The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 50
“Jim! Jim! Good heavens! Are you trying to murder me?”
Nick recognized the voice as that of Crawford’s, and, with a swift bound, he leaped out of the dark gap between the boats in which he had stood concealed.
Sprinting forward along the deserted deck, he followed the direction of the sound, and in another gap he saw standing out against the background of the sea two struggling figures. They were locked in each other’s arms, and one of them was swaying out over the rail at a perilous angle. The detective saw that the figure of the man bending over the rail was that of Crawford, and above him, with his fingers clutched tightly around his throat, was James Stone. The former was clutching at the murderous wrists of his companion, trying to release the fierce grip, but even as Nick sighted them Stone made another vicious lunge, and Crawford’s body was all but thrust out over the rail into the sea.
A swift, horrified spring carried Nick into the gap between the boats, and realizing that there was not a moment to spare, he flung himself at Stone. It was a straight-arm blow that the detective gave, with the swift, trained precision of an experienced athlete. The great detective’s bunched fist landed full on the hard, dogged face of James Stone with resistless force. A strangled oath broke from the miner’s lips, and he staggered back against the bow of the swinging boat, releasing Crawford as he did so.
Nick saw the unfortunate man’s body sway over the rail, and with a headlong leap the detective hurled himself forward, gripping at the toppling man. He was only just in the nick of time. His fingers caught the ends of Crawford’s evening coat, and for a long tense moment he hung over the rail, clutching in that way the otherwise unsupported body of the miner. It was well for Crawford that the muscles of those two arms were of a man much beyond the average strength. Carter felt as though his arms were being pulled out of their sockets, but presently he gathered himself for an extra effort, and slowly and carefully pulled the swaying man upward until Crawford was able to grasp the rail in his hands. A moment later, Nick had shifted his grasp until his palms were under the man’s shoulders, and then with a tug Crawford was lifted over the rail and deposited safely on the deck.
The perspiration was pouring from the detective’s face, and his breath was coming and going in great, choking pants, for Crawford was a heavy man and the bodily effort had been a tremendous one. The miner clung to the rail for a few moments, steadying himself there. Through the gloom Nick could see the bearded face and the blue eyes fixed on his own. At that instant, a quick, shuffling footfall came to the detective’s ears, and he turned quickly around in time to see the figure of Stone gliding like a black shadow along the pale, canvas-covered side of the suspended boat.
“Oh, no, you don’t, you confounded rascal!” Nick broke out, as he started to follow the man.
But before he could do so, Crawford reeled, stepped toward him, and clutched him by the arm.
“It’s—it’s you, Carter?” the miner breathed.
“Yes. Let me go, though. I don’t want that scoundrel to get away.”
Crawford’s fingers tightened their hold on his sleeve.
“Don’t follow him! Let him go—for my sake!” he pleaded.
Nick paused and peered with surprise into the man’s face.
“I suppose you know what you’re saying?” the detective asked, in a strange voice.
“Perfectly.”
“But that fellow tried to murder you.”
“I know that only too well.”
“And you mean to say you’re not going to lodge a complaint against him or do anything in the matter?”
The bearded face shone in the dusk.
“That man will never be accused by me,” Crawford said positively. “Don’t you recognize him?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I recognize him, all right,” he said. “It was Stone, your partner, and also—if I had not come on the scene just when I did—your murderer.”
Crawford came closer to Carter and thrust his arm through that of the detective.
“That may be,” he said, “but I can’t forget that he’s also the man who once saved my life, who has shared his last crust with me again and again.”
Then, as an exclamation of impatience broke from Nick’s lips, the miner went on:
“Oh, yes, I know that you think me a fool. You will think me even a greater when I tell you that this is not the first time. He has tried to do the same thing on this very voyage—to say nothing of an attempt before we left South America.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE LOVE OF COMRADES.
“Good heavens!” Nick Carter broke out. “Do you actually mean to tell me that he has attacked you before?”
“I do,” the deep voice replied. “He tried to shoot me from ambush a week or so before we left Brazil, and just prior to our arrival at Kingston he made another attempt. He was not nearly so successful that time, though. I managed to overpower him.”
They were pacing along the dark deck now, and Nick heard the man by his side draw a deep breath.
“Something has gone wrong with Jimmy Stone,” he said quietly. “You don’t know him as I do, Carter. Up to a short six months ago he was like a brother to me. Man, I tell you that Jim Stone is the only person in the world that I—I care two straws about. You know what it means to men who have lived and starved together.”
The rich voice stopped, and Nick caught something that was suspiciously like a suppressed sob. Involuntarily he paused, and Crawford halted for a moment, his shoulders shaking.
A strong man’s grief is a terrible thing to witness, and the detective felt himself tongue-tied.
“My friend—my old comrade!” Crawford went on huskily. “Trying to murder me! By Heaven, Carter, it almost breaks my heart!”
He swung around suddenly and caught Nick by the arm again.
“I want you to keep this thing a secret,” he said earnestly. “Jim isn’t accountable for this mood that has been on him for the last few months—he isn’t accountable for his actions. I had feared for some time that there was a little trouble with his brain, and my suspicions were confirmed before we left South America.”
He then went on to tell in detail of Stone’s attempt to shoot him, as revealed by the young physician; of the latter’s opinion of Stone’s sanity—or, rather, insanity—and finally of the promise Floyd had wrung from the misguided man.
He told the detective that Stone had reluctantly agreed to consult a famous specialist, but only because he had felt compelled to do so in order to stop Floyd’s mouth. Unfortunately, however, he had forgotten the specialist’s name and that of the hospital of which he was the head.
Had Nick learned those important facts, there might have been a different story to tell.
“You will help me shield him, won’t you, Carter?” Crawford begged. “I suppose I haven’t any right to ask it, but, after all, it’s my funeral and not yours. That’s what I told Floyd. He couldn’t rest until he had warned me, but it did not seem right for me to change my plans in any way. Jim is my oldest and best friend—my only close friend, in fact—and I couldn’t bear to cut adrift from him. Besides, I’ve been hoping all the time that he’d come out from under this cloud; that I’d find some way of reaching his heart and making it all right again. I have tried time after time, but always failed. He thinks I’m his enemy, and attributes to me all the evil suspicions that are bred in his poor diseased brain. It seems hopeless, unless he can get some help, but whatever happens I’m going to stick to him. There’s so little the matter with him, you see, and I know that the man himself is one of the finest. He would never dream of hurting any one if he were in his right mind, least of all me.”
“I have no doubt you are right about that,” the detective agreed, “and that you’re the only one who is in any danger from him; nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that your affection, highly commendable as it is, has caused you to take a very foolish risk. You say yourself that you haven’t been able to do him any good, and certainly he doesn’t take any pleasure in your society, to say the least. It was very unwise of you to have traveled all this distance with him, and to have occupied an adjoining stateroom. It has simply put temptation in his way. You don’t want to make him a murderer, do you, aside from the question of your own safety?”
“No, no! Heaven knows I don’t!”
“Then you ought by all means to keep out of his way,” Nick advised gravely. “You say that this Doctor Floyd extracted a promise from him that he would do nothing more against you until he had seen this specialist, but you admit that he has broken that promise not less than twice during the voyage. Plainly there’s no reliance to be placed in him, as there never is in the case of any one who is mentally affected even in the slightest degree.”
“I know,” admitted Crawford. “Jimmy doesn’t think he has broken his promise, though. He made a condition that he should do nothing unless I provoked it or he was obliged to act in self-defense. I’m sure he thinks he has adhered to that condition. Both times when he has pounced on me he snarled, ‘You would, would you?’ or something like that, as if I had made some move to attack him.”
“That’s just it,” commented the detective. “He’s obviously unbalanced, and imagines all sorts of things. Under the circumstances, therefore, you can do him no possible good, and may lose your life at any moment.”
The miner shook his head.
“I realize that what you say is all true,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid I’m a fatalist, Mr. Carter. I simply can’t turn my back on Jimmy. I feel that I must stick by him for the sake of old times, and, besides, it seems like cowardice to do anything else. I’ve never been a coward, and I don’t want to begin now. Anyway, I have engaged rooms for both of us at the Windermere, connecting rooms. I’d feel like a selfish sneak if I made any change. I don’t want Jimmy to have my blood on his head, or the blood of any one, and I hope and pray it won’t come to that; but the bonds between us are too strong to be broken by me. You see how it is, Mr. Carter, and that it’s hopeless to argue with me. Are you willing to let me go my way in this, and to promise me that you’ll not take any action whatever?”
The anxiety in his voice indicated how keenly Crawford felt the situation. On the one hand, the man’s amazing obstinacy made Nick very impatient, but on the other, he felt a strange admiration for Crawford’s unfaltering loyalty. He thrust out his hand in the darkness, and the palms of the two men met.
“All right, Crawford,” he said, and his voice was deep and vibrating. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s the kind of mistake one can’t help honoring you for. I look upon you as one of the bravest men I have ever met, and you may be sure that I will keep your secret.”
Crawford wrung the outstretched hand.
“I thank you with all my heart,” he said, “and I—I won’t forget that you saved my life. Some day I hope to be able to repay you. In any event, we’ll meet again in New York.”
But neither he nor Nick dreamed of the curious circumstances that were to draw them together again in the great city.
CHAPTER VII.
FOLLANSBEE HITS THE NAIL.
It was little after eleven o’clock in the morning when a broad-shouldered man turned into Amsterdam Avenue and began to move slowly along the pavement, glancing now and then at the houses as he passed. His tanned face suggested that he was a man from a warmer land, and the stubborn chin and hard, sour look about the eyes were mute tokens of the surly temper that ruled the stranger. He was wearing a soft hat with a wide brim, and he had tilted it forward to shade his eyes from the sun. Once he took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied it for a moment. Evidently he was looking for an address.
Presently he caught sight of what he sought—the big bulk of St. Swithin’s Hospital, which occupied an entire block. He quickened his pace and approached the great building. In the reception room, however, a disappointment awaited him. When he asked for Doctor Stephen Follansbee, he was told that that distinguished individual had not yet arrived at the hospital that day. But after some argument he obtained Follansbee’s private address, which proved to be also on Amsterdam Avenue and not more than half a dozen blocks away.
The stranger retraced his steps, therefore, and sought the new number. He soon found it over the door of a house that was one of a row of solid but by no means impressive residences.
A maid admitted him and asked if he had an appointment with the doctor. When informed that he had not, she invited him into the empty reception room and told him Doctor Follansbee was busy, but that he would be free in a few minutes. The visitor seated himself, picked up a magazine, and began mechanically glancing it over. After ten or fifteen minutes, the folding doors at the rear of the reception room were opened and a patient emerged. Over the latter’s shoulder the waiting man caught a glimpse of a stern, repellent figure in the doorway.
The caller rose expectantly, but before he had a chance to step forward or utter a word he was greeted in an unexpected, almost uncanny, fashion.
“Come in, Mr. Stone!” were the words which came from the man in the doorway.
With a start, James Stone grasped his hat and stepped forward. He could not imagine by what black art the master of the house knew his name, and he eyed his host apprehensively as he passed him and entered the room beyond.
He was doubtless face to face with the famous Doctor Stephen Follansbee, but it was hard, indeed, to believe it. The man before him could not have been more than five feet high. His head was as bare as a billiard ball and curiously elongated in shape. The vulturelike face, the almost fringeless eyelids, and the long, thin, hawklike nose held him mute.
Into the black, beady eyes there flickered a sudden mirth, and the thin lips twisted into what was the ghost of a smile.
“It’s all right, Stone!” the extraordinary individual declared. “You have come to the right place. You may not think it, but I’m Doctor Follansbee.”
Was it possible? The man looked like some sinister bird of prey, and yet he was at the head of a celebrated hospital and enjoyed the most enviable reputation as an authority whose fame was countrywide.
In response to a gesture from Follansbee the visitor dropped into a chair close beside a small desk that stood by a window. The specialist crossed the room with quick, birdlike steps and took his seat behind the desk. In the momentary pause that followed, the two men eyed each other, but what their thoughts were remained their respective secrets. At least, Stone could not read the physician’s.
“You expected to see some one very different, I suppose?” Follansbee remarked, with a mocking smile. “A big, well-groomed figurehead with an impressive manner and a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard? Confess, now.”
Stone relaxed and laughed. It was a short, grating laugh, and the physician’s eyes dilated slightly as he heard it.
It was hardly the laugh of a sane person, and as Follansbee leaned forward he noted that the pupils of Stone’s eyes were fixed and round, a sign which the initiated always searches for in mental cases.
“That’s about it,” the visitor admitted, in his harsh voice. “The—the young man who spoke to me about you told me that you were the head of a big hospital, and I’ve just been there.”
Follansbee nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “I can assure you that your friend was quite correct, as you’ve doubtless found out for yourself, if you’ve been at St. Swithin’s. I’ve never been called handsome, but I haven’t found that a drawback, and I suspect that you didn’t come to see me for my looks. Did you have a pleasant voyage on the Cortez?”
Stone looked at him in open-mouthed amazement.
“What do you know about me?” he demanded. “You nearly floored me by calling me by my name, and now you——”
“Oh, that isn’t all I know about you,” Follansbee assured him maliciously. “I can tell you all about the Condor Mine and of your partner, Winthrop Crawford—or shall we call him your ex-partner? I know that you and he recently sold the Condor for a million, and that you have both come back to your old stamping ground after an absence of a quarter of a century or so. I know several other things, too, but we won’t speak of them just yet.”
Stone bit his lip and paled a little under his tan.
“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he muttered. “I suppose Floyd must have written to you about me. How in thunder you knew me, though, when I came in, is more than I can understand.”
“Who may ‘Floyd’ be?” queried Follansbee, as if he had never heard the name before.
His visitor looked at him in bewilderment, but again failed to read that baffling countenance.
“Why, he’s the young American doctor down in Brazil who advised me to come to you,” he explained wonderingly. “He said he had studied under you in medical school.”
“Indeed! That’s very interesting,” murmured the specialist. “Hundreds of young men have studied under me, however. I suppose I might say thousands. It is gratifying to be remembered by one of them, of course, but I cannot be expected——”
“Then how in the world——”
“Let’s not waste time over things out of our immediate concern,” Follansbee interrupted. “Please remember that my time is valuable, very valuable. You seem to be slow in getting to the point. I’ll help you out. I happen to know the nature of your errand, but am also perfectly well aware that your heart isn’t in it. Your real desires are of a very different sort. Isn’t that so?”
James Stone looked alarmed, as well he might. His conscience was by no means clear, and the conversation seemed to be getting on decidedly dangerous ground.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he faltered, moistening his lips. “Doctor Floyd had a fool notion that I was going crazy, or something like that. I naturally didn’t take very kindly to the idea, but I was more or less under obligations to him, and he was so insistent that I promised to look you up. He said you would help me. Of course, I don’t think I need any help—of that sort—but I’m a man of my word, and that’s why I’m here.”
