The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 42
The body sagged to one side from weakness, and when the millionaire turned it over to get at the wrists, he found them encircled by handcuffs, instead of ropes.
“Great Scott!” he muttered. “This is certainly a strange state of affairs.”
It looked as if Simpson had been caught by Cray—or perhaps by Cray and Nick Carter together—and that subsequently the detective had been set upon by others. That would account for Cray’s condition, and it might be that Nick had been carried off. Had the prisoner been locked in the garage, however, before that attack had taken place? If not, it seemed hard to explain, unless the mysterious assailants had not been accomplices of his at all, but had worked independently.
The newspaper proprietor propped Simpson up again, none too gently.
“I can’t get these handcuffs off,” he said. “Speak, man, as soon as you can, and tell me what happened? Where’s the money?”
John Simpson looked about him as if he did not quite understand. As a matter of fact, his experiences had left his faculties more or less benumbed for the time being.
Griswold had to repeat his question in a more peremptory tone.
“The money is gone,” Simpson managed to say at last, after several futile efforts and much moistening of the lips. “I—I had it here.”
“Go on, go on!” Griswold urged, bending eagerly, with clenched hands.
“I had come in the car to carry it away to—to a new hiding place I had found,” the absconding treasurer explained with difficulty. “It was all in the car—two suit cases full of it—when a couple of fellows pounced on me.”
“Two, eh?”
“Yes, one was rather tall and very broad and powerful—”
“Cray!” put in Griswold.
“Yes, he told me that after I was handcuffed,” Simpson agreed, “and he said the other man was Nick Carter.”
“So Carter was here? I wonder what’s happened to him? When did the others butt in, Simpson, and who were they?”
The handcuffed man looked up at him in bewilderment.
“I don’t know anything about any others,” he declared, with evident sincerity.
“But there must have been others. Cray was found outside here this morning, with his head nearly mashed in. Didn’t you hear anything after they shut you up. You didn’t go to sleep right away, did you, after that sort of thing? Did you have any accomplice?”
The treasurer shook his head in a dazed sort of way. “Nobody else had any hand in what I did, Mr. Griswold,” he said. “As for falling asleep, I guess you wouldn’t have done that very quickly if you had been in my place. I did doze off after daylight, but that was all.”
There could be no doubt that he was telling the truth. “Probably you were in a deep, exhausted sleep when they found Cray,” he said. “The yard seems to have been full of people then.”
“I did hear a dog barking,” Simpson admitted finally. “It partially aroused me, but I dropped off again. Maybe that was the time.”
“Then you haven’t the slightest idea of what happened after you were locked up here?” persisted Griswold.
“Why, I guess I could explain that,” the thief replied slowly, as if he were just beginning to realize what it all meant. “It must have been Nick Carter who—”
“Who did what?”
“Who put the other fellow out of business.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
SUSPICION FALLS ON NICK.
“For the love of Heaven!” exclaimed Lane Griswold, in a shocked voice. “You are crazy, Simpson, or lying! Do you actually mean to charge Carter, who is one of the greatest detectives we have in this country, and a man who is absolutely above suspicion in every way, with having turned on his friend and associate, Cray, and then made off with the money?”
Simpson’s air was one of injury. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not lying,” he answered. “I’m telling you, or am ready to tell you, just what I know, and all I know. You’ve got me where you want me. Is it likely that I’d do anything to get in deeper than I am?”
“Then, tell me about it—everything.”
“Well, it isn’t much, and I didn’t actually see anything. I heard things, though—more than I was intended to, I guess. They tied me up here, and then, while Carter was looking at the money in the suit cases which I had already got in the car, Cray dug over there to make sure that there wasn’t any of it still buried. When he got through, Carter called him to come out, saying that he had something to tell him that he didn’t want me to hear.”
“Where was Carter then?”
“He wasn’t in sight. He had stepped to the corner out there, just back of where the car was. You can see that he could not have been many feet from here, so it was easy enough for me to hear things.”
“Well?”
“Well, Cray went out, leaving the door open behind him. The next thing I knew, I heard a queer sort of dull thud, and pricked up my ears. It sounded as if somebody had been hit, perhaps with a fist, or, more likely, with something else.
“Of course, I didn’t know then which man had done it, but I suspected that Carter had, because he had called Cray out. The blow must have given Cray something to think about, for there was a pause before I heard him say ‘Mr. Carter!’—just like that. He said it as if his best friend had turned on him, and he didn’t know what to make of it. I guess Carter must have tried to hit him again right away, for they had a little tussle. It did not amount to much, because, as I figured it out, Cray must have got a pretty nasty blow that first time, and there wasn’t very much fight in him. He must have done something, however, for the other fellow snarled, ‘Curse you; take that, then!’ and rapped him again, as I could tell by the sound. Still Cray was not down and out. They clinched, apparently, and then Cray muttered something, or whispered it in a hoarse sort of whisper. I couldn’t hear all of it, but it was something about ‘green-eyed.’ That seemed to make Carter more furious than ever, so far as I could tell. He cursed Cray some more, and seemed to strike him again and again. That was the end of it. Carter locked me in then, and I think he dragged Cray around the garage before he drove off.”
Lane Griswold had been listening with all his ears throughout this recital, his face the picture of amazement and incredulity. Incidentally, his keen eyes seemed to search Simpson’s very soul.
The man was a thief, and might easily be a liar as well. What possible motive could he have for lying, however? The millionaire could think of only one, and that seemed far-fetched. It was conceivable, of course, that, despite all the probabilities, John Simpson might have had one or more confederates who had struck down Cray, and carried the loot off to some new place of concealment. In that case, the treasurer’s story might be made up out of whole cloth.
But after a brief mental consideration of this, the millionaire rejected the theory. If Simpson had had any one to help him, surely he would not have remained tied up there in a locked garage to starve, or be caught by those who were searching for him.
Even if he had actually been surprised and handcuffed by Cray before the arrival of his friends, the latter would not have left him there to such an uncertain fate. After giving the detective his quietus, they would have carried Simpson off with them, handcuffs and all, and found a means of releasing him later on.
No, the man must be telling the truth. He had suffered great hardships, and he was face to face with the employer he had defrauded. Surely, he was not the sort of man to lie under such circumstances, especially after having confessed to hiding the money under the earthen floor of the garage.
But if he had told the truth, and had not misinterpreted what he heard—which seemed unlikely—what could it possibly mean, except that the sight of so much gold had proved too much for the great detective, and that he had turned criminal.
Griswold faced the possibility very reluctantly, but he felt obliged to face it. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was the one and only solution.
As a newspaper proprietor, he knew a great deal about the seamy side of life, and was the custodian of many discreditable secrets which for one reason or another had never been allowed to see the light of print. He did not need any one to tell him that all is not gold that glitters, or that a man is necessarily straight in every respect because he has never been found out in any wrongdoing, and has always enjoyed the best of reputations.
As far as that went, this might not be Carter’s first fall from grace. The detective was undoubtedly an extraordinarily clever man, and was said to be wealthy. Might it not be that he had contrived for years to deceive his clients, and fatten his bank account at their expense?
The thought made Griswold gasp, but at the same time it caused his heart to race with excitement.
What a beat it would be if his papers could announce exclusively that Nick Carter, one of America’s greatest detectives, and the so-called “archenemy of criminals,” was in reality a master criminal himself! It would cause a sensation, the like of which had never been known.
Of course, Griswold confided none of this to the man before him. Instead, with the instinct of the reporter, which had never deserted him since his early days of struggle, he surprised Simpson with a question.
“Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.
The thieving treasurer’s mind had reverted to his own troubles, and it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together sufficiently to answer.
“Why, I—I hardly know what to think, Mr. Griswold,” he replied. “It’s pretty hard to reconcile that sort of thing with what I’ve always heard and read about Nick Carter, but I have to believe my own ears, don’t I? The money seems to have looked good to Carter, just as it did to me, but that wasn’t all of it, I’m sure.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m thinking about that whisper of the other fellow’s,” Simpson explained. “I told you, remember, that he said something about ‘green-eyed.’ We use that expression in only one connection, don’t we, in speaking of ‘green-eyed jealousy?’ Don’t that look as if Cray was accusing Carter of turning on him because he was jealous of him for some reason?”
Griswold was impressed. “That sounds plausible enough,” he admitted.
He was unconsciously allowing himself to be led still further astray, and it began to look as if the outcome might be decidedly unpleasant for the great detective, for the owner of a chain of great newspapers is not an accuser who can be ignored or despised.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
GRISWOLD IN COMMAND.
The millionaire remained lost in thought for a few moments longer, then grasped Simpson firmly by the arm.
“Come into the house,” he ordered.
“But—but these, sir!” his former subordinate stammered, nodding over his shoulder, and moving his hands so that the chain of the handcuffs rattled.
For the moment Griswold had forgotten his desire for secrecy. To be sure, if he could expose Nick, he would be willing to have all the facts come out, but he knew that he would have to be very sure of himself and his facts before publishing any such charge against a man of the detective’s reputation; consequently, he would have to delay, in the hope that Cray would be able to tell his side of the story, and until then it was desirable that no rumors should be set in motion.
Therefore, he slipped off his motor coat and threw it like a cloak over Simpson’s bowed shoulders.
“Come!” he commanded again.
And with shuffling steps, his head down, John Simpson accompanied him to the house, but went through the kitchen, instead of going around to the front door.
“Thank Heaven!” the maid cried, as she caught sight of her employer. “Mr. Simpson! Is it really you? I must run and tell Mrs. Simpson right this minute!”
“No, no, Mary!” the wretched man protested weakly. “Not—not yet! I wish to surprise her.”
Griswold had not told Simpson that the injured detective was in the house, but now he led the thieving treasurer to the room in which Cray lay. He said nothing about his object, because he wished to see if Simpson would recognize the patient at once.
If he did so without hesitation, and spoke of him as Cray, that would go far to indicate the truth of his story, for if Cray had been struck down under other circumstances, this unexpected sight of him might well cause a momentary confusion.
The spectacle was, indeed, unlooked for, but though surprised, Simpson did not appear to be in the least embarrassed.
“Yes, that’s the fellow who called himself Cray,” he said, with a nod. “He was the one that jumped on me first, and the other, Carter, gagged me. He certainly seems to be in pretty bad shape.”
The doctor looked at him in the greatest surprise. He had never met Simpson, for the latter had moved to the hill very recently. He knew him by sight, however.
“You may or may not know that this is John Simpson himself, Doctor Lord,” the newspaper proprietor said bruskly. “I found him locked up in the garage just now. I’ll make it worth your while, however, to keep a discreet tongue in your head.”
The young physician’s shoulders went back proudly.
“I accept remuneration for professional services only, Mr. Griswold,” he said crisply. “I hope I can be trusted not to blab anything I may learn while attending a case.”
“I meant no offense, I assure you, doctor,” Griswold hastened to say. “I merely—”
“Wished to remind me of something you should have taken for granted,” the doctor cut in. “Please say no more about it, though.”
Then Lane Griswold did another unexpected thing. He held out his hand with an apologetic smile, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doctor Lord gripped it firmly.
A moment later Griswold led Simpson into another room and closed the door.
“Look here, Simpson,” he said, without preliminaries, “I’ve been grievously disappointed in you, but we’ll let that pass. I’m done with you, and your dismissal is waiting for you at the office. I want to hear no excuses. As for prosecution, however, you have doubtless counted on immunity from that, and I regret to say that you haven’t counted in vain—unless this new complication makes it worth while to air the whole thing for the sake of a supreme newspaper sensation. For your wife’s sake, I’ll let you know about that as soon as possible. Meanwhile, I shall see that you are under observation all the time. You can’t get away, for I may want you locked up. If I don’t, you’ll soon be free to do what you please and go where you please.”
“I—yes, sir,” was all Simpson was able to say, and he had to swallow more than once before he could utter those words.
“Now you had better go to your wife.”
“But these handcuffs, sir!” Simpson again protested.
“You should have thought of the possibility of such adornments before you made away with that fund,” Griswold told him sternly. “Don’t imagine that your wife doesn’t know what you have been up to, for she does. Still, it isn’t her fault, and I would not like to see her needlessly distressed. Perhaps there’s a key to the handcuffs in Cray’s pockets.”
There was, and Simpson was freed from the humiliating shackles before he went upstairs to face his wife.
Griswold watched his halting progress, then sought the young doctor once more.
“It’s important that this man should be able to talk as soon as possible—if he’s ever going to,” he said. “If you desire to consult with any one, no matter what his price, do so, and I’ll be responsible. You may also look to me for your fee, and I wish you would get the best of trained nurses you can procure—one whose discretion you can rely upon. While you are with the patient, listen carefully for anything he may say, and make a note of it, whether it seems delirious or not. Request the nurse to do the same, and see that I’m notified by phone as soon as Cray is able to be questioned for five minutes.”
“Very well, Mr. Griswold.”
“One thing more. If the patient should become lucid at any time, and you or the nurse should have reason to believe that he may lapse into this same condition in a few minutes, ask him just one question and jot down his answer.”
“And that question?”
“Ask him who is responsible for his injuries—who struck him down.”
Doctor Lord agreed to do so if the opportunity offered, and, after coming to that understanding, the millionaire reëntered his waiting car.
“New York,” he ordered, giving Nick Carter’s address.
CHAPTER XXXV.
A TRAP IS SET FOR NICK.
Lane Griswold had telephoned to the detective’s house only once, and then had been told that the detective had not returned since the previous evening. It might be, however, that Nick was there by this time.
Nothing in Simpson’s story indicated that Nick had met with any mishap, and it was improbable that a man of his daring and resourcefulness would take to his heels at once simply because he had become a thief. It was much more probable that he would return home and bluff it out to the end.
In that case, Griswold hoped to corner him, and, under threat of country-wide exposure, force him to confess—after which an exposure would be likely to follow, anyway.
The millionaire’s face was flushed and determined as he strode up the detective’s steps and pressed the electric button in peremptory fashion.
Joseph, the butler, opened the door.
“Is Mr. Carter in?” Griswold demanded.
“No, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I can’t say when he’ll be back, either.”
“I telephoned from New Pelham a couple of hours ago,” Griswold went on. “I was told then that he had left the house last evening, and had not returned. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you know where he is?”
“No, sir. He was going to New Pelham on the seven-thirty train, however.”
“He was, eh? That’s significant.”
He had sized up the butler, and decided that he was telling the truth. If necessary, he would try diplomacy. If he could get hold of Nick’s assistants, he told himself, he might obtain some valuable pointers.
