The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 40
Immediately Green Eye bent over him and switched on his flash light.
“Curse you, curse you!” he reiterated wildly, striking Cray’s unprotected head again and again, apparently with all his might.
He had no definite intention of killing the detective, but he was seeing red just then, and did not care in the least how hard he struck. As a matter of fact, he was inclined to believe that he had murdered his victim, and he actually hoped that he had, for Cray’s recognition of him had enraged him beyond measure.
On the other hand, that sort of thing had never been in his line. He had prided himself on his ability to succeed without resorting to such extremes, and for that reason he shrank from any attempt to ascertain definitely whether Jack Cray were living or dead.
Besides, he was naturally impatient to be off with the gold, and away from this place where he had momentarily forgotten himself.
Accordingly, he rose from his knees, without another glance at the unconscious man, and, pocketing his weapon, returned to the door of the garage. The prisoner could not have seen what took place; but, as the attack had occurred just at the corner of the little building, and within a few feet of the door, it was quite possible that he had heard enough to reconstruct the whole scene, despite the remarkable quietness which had prevailed.
That, however, could not be helped, and as Gordon planned to lock the absconding treasurer in the garage, he did not anticipate any immediate trouble from that direction.
Moreover, Cray had, so to speak, introduced himself and his companion to Simpson, speaking of Gordon as Nick Carter, of course. That promised to furnish the basis of a nice mystery.
Green Eye found the prisoner almost fainting with terror, and finished the work already begun, by fastening him in such a way that he could not budge from his place, or make any noise to amount to anything.
“This will have to be your cell for the present, Simpson,” he informed the trembling thief. “Don’t worry, though, you’ll find yourself in a real one, before long.”
And he turned his back on the wretched man and stalked out, pushing the door to and locking it behind him.
Cray remained to be disposed of, but Gordon had not forgotten that fact. He had had no intention of placing the two men in the garage, for he considered that unwise, on general principles. If Cray were dead, as he believed, the presence of the body might drive Simpson to extraordinary exertions, and thus bring about a premature discovery. On the other hand, if Jack were still alive, the two men might find means of communicating with or helping each other.
What then?
Naturally it occurred to the criminal that it might be well to bundle Cray into the car and carry him for some distance from the scene of the affair before attempting to dispose of the body. A moment’s thought caused him to veto that plan, however.
The car was not overlarge, and if Cray’s bulk were added to that of the two gold-laden suit cases, the interior of the electric machine would be overcrowded.
Furthermore, the upholstery was rather light in hue, and Gordon was afraid of bloodstains.
On the whole, therefore, he decided to leave his victim in the yard, but to conceal him as well as he could.
To that end, he dragged Jack’s inert form around the corner of the garage to a point close beside the lumber pile. Then very quietly he began removing boards from the top of the pile and placing them in another and narrower pile just on the other side of the body.
When he had raised this smaller pile to the required height, he began placing more boards in such a way that each one projected an inch or so beyond the one below it, thus forming a sort of arch over Cray’s outstretched form—a one-sided arch that soon touched the original pile of lumber and leaned against it more or less securely.
“There!” Green Eye muttered. “Now he can’t be seen from the house or the road here at the back. The ends are open, to be sure, but I can’t help that. I haven’t anything here to cover the openings. All I ask, though, is a start of a few hours, and that I shall certainly have.”
As best he could, he obliterated the track he had left in dragging Cray to the lumber pile, after which he climbed into the machine, disposed of the precious suit cases to the best advantage, and touched the starting lever.
He had not yet turned on the lights of the car, but the hours he had spent in the gloom had thoroughly accustomed his eyes to the darkness, and, therefore, he had no trouble in guiding the easily controlled car out through the gate and into the road beyond.
There he brought it to a stop, and, returning hastily, obliterated the tire marks in front of the garage and such of his own footprints as he could find. He did not wish to use his flash light too much, however; therefore, it is quite possible that the job was not a very thorough one.
Finally he passed through the gate, closed it, and reëntered the car, which quietly purred away into the night.
Green-eye Gordon’s extraordinary daring had put him into possession of a fortune of close to seventy-five thousand dollars, at least, as well as a bundle of papers which might yield him several times that amount.
He had robbed a thief and left the latter an unofficial prisoner, doomed to starvation, in all probability, if he were not soon found.
And he had murderously assaulted Jack Cray and left him, a battered and bleeding hulk, supposedly dead.
It was quite a day’s work, and Green-eye Gordon may be excused for feeling considerably elated. His work was full of holes, however, and far from detection-proof, as Nick Carter could have proved to him in short order.
The question was, would Nick have the chance in time to avoid a chase around the world?
CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT THE DOG BARKED AT.
About half past six the following morning, Mrs. Simpson’s maid, who had slept out, let herself into the house with her latchkey and quietly made her way to the kitchen.
As usual, her first act was to open the door and windows, for the weather was warm. In doing so, she was attracted by a disturbance in the back yard, and realized that she had heard a dog barking furiously as she came along the street and through the house.
She had paid no particular attention to the persistent barking, but now that she found the animal was in the rear of the Simpson lot, and acting very strangely, her curiosity was fully aroused.
She did not know the dog. It was brownish in hue, collarless, and neglected in appearance. Obviously it was a stray animal which had found its way there on a foraging expedition.
Now, however, its original errand had been completely forgotten, and the greatest excitement had taken its place.
The creature was running from one end of the lumber pile to the other—always being careful to remain at a respectful distance—and was giving vent to an unending series of frenzied barks.
The open country lay just beyond the Simpson house, and the girl’s first thought was that some small-game animal had taken refuge in some cranny of the lumber. Urged on by her curiosity, she stepped out of the house and started toward the rear of the yard.
“It’s a rabbit, mebbe, or a squirrel,” she told herself. “Why don’t the fool dig at it, though, instead of yelping its head off?”
But by that time she had reached a point from which she could get a view of the rear end of the lumber pile. Suddenly she halted in her tracks.
“For the love of Heaven!” she muttered. “That’s funny! Who’s been monkeying with that lumber? It’s been piled over in the night, or some of it has been swiped, and they’ve left a hole underneath. That’s where the mutt’s rabbit, or whatever it is, is making itself scarce.”
Vaguely disturbed by her surprising discovery, she approached the spot more slowly.
“There seems to be as much lumber as ever,” she decided, “but what does it mean? Who would have taken the trouble to do that—in the dead of night, too—if he wasn’t up to some mischief?”
Now the dog caught sight of her and came running forward. She shooed him away, and he began barking at her, but the barks now had a pleading note in them, and again and again he ran back to the pile of lumber.
“He wants me to help him, the poor boob!” the girl thought, with a pitying smile. “Ain’t that just like a fool dog?”
But she advanced a little farther, somewhat warily, and sniffing the air as she did so. Certainly it was not a skunk that had been cornered, and it was not likely that the creature was ferocious.
Having finally arrived within six or eight feet of the end of the pile, the maid stooped cautiously and peered into the little tunnel. A moment later, she gave a piercing scream, picked up her skirts, and fled to the house.
Again and again she raised her voice as she ran, but fortunately her vocal efforts did not again touch the high-water mark of that first cry, which, as it proved, had awakened Mrs. Simpson.
The girl scuttled through the lower part of the house, and was flying up the stairs, when her mistress appeared at the top of the first flight.
“What in the world is the matter, Mary?” Mrs. Simpson demanded.
As she put the question, she clutched at her heart, for her thoughts had instinctively gone to her missing husband, and she imagined that the maid must have had some news of Simpson, or, perhaps, had even found his body on the front doorstep.
Naturally, therefore, the girl’s information was not reassuring.
“Oh, Mrs. Simpson!” she cried. “There’s been a murder as sure as you live! There’s a dead man under that pile of lumber in the back yard! I saw his feet!”
Mrs. Simpson’s face was as white as her nightdress.
“Merciful Heaven!” she breathed, horror in her eyes. “I knew it—it’s Mr. Simpson! Oh, how can I bear it, how can I bear it!”
And she clutched the banister for support.
Fortunately, however, the girl knew better than that, even in her fright, and said so at once.
“No, no, it ain’t Mr. Simpson!” she said pityingly, patting her mistress’ heaving shoulder. “This man’s got big feet, Mrs. Simpson. His shoes ain’ a bit like your husband’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain sure, ma’am.”
“Thank Heaven!” the frightened woman cried fervently. “It’s terrible enough, though, if what you say is true. Call the neighbors, get some man here as quick as you can. I’ll dress while you’re gone.”
The maid ran downstairs on the new errand, and Mrs. Simpson returned to her bedroom. Five minutes later, she left the house by the rear door, wrapped in a long kimono.
The servant’s errand had already borne fruit, for, although the girl herself was not in sight, a man in his shirt sleeves and with dangling suspenders was just climbing over the side fence.
“What’s this I hear about a dead man, Mrs. Simpson?” he called out, as he caught sight of her. “Your girl wasn’t very coherent, but I caught something about the lumber pile in the back yard.”
Mrs. Simpson hurried to him and pointed to the pile of boards.
“There it is,” she explained nervously. “Mary says a man is underneath, and I can see that something has been done to the pile since yesterday. That hole wasn’t there then.”
The dog was still keeping up his incessant noise as they approached, and the neighbor found it impossible to drive him away. Mrs. Simpson stopped at some distance, and the man went on.
He, too, stopped and peered into the opening under the pile, but laid his hand on it in order to do so. After a prolonged scrutiny, he straightened up.
“There’s a man under there,” he said soberly. “You had better go to the house, Mrs. Simpson. This is no place for you.”
Confronted by this emergency, however, the fugitive’s wife showed unexpected courage.
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” she said. “The poor fellow may not be dead yet, for all we know, and unless the sight is too terrible, I shall remain to help you. Besides, he’ll have to be brought into the house, anyway, so why shouldn’t I see him now?”
“Of course, if you feel that way about it, Mrs. Simpson, stay, by all means,” the neighbor replied, turning and beginning to throw the boards back.
In half a minute he was joined by a couple of other men, while the maid and several other women appeared. These latter kept at a distance, however, and, in response to their urgings, Mrs. Simpson joined them.
The combined efforts of the men resulted in uncovering Cray’s body in almost no time. The sight that met the rescuers’ gaze was a distressing one, for the detective’s face was battered and bloody, and there did not appear at first to be any life in his big body. One of the men examined him, however, and presently announced that he was still alive.
“I wouldn’t give much for his chances,” he said, shaking his head, “but he isn’t dead, that’s certain. I’ll go for Doctor Lord.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
“THE GREENISH EYES!”
Doctor Lord was a young man, with next to no practice, who had recently moved into one of the new houses on the hill. It was easier, therefore, to go for him in person than to stop to telephone.
In the meantime, the women were reassured and thrilled by the announcement that Cray still lived, and Mrs. Simpson at once took steps to care for him.
She had sent the maid to the house for a basin of warm water and some towels. With these at hand, Mrs. Simpson herself knelt beside the unfortunate man and tenderly wiped the blood from his forehead and face.
Not until then had she recognized him, but when she did so, she gave a great start, and an audible gasp escaped her.
The other women were crowding around then, and her behavior was not lost on them.
“What’s the matter?” they demanded. “Do you actually know him?”
Mrs. Simpson bitterly regretted her display of emotion. Fear seemed to be squeezing her heart with icy fingers. In the background of her mind a foreboding had been lurking for days. Her instincts had told her that there was something strange and sinister about her husband’s disappearance—something which the office had not seen fit to reveal to her.
Now she recalled all of Cray’s strange questions and stranger actions.
“He’s a detective!” she told herself. “I was right. John is in trouble, and this man must have set a trap for him last night. If he dies, John will be his murderer. Oh, how could he do it! And Heaven pity me, how can I stand it!”
She was the soul of honor herself, however, and simply did not know how to lie.
“Yes, I recognize him now,” she admitted reluctantly. “I never saw him until yesterday, though, and I don’t know what he was doing here last night—if he was here. He’s a Mr. Jones from my husband’s office, and he said they had sent him to see if he could help find Mr. Simpson.”
The young doctor arrived at that juncture, and, at his request, Mrs. Simpson repeated the information for his benefit as he worked over Cray.
“You don’t know where he lives, then, or anything about his people?”
“No, but they would naturally know about that at the newspaper office, wouldn’t they?”
“That’s true. You had better telephone there, then—or somebody had. This poor fellow has had a terrible battering. Fortunately his skull is very tough, but though I can’t be sure at present, I fear it has been fractured, in spite of that. If so, the outcome is problematical, and he may not recover in any case.”
He rose to his feet.
“But the first thing to do is to get him into the house,” he declared. “Have you a bed or a couch on the first floor, Mrs. Simpson?”
“Yes, there’s a couch, doctor.”
“Good! Make that ready for him, then, and we’ll bring him right in.”
Mrs. Simpson and the maid rushed away to do the young physician’s bidding, and several women accompanied them. The men waited for perhaps five minutes, in order to allow time to get the couch in readiness. Then they lifted Cray’s inert bulk as carefully as they could and bore it slowly toward the house.
It was no easy task, for the detective weighed close to two hundred pounds, but their united efforts were equal to it, and the unconscious man was soon lying, partially undressed, on the comfortable couch in one of the lower rooms.
A little later, every one had left the house, with the exception of the doctor, who continued to work over Cray for some time.
“I’ve done all I can at present, Mrs. Simpson,” he announced finally. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll stay with him for the present, so that I shall be on hand if any change comes.”
He paused and smiled frankly.
“You see, I’m not overburdened with practice,” he explained, “and under the circumstances, I’m inclined to make as much out of this case as I can—in the way of experience, I mean.”
That promised to relieve the woman of a great deal of responsibility, and she accepted the suggestion readily enough, although she would have preferred, if possible, that no outsider should have access to the patient.
“I’m afraid you had better telephone to the office, though, before breakfast,” the doctor went on. “As yet, there’s no knowing how this case is going to turn out, and this poor fellow’s friends may live out of New York, in some other direction. In that case, there’s a possibility that it will take hours for them to reach here.”
“I’ll telephone at once,” Mrs. Simpson assured him, “and, meanwhile, Mary will be getting breakfast. You must join me in the dining room, doctor, or let her bring you something here.”
She intended to play the part that had been thrust upon her as well as she could, even though her mind was filled with all sorts of tragic possibilities.
Fortunately there was a telephone in the house, and, after considerable delay, Mrs. Simpson got in touch with the office of the New York Chronicle and Observer. To her regret, however, she could find no one who knew anything about an employee by the name of Jones who answered her description.
It was explained, however, that the hour was a very early one, and that the business offices would not be open until eight-thirty.
