The Second Nick Carter MEGAPACK®, page 62
Nick Carter had made another enemy; one whose scientific resources and unusual shrewdness might have daunted almost any one, when coupled, as they were, with the maddening thirst for revenge which shook him at that moment.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
PATSY TRACES THE AMBULANCE.
There is always a certain element of luck in one’s experiences, and chance ordained it that Patsy Garvan should arrive in front of St. Swithin’s Hospital at just the right moment. His anxiety had sent him in that direction after his repeated failures to reach his chief, but he had no very definite idea in view.
He had driven the little runabout to Amsterdam Avenue partly to kill time during his chief’s absence from the hotel. Having left the car around the corner, he had approached the hospital on foot. When he came near the big entrance, he noticed an ambulance—evidently a private one, for there was no lettering on it—drawn up at the curb with a circle of the curious loitering about it. Evidently some patient was to be taken away in the ambulance; perhaps a convalescent. Patsy mingled with the crowd, but before he had time to make any inquiries, a couple of hospital attendants appeared, half carrying, half supporting a tall man.
One glance at the face was sufficient for Patsy. Despite the intense pallor which lay under the tan, he recognized it at once as being that of James Stone, whom he had previously taken pains to identify. The miner was fully dressed, but his eyes were sunken, and every line of his naturally powerful frame bespoke weakness and listlessness. The two attendants, although they were supporting Stone, were allowing him to make use of his lower limbs, and the mine owner was able to walk unsteadily toward the ambulance.
Nick’s assistant looked about and into the wide hallway, but could see no signs of Doctor Follansbee. A dapper-looking interne in a white uniform was superintending the removal. When Stone had been placed in the vehicle, a stout, matronly looking nurse in uniform came out of the hospital and entered the waiting ambulance. Immediately the vehicle, a motor one, started quietly and shot ahead down the street.
Patsy bitterly regretted that he had left his runabout. If he had brought it to the front of the hospital he could have followed the ambulance, but as it was there was no hope of that. The ambulance was already a block away, and going at a high rate of speed, and there was no other available vehicle within reach.
“Confound it,” thought the young detective. “Why didn’t it have a sign on it? If it had I would have known where to look for Stone.”
As a matter of fact, he did know where to look, although indirectly. He had to have something to worry about, however, for this succession of anticipated developments was getting on his nerves, and he felt very much aggrieved because he had been unable to share the knowledge of them with any one else. He had taken the precaution of fixing the license number of the ambulance in his memory before it had been whisked away, and he knew that all he had to do—unless the number was a false one—was to get into communication with the license bureau.
He chose to follow that line rather than to question the young interne, since the latter course might have aroused suspicion, and his questions might be reported to Follansbee. It involved some delay, but that could hardly be avoided, and the sight of Stone, though weak and ill, had reassured Patsy somewhat. At any rate, he knew now that the man was not dead, and there seemed to be no reason to believe that a few hours’ further delay, if it came to that, would have very serious consequences.
Apparently Doctor Follansbee was playing an unusual game, and one that could not be brought to a conclusion at once. Patsy had no doubt that the head of St. Swithin’s had planned this move from the beginning. Stone had probably been taken to the big hospital the night before merely as a temporary expedient, and to lend an appearance of regularity to the proceedings. Now he was being removed to some place where Follansbee would find himself less hampered in his dealings with him.
The crowd had quickly melted away, and the young interne and the hospital attendants had reëntered the big building while Patsy stood staring after the vanishing ambulance. Now he strode away and returned to his own car. Entering it, he drove a few blocks and stopped in front of a telephone pay station. After a little delay he obtained the number of the license bureau, and asked for the name of the institution owning the designated machine.
It was two or three minutes before he received a reply, but when it came, it told him all that he needed to know for the time being.
“Nineteen-nineteen license, number five hundred and fifty thousand, three hundred and thirteen, New York, is issued in the name of Miss Worth’s Private Hospital for Convalescents, fifteen thousand Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn,” he was told.
Patsy thanked his informant, to whom he had been obliged to give his name in order to obtain the desired information. When he had reached the street again he paused before entering the runabout.
“Now, it’s up to me to make another stab at an interview with the chief,” he thought. “If I don’t catch him this time, I’ll begin to think I’m the victim of a jinx.”
He entered the little car and headed back to the Hotel Windermere. There he received another slap. Nick had been in and left, but the clerk questioned Patsy as the detective had suggested, and satisfied himself of his identity. The young assistant learned in this way that his chief had revealed himself to the clerk, and had left word that he was going back home.
He swallowed his disappointment as best he could, and felt sure that the trail must be nearing its end. He had no doubt that he would find his chief when he reached the house.
But Fate took the next trick away from him also.
CHAPTER XL.
THE PRIVATE HOSPITAL.
In his eagerness to reach the detective’s headquarters, Patsy drove the runabout rather recklessly at a time when the streets were full of traffic. As a result, his machine was struck by a street car, and he was thrown out against the curbstone. He was rendered unconscious and removed to the hospital, where, owing to the fact that he was in disguise, his identity was not discovered.
When he came to, he felt decidedly groggy at first, but insisted on dressing and leaving the hospital. After he had given his name, he was allowed to go under protest, and a taxi was sent for.
The hired machine took him home in record time, but when he arrived there, the chief had once more flown. To be sure, he had left word that he was going to Doctor Follansbee’s, but that only added to Patsy’s troubles.
On the one side, the young assistant felt it to be his duty to follow his chief immediately and reveal what he had learned, in the hope that his information would clinch the case against the doctor, and leave the latter no loophole or escape. On the other hand, however, he found himself hesitating and undecided. He did not know why his chief had gone to the physician’s house, and was afraid to spoil Nick’s plans in some way. The detective might be working under cover in such a way that Patsy’s coming would ruin everything. Anyway, even at best, it would be decidedly awkward for him to break in on an interview without previously preparing his superior for his revelations, or finding out if they would be welcome at that time.
If he only could have caught his chief before the latter had left, all would have been well, but as it was, Nick might already have left Follansbee’s, and Patsy’s inquiries for him might alarm the physician and lead to further complications.
“This is certainly my unlucky day,” Nick’s assistant complained inwardly. “What the dickens am I to do now? I could sit here and twiddle my thumbs, of course, while waiting for the chief to show up, but every time I get busy, I seem to learn something more of importance—something that the chief isn’t wise to. I think, therefore, I’ll have another try at the same game.”
He was already feeling much better, and a bath and a change of clothing left few traces of his recent accident. Before leaving the house, he scribbled a brief note to his chief and left it with the housekeeper. It read:
“Dear Chief: I have been having a mischief of a time trying to locate you. I am bursting with information about Stone and Follansbee, but have decided not to run the risk of spoiling your play by following you to the latter’s house. Stone has been removed from St. Swithin’s Hospital to Miss Worth’s private hospital for convalescents, on Flatbush Avenue. I saw him when he was put into the ambulance. He looked considerably the worse for wear, but was walking—with assistance. I’m going over to Brooklyn now to murder a little more time while waiting for you. For the love of Mike stay put this time until I can get back!
P.G.”
Young Garvan had already put one car out of commission that day, and did not know where it was, although he assumed that it was in the hands of the police—if there was anything left of it. That was only an incident in the day’s work, however, and he promptly sent for another of the detective’s machines.
In it he hurried downtown across the Manhattan Bridge, and sped up Flatbush Avenue. He had learned so much that he hoped to pick up some more information. Nick might know something about Miss Worth’s hospital, but he did not, and he wished to supply that deficiency if he could. This time he had brought the detective’s chauffeur along with him, and he remained with the car when Patsy left it a block or two from his destination.
It was an easy matter to find the private hospital, although the small brass plate affixed to one of the big gate posts was the only outward evidence that the building was more than a private residence. It was a large, old-fashioned house, with broad verandas, standing some distance back from the street, in the midst of extensive grounds. A driveway led up to the spacious entrance, and in this drive, just in front of the door, stood a handsome motor vehicle. Patsy’s experiences of the night before had familiarized with just such a car, and his nerves tingled as he caught sight of it.
“Follansbee’s own machine, as I’m a living sinner,” he thought, with a start. “The last time I saw that was when the doctor brought Stone home with him in the small hours of the morning. This is interesting, to say the least. That rascal hasn’t lost much time before paying a visit to his ‘patient’ in the latter’s surroundings.”
The sight of the car changed his plans. He had intended to pay a visit to the private hospital at once, but now he decided to delay until Follansbee had left.
He strolled up and down the block for perhaps ten minutes, and at the end of that time his patience was rewarded. He saw the diminutive, sinister form of Stephen Follansbee emerge from Miss Worth’s and vanish into the vehicle, which promptly wheeled and made its way back to the city. When it had gone, Patsy sauntered slowly along the pavement, and paused for a moment in front of the gate. He was anxious to find out what kind of a place it was; and at last, putting on a bold front, he entered the grounds, strode up the walk, and rang the bell.
A neat-looking maid opened the door to him, and he was led into a quiet waiting room.
Patsy always had a story ready to fit the occasion, and it was generally the most plausible sort; consequently, he was quite prepared for the advent of Miss Worth herself, who proved to be a kindly-faced woman of middle age, gray-haired and stately.
He informed the lady that a friend of his was convalescent after a fever, but that certain unavoidable noises in the neighborhood made him nervous, and it seemed best to remove him to a more quiet place. Patsy, it appeared, had taken upon himself to hunt up such a place, and, having been told of Miss Worth’s, had called to inquire as to the charges.
His well-cut suit and his ingratiating manner had their effect. After giving him the information he asked for, Miss Worth volunteered to show him over the building, and Patsy spent fifteen minutes in going through the wards. It was soon obvious to him that the private hospital was a perfectly respectable place, and the well-bred face of Miss Worth herself justified the opinion that she could have nothing in common with the scoundrelly side of Stephen Follansbee.
Presently the lady paused in front of a door and opened it.
“There’s a new guest here,” she said: “a poor fellow who is recovering from the effects of the drug habit.”
Patsy glanced into the room and noted that there were two beds in it. The one on the right was unoccupied, but in the left one lay the figure of James Stone. The ex-miner’s eyes were closed, and his hands stretched out on top of the coverlet were painfully clenched.
“Our distinguished consultant, Doctor Stephen Follansbee, of St. Swithin’s Hospital, has made a special study of that type of case,” Miss Worth went on, as she closed the door. “The patient will soon recover, and meanwhile your friend could have that other bed. It happens to be the only one available just now.”
“What luck!” thought Patsy. “It’s a good thing I took it into my head to come over here. I hope the chief will appreciate all I’ve done. Hanged if I can see how he thought he could handle this case alone.”
Assuring Miss Worth that he would let her know as soon as possible of his friend’s decision, he left the building. He was on tenterhooks now to pour out the whole story to his chief, and as soon as he was out of sight from the hospital windows, he hurried to the waiting car.
“Start something!” he urged the chauffeur. “Open her up and let’s see you burn up a little asphalt.”
CHAPTER XLI.
NICK HAS A PLAN.
Darkness had descended when Patsy sprang up the steps of Nick Carter’s house. He eagerly inquired for his chief, and learned, to his delight, that he had returned and was in his study. The young assistant fairly sprinted up the stairs, and burst into the room.
“Well!” he ejaculated. “I began to think I’d never see you again.”
“I usually bob up sooner or later,” was the answer. “What’s all this you’ve been up to? How did you break into this game, I’d like to know?”
“That’s just what I did—I broke in,” was the answer. “Chick put me up to it. He was itching to have a hand in the affair, and had a hunch that somebody ought to keep an eye on Follansbee. He couldn’t do it himself, because you had left him in charge of affairs, and so I’ve been losing my beauty sleep—and most of the rest—for several nights. Nothing happened until last night, but since then things have been coming so thick and fast that they’ve taken my breath away.”
Nick tried to look stern. “You don’t seem to realize that this is a breach of discipline,” he commented.
“Now, chief, don’t be nasty about it,” Patsy pleaded. “Let me get this out of my system. My private information is that you couldn’t have done without me, and when I get through, I think you’ll agree that I haven’t wasted my time.”
The detective smiled slightly. “Go ahead and let’s hear it,” he said. “You usually get your way in the end.”
After some little beating around, young Garvan launched into an account of his adventures from the time Follansbee and Stone had arrived at the former’s house, until the last glimpse of the miner had been obtained at the private hospital. The look of interest and satisfaction which came into the great detective’s face assured Patsy that he was pardoned.
As a matter of fact, the assistant’s report, coupled with what Nick had learned for himself, brought the whole case to a focus, and made plain much that had seemed obscure.
“By George, my boy,” the chief commented at the end of the recital, “you certainly have turned a trick or two, and I wish I had known something about it before I bearded Follansbee in his den. If I had, it would have put a very different face on that interview. I was all up in the air about Stone, but now everything is clear enough and——”
“Then you’re better off than I am, chief,” his assistant interrupted, “for I can’t make head or tail of it. I thought it was Crawford that that scoundrel Follansbee was plotting against, but it can hardly be doubted that Stone is his victim—or one of them, at least.”
“I will give you a little information to complete the exchange,” was the answer.
In a few brief sentences the detective gave Patsy his side of the story, and the young man’s eyes fairly flashed as he heard the grim details of the attempt on Winthrop Crawford’s life.
“What a fiend that man Follansbee is!” Patsy exclaimed at the end. “Thank Heaven you were on hand to ditch his scheme. But what do you make of it now? What do you think Follansbee is up to in connection with Stone?”
“I can’t say offhand,” was the reply. “Not a little remains to be seen. I had thought that Stone might be in hiding somewhere, suffering from a guilty conscience; but, on the whole, I was inclined to believe that Follansbee had drawn him into the net. Your revelations leave no doubt of that, and seem to indicate that we have time enough to save Stone. He needs saving, though, that’s certain. So far as I can tell, Follansbee still believes that Stone injected the serum given him for that purpose, and that Crawford is doomed. I was skating on thin ice this afternoon in my interview with the fellow. I didn’t want him to know that I had thwarted him, but I looked for him to guess it.
“He ought to have realized at once that, after I had heard his conversation with Stone, I wouldn’t have stood by and allowed the latter to make the injection, knowing as I do what it would have meant. Evidently, however, he thinks I didn’t interfere. He has Stone’s word for it, of course, that the hypodermic was used as directed.”
“That must be it,” agreed Patsy. “You were speaking of Follansbee’s attitude toward Stone, though, and the urgent need of interference.”
“Exactly. I was going to say that since the rascal apparently thinks the injection was made as planned, he’s convinced he has a strangle hold on Stone. He’s cleaned out the latter’s fortune, and can keep him cowed by drugs and threats. That may be what he plans to do for the present, in anticipation of Crawford’s death. Stone, as I told you, is named as the chief beneficiary in Crawford’s will, and if Follansbee could keep Stone alive and in his power until Crawford passes out, there would be another half a million or so to angle for.”
