The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 47
“After all these years!” he muttered hoarsely to himself. Then his eyes fell upon the amazed face of his valet, and, as he crushed the letter in his hand, he made a great effort to pull himself together. “I—I shall not be going out, after all,” he said, in a curiously dead voice. “I’m not—feeling well.”
Every year of the sixty seemed to weigh heavily upon the ex-senator as he pushed open the door of the room on the left. His feet dragged across the thick carpet so that he stumbled, and when he dropped into a chair, buried his face in his hands.
* * * * *
The Forty-second Street Theater had been famous for years as the home of light comedy of the more brilliant sort.
That night was to witness a new production, for which great things were expected—for had the play not been written by one of America’s cleverest and most experienced playwrights, and staged by a production wizard? And was not the star Harold Lumsden?
Already the cheaper parts of the house were packed, and the orchestra was filling up. Here and there a pair of white shoulders gleamed in one of the boxes which would soon be filled—for it was a foregone conclusion that the S.R.O. sign would have to be displayed in the lobby that night.
Harold Lumsden himself was peering through a peephole in the curtain at that moment, idly surveying the nucleus of what he knew would prove to be an unusually brilliant first-night audience. For years he had enjoyed great prestige, and this was to be his first appearance following a successful invasion of London, which had added greatly to his laurels.
“This is going to be some night, Harold!” his manager remarked impressively, coming up from behind and putting his hand on the star’s shoulder. “Dressed early, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I felt restless,” was the reply. “Hanged if I know why. This sort of thing ought to be an old story to me by this time, if it’s ever going to be.”
As he turned about to face the portly manager, he noticed an envelope in the latter’s hand. Knowing the manager’s absent-mindedness, he inquired:
“That letter isn’t for me, is it?”
“Why, yes, it is,” was the reply. “I had forgotten it for a moment. It’s marked ‘Urgent,’ but I suppose it’s only from some friend of yours—or, more likely, some friend of a friend—who aspires to the deadhead class.”
“Probably,” Harold Lumsden agreed, as he glanced at the handwriting for a moment, and then ripped the envelope open. “We haven’t needed to ‘paper’ our houses for the last few seasons, have we, old man? What’s this! Great heavens!”
The distinguished actor clutched at one of the wings for support, and the letter fluttered to the ground. The manager stooped to pick it up, but with an oath the star forestalled him, seizing the letter hastily and thrusting it into his pocket.
“Bad news?” the manager asked anxiously.
“A rather disagreeable surprise,” Lumsden managed to say, making a strenuous attempt to control himself. “It’s nothing you know anything about, you know, and I’ll be all right, never fear.”
Harold Lumsden played the part that night, for there was nothing else to do, and the traditions of his profession demand that an actor or actress should always appear, unless ill in bed, no matter what news may have been received, or what tragedy may have been left at home.
But some idea of the sort of performance the famous star gave on that memorable occasion might have been gathered from the newspaper comments the following morning, for all the critics seemed to agree that Lumsden was far from himself, and that his conception of the part was strangely heavy and lifeless.
Such was the effect of Green-eye Gordon’s second demand. There were other letters—several of them, in fact—but we need not trace their influence here.
There was no doubt that the blackmailer had struck some stunning blows, expecting that gold would flow from the wounds thus inflicted.
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE BLACKMAILER ADVISES HIS VICTIM.
Ernest Gordon was inclined to consider the world a pretty good place, as he finished his breakfast in Nick Carter’s dining room the following morning. Everything had gone very well, thus far, and he seemed to have reason for self-congratulation.
He had peddled the letters around himself the night before, thus saving time, and making it more difficult to trace them, as he believed. He did not know that he had been shadowed throughout by Chick, who thereby knew just what victims the blackmailer had chosen for his first broadside.
Later he had returned to the detective’s house, and so had Chick; then there had come a telephone message to the latter from Nick sending the young detective out of town for at least twenty-four, if not forty-eight, hours.
That unexpected turn of affairs had caused Gordon great satisfaction when Chick gloomily confided the news to him.
“The chief seems to think that fellow Gordon has doubled back, and is hiding not far from New Pelham,” the assistant informed “Gillespie.” “He still hopes he’ll turn up at your place, and is going to wait there all of to-morrow, if not longer, but he wants me to get busy, and see if I can locate Gordon independently. It seems unnecessary to me, but what he says goes. The worst of it is, though, I’ve got my orders to pull up stakes at once.”
Of course, Gordon did not know that this was all a put-up job. Nick, by seeming to play into the rascal’s hands, had worked out this scheme, in order to get Chick out of the way, so that Gordon would not feel compelled to take strong measures to accomplish the same object.
As a result, Green Eye had slept alone at Nick’s house that night—except for the servants—and now, after a good breakfast, looked forward to a day of undisturbed peace and freedom to do whatever circumstances might require.
First, however, it was necessary for him to absent himself temporarily, in order to make up as Nick once more. Therefore, he made a flying trip to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, and there disguised himself, returning as fast as the taxi could carry him.
When he reëntered the detective’s residence, it was in the character of the owner.
“Has any one called up or been to see me?” he asked the butler.
“No, sir,” was the reply, a welcome one to the scoundrel, for it meant that none of his victims had yet sought the detective.
He did not have long to wait, however, for hardly more than half an hour later the butler entered the study, and presented a card, which bore the name of ex-Senator William Deane Phelps.
“Show him up,” the supposed detective said.
The butler turned on his heel to obey, and if Green-eye Gordon grinned behind his back, his face was serious enough in expression as the ex-senator nervously entered and closed the door behind him.
In the few hours that had passed since he had received the threatening letter, a great change had come over this man, whose name was known from one end of the country to the other. It was plain that he had not slept, and there were heavy, loose bags of skin under his eyes. His face was almost gray in hue.
“I feared that you would feel compelled to come here before long, senator,” the impostor said gravely.
“Then you know?” his visitor asked, in surprise.
“Yes,” Gordon answered. “Some one knows the facts in regard to—well, we need not go into the case—and is attempting to blackmail you.”
Phelps sank into a chair and drew a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“The infernal scoundrel demands one hundred and fifty thousand—no less!” he said hoarsely. “It isn’t so much the money, but I—I naturally assumed that you alone held my secret.”
Green Eye rose to his feet, and his face was very solemn.
“Until a short time ago that was the case,” he answered, and crossed to the safe. “The records were here, and you will see that it has been burgled. If it’s any comfort to you, though, I’ll tell you that you are not the only one who will suffer.”
“I care nothing about that,” Phelps said angrily. “It’s my own plight that interests me to the exclusion of everything else. Do you wonder? This is terrible, Carter, terrible! I thought I could trust you, and now, after all this time, I find that I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.”
The criminal interrupted him with a dignified gesture.
“I don’t think I deserve that, senator,” he said quietly. “Nicholas Carter has never yet betrayed a secret. Much as I regret this unfortunate occurrence, however, I don’t see how I can be held responsible for it. I didn’t rob my own safe, and certainly I wouldn’t have chosen to have it robbed, if I could have helped it.”
“That’s neither here nor there!” declared the ex-senator. “Why didn’t you destroy the records?”
“Do you expect me to destroy my stock in trade, or burn up the reference books I have had occasion to consult countless times?”
“I hadn’t thought of it in that light,” Phelps confessed. “Even that doesn’t make it any easier to bear, however. What can I do?”
“I’m sorry to say that I see nothing for you to do, except to pay,” Green Eye answered, fingering the letter which had been handed him.
Phelps looked at him in amazement. “You actually give me that advice!” he murmured.
Green Eye nodded. “I know I’m disappointing you,” he said, “but that’s the best advice I can give under the circumstances. It may sound strange, but we must face the facts. I know perfectly well who is at the bottom of this, and I have to confess that he’s one of the shrewdest men who ever defied the law. He’s amazingly daring, senator, and you may be sure he means exactly what he says. He’ll drag this whole unsavory business into the light, if you don’t stop his mouth with gold, and stop it without delay.”
“But aren’t you going to—”
“Of course, I’m going to do everything I can to catch him, senator,” the criminal interrupted, in a tone which seemed to imply that that was a matter of course. “If possible, I shall try to trap him just after you have met his demands, and while he has the money on his person. I cannot promise, however, to catch him to-day, or this week, and, knowing his methods as well as I do, I know that you can’t afford to risk any delay. The chances are, of course, that I can make him disgorge, and that you’ll get your money back, but the important thing is to play safe, isn’t it?”
Ex-Senator Phelps nodded slowly and hopelessly.
“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “I had hoped for immediate help, Carter, for something that would put new hope into me. Evidently, I expected too much, though. I’ll do as you say, of course, and try to believe that everything will come out all right. Good morning.”
And with that he left the room, walking as if he were seventy instead of sixty.
“Number one!” Green-eye Gordon chuckled as he leaned back in his seat. “A hundred and fifty thousand isn’t bad for a starter. I wonder who will be the next?”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
UP AGAINST IT.
A few minutes later, the front-door bell rang again, and this time the salver which the butler presented to his supposed employer bore the card of Harold Lumsden.
Gordon nodded impassively. “Very well,” he said.
“I only hope he’ll prove worth the trouble,” he told himself, as the butler left the room. “He’s a spendthrift, of course. Money turns to water and runs through his fingers, no matter how fast it comes in. He’s just back from London, however, and I hardly think he has already squandered everything he picked up there.”
Then the door opened, and a tragic figure entered. The caller’s face was haggard, his eyes wild, his hair disordered. Even his clothing seemed carelessly worn and ill-fitting, though Lumsden had always been considered one of the best-dressed men in the profession. Certainly he did not look like a matinee idol now.
“Something terrible has happened!” he burst out. “Mr. Carter, I am being blackmailed! Somebody has learned the secret which I thought safe with you, and has demanded an enormous sum of money. It means my ruin, unless—”
“I know all about it, I am sorry to say,” the bogus detective interrupted.
Once more he gave a brief and very unsatisfactory explanation, pointing to the rifled safe, and winding up with a statement of his belief that there was nothing to do but to pay—“just as a temporary expedient, of course.”
Naturally, that advice did not appeal to the actor any more than it had to ex-Senator Phelps, but Gordon adroitly argued him into a somewhat less impatient mood.
“How much does he want?”
“A cool hundred thousand,” was the bitter reply, and it did not convey any real news to the man in Nick’s desk chair. “And I haven’t more than eighty thousand to my name!”
“The devil you haven’t!” Green Eye exclaimed harshly. “Not after that London engagement?”
He had spoken without thinking, and did not realize what he had said until the caller looked sharply at him.
“I beg your pardon, Lumsden!” he hastened to say. “That must have sounded impertinent, I’m afraid. I meant no offense, I assure you. It was merely surprise. You know, we outsiders are inclined to think that you popular actors are made of money.”
“Well, we’re not,” the other answered, as if slightly mollified. “What shall I do?”
“Pay what you can,” Gordon answered promptly. “I know it doesn’t appeal to you, my friend, but as I have said, it’s only temporary. I’ll have the fellow where I want him in short order, you may be sure. This is only in the nature of insurance to keep the rascal from carrying out his threats before I can stop his activities.”
That seemed to appeal strongly to the actor.
“It’s asking a good deal to trust everything to you, including my whole bank roll, when the trouble originated through you,” he said. “However, I see nothing else to do. I’ll do as you suggest. Anything is better than exposure, and I can always earn more money if I have to see the last of this.” He paused for a moment. “By Jove!” he ejaculated. “You have made me feel that I shan’t be comfortable until I’ve paid the money over. If you don’t mind, I’ll make out a check to self right now, and take it to the bank to be cashed, so that I can turn over the currency to the scoundrel when he comes.”
Green Eye had no objection to that, of course; in fact, it brought an anticipatory glitter to his eyes. With shaking hands, Lumsden took a check book from his pocket, seating himself in the chair which Gordon vacated for the purpose. When he tried to write, however, he found it exceedingly difficult to do so.
“Confound it!” he cried impatiently. “See how infernally nervous I am! Would you mind filling this in for eighty thousand, Mr. Carter, and then I’ll try to sign it.”
“Gladly,” Green Eye said, with alacrity, reseating himself in the vacated chair, and taking the pen from his visitor’s trembling hand.
The masquerading criminal held down the cover of the little check book with his left hand, while he began to write with the other. Lumsden leaned over his shoulder, watching him, as if ready to try his luck at signing his name as soon as the rest of the check was filled in. His hand slipped into his pocket, however, and when it came out silently, there was something in it which had a metallic gleam.
“Ah! Thanks!” he exclaimed, a moment or two later. “You have made it very easy for me, Gordon!”
Simultaneously there was a sudden, unlooked-for swoop, followed quickly by the click of a pair of handcuffs as they closed on Green Eye’s wrists.
And the voice which uttered the mocking words was not the voice of Harold Lumsden, but that of Nick Carter himself. Gordon knew it after the first word or two, and even if he had not done so, the action which went along with it would have been enlightening enough.
“Nick Carter, by Heaven!” the rogue cried hoarsely, jumping to his feet and overturning the chair.
“Nick Carter—exactly,” the detective agreed, removing the wig which had played such a large part in transforming him into Harold Lumsden. “You didn’t think you were going to have this little masked ball all to yourself, did you?”
After the first dazed shock—a merely momentary one—had passed, Gordon’s face seemed to grow actually black with rage and hatred.
“You may think you have me, curse you!” he snarled. “But I’ll show you—”
He leaped forward, his manacled arms raised to strike together. Nick quietly sidestepped the mad bull-like rush, but Green Eye turned and charged him again.
There was one more surprise awaiting him, though. The door opened, and Chick entered, coolly fingering an automatic.
“Pretty neat weapon, isn’t it, Gordon?” he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone, then stopped in feigned surprise. “Oh, you and the chief are having an argument? Hope you don’t think I’ve butted in. Now that I’m here, though, I think I might as well stay. You look as if you needed your wrists slapped, and the chief may not care to bother with it.”
The escaped convict had halted in his tracks at the first interruption, and was now looking from the detective to his assistant with baffled rage. He would have liked to fight it out to a finish, but his shrewdness told him that he would gain nothing by such a course, and it was one of his rules never to exert himself unnecessarily. The consequence was that he merely shrugged his shoulders.
“So be it,” he said quietly. “You fellows can trump my ace, I see. Let me remind you, however, that you haven’t got that gold that our mutual friend, John Simpson, took such a liking to. Likewise, you’re a long way from the possession of those papers which you were foolish enough to keep in a more or less ordinary safe.”
The detectives looked at each other and grinned.
“Think so?” queried Nick. “I’m afraid, in that case, that you are scheduled to receive another disagreeable surprise or two. I located the gold yesterday afternoon—in one of Gillespie’s closets. As for the missing records, I feel very sure that we shall discover them on you.”
And they did.
Therefore, there was no need of delay, and No. 39,470 Clinton was shipped northward to Dannemora the next day, under escort.
