THE CARD CLEW.
Jack Redmond’s death promised to give the police of New York another
job, but no one suspected that he was Carter’s spy.
The woman who had seen the strange man go up to Redmond’s room had
given her information to the detective alone, and Nick kept it to
himself.
He did not doubt that the crook had been put out of the way because he
was on the right trail in the matter of spying, and as he--Carter--had
set Jack to keep track of Claude Lamont, he resolved to turn his own
attention to that young man.
Then, the disappearance of Margie from the Trocadero, whither she had
gone to meet a person discovered to be the millionaire’s son, was an
additional incentive for the detective, and he went from Lamont’s
mansion to a certain part of the city where he expected to find the
heir.
Through it all he did not lose sight of the fact that he was Mother
Flintstone’s avenger.
That he kept in mind all the time, and with all his foresight he went
back to the original trail.
It was some time after the exciting interview we have just recorded as
taking place in the palatial home of the retired money king that the
figure of Carter might have been seen to enter one of the fashionable
clubrooms of the city.
No one would have known him without an introduction, and no one did.
Attired like a person well-to-do, with sleek garments and a glossy
beard over his smooth face, the detective sat down in the smoking room.
The room was most brilliantly lit up and expensively furnished, but the
detective who had trailed men in every walk of life was not astonished.
He drew a cigar from his pocket and puffed leisurely away, all the time
taking a good survey of the place.
A number of rich young men lounged about the room, filling the plush
chairs, while on the floor above could be heard the noise of the
billiard balls.
Presently a young man entered the smoking room and took a seat nearly
opposite the detective.
It was Claude Lamont.
Perry Lamont’s son showed signs of high living, for his face was florid
and his nerves a little unstrung. He was faultlessly attired, for he
had the best tailor money could procure, and the detective watched him
furtively while he appeared to enjoy his Havana.
Claude Lamont seemed to have a good deal of time on his hands, and so
did Carter.
All at once a messenger boy entered the smoking room and looked around.
Spying Claude, he hastened to him and handed him a letter.
“Ha!” thought the watchful detective. “He is not forgotten to-night,
and now we’ll see if it is an important message.”
Claude tipped the boy and opened the letter. He started a little as his
eye fell upon the page and quickly glanced up as if to see if he were
watched.
Then he settled down to a quiet perusal of the message, during which
time Carter got a good look at the workings of his countenance.
“Hang it all. It comes just when I don’t want to be bothered with the
matter,” growled Claude, as he rammed the message hurriedly into his
pocket and then went toward the cloakroom.
Carter watched him through the open door and saw the letter drop from
his pocket as he put on his overcoat.
Lamont walked out without noticing his loss, and the moment he
vanished, the letter was in the detective’s hands.
In another second Nick vanished, too, and as he came out upon the steps
in front of the club he spied Lamont flitting around the nearest corner.
“Let him go. The quarry will not be missed just yet,” smiled the
detective, and then he went into a near café and in one of the private
stalls opened the letter.
“Didn’t want this matter to come up just now,” he laughed, as he
glanced down the page. “Well, I should think not.”
It did not take the man of many trails long to master the lost missive,
and when he finished he read what follows:
“MR. CLAUDE LAMONT: I send you this for the last time. I will not
be put off another day, and you must take the consequences, if you
have the hardihood to do it. You know what I know, and if you do
not come down I will unseal my lips. You fly high, like a bird with
golden plumage, but I’ll clip your feathers and bring you to prison
if you don’t pay attention to this letter. When my lips are unsealed
there’ll be the biggest sensation New York has ever had, and you
know it. Don’t put me off another day. You know what this means. I’m
master of the field, and I can wreck your every hope and blight your
fashionable life.
“IMOGENE.”
Twice did the detective read this over, and every word seemed to
engrave itself upon his mind.
Quietly he folded the letter and smiled.
Who was “Imogene”?
Looking for her would be like hunting for a needle in the gutters of
Gotham.
That she was a desperate woman the letter told him, and he did not
wonder that it paled Claude Lamont’s cheeks.
Perhaps if he had followed the young man he might have been guided by
him to Imogene’s home, but he had to be content for the present with
the letter.
Nick, with the letter reposing in an inner pocket, came out of the café
and for a moment stood under the lights that revealed the sidewalk.
“I’ll find the boy now,” he said. “Billy may have discovered something
since I last saw him.”
Ten minutes later he entered a little room on Mulberry Street and
aroused a boy who was sleeping on a rude couch.
It was not far from Mother Flintstone’s late hovel, and Billy looked
astonished to see the detective in the den.
“Been dreamin’ erbout you, Mr. Carter,” cried the boy, as he rubbed his
eyes.
“Well, I’ll listen to the dream, Billy.”
“No, it wasn’t any good, but all the time I saw your face in it. You
know the man who dragged me from Mother Flintstone’s?”
“Yes.”
“I ran afoul of him to-night.”
“Where, Billy?”
“Back in the old place, but this time he didn’t get to handle me.”
“No?”
“See here. He lost this in the house. It fell from his pocket when he
pulled his handkerchief out,” and Billy handed the detective a card.
“Did you follow him after he left the old house?” he asked the boy.
“No. I just let him go, for I wanted to see what was on this card, for
you, Mr. Carter.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
The name on the card stood out in bold relief to Nick’s gaze, and he
saw there one he might have seen before.
“You don’t know this George Richmond, do you, Billy?” he asked, looking
down at the boy on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t.”
“George Richmond is a well-known man in certain quarters, but of late
he hasn’t shown up often.”
“Is he crooked, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes, in a manner. How did he look to-night, Billy?”
“He wore a brown beard and was well dressed.”
“Did he limp a little?”
“Bless me if he didn’t, but I wouldn’t have thought of that if you
hadn’t mentioned it.”
The detective seemed satisfied.
“What did he seem to want in Mother Flintstone’s old quarters?”
“I hardly know. He sounded several of the walls, as if looking for a
secret door, but he didn’t appear to find one.”
“Anything else?”
“He went over the floor like a fox, with his nose close to the boards.”
“Was that all?”
“No, he even sounded the ceiling.”
“Quite particular,” smiled the detective.
“Wasn’t he, though? I never saw anything just like that. He didn’t let
an inch of space escape him.”
“Did he seem excited?”
“Not a bit of it. He was as cool as a cucumber, and not for a minute
did he get off his base. He seemed disappointed, though, that’s all--as
if he expected to find some hidden wealth and didn’t, you see.”
“Maybe he overlooked it, Billy.”
“I don’t think there was any to overlook,” said the boy. “But, really,
there’s no telling what that man was huntin’, but he wasn’t thar for
any good you can bet your neck, Mr. Carter.”
“I’ll agree with you on that score, boy,” and the detective put the
card in his pocket. “George Richmond never goes out after small game.
That’s his record.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the murder of Mother
Flintstone?” eagerly questioned the boy.
“Time will tell,” was the detective’s reply. “Do you think he had,
Billy?”
“I do, I do,” cried the boy. “Bless me if I kin get the idea out o’ my
head. That man either killed Mother Flintstone or he knows who did.”
To this the detective made no reply, and he told the boy to go back to
bed.
“Have you struck any clew yet, Mr. Carter?” asked Billy.
“A little one. There, go to bed and let me go to work again.”
“I will, but keep an eye on the man I saw to-night in Mother
Flintstone’s house. He needs watchin’ day and night. Good night, Mr.
Carter.”
Five minutes later the famous detective was far from Billy’s uncouth
abode, and in an entirely different part of the city.
He stopped at last, and looked up at a tall building that seemed to
cleave the darkened sky far overhead.
The brief inspection seemed to satisfy him, for he entered the main
hallway and began to climb the uncarpeted stair.
He reached the third floor before he encountered any one, and there he
was suddenly brought to a halt by a voice that rang down the ghostly
corridor.
“Another step on your life! I have you at my mercy and I never fail to
bring down my man. Stand where you are, for another step means a bullet
in your brain!”