ON THE TRAIL OF THE BLACK HANDERS.
Simmons Pendar had the reputation of being one of the best officers
in the detective service. Several of his exploits proved that he
possessed a brilliant mind, was quick in reading the vaguest clues
and marvelously successful in following them up. It is not my
purpose to explain by what subtle means he convinced himself that
the kidnappers of little Grace Hastings had their headquarters in
the extensive wilderness to the westward of the country town of
Chesterton. Had he confessed the truth he would have admitted that a
trifling occurrence, one of those insignificant incidents which
figure oftener than is believed in important matters, gave him the
key. Being human like the rest of us, he made his mistakes now and
then, but felt absolutely sure he had not blundered in the present
instance.
Pendar shared his secret with no one. The surety of a magnificent
money reward, the glory of succeeding where others of his profession
had failed, and his deep sympathy with the victims of the
unspeakable cruelty, inspired him to do everything in his power to
right one of the most diabolical wrongs to which society has been
forced to submit in these later days.
It may be said that the greatest difficulty of all confronted the
detective when he had thus located the miscreants. The letters which
they sent at intervals to the afflicted family were accompanied by
terrifying threats and the demand for an increase of the ransom rose
until it reached the stupendous total of fifty thousand dollars. To
prevent the criminals from carrying out their threats of vengeance,
cunning attempts were made to convince them that the father was
doing all he could to comply with their terms. The difficulty of
transferring so large a sum made the delay seem reasonable if not
unavoidable. In one instance, a large package of genuine bills was
placed where directed, but unfortunately for the success of the
scheme two carefully disguised detectives were hidden in the
vicinity. They were certain they had managed the affair so skilfully
that they were not suspected, but the claimants did not go forward
and a day later a letter reached Mr. Hastings telling him the trick
had been detected and one more repetition of anything of that nature
would close all dealings between them, with the certainty that they
would never see their child again. A last chance was offered him. He
was to place the money in large unmarked bills inside of a traveling
bag and throw it off from the rear of the midnight train on a date
named, two miles west of Chesterton, at a point indicated so clearly
by a pile of towering rocks that no mistake could be made. A failure
to comply with this proposal would end all dealings between the
kidnappers and the parent.
The night fixed upon was the one succeeding the talk which Detective
Pendar held with Harvey Hamilton as related in the preceding
chapter. Thus the crisis was at hand,—so near indeed that Pendar had
with him the bag and its enormously valuable contents, prepared to
carry out, if it could not be avoided, the plan of the miscreants.
He had promised that if success was not reached by him before the
hour set, he would throw off the money at the point named. Mr.
Hastings assured him that if he did not make such a pledge, he
himself would do so. He could not suffer the torture any longer, and
his wife was already at death’s door under the pressure of the grief
that was crushing her to the dust.
These frightful letters were mailed from different points, the first
reaching the family from a substation in Philadelphia. The last was
postmarked at Chesterton, as if the senders wished it to be known
they were near the spot where the deal was to be consummated.
A test of Detective Pendar’s acumen came in the same hour that he
reached the town on the train. At the hotel he quickly fixed upon
the two Italians who were registered under the names of Amasi
Catozzi and Giuseppe Caprioni, and who spent most of their time in
smoking cigarettes and lounging in the sitting-room or on the front
porch. Pendar, as has been stated, assumed the character of a
commercial traveler for a hardware house, and with no unnecessary
delay entered energetically upon his duties. Like a true artist he
did not over-do his part, and it is no small proof of his ability to
say that he succeeded where almost any other one would have failed.
The alert Italians agreed that he was what he represented himself to
be, though they by no means relaxed their vigilance.
A point had been reached in the delicate business where a mistake
was certain to be fatal. The detective must succeed or fail
disastrously. Convinced that the child was held at some point in the
adjoining forest, she must be rescued, if rescued at all, by a
rush,—a charge, as might be said, that would scatter the wretches in
such headlong flight as to compel them to abandon their little
prisoner, whom they would not be likely to harm, since their own
peril would be increased thereby.
It will be seen, however, that to carry out this coup, the officer
must know the exact spot to assail. He could not spend hours in
groping through the wood in search of the place, with the certain
result that the abductors would take alarm and carry their captive
to a secure refuge.
Such was the situation when the arrival of Harvey Hamilton in his
aeroplane gave an unexpected turn to affairs. The plan of an aerial
hunt for the kidnappers had never occurred to the detective until it
forced itself upon him. Here was the means thrust into his hands,
and it has been shown how he turned it to account, or, more
properly, how he tried to turn it to account, for its success was
alarmingly problematical.
The bag with its treasure was deposited in the big safe at the
hotel, no one suspecting its contents. Before this time Pendar had
reached the pleasing certainty that the two Italians felt no
suspicion of him. When he strolled down the long, broad street,
smoking a cigar, and now and then halting to look into the store
windows, neither of the men shadowed him, as they had done earlier
in his visit to Chesterton. The couple were warranted in believing
that since Mr. Pendar was all he claimed to be and there were no
other suspicious characters in town, they had nothing to fear, the
game was still their own.
Thus matters stood when the detective reached the end of the street,
and still leisurely walking, passed into the open country. It will
be remembered that the moon was near its full and the sky was still
unclouded. It was all-important at this point that the kidnappers
should not have their attention drawn to him. A scrutiny of the road
to the rear removed all doubt on that point.
“It was a pretty hard job,” he reflected, “but I have thrown them
off the scent and that’s a big thing at this stage of the game.”
He had passed over the road several times in a carriage on business
trips to nearby towns, and was familiar with the forest as viewed
from the highway. He knew the precise spot where a path turned in
among the trees, which presumably led to the cabin where Bohunkus
Johnson had seen the little girl.
Under the shadow of the foliage at the roadside, Pendar stood for
fifteen minutes scrutinizing every point in his field of vision. His
heart gave a quicker throb when, while looking in the opposite
direction from the town, he discerned the dim outlines of a man
coming toward him. Pendar whisked back among the shadows, where he
could not be seen by the individual approaching.
Whether he was Catozzi or Caprioni remained to be learned. If either
of them, the meaning was sinister. From his concealment the watcher
observed that the stranger was smoking a pipe. Moreover, he was
bulky of frame, stooped with age and had a slouching gait. All this
might have been assumed by a young man, but he would fling aside
such disguises when believing he was under the eye of no one.
The man passed within ten feet of where Pendar stood behind the
trunk of a maple, and in the vivid moonlight the watcher plainly saw
the other’s profile. The snub nose and retreating chin could not
belong to either of the Italians, and this being the fact, the
detective had no cause to give the stranger further thought.
The point at which Pendar had stopped was where the path turned into
the wood. As nearly as he could judge from the account of Harvey
Hamilton, he had about a mile to walk in order to reach the
headquarters of the kidnappers, though if the path were winding in
its course the distance might be greater. He set out without delay.
It being the summer time, the foliage excluded most of the moonlight
and his journey was mainly in darkness, relieved at intervals by
spaces where the moonbeams partly penetrated. Even with such
occasional help, his progress would have been difficult had he not
possessed the skill of an American Indian in threading his way
through a trackless forest. No one was ever gifted with keener
eyesight or hearing, and he used the two senses to the utmost. He
was liable to meet a stranger or to be shadowed by someone. Thus the
front and rear had to be guarded. Above all things, he must avoid
being discovered while traversing the path, where for most of the
way he had to depend upon his sense of feeling. No stronger proof of
his subtle woodcraft could be asked than the fact that he never once
strayed from his course. He could not have advanced more smoothly
had the sun been shining.
While doing this it was his practice to stop at intervals and
listen. He reasoned that if some one was approaching from the front,
he would not use the extreme caution of an enemy who was following
him, for the latter would know of his presence, while an individual
coming toward him would not.
The detective had traversed one-half the distance, when in the
moonlight he saw a small stream, not more than a rivulet in fact,
which wound across the path from the trees on the left and
disappeared among those on the right. It was at the bottom of a
slight declivity, where a small area was shown in the moonlight. He
reflected that if anyone was near, he would see him as he crossed
the illuminated space. This could be averted by turning into the
wood on either hand, but listening revealed nothing except the faint
rustling of the night breeze among the branches. With little
hesitation, therefore, he leaped lightly across, hurried up the
gentle slope and plunged into the gloom on the other side.
He had gone less than a dozen rods when he abruptly paused, turned
his head and listened intently. A minute or two were enough.
“Someone is following me,” was his conclusion.