The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 44
Nick nodded.
“That’s precisely what I feel obliged to think,” he answered.
“But—but Gordon is in prison, isn’t he? No, by Heaven, he’s dead! I had forgotten for the moment, but he died in that fire up at Dannemora a short time ago. Don’t you remember?”
“That was the report,” Nick admitted readily, “and naturally I accepted it at the time, as every one else did. This astounding information you have just given me, however, puts a very different face on the matter. I believe Gordon would have been capable of that sort of thing—in fact, I have evidence of similar stunts pulled off by him in the past. Furthermore, I know of no one else with a criminal record who would have been capable of such a performance—and no one without a long criminal experience would have dared do such a thing. Finally, we have Simpson’s testimony, which seems plain enough to me. When Cray was first attacked, he naturally assumed that his assailant was I, and he spoke my name in dazed incredulity. The next moment, however, overwhelming doubt would naturally have assailed him, and, under the influence of that, he must have obtained a closer glimpse in some way. Or it may be that the scoundrel betrayed himself unconsciously. Jack was about all in by that time, but he had strength enough to whisper his enemy’s name. He wasn’t talking about green-eyed jealousy, you may be sure, but about Green-eye Gordon!”
“Very ingenious,” Griswold admitted doubtfully.
“How could such a mistake have been made at the prison, however? The report of Gordon’s death has never been corrected.”
“Probably because its inaccuracy has never been discovered,” Nick told him. “A convict was burned unrecognizably, and the remains were identified only by the number on the coat. Another convict escaped and hasn’t been recaptured. Isn’t it easy enough to believe that a man of Gordon’s stamp might have seen a fellow prisoner succumb to the choking fumes, and, under cover of the excitement, might have managed to exchange coats without being discovered?”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NICK DISCOVERS HIS LOSS.
“By George!” ejaculated Lane Griswold.
He was beginning to see light.
“Is this Gordon of the same height and build as yourself?” he asked eagerly a moment later.
“Quite near enough for the purpose, as I recall,” Nick replied. “More than that, he’s a master of make-up, and would have had very little trouble in copying my features. His eyes are light, nondescript, to be sure, but—”
“Then I don’t see how it would have been possible for him to have fooled everybody in that fashion,” the millionaire objected.
“The human eye is far from perfect, Mr. Griswold,” Nick reminded him. “Besides, we have to allow always for the action of the mind behind it—that mind which interprets everything it sees. In short, we generally see what we expect to see. Such a successful masquerade appears little short of miraculous to one who isn’t a special student of such things, but it’s far from an impossibility. My butler and housekeeper, and Cray himself, had no reason to suppose that it was not I they were seeing; therefore, as I had been a familiar sight to them for years, they would never have thought of examining the masquerader. They merely gave him fleeting glances, and as those glances did not detect any glaring defect, that was all there was to it.”
Nick paused and smiled.
“Well, are you as sure as ever that I’m a rascal?” he asked.
The newspaper proprietor held out his hand with an embarrassed air.
“I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me, Mr. Carter, for making such an accusation,” he said apologetically. “You may be sure I shall never forgive myself. I ought to have known better, of course, and I’m very much ashamed that I didn’t.”
“Say no more, please!” the detective cried heartily, grasping the millionaire’s hand and giving it a good shake. “I don’t blame you—I can’t. There didn’t seem to be any other way out. Here we are, though, at the house. Will you come in, Mr. Griswold? Then, a little later, we can go up to New Pelham together, if you wish, and see if poor Cray is any better? Naturally, I’m anxious to get his side of the story, in order to make sure that he really did identify Green Eye.”
“That program suits me,” Griswold responded. “Naturally, if a man of Gordon’s stamp has got hold of the fund, the chances of recovering the money are slimmer than ever, and if you are willing to undertake the case, there’s no time to be lost.”
“Of course, I shall undertake it,” Nick assured him. “You could not drive me off with an ax. My honor and reputation are involved, and, under the circumstances, I shall refuse to accept a fee.
“No, that’s final,” he insisted, in response to Griswold’s objections. “I trust, however, that you will fully recompense Cray, no matter whether he does anything more or not. He has earned it.”
They had reached the detective’s study by that time, and Nick and his lieutenant were gazing about curiously. In a moment the former stepped forward and snatched up a pair of gloves that lay on the desk.
“Look here, Chick!” he cried. “These are from my room up in Harlem. I see I shall have to move it. I didn’t dream that any one had discovered it, but Gordon must have done so, it appears, before he was sent up.”
Chick, meanwhile, had approached the safe, and was just about to examine it, when his chief called his attention to the gloves. Now he returned and pushed away the chair that Green Eye had placed in front of it.
“Good heavens, chief!” he ejaculated a moment later. “He’s broken into your safe!”
Nick reached the spot in one bound, and, after glancing at the makeshift which Green Eye had employed to hide his handiwork, he pulled the great door open, and, bending, pressed the spring that operated the inner one.
The latter in turn clicked open, was seized, and drawn back.
A momentary glance revealed several empty pigeonholes, and a confused mass of papers in others.
“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Nick, clenching his fists and raising them aloft, while his face became as white as a sheet. “The fiend has taken what he wanted here! I wouldn’t have had this happen for anything in the world. It means—Heaven knows what it doesn’t mean!”
His assistant realized only too well what the catastrophe foreshadowed, but, for the time being, he was stricken dumb. He could only look from Nick’s shocked face to the gaping safe.
But, of course, Griswold did not fully comprehend, and managed to put his foot in it again.
“It’s too bad that you have lost any valuable papers,” he said. “I have lost eighty thousand dollars, though, and the sooner you get on the trail of the fellow, the better.”
Nick turned on him with a look of scorn. “What do I care about your infernal eighty thousand dollars!” he demanded fiercely, his patience exhausted at last. “It doesn’t amount to a row of pins—or oughtn’t to, at any rate. The papers in this safe, though—the most valuable of which have doubtless been stolen—involve the honor and peace of mind of scores of men and women who are prominent in all walks of life. Don’t you understand, man? They are my private and most confidential records, covering the most important cases of years—records which would mean hundreds of thousands of dollars to the blackmailer. And that isn’t all, for if used in that way, as this fellow doubtless intends to use them, and will, if he isn’t prevented at once, they will bring anguish to a great many people. Finally, the fact that they have fallen into unscrupulous hands will work me more harm than anything else could possibly do.”
His anger against Griswold had cooled while he was speaking, however.
“But, fortunately,” he went on in a calmer tone. “We have every reason to believe that your gold is in the same hands as my papers; therefore, the trail isn’t likely to fork.”
“That’s it,” Griswold agreed eagerly. “I beg your pardon again, Carter. I didn’t realize what this loss meant to you and others. It gives you a supreme incentive, however, to go after the fellow.”
Before he could add more, the desk phone rang, and Chick answered it.
“Yes, this is Mr. Carter’s house,” the young detective said. “You are speaking from Mr. Griswold’s office? Yes, Mr. Griswold is here. Do you wish to speak to him?... All right, I understand. I’ll tell him at once. Good-by.”
The receiver clicked back into its place, and Chick turned to the expectant listeners.
“They say that the doctor has phoned from Simpson’s house, at New Pelham, Mr. Griswold,” he said. “Cray is conscious at last.”
“Good!” ejaculated Nick. “You and I will go there at once, Chick. How about you, Mr. Griswold? Will you come along?”
“Certainly,” was the prompt answer.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
CRAY’S LIPS ARE UNSEALED.
Despite his eagerness to see his friend Cray, and to get on the fugitive’s trail, Nick remained at the house long enough to draft a telegram to the warden of Clinton Prison, asking for further details concerning the supposed death of Green-eye Gordon, and the escape of one of the prisoners on the night of the fire.
The message was given to the butler, who was asked to phone it at once to the telegraph office.
“They may have facts up there which they have been keeping from the public,” Nick explained. “Even seemingly valueless facts may assume great importance in the light of what has happened down here, for that matter.”
Meanwhile, one of Nick’s fastest cars had been ordered around, and now the familiar honk-honk was heard.
“There’s the machine,” Nick announced. “Come on.”
It was plain to be seen that both Nick and his assistant were laboring under unusual excitement. The chauffeur was instructed to push the car to the lawful limit, and although he did so, with his usual skill, the detective seemed to think the car was creeping.
For miles and miles they had to traverse the streets of the city which stretched out northward to the confines of the Bronx, and not until these were passed, did they feel free to risk a faster pace—and even then they had to slow down through the frequent villages.
It was not in reality a long drive, however, and in less time than Griswold had made the trip the morning before, they had covered the distance.
The chauffeur had slowed down considerably before entering the village of New Pelham, but they were still going at a rapid rate, and Griswold was obliged to raise his voice for his final instructions to the chauffeur.
“The top of the hill!” he called out, leaning forward and pointing, while he held his hat on with the other hand.
The usually easy-going millionaire was having some unusual experiences, and had been pretty thoroughly shaken up in more ways than one.
Straight up the hill that led from the heart of the village, the great car raced, and Griswold added that it was the last house. A few moments later the machine came to an abrupt, but quiet, stop in front of No. 31 Floral Avenue.
Quickly the three men alighted and hurried through the gate. The door was opened almost immediately by the maid, and behind her stood Doctor Lord, who had evidently been impatiently awaiting Griswold’s arrival.
The doctor looked inquiringly at the others.
“Carter, shake hands with Doctor Lord,” he said informally. “Doctor, this is Nick Carter and this is Chick Carter, his assistant.”
“I’m very glad,” the young physician said heartily, as he acknowledged the detective’s greeting. “Frequently during the patient’s long stupor, Mr. Carter, he mumbled your name.”
“Just how is he?” Nick asked eagerly, and, for the moment, concern for his friend weighed with him more than anything else.
“He’s better,” was the reply. “He has taken the turn that I hoped for, and now, although he may be laid up for some time, I think I may safely say that the danger is over. You must not see him for long, however, and you had better come at once. I’ve been afraid that he might lapse into unconsciousness again before Mr. Griswold could get here.”
“You have questioned him as I suggested?” the millionaire put in, as they moved toward the door of the room in which Cray was lying.
“Yes,” was the answer, “but he’s stubborn. He refuses to tell me anything—said he would do so if he felt himself losing consciousness again, but that he wanted to say what he had to say directly to Mr. Griswold, if possible.”
They had reached the door of the room by that time, and Lord stepped aside to allow the others to enter.
A nurse in a trim, crisp uniform was sitting beside the couch, but rose and effaced herself quietly, thus giving Nick his first unobstructed view of his friend.
The burly detective seemed to fill the narrow couch, and yet he appeared, somehow, shrunken. His face was still very pale, and the big, hairy hand that lay on his chest had a suggestion of helplessness about it.
Cray turned his head slowly, and looked toward the door. Instead of seeing merely the millionaire, as he had anticipated, he beheld two other visitors, and identified them after a moment or two.
“Mr. Carter!” he exclaimed weakly. “And Chick, too! Is it really you this time, Carter? This is more than I hoped for.”
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but sank back faintly.
“Lie still, old fellow!” Nick said, quietly stepping forward and taking Cray’s hand. “You are gaining, and must hold on to what you have gained. Take your time, though, about—”
“I can’t take my time, Carter,” Cray said, feverishly clutching at his friend’s hand with both of his. “This isn’t the worst yet. It was Gordon—Green-eye Gordon—who did this to me, and he’s made off with two suit cases crammed full of gold coins.”
Nick saw that it would be necessary to cut the interview short, but he wished to test Cray, if possible. It might be that Jack had forgotten about the fire and the reports of Gordon’s death. If he were reminded of that, he might not be so sure about the identity of his assailant.
“But Gordon is dead, you know—burned to death in prison,” Nick said quietly.
“No, no! Don’t you believe it, Carter!” the patient insisted. “There’s no mistake about it. I forgot about all those reports when he struck me; they don’t cut any ice. I have thought about them since I woke up, and I’m just as sure as ever that it was Gordon.”
“What makes you so sure?” inquired Nick.
“He forgot himself when he cursed me,” was the reply, “and I thought I recognized the voice; then I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and I was sure. There’s only one man with eyes like that—cat’s eyes. They looked green as he glared at me. He knows I recognized him, because I said his name just before I got my knockout. Probably he thought he had killed me, for I don’t believe he would have left me to tell the tale.”
He paused for a moment, and one hand wandered weakly to his injured head.
“I’ll never get over the way I was taken in,” he went on, more faintly. “Most humiliating. Must say, he’s a wonder, though. Never imagined anybody could pull off a stunt like that. The car is an electric—a coupé, two or three years old, I should say. The gold was in a couple of suit cases which had been buried in the ground. Can’t tell you any more, I’m afraid—just about all in, you see.”
He looked about helplessly, and in a frightened sort of way, then, with a sigh, lapsed into unconsciousness once more.
CHAPTER XL.
NICK OUTLINES HIS CAMPAIGN.
In a moment Doctor Lord and the nurse were back at the patient’s side.
“I must ask you gentlemen to go,” the physician said crisply. “This has been too much for him, as it is, and any further excitement might cause serious complications, if nothing worse.”
There was nothing for it but to withdraw, and to hope that the effect of the interview would not be as serious as the doctor suggested.
Fortunately, the detective instinct had been strong in Cray, notwithstanding his condition, and he had covered the ground pretty thoroughly—surprisingly so, in view of the few words he had spoken. His statement about the suit case, and his description of the car might prove particularly valuable.
Nick took pains to interview Simpson, his wife, and the servant before leaving the house and then paid a visit to the garage.
He smiled as he noted the subterfuge of the underground gasoline tank.
“Quite clever, on the surface,” he remarked, “but Simpson seems to be a queer mixture. He impresses you at one time with his cleverness, at another with stupidity.”
“I don’t see anything stupid about this,” Griswold objected. “It strikes me as very ingenious. It permitted him to dig up the ground to his heart’s content without arousing suspicion.”
“True,” conceded the detective. “The ordinary person would have seen nothing strange about it; but doesn’t the presence of a gasoline tank underground, or any other kind, strike you as a little peculiar when a man owns an electric?”
The millionaire looked very sheepish. “I’m afraid I must plead guilty to stupidity as well,” he confessed. “That didn’t occur to me, and I doubt if it ever would.”
The two detectives made a thorough examination of the little garage, the ground about it, and the pile of lumber, as well as the road at the rear.
They found some finger prints, and photographed them carefully, after bringing out other details by artificial means. They were inclined to believe that some of them belonged to Gordon, and if so, their discovery would prove valuable. Beyond that, however, they learned little.
“Well, we had better part company here, Chick,” Nick told his assistant. “I’m going to let you pick up the trail of the electric car and follow it, if you can. See if you can locate the machine. Probably it has been abandoned long before this, for it would have to be recharged before it could go very far. Doubtless, Green Eye remembered that, and deserted it before such attention was necessary. Still, if you can find where he dispensed with it, you can get a clue to his subsequent movements, especially as he was burdened with a couple of very heavy suit cases.”
