The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 55
He buttoned his coat once more about him, then proceeded to raise his window the required distance; but at the risk of missing something important, he took his time about it, with the result that the slight sound could not have been heard even a few feet away. When there was room enough for him to crawl through, he did so, and, leaning over, grasped the end of the platform. He stepped noiselessly across the gap, threw one leg over the railing and gently lowered himself to the grating. Along this he tiptoed, his thin-soled shoes making practically no sound as he advanced. In a few moments he was kneeling in front of Stone’s window with the rubber disc held to his right ear, and his ear lowered to the crack at the bottom of the sash.
The wooden wedge was still in place, luckily for him, consequently the sash had remained slightly raised. As soon as the device was brought into use, it amplified the sounds it caught, and what had been an indistinct murmur of voices became an easily audible conversation.
“Be very careful of this,” were the first definite words he heard. They were in Doctor Follansbee’s voice. “I will leave it in the case here for you,” the high, thin tones went on. “Don’t press the plunger until you have inserted the needle underneath the skin. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
The detective hardly recognized Stone’s voice, so hoarse and agitated did it sound.
“The drug and sponge will be easy for you to handle,” Follansbee explained. “Wait until you get into the room and are six feet or so from the bed, then just sprinkle a few drops on the sponge from this vial.”
“Won’t he smell the stuff and wake up?”
“Certainly not, unless you make a noise. The drug has a penetrating odor, of course, for the time being, but his sleeping sense won’t convey a message of warning soon enough to spoil your plans. If the odor reaches his nostrils before you’re ready to act, and he’s really asleep, it will probably only cause a momentary dream of some sort; an attempt of the subconscious self to explain the situation.”
“All right, but—but won’t they be able to tell that he’s been drugged?”
Nick heard a thin, piping laugh. “You must think me a fool,” Follansbee’s voice returned. “The keenest scent would be incapable of detecting any odor in the room five minutes after that drug is used, and it leaves little or no after effects. Crawford will wake up to-morrow morning without the slightest suspicion that anything has happened to him, and he’ll feel perfectly normal.”
“And what about the—the other?”
“It will not begin to show itself until Monday or Tuesday,” was the confident answer. “And even then the symptoms will be inconclusive. There aren’t half a dozen physicians who would know what they meant in any of the early stages, and by the time any one could authoritatively diagnose the case, the patient would be beyond help. In fact, he’ll be beyond it for all ordinary purposes from the time the serum is introduced into his system, and before the twenty-seventh he’ll be dead.”
CHAPTER XX.
QUICK WORK IS NECESSARY.
“Dead!”
The way in which Stone repeated the word gave a hint to the listener of the grim hatred that possessed that demented brain.
There was a moment’s silence, then Follansbee’s voice came again. “Above all, however,” he said, “remember that you must not be in a hurry. Do everything deliberately and don’t get rattled for a moment. There’s nothing to fear if you keep your nerve. Finally, don’t attempt to carry out your—operations shall we call it?—until half past two.”
“Why should we wait? Why couldn’t we do it now?” Stone urged.
“If you were a medical man you would know why,” Follansbee answered in his squeaking voice. “Between two and three o’clock in the morning human life is at its lowest ebb. The flame of vitality burns more dimly then than at any time during the twenty-four hours. That’s the answer, and its application to this case ought to be apparent enough.”
Nick heard a movement, as though Doctor Follansbee had leaned forward in his chair to drive his point home.
“You have waited months for this, Stone,” the peculiar voice went on, “and an hour more or less can’t make any difference. Crawford will be in a sound sleep at half past two, if he’s as normal as he seems to be, and the low vitality which is natural at that hour will make him an easy subject to handle; in other words, you will have the best chance of successfully drugging him.”
The chair creaked again.
“You’re going now?” asked the miner.
“Yes. It’s much better that I should. My continued presence would tempt us to talk, and we might disturb the man in the next room. You don’t want to do that, you know. You want to find him as helpless as possible when the time comes, so I’d advise you to keep as still as you can. Don’t pace the room, or anything like that.”
“But I’m nervous as a cat,” objected Stone. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“I suppose you are,” Follansbee admitted, “but—here’s something to quiet you. It will give you new courage, too. Just deposit this powder on the end of your tongue and wash it down with a little water.”
There was a pause, and the detective suspected that the miner was staring questionably at Follansbee. Stone’s next words confirmed it.
“You’re sure about this?” the man asked slowly. “It won’t hurt me or keep me from doing what I’ve sworn to do?”
“Certainly not,” was the shrill response. “What do you take me for, Stone? I’m in your pay, am I not? I must earn that forty-five thousand, if I expect to enjoy it. Why should I try any tricks on you?”
“That’s all right—why should you?” Stone said more quietly. “I’ll take it if it will fix me up in the way you say. Here goes!”
The detective outside held his breath. “Great Scott!” he thought. “I wonder if Follansbee is putting up a job on him, too. He’d be quite capable of it, but it doesn’t seem possible that he’s trying any such tricks so early in the game. If he means to do anything of that sort, I should think he would wait until Stone had killed his partner, or had attempted to do so. To Follansbee’s certain knowledge, that would give the latter a hold on Stone which Follansbee could use to advantage before going any further. I may be mistaken about that, of course. Follansbee does strange things, and may have something up his sleeve which I don’t understand. There’s a chance that Stone is in grave danger at this moment. I doubt it, though, and I’m afraid I can’t help him if he is.”
Nick’s main concern was to protect Winthrop Crawford if possible. He pitied Stone much more than he blamed him, because he knew that the man was not responsible for his actions, but Crawford’s life was more important than Stone’s, and a premature interference might spoil the case that was developing against Doctor Follansbee.
“That will steady you,” he heard the specialist inform Stone. “I’m off now, and remember that I shall be waiting for you in front of the bank around the corner. I’ll have a car there in readiness at two-thirty. I trust you told the hotel people that you would probably be away to-night?”
“Yes, I arranged that. I didn’t see why it was necessary, but——”
Had the detective been able to look into the room, he would have found that Follansbee was facing his man, but that Stone was not quick enough to notice the cold flicker that came into the hard eyes. The detective would have perceived it, though, had he been in a position to do so, and would have jumped to the conclusion that the rascally physician had a reason of his own for wanting Stone to join him as soon as the dastardly crime had been committed.
“My reason is very obvious,” Follansbee declared in his thin, cackling voice. “I want you to establish an alibi in case something unexpected should happen.”
He thrust his face forward.
“You don’t want to be electrocuted, do you?” he demanded. “That would be a poor sort of revenge on your partner.”
Nick heard the ex-miner draw a deep breath.
“Electrocuted!” came the deep, husky voice. “I don’t think I’d care for that. They—they would send me to the chair, though, wouldn’t they, if they found out?”
Follansbee knew better than that. He was aware that Stone would escape any such fate owing to his mental condition, but it did not suit his purposes to say so. “As sure as you’re alive!” he answered callously.
As he spoke, he turned to the window and started for it.
It was not the sound of his approaching footsteps that warned the listener, however. Nick had already stiffened and drawn back as soon as his ears caught the difference in Follansbee’s tones, caused by the fact that the latter had faced about toward the window while in the act of making his last remark.
The thin, stunted shadow of the head physician of St. Swithin’s was already on the shade, and quick work was necessary on Nick’s part.
CHAPTER XXI.
IN NEED OF EVIDENCE.
Nick Carter moved with the quickness of a cat. In a twinkling he had jerked the ear piece away and slipped it into his pocket. While doing so, he had straightened up noiselessly and started along the platform of the fire escape in the direction of his own window.
It was a close shave. Follansbee had started to raise the shade before Nick even reached the railing over which he had to climb, and while he was crawling over the barrier the sash of Stone’s window was being lifted.
Fortunately for him, however, Follansbee tried to make as little noise as possible, consequently his movements were slower than they otherwise would have been. For all that, though, the detective was not out of sight by the time Follansbee stuck his head and shoulders through the opening.
It was a tense moment, and Nick’s heart skipped a beat or two. Should Follansbee happen to glance that way the first thing and catch a glimpse of his feet disappearing through the window the consequences would be disastrous.
Despite the temptation to do so, he did not forget his caution for a moment, or allow his extreme haste to betray him into a clumsy move. He slipped from view almost noiselessly, and tiptoed away from his window into the shadows of his room.
All the time he was listening intently for some evidence that Follansbee had seen him, but none came. Seemingly the physician continued to climb through Stone’s window, and, having done so, proceeded on his stealthy way down the fire escape.
The detective heard a slight sound, followed by the grating of the sash. Evidently the ex-miner had again closed the window.
As soon as Nick dared, he ventured back and stealthily peered over his own sill. Follansbee was then descending the painter’s ladder. And when the bottom was reached, he lifted the ladder carefully away from the lower platform of the fire escape and carried it, with considerable difficulty, back to the place from which it had been taken.
Subsequently his figure vanished, going in the direction of the open end of the court.
“The end of the first act,” thought Nick, “and the play promises to be a hair-raiser.”
With his brows drawn together and his arms folded across his breast, he paced softly up and down his room, turning his discoveries over and over in his mind. He had heard enough to realize that Crawford was in deadly peril. With his usual cunning, Stephen Follansbee had again taken what promised to be a perfectly, safe course. To the specialist’s crooked brain, there could be no possible chance of fixing the contemplated crime on him, if it was Stone, the tool, who was playing the principal part.
To be sure, Nick had overheard a conversation which left him in no doubt as to where the real responsibility lay. He had heard Follansbee say that as a result of the proposed measures, Crawford would be dead before the twenty-seventh. To the uninitiated, that would have seemed conclusive, and more than enough to convict the physician. Nick Carter knew better, however; at any rate, he knew enough to be sure that Follansbee would make a great fight if the case ever came to trial, and might easily wriggle out of it.
In the first place, he was a distinguished man, a leading light in his profession, and the ruling spirit of a great hospital. Nick was the only witness, and it would be very hard, if not impossible, for the detective, with all his reputation, to convince a jury on the strength of such evidence alone that Doctor Stephen Follansbee would stoop to become the accessory to a murder.
Follansbee would have the advantage of dealing with a demented man, and could insist that everything which seemed suspicious about his actions—the use of the fire escape and all—had been due to that fact. In other words, he might build up a plausible excuse on the theory that he had been humoring Stone in order to study his case, and to see how far the miner’s insanity would carry him.
“It must be the germ of some deadly disease, characteristic of the tropics,” Nick told himself, “and he has left the hypodermic syringe there for Stone to use. That’s as plain as the nose on my face. But without more evidence than I now have, I can’t be sure of securing a conviction. Follansbee is as shrewd as they make them. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to have him claim that the contents of the syringe were harmless, and that he was merely ‘stringing’ Stone for some medical reason. What he said about Crawford’s death could always be attributed to the same motive, and his reputation is so great that it would probably hypnotize a jury into accepting his word for it. He’s a cunning rascal, and no mistake. How am I going to manage this affair? I’ve got to do something before two-thirty, but what?”
It was seldom that Nick Carter felt at a loss, yet he realized that his position was a peculiarly difficult one. He might have forced his way into James Stone’s room, of course, but he felt that the mine owner would have sufficient cunning to destroy at once the only tangible evidence of guilt as soon as he heard the first alarm. And even if he did foil Stone’s attempt that night, the detective feared that it would only be putting off the evil day. He could have Stone locked up, to be sure, and an inquiry into his sanity begun. He might also be able to secure Follansbee’s arrest.
That would seem to clear the way and remove Crawford’s danger; but the detective saw further than that. He felt certain that Follansbee must have demanded a large fee of Stone, either for treatment or frankly for the services of getting rid of the man’s partner. Furthermore, he was assured that Follansbee had contrived it so that the fee would be paid whatever happened.
In that case the arrest or death would by no means end the matter. Follansbee’s professional standing would undoubtedly result in an arrangement whereby the specialist would go free under heavy bonds pending his trial, and the moment he was at liberty to do so, he would almost certainly begin work on a new attempt to get rid of Winthrop Crawford and to earn his money.
That fact had to be taken into consideration in connection with Follansbee, for the latter would not be treated as an ordinary criminal; therefore, it became increasingly evident that Nick would have to meet cunning with cunning if he hoped to handle the affair successfully.
At last, the hint of a plan came to him. He halted by his window and looked out again. The light was still shining in Stone’s room. “I must go in there without the fellow’s knowledge,” he thought. “A minute, possibly half a minute, would do, with good luck. I wonder how I can manage it, though?”
CHAPTER XXII.
HELP FROM THE HOUSE DETECTIVE.
Nick looked at his watch. It was ten minutes of one.
More than an hour and a half remained before half past two. There seemed to be plenty of time, therefore; but he could not be sure that Stone would take Follansbee’s advice and wait until that hour before attacking his partner. The man’s insane impatience might get the upper hand and lead him to act before the time set. But the plan which had come to Nick could be put into execution at once, and thus a nerve-racking delay could be avoided.
The detective might have acted wholly on his own responsibility, but many difficulties would have been involved in that case, and he decided against it. He turned on the lights in his room and looked up at the wall in the neighborhood of the door. As he had anticipated, his eyes fell upon an electric bell, which had doubtless been placed there in order to arouse guests who might have left instructions for an early call. If there was one in his room, there was doubtless one in each of the others—including James Stone’s. Having made up his mind as to that, the detective switched off the light again, softly unlocked and opened his door, and slipped out into the corridor.
The Hotel Windermere was a modern one, with all the latest safeguards, including floor clerks; in other words, there was a clerk on each floor night and day. These clerks had desks in the main corridors, with mirrors about them so arranged that they could see what went on in all of the side passages. Calls from their floor were handled by them, and it was their business to see that everything was orderly and respectable, to scrutinize visitors, to note the comings and going of guests, and to keep a watch for delinquencies on the part of employees.
Nick approached the clerk on his floor, a young woman of thirty-three or four.
“Will you kindly tell me where I can find the house detective at this hour?” he asked.
The clerk looked him over in some surprise. “Has anything happened?” she asked quickly. “Have you lost anything?”
Nick smiled slightly. “Oh, no,” he answered. “It’s nothing of that sort. I simply have business with your detective.” As he spoke, he took out a two-dollar bill and laid it on the young woman’s desk. “And I must ask that you look upon my interest in him as strictly confidential,” he added.
The clerk frowned slightly as she saw the money, then gave the detective a searching look. “I can’t accept that, Mr. Mortimer,” she said, giving him the name he was using at the hotel. “We clerks are not allowed to accept tips. It wouldn’t do, you know. Thank you just as much, though. You may be sure I won’t say anything about it. You’ll find Mr. Stickney, the detective, in room twelve hundred and twelve.”
