outside.
The detective took a steel tape line from his pocket, and carefully measured the footprint. Incidentally, he gave the tire marks a close examination.
Soon he straightened up and looked about him. In doing so, he was more struck than ever with the isolation of the Simpson house. The spot where they stood was not overlooked by any other residence. There was another house within two or three hundred yards, to be sure, but it presented a blank wall on that side, evidently being designed to stand close to another one, which was yet to be built.
“Supposing the fellow had any motive to do it, he could come here in a noiseless electric at the dead of night, with lights turned off, and nobody would be the wiser,” Cray told himself. “And he could reach the hill here without passing through the center of the village itself.”
At that point, however, he glanced up at the rear of the Simpson house.
“How about his wife, though?” he went on to himself. “She evidently isn’t wise to any such thing, and yet there are plenty of windows here, at the rear—and not very far from the garage, either.”
That brought him back, and he rather awkwardly entered the yard, fearing that he might have betrayed curiosity of an altogether too professional character.
“A fellow can’t help trying to act like a detective, I guess, when he’s put on such a job like this,” he said, with a sheepish grin. “I see right now that I’m not in the same class with Nick Carter. Suppose I’ll have to try to keep up the bluff just the same, and ask some more fool questions—if you are not ready to throw me out.”
“Of course not, Mr. Jones,” the poor little woman assured him. “I only wish—”
The detective nodded. “I wish, too, that I could find him for you, Mrs. Simpson,” he said sincerely, and added, under his breath, “and for you alone.”
“May be I will—who knows?” he went on, gazing thoughtfully about. “By the way, where do you sleep, if I may ask? At the back of the house?”
CHAPTER XVII.
CRAY WIRES FOR “CARTER.”
It is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Simpson looked surprised at a question which appeared so irrelevant.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, “but I don’t see what in the world that has to do with Mr. Simpson’s absence.”
“Nothing, of course,” was the prompt response. “I’m trying to get at something else, Mrs. Simpson—I’m afraid I can’t tell you just what at present. Are you a light sleeper?”
“Yes, very.”
“I suppose your room is on the second floor, there, where those double windows are?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the windows are open these nights?”
“Of course—all of them. It has been very warm, you know.”
“Was that the room you originally planned to occupy?”
Mrs. Simpson looked amazed.
“Why, no, it wasn’t,” she confessed. “Naturally, the best bedroom is supposed to be at the front of the house. It has a big bay window, and gets the air from three sides. It’s so big, though, and seemed so lonesome after Mr. Simpson was gone, that I changed to this back one after the first night. But I don’t understand what’s in your mind, Mr. Jones.”
“Don’t try to, Mrs. Simpson,” he advised. “I have an idea, but I’m not free to share it yet, even with you. That’s all I care to look at here, Mrs. Simpson; let’s go back to the house.”
They went around to the front door, and the woman invited him in again somewhat reluctantly. He would have liked to get hold of a pair of Simpson’s shoes, but he did not dare ask that, feeling sure that she would smell a rat if he did.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I have imposed on you too much already.”
He paused for a moment, and went on, picking his words carefully.
“I suppose you haven’t got a very good opinion of my abilities along this line, Mrs. Simpson?” he said deprecatingly. “Mr. Griswold himself has thought fit to send me here, and I have an idea or two that I would like to test. It’s too soon to tell you what I believe, but I think I have a clue to your husband’s behavior. Will you help me to find out whether it’s good for anything, or not?”
“Of course, I will—I’ll do anything I can.”
“Then—it sounds like a mystery thriller, but the explanation is very simple—will you sleep in the front room for a night or two, and see that all the windows at the back are closed and dark?”
Mrs. Simpson looked at him as if she thought he had lost his senses, but she reluctantly agreed to do as he asked.
“Thanks ever so much,” Cray said uncomfortably. “I know how it sounds, but I have a notion that it will help.”
And, after a few more words, he left the house, being careful, however, to caution Mrs. Simpson to say nothing to any one concerning his peculiar request, or the trend of his inquiries.
Incidentally, he had secured from her the name of the garage at which Simpson had rented the car—an electric.
The ex-police detective’s manner, as he strode down the hill, was a very thoughtful one, but there was something triumphant about the swing of his shoulders and the carriage of his massive head.
In his opinion, he had done a good day’s work. Certainly, he had made some very curious discoveries, and if his theory were anywhere near correct, he had hopes of solving the mystery—and, incidentally, of capturing John Simpson, and recovering a large share of the stolen gold—before many hours had passed.
And the best of it was that he had done everything single-handed. To be sure, his friend Carter had advised his going to New Pelham first of all, but, beyond that, the great detective had had nothing to do with the affair, thus far.
“Carter will be sorry he didn’t get into the game at the start,” Cray told himself, with a satisfied grin. “If this thing goes through, as I hope it will, I’ll cop about all the credit there is. Too bad I called Carter in at all. If I had known what a cinch it was going to be, you can bet I would have handled it alone.”
He and Nick were great friends, but Cray saw no reason to hide his own light under a bushel for that reason. On the other hand, he well knew that Nick would rejoice in his success, and decline to take any credit or pay that did not rightfully belong to him.
He would have been less certain of the outcome, however, had he suspected that he was not dealing with Nick Carter at all, but with one of the most unscrupulous criminals in the country.
Cray found the garage easily enough, and lost no time getting down to business.
“Friend of mine, Mr. Simpson, rented a car here,” he said. “An electric. It looks pretty good to me. Is it still for hire?”
“No, sir,” the owner of the garage answered. “Didn’t you know I sold it to Mr. Simpson nearly a week ago?”
“The deuce you did!” ejaculated Cray. “That’s a new one on me. Haven’t seen Simpson lately.”
“Well, he liked the machine so much that he took it, after having it out several times. I’ve got other cars here for sale, but that was the only electric. There isn’t very much demand for them, you know.”
“It was an electric I wanted,” Cray told him, with apparent regret. “Like them quiet.”
“That’s what Mr. Simpson said,” the garage owner vouchsafed. “They may be quiet enough, but I like something a little faster and bigger. I’ve got a dandy Wellington here, sir, as good as new, that I’ll sell you for—”
“Nothing doing,” Cray interrupted. “Wife has set her heart on an electric, and you know what that means. Thanks just the same, though.”
They exchanged meaning glances, and Cray left the garage. As he walked along the main street, he whistled softly, but very cheerfully. The garage man’s hint as to Simpson’s reason for purchasing an electric car had served to strengthen his suspicions. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he was right, and the more eager he was to lay his amazing theory before Nick Carter.
He desired the great detective’s approval, and his cooperation in the last dramatic scene, which he hoped would take place that night. But again there would have been a fly in his honey had he known that another had arrived at practically the same conclusion by pure reasoning, and that that other was not Nick Carter, but an impostor and ex-convict, who was posing in Nick’s place.
Perhaps it is just as well that Jack Cray did not know that fact when he proceeded to the combined railroad station and telegraph office, and wrote out the following message:
“Nicholas Carter—Madison Avenue, New York: Come to New Pelham by 7:30 train this evening. Important. Will meet you.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
GORDON TACKLES NICK’S SAFE.
Green-eye Gordon stood looking at the safe that was built into the wall of Nick’s study, and, as he stared at it, his eyes were very greedy in expression.
For one thing, he felt certain that the famous detective kept money there—very likely a large sum—for, in Nick’s profession, it is often essential to lay one’s hands on plenty of cash at very short notice. Expensive journeys have to be undertaken on little warning, often at hours when the banks are closed, for instance, and there are many other ways in which ready money comes in handy. It remained to be seen, of course, whether the detective’s absence had made any difference in this respect.
This, however, was but a very small item in Gordon’s expectations.
As we have seen, he was after very much bigger game, in the shape of the secret records of Nick’s most important cases, records which he hoped would be the means of netting him a very much larger sum than that represented by the missing relief fund.
The rascal’s mouth fairly watered now as he thought of the possibilities. The possession of the papers he desired would mean a chance of blackmail, such as the world had never known. Until now, these papers had been perfectly safe in Nick Carter’s possession, but should they tail into Gordon’s hands, they would suddenly acquire a destructive power far more terrible than that of dynamite.
What a prospect! Aside from the enormous advantage which he expected to reap from it, Green Eye could conceive of no more effective retaliation for Nick’s part in sending him to prison.
“A fool would only think of killing Carter, or at most, of giving him a taste of physical torture,” thought the criminal. “But I can understand his point of view, and I know that the loss of such papers—and the use I shall make of them—will be infinitely worse than death itself in his eyes.”
Gordon started as he heard the front door open, and moved across the room. He felt sure that it was Mrs. Peters returning from her afternoon constitutional, and he wished to give her an order, but he paused, as he remembered the police dog. It would be better to have Prince out of the way before he sent for the housekeeper.
He waited ten minutes, therefore, before ringing the bell, and presently Mrs. Peters arrived, somewhat out of breath.
“If any one calls, say that I’m away,” the masquerader said sharply. “On no account am I to be disturbed by any one—by any one, mind you. If Joseph is about, tell him so, too.”
“Very well, sir,” Mrs. Peters answered. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Despite Green Eye’s eagerness to get at the safe, he remembered Prince’s alarming behavior, and narrowly watched the housekeeper’s face. He felt sure she could not deceive him. If she had the slightest suspicion that all was not as it should be, her face and manner would be sure to reveal the fact.
