SEARCHING FOR CLEWS.
Early on New Year’s morning Nicholas Carter, the famous detective,
arrived in Jersey City on a train from Chicago, where he had been
investigating a diamond case, which he had closed up successfully.
Danny, his chauffeur, met him at the station, with his powerful touring
car; and in a few minutes they were crossing the Hudson River on the
downtown ferry over to Chambers Street.
They had just landed and were beginning to get headway along that
thoroughfare, when their attention was attracted by a loud commotion in
the street.
Leaning over, Carter beheld the crowd congregating in front of the Red
Dragon Inn, which was almost opposite. He heard the cries of murder.
Instantly the veteran’s energies were aroused. He forgot all about his
not having had breakfast, and springing out, he pushed his way through
the crowd and entered the barroom of the Red Dragon Inn.
There he found the proprietor pacing up and down in a state of nervous
excitement.
A policeman was also there, and to him Nick applied for information.
“I can’t make head nor tail of it,” the policeman replied to Carter’s
inquiry. “I’ve sent word to the police station, Mr. Carter, and I am
expecting the captain every minute.”
“Have you been upstairs?”
“No, sir. I thought it best to wait until the captain arrived.”
“Where is the bartender?”
“Standing over there,” and the policeman pointed to the man, who was
leaning against the bar.
Carter stepped up to the bartender and asked:
“What is your name?”
“George Terry,” the bartender answered.
“How long have you been employed here?”
“Three years.”
“I believe you discovered the murder?”
“I did, sir.”
“At what time?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Do you know the man?”
“No, sir, he is a stranger to me.”
“What is his name?”
“I forgot to ask him.”
“Don’t you keep a register?”
“No, sir.”
“What time did the man arrive?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
“Did he have any luggage?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell me all about your conversation with him.”
“As I said, he came in here shortly after midnight. He seemed weak and
exhausted as he slipped up to the bar. He requested me to make him a
hot toddy, which I did.
“After he had finished his drink he asked me if I could let him have a
room for the night, and I told him that the attic room was vacant and
he could have that. He paid the price out of a well-filled purse.
“I offered to conduct him up to the room, Mr. Carter, but he said it
would not be necessary, because he was familiar with the house, he
having stopped here on various occasions twenty years ago. He left
the room, and that was the last I saw of him until I discovered his
murdered body, when I went up to the attic to call him and opened the
door of the room he occupied.”
“You heard him say he had stopped here on various occasions twenty
years ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is the proprietor’s name?”
“Henry Lancaster.”
“How long has he conducted this place?”
“Ten years.”
“Do you know the name of the man from whom he purchased it?”
“I do not.”
“Has any one been upstairs to the murdered man’s room since you made
the discovery?”
“No one has been near it. Everything is undisturbed. I did not enter.”
“I will speak to the proprietor.”
Carter approached Mr. Lancaster, who was a middle-aged man of affable
manners.
“The bartender informs me that you have conducted this place for about
ten years,” the detective said, as he came up to Mr. Lancaster.
“I have owned it for nearly eleven years,” Mr. Lancaster replied.
“From whom did you purchase it?”
“A man named Peter Wright, who had been the proprietor for nearly a
quarter of a century.”
“Is Mr. Wright alive?”
“He is.”
“Where does he reside?”
“At the Cosmopolitan Hotel, across the street. He is a bachelor, and
entirely alone in the world, all of his relatives having died. He is
an Englishman by birth, and a courtly old gentleman. He has a moderate
income to live on, and he is enjoying himself in his declining years.
All of the merchants of old New York knew him, and when he conducted
the Red Dragon Inn it was famous as a chop house.
“Mr. Wright’s acquaintance is extensive,” added Lancaster. “If you see
him, he may know something about the murdered man--if the man spoke the
truth when he said that he used to stop here twenty years ago.
“I shall surely call upon Mr. Wright, and ask him to take a look at the
remains.”
At this moment Carter felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He
turned around and beheld the captain of the precinct, who had just
arrived.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” the officer exclaimed. “You can
help us in this, and as usual I suppose you have gleaned considerable
information?”
“I have found very little,” the detective replied.
“Will you help us?”
“Certainly.”
“My mind is relieved. I hope you’ll take full charge of the case.”
“What about headquarters?”
“I will take care of that. While you have charge, the people at
headquarters will not interfere.”
“Have you sent out an alarm?”
“Yes.”
“Let us go up to the attic room. Request your men to keep every one
downstairs.”
“I will do that.”
The police captain issued his instructions to his men, and then he and
Carter proceeded upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the
victim lay.
The captain stood out in the hall on the threshold, while the detective
entered the room.
Carter stepped up to the side of the bed and scrutinized the face of
the victim closely in silence.
“His throat was cut while he slept,” Nick remarked, looking toward the
captain.
“Do you see any sign of the weapon with which the crime was committed?”
the police official asked.
“Not yet.”
Carter turned around and commenced to inspect the room.
For nearly fifteen minutes he was engaged in the work, without uttering
a word.
The police captain watched him with close attention.
The detective went over the ground with the avidity of a sleuthhound
scenting for a trail.
Every nook and corner of the apartment was inspected, until the
detective stood by the window, the sash of which was raised. He looked
at the sill and then uttered an exclamation.
“What is it?” the police captain asked, entering the room and stepping
up to Carter’s side.
“See,” the detective replied, pointing with his forefinger to stains
upon the window sill and the lower part of the sash. “Here are imprints
of bloody fingers. The murderer, after he committed the crime, came
over to this window and raised the sash. And here are bloody tracks on
the outside. Look; there are imprints of shoes in the snow across the
roof--they lead from here to the edge. The murderer escaped this way.
Wait here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
Carter crawled out of the window onto the roof, and followed the tracks
in the snow, until he came to the edge of the roof, where he halted and
looked over.
There, attached to the side of the house, he beheld an iron ladder
leading from the roof down to the yard.
Still he saw nothing of the weapon with which the crime had been
committed.
There was no doubt now in his mind about the assassin having escaped by
the roof. He returned to the room and gave the captain an accurate but
brief account of what he had discovered.
“This leads me to think the murderer possessed some knowledge of this
house,” the police captain remarked, after he had listened to what the
detective had to say.
“Probably,” Carter rejoined, and then for a time he lapsed into deep
thought.
The captain was also silent.
Nick’s eyes wandered around the room and he bit his lips.
Upon his face there was a strained expression.
One could tell that he was following some train of thought.
The pupils of his eyes blazed brilliantly.
Minute after minute passed and still he did not speak.
Patiently his companion waited.
Carter’s eyes rested upon the clothing of the victim, which was lying
on a chair near the bed in a corner of the room.
It was in a confused heap.
The detective stepped forward.
“We have overlooked these!” he exclaimed, pointing to the clothes.
“I was just looking at them,” the police captain remarked. “It seems to
me that they must have been disturbed by the murderer.”
“They were,” Carter rejoined, holding up the dead man’s vest for the
police captain to inspect. “There are bloodstains upon this and the
other garments.”
“Search the pockets.”
For some minutes the detective was engaged in making the search. When
he finished he looked at the captain.
“Nothing,” he said tersely.
“The murderer secured everything,” the police captain rejoined, in a
tone of disappointment, “he has not left a scrap of paper by which the
dead man could be identified.”
“Everything is gone.”
“It is too bad.”
“Yes--but I have made a discovery.”
“What is it?”
“These are prison clothes--they are new.”
“What! Are you sure?”
“I am positive. They were made in Sing Sing Prison.”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“This murdered man was recently released from State’s prison.”
“Perhaps the motive for the crime was revenge.”
“Maybe, and still he may have been murdered because he possessed
information which some one was afraid would be divulged.”
“That may be it.”
“In one way this discovery is important.”
“And you really think this man was a convict?”
“I do. If he were not a released convict he would not have worn
clothing made expressly for the convicts.”
“He may have purchased them from some one.”
“That is so--but still I think he did not.”
“There is one clew anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Let us go downstairs.”
They left the room.
Carter closed and locked the door.
On the way downstairs the detective inspected the steps, but he found
nothing which would throw any light upon the mystery. There were no
tracks, except those in the snow on the roof. The leading question in
his mind was how the murderer had entered the house.
After he had returned to the barroom he called the bartender aside and
asked:
“Do you remember if any one came in after the old man retired?”
“Yes, I do, now that I come to think of it,” the bartender exclaimed,
with considerable animation. “A tall man entered just as the old man
left the room. He wore a long ulster and a slouch hat.
“This man, sir, stepped up to the bar and called for whisky, which I
served to him. He took a seat at a table near the hall door.
“I was busy supplying the orders to the other customers and I did not
pay any attention to him.
“When I came to close up he was gone.
“When he went out, I do not know; but he may have left while I was
serving drinks at some one of the tables.”
“Would you know the man if you should see him again?” inquired the
detective.
“I cannot tell whether I would or not.”
“Are you able to describe him?”
“I should think he was about forty-five or fifty years old. His face
was covered with a heavy brown beard. His eyes were black, restless
and penetrating. That is all I can remember about him. I didn’t pay
particular attention to him.”
“Who occupied the room next to the one in which the man was murdered?”
“I did.”
“What time did you retire?”
“It was probably about half past one o’clock. As I was about to enter
my room I noticed that a light was burning in the old man’s room. I
thought at the time that he had not yet retired, but I didn’t hear him
make any noise.”
“You were not awakened during the night?”
“No.”
“Are you a sound sleeper?”
“I am.”
“What time did you get up?”
“About half past eight o’clock.”
Carter went out into the back yard.
There he found footprints in the snow leading from the foot of the
ladder over to a gate in the fence, which opened to an alley running
along between the yards into Hudson Street.
The trail was plain and distinct.
The detective followed it until it ended on Hudson Street.
Then he returned to the yard, where he made a search for the weapon,
thinking the assassin might have thrown it away.
But there was no trace of it to be found.
Carter went back into the barroom.
The coroner had arrived and was preparing to take charge of the body.
The detective hurried across the street to the Cosmopolitan Hotel and
asked to see Mr. Wright, the former proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn.
Mr. Wright was a portly old gentleman with a large, florid, jovial
face, and he received the detective instantly. He listened attentively
to what Carter had to say, and he complied with his request to
accompany him over to the inn and view the remains of the victim.
“If that man spoke the truth,” Mr. Wright remarked, as he and the
detective left the hotel, “I may be able to identify the body.”