The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 51
“Very commendable!” murmured the head of St. Swithin’s. “Doctor Boyd, or whatever his name is, was quite right. I can help you, in more ways than one, and I perceive that what you really want is to be rid of your former partner, Winthrop Crawford. Have I hit the nail on the head?”
A meaning smile crossed the sinister face, and Follansbee leaned back in his chair, the glance from his hard little eyes playing over his caller’s face.
CHAPTER VIII.
“NAME YOUR PRICE.”
James Stone looked as if the ground had suddenly caved from under his feet. His big body stiffened, his hands clutched his hat, and his startled eyes were riveted on Follansbee’s countenance. He moistened his dry lips again and attempted to speak, but it ended only in a swallow, as evidenced by the movement in his throat.
The great specialist seemed to enjoy the sensation he had made.
“You know, Mr. Stone,” he went on, “that we doctors have a way, sometimes, of locating a patient’s trouble by feeling him over until we find a tender spot. When he winces, we know we’ve struck it, and we draw our own conclusions. It’s obvious that I’ve found your tender spot; therefore, there isn’t any use in your beating about the bush. I know that you desire to eliminate Crawford. I might use a stronger expression, but I’ll spare your feelings to that extent. Out with it, now, man! You have a lot of poison bottled up in your system. Let it come out. If there’s anything wrong with you mentally, as your friend in Brazil seems to have thought, I’ll find it out and make due allowances. On the other hand, if you’re sane, you need be no more afraid of confiding in me. I’m not a policeman, you know—or a judge. Remember, too, that I have said I could help you.”
It was not so much his words, but the manner in which he uttered them that gave James Stone a certain confidence.
Follansbee was as far removed as possible from the type of the kindly, tolerant, helpful physician. On the contrary, everything said, every glance he cast—the whole man, in fact—would have been highly distasteful to the average person. It was that very thing, however, that tended to draw Stone out and to make him reveal the murderous impulses which controlled him.
It seemed incredible, but he had a feeling that he had nothing to fear from the famous Doctor Follansbee; in fact, that the latter was a possible ally. And in support of that startling belief, certain words of young Floyd’s came to him.
Floyd had said that Follansbee was very eccentric, had ways of doing things that were all his own, and was in the habit of seeming to sympathize with those who came to him, no matter what they might say or do.
The young physician had evidently been a firm believer in the man who had once been his professor, but Stone found himself wondering if Follansbee was what he had seemed to Floyd. He doubted it, and decided he had found a kindred spirit. Follansbee’s mask seemed to be slipping off.
Emboldened by this, the miner dropped his great hands on his knees and leaned forward, flinging a quick glance about him as he did so.
“Are you sure we’ll not be heard here?” he asked, cunning returning to his eyes.
“Perfectly,” was the answer. “My servants are well trained, and these walls are much thicker than those they put into the houses they build nowadays. You can talk openly and freely, Stone, and your secrets will be guarded.”
Stone nodded, and the glitter in his eyes became more pronounced.
“You are right, Doctor Follansbee,” he said. “I can’t figure out how you know, but I want to get rid of Win Crawford. I—I want to get rid of him before he gets rid of me.”
His heavy face was wrinkled into a mask of cunning—the foolish, vacant cunning of the insane.
“He thinks he’s clever,” Stone went on; “thinks I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I’m as cute as he is, and I’ve tumbled to him.”
Follansbee had folded his long, flexible fingers and was leaning his shoulders on the arms of his chair. His evil-looking eyes were slowly taking on a mocking twinkle as they looked at the features of the man in front of him.
The skilled specialist had no further doubt about the matter. At that moment he knew to a certainty that James Stone was mad, and that his was the most dangerous form of insanity, for it centered only on one object.
Outwardly and in his everyday life, Stone might move and conduct himself as an ordinary individual, but lurking always in his diseased brain was one wild and terrible fancy—an insane fear and hatred of the man who in the brighter, if less prosperous, past he had once risked his life to save.
It remained to be seen, however, in what Follansbee’s treatment of the case would consist.
“So you think that your partner is going to kill you, do you?” the specialist asked.
“I don’t think—I know!” the husky voice returned. “All this is only a game of his. He has brought me to New York because he was afraid to do it in Brazil. I have too many friends there, but he’ll find I’m too much for him. Ha, ha! He’ll find out!”
The laugh was so ugly and hollow, and the man so obviously getting more and more excited that Follansbee decided to stave off a further outburst.
“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure you will be able to look after yourself.”
“I’m going to do more than that,” Stone announced malignantly. “I’m going to kill him before he has a chance to kill me.”
It was clear that he had thrown off all fear of Follansbee, either under the influence of his own misguided desires or his belief that the head of St. Swithin’s was not what he seemed to the world.
With a quick movement he rose to his feet, and, leaning over the desk, looked down into the physician’s eyes with a face that worked convulsively.
“And you’ve got to help me!” he added. “I’ve tried three times to do it, twice on board the Cortez, but luck was against me every time.”
“Three times!” Follansbee repeated, in astonishment. “Then Crawford knows what you’re up to?”
“Yes, he knows,” Stone answered, “but that doesn’t make any difference. He’s a fool, and he thinks he’s got to stick by me to wait his own chance. He and I are staying at the same hotel in connecting rooms. We breakfasted at the same table this morning, and I had hard work to get away from him.”
“That’s queer,” the specialist remarked thoughtfully. “He must be a fool!”
His surprise was genuine. He was not capable of fathoming the true cause of Crawford’s devotion to his old comrade—could not understand that Stone’s partner had forgiven and deliberately left his life in jeopardy for the sake of other days.
And in James Stone’s distorted brain there was no more idea of the truth. He stabbed at the desk with one thick finger.
“That’s his cursed cunning, I tell you!” he declared. “He’s waiting until he gets good and ready to strike. By Heaven, I can’t sleep at night, sometimes, for thinking of it! That’s why he doesn’t leave me, even though I’ve tried three times to kill him. He’s just waiting his chance, waiting his chance.”
The hoarse voice was lifted until it broke.
“But his chance isn’t going to come!” the demented man insisted. “He won’t live to get it! You’ve got to help me, I tell you. Floyd sent me to you because he caught me trying to shoot Crawford out there, and thought I was crazy. You know better, though, and I know something about you. Floyd thinks you’re only a great doctor, but he’s a kid, and he doesn’t know the world as I do. I ain’t crazy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee; I ain’t a fool. Maybe New York thinks you’re a saint, for all I know—though I don’t see how it can when it looks at that face of yours! But I know you’re not. You may be the king-pin of your profession, but you’re a crook as well—as big a rascal as ever walked the earth! I know something about men, and you can’t fool me.
“Now, let’s get down to business,” he continued. “Charlie Floyd sent me here for one kind of help, but you’ve opened the way for another—and that’s the kind I want. I ain’t very good at this sort of thing, I’ll admit. I’ve failed three times, but if you take it on, I guess you’ll get your man at the first crack. If you can’t I’ve got you wrong. I’m willing to pay well, but I don’t want any backing and filling about it. So name your price and let’s get busy, Doctor Stephen Follansbee, for time is on the wing.”
CHAPTER IX.
A “FAIR” OFFER.
“Sit down and cool off,” Doctor Follansbee advised; and under his compelling gaze his visitor subsided and sank into a chair.
The head of St. Swithin’s Hospital studied Stone for some moments without showing the slightest sign of emotion as a result of the astounding proposition which had just been made to him. His long, capable, surgeon’s fingers tapped against one another, and his cold, dark eyes seemed to have no more feeling in them than a couple of highly polished stones.
“You take a great deal for granted, Mr. James Stone,” he remarked at last, in his thin, squeaking tones. “I might have you confined in an asylum for that, you know—or turned over to the police.”
“You might, but you won’t,” his caller said, with a half growl. “I’ve taken your measure, Follansbee, and if your time is as valuable as you say, you’ll stop wasting it. I asked your price, and I’m prepared to pay anything in reason to have this business taken off my hands.”
The faint semblance of a smile twisted Follansbee’s thin lips.
“Rough and ready,” he murmured. “A South American edition of the old ‘wild and woolly’ Westerner. He wants what he wants when he wants it, and he isn’t bashful about asking for it.”
He paused for a moment and then went on:
“Well, my genial friend, I won’t abuse your confidence. Professional ethics forbid. As for your opinion of me, I care nothing for that. Perhaps I look upon it as only another evidence of mental disease.”
“Will you help me or won’t you?” Stone broke in.
“Most assuredly I will,” was the quiet answer. “I’ll help you in my own way, and if I’m to do so, you must put yourself wholly in my hands. Will you promise?”
Stone’s heart sank, and he looked askance at Follansbee for a few moments. The latter’s words sounded a little too professional to suit him. His belief that the physician was a rascal was rooted deep, however, and overshadowed everything else.
“I’ll agree to almost anything if you’ll do what I want done,” he said.
“I’ll do what needs to be done,” was the evasive answer. “You asked my terms, though, and I must warn you that they’re high. Some of the richest men in the world come to me, and I have no time to waste with those who cannot afford to pay my price. You can, if you’re willing to do so.”
“How much?” Stone asked, in a more subdued tone.
Follansbee’s preamble sounded formidable.
“I don’t expect to get you for nothing,” the miner went on. “You must know of a thousand ways of—of getting rid of people—ways by which no one would be any the wiser. I’m willing to pay for that knowledge, but I’m not a millionaire, you know.”
“I’m aware of that,” piped Follansbee, “and shall take the fact into account. That being so, my fee will be only forty-five thousand dollars!”
James Stone started at the mention of this enormous sum.
“That is the best I can do,” Doctor Follansbee went on, in his cold tones. “Remember that if I assist you to get rid of your partner, I also assist you to add his share of the proceeds from the sale of the Condor to your own.” The hawklike face was very hard now, and the beady eyes glowed sternly. “You will receive at least four hundred and fifty thousand dollars after the death of Winthrop Crawford,” he continued. “I’m only asking ten per cent of that amount.”
His tone was calm and calculating. Stone saw the point which Follansbee had made, but he could not penetrate the latter’s armor.
Follansbee had not said in so many words that he would help him to get rid of his partner. He had promised to help “in his own way.” To be sure, this calculation, based on Crawford’s death, seemed to commit him, but Stone found himself wondering if he were only being played with. Had the doctor merely mentioned that in order to draw him on and get his own price? Of what was the promise of help to consist? He voiced his doubts, but his words were met in the same sphinxlike way.
“I’m afraid I can’t enlighten you as to that,” Follansbee told him. “It isn’t proper for a physician to make definite promises, and it’s very unprofessional to outline methods. I have agreed to take your case for forty-five thousand dollars, and I promise to give it my best attention and the benefit of my long knowledge. That is all anybody but a quack can say. You’ll have to take it or leave it. If you’re so thoroughly persuaded that I’m a scoundrel, you oughtn’t to hesitate.”
His smile was a maddening enigma.
Under the influence of this skillful handling, the tanned face widened into a smile, and Stone nodded his head. “All right,” he said. “I forgot about the money. Crawford has made his will in my favor, and if he dies without involving me I’ll get his share, of course.”
“That’s my understanding of the situation,” Follansbee agreed.
“That’s right—that’s right! How you got on to it, though, Heaven only knows!”
“Then you’re willing to pay me the fee I demand?”
“I suppose it’s worth it. Yes, I’ll pay it.”
“A wise decision,” murmured Follansbee.
He reached out a lean hand and swung a pad of blotting paper round, then placed a pen and inkwell beside it.
“Now I want you to sit down here and write me out a check for forty-five thousand dollars. To-day is the seventeenth, and I want you to date your check the twenty-seventh. That gives me ten days, and if at the end of that time Winthrop Crawford is still troubling you, all you have to do is to go to your bank and stop payment on your check. Is that fair?”
CHAPTER X.
THE RAISED CHECK.
“I couldn’t ask anything more than that,” Stone admitted.
He felt sure now that Follansbee would do all he wished, despite the fact that he had been able to pin him down. He assumed that that was merely the doctor’s caution and cleverness, and the offer to allow him to date the check ahead came with an unexpected sense of relief.
To be sure, Follansbee had put it with his customary vagueness. He had not said, “if at the end of that time, Crawford is still alive,” but only “if he’s still troubling you.”
That might mean any one of a number of things, but, as was his way, Stone interpreted it as best suited him. He drew a check book from his pocket, and, pulling a chair forward, seated himself at the desk. His head was bent, and he could not see Follansbee’s face. Had he been able to do so, he might have been struck by the curious look that was now in the little eyes.
When Stone had filled in the check, all except the signature, he found that the ink on the point had given out, and he stretched out his hand to dip the pen into the inkwell again. At the same moment Follansbee also reached out, apparently to push the well nearer to his visitor. Between them, in some manner the well was upset, and a small quantity of the black fluid it contained made a round patch on the top of the desk.
“Never mind!” Follansbee hastened to say, in answer to Stone’s regretful exclamation. “It doesn’t matter. Let it be. You can finish with this.” As he spoke, he took another ink bottle from the back of the desk, removed the cork, and placed it within easy reach.
Stone mechanically dipped the pen into the new receptacle and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the check, after which he handed the slip of paper to Follansbee.
“Thanks!” the specialist said carelessly, turning the check over and blotting it on the pad. “Now give me the name of your hotel and the number of your room.”
“The Hotel Windermere, room number twenty-two,” was the reply.
Follansbee jotted it down on the back of a card, and then looked at his watch.
“I must be going now,” he said. “I’m overdue at the hospital. I will be engaged there until six o’clock, but I’ll phone you as soon after that as possible.”
Stone picked up his hat and peered at the inscrutable face for a moment, as if in a last attempt to read the thoughts behind it.
“You’re sure you can do it?” he asked hoarsely.
“Nothing is absolutely sure in this world, even the performance of a specialist,” was the cool reply. “However”—and he tapped the check, the blank side of which was turned uppermost, with one forefinger—“there is my fee; and you may rest assured that I shall do my best to earn it.”
Half insane though he was, James Stone was greatly impressed. Follansbee had not showed his hand once during the interview. At best he had only given a momentary glimpse at his cards, but there was a hint of strength, of unusual power of one kind or another behind that hard mask.
“Very well, doctor,” the miner returned. “I shall expect to hear from you this evening.”
He strode across the room, Follansbee following him with his short, noiseless steps. When the double doors were reached and opened, the doctor put out his hand and Stone felt a cold, dry palm thrust into his own moist, hot one.
“Until this evening,” Follansbee said, with a bow that was almost courtly, despite its mocking character.
Stone passed through the reception room, and the little man closed the double doors of the office behind him.
Bending forward, Follansbee tilted his head at an angle like that of a listening bird. He remained in that position until the noise of the closing door told him that the miner had left the house; then, turning, he darted across the room toward his desk and seized upon the check. A low, disagreeable laugh broke from his lips as his eyes alighted on the face of it, for date, number, payee’s name, and amount had all disappeared, and the only words that remained were the two which constituted the signature—“James Stone.”
