PIERRE JACQUET’S REVENGE.
At sight of the detective Quick sprang to his feet. Not until then
did he see that Burt Cromwell had a cocked revolver in his hand.
“Sit down!”
Mike obeyed mechanically. When Enoch Cook told the detective he had
located Bull Blair at the dive, Frank Hare wanted to go there.
Burt Cromwell insisted upon taking the matter in his own hands. Of
course he prevailed.
Burt Cromwell had not expected to find Quick at the dive. The row
heard by the latter occurred between Elford and the detective. Burt
Cromwell had left the fellow insensible on the barroom floor. Then he
locked up the place, before beginning a search of the premises for
Bull Blair.
“I did not expect to find you here, my man,” said Burt Cromwell,
after a pause.
Quick looked vacantly at the detective for a full minute. Then he
spoke.
“By what right do you force your way into my apartments?” he said.
“You know why I am here!”
Yes; only too well did the rascal know.
“I don’t know.”
“Where is your friend?”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Bull Blair.”
“He is no friend of mine.”
“He was here?”
“Yes,” grumbled the dive-keeper.
“I suppose he called around to tell you he had secured that wonderful
green diamond?” remarked Burt quietly.
Quick started. His nervous excitement was mirrored upon his face.
Blair had secured the prize. The thought was galling.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.
“You know very well I mean the diamond Cook told you about.”
It now broke upon the wretch that Enoch, in whom he had so deeply
trusted, had turned informer. On all sides he seemed surrounded by
enemies.
Mike groaned in very anguish of spirit. He cursed himself for having
returned to his den.
“Cook never spoke to me about any diamond,” he said.
“I prefer to believe Enoch in preference to you,” remarked Burt.
Quick made a motion as if to put his hands behind him.
“Keep your hands in view, or I will shoot,” cried Burt determinedly.
Mike placed his hands on his knees.
“Will that answer?” he asked.
“Yes; keep them there.”
“I shall.”
“Now, my friend, will you please tell me what led you to kill Monte
Murphy?”
The dive-keeper’s cheeks became ashen pale.
“I did not kill the man.”
“I have his word for it, and he should know,” said Burt.
“I have not even seen the man in more than a year.”
“Mike, lying will avail you nothing.”
“When was he killed?”
“You should know the hour at which you stabbed; he died some time
later.”
“Burt, I swear I am guiltless of the charge you make.”
“Then you will be given a chance to prove your innocence. Bull Blair
knows that you stabbed the old man.”
“Does he say so?”
“No; but he will tell all he knows readily enough when he is placed
on the stand.”
Now Quick believed his late companion had been arrested. He did not
dare ask Burt if such was the case.
“Burt, you are really barking up the wrong tree,” said Quick.
“Do you intend to submit quietly to arrest?” remarked Burt.
“What’s the use of kicking?”
“Hold out your hands together and as far as you can.”
The dive-keeper obeyed. All his brutal courage seemed to have oozed
out at his finger ends. In a jiffy Burt snapped handcuffs on the
fellow’s wrists.
“Now, my friend,” said the detective, “I’ve got you snug enough.”
“Burt, would you mind answering a question of mine?”
“Certainly not.”
“Has Enoch Cook turned up as an informer?” asked Quick.
“I don’t know as you can properly designate him as an informer. Just
now, however, Enoch is in my employ.”
An oath escaped the prisoner. If Cook was in the detective’s employ,
he certainly could not be anything else but an informer. That’s the
way Quick argued the matter.
“Enoch used to talk very loud against you chaps,” remarked Mike.
“He has come to see the error of his ways,” smiled Burt.
“Oh, no; he is an old hand and cannot lead a straight life, no matter
how hard he may try,” declared Quick.
“Just now he is endeavoring to do reparation for a wrong to which he
was a party.”
“Was Kidd in the job?”
“Yes--the prime mover.”
“Have you arrested him?”
“Not yet.”
“When Dick comes to find out that Cook has gone back on him there
will be some hair pulling, or I lose my guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Kidd will have Enoch’s scalp,” replied Mike.
“I guess Cook is fully able to protect himself.”
“He may be.”
“Some time ago you denied knowing Dick Kidd; now you speak of him as
a firm acquaintance,” remarked Burt.
“I’ll tell you how it is.”
“Don’t; I haven’t time to listen to explanations,” said Burt. “Come.”
“Must I go?”
“You don’t suppose I am joking with you, my man?”
“I wish to Heaven it were a joke!” said the dive-keeper.
“So do I, for your sake. I do not like to help forward a man to the
gallows.”
The gallows!
At mention of that Quick felt his blood run cold. He had always
considered himself courageous in a marked degree. It was that his
brutal instincts blinded his reason. At bottom he was not as brave as
the ordinary man.
Now he felt limp. There was no ray of hope in his mind. Why had he
allowed the detective to make him a prisoner so easily?
He regretted being so docile. Better to have been shot and killed by
Burt than to die on the scaffold.
The man worked himself into such a nervous condition that finally he
became terror-stricken.
“Burt,” he said, “I will give you everything I possess in the world
for one hour of freedom.”
“You know very well I cannot consider such an offer.”
If Burt had had the slightest doubt of the man’s guilt it vanished
now. He never saw a more guilty-looking being.
Quick trembled in every limb and his knees became weak. Burt feared
the fellow was going to collapse.
“I am not guilty!”
The murderer’s voice was low and husky.
“We will leave that for the court to decide,” said Burt.
Then he inserted his arm within that of his prisoner and led him from
the place. That was Mike Quick’s last farewell to the dive over which
he so long presided. At the same time that Mike was being led to
prison another affair in which we are interested was taking place.
The scene was a café on Bleecker Street and the parties Pierre
Jacquet and Mr. Richard Kidd.
The latter had moved his place of residence to that quarter. Only the
day before Pierre had been discharged from the hospital as cured. The
meeting of the pair was purely accidental.
Kidd was engaged eating breakfast when the man he had wronged
entered. At sight of Dick the Frenchman gave a great start. Then he
conjured up a pleasant smile.
Kidd grew ghastly pale as Jacquet approached him. He had no weapon
and he cursed himself for leaving his room without arming himself, as
was his custom. Pierre seated himself at the same table and opposite
Dick.
“You do not seem to have much appetite, monsieur.”
Kidd glanced apprehensively at the other. Jacquet’s face still wore a
smile.
“I’m glad to see you,” remarked Dick, for the want of something
better to say.
“I thought you would be.”
“I did not, however, expect to see you in America,” remarked Kidd.
“No?”
“You seemed so wrapped up in Paris I did not suppose you would ever
leave it.”
“I came to New York to pay a visit and for a change of scene.”
“Have you friends here?”
“Are you not my friend?”
“Certainly.”
Kidd had never uttered a greater lie.
“You see, then, I have at least one friend,” laughed Jacquet.
“You did not cross the ocean to visit me, surely?”
“Who knows?”
“How are all my friends in Paris?”
“Quite well; and they will be delighted when I go back to learn that
I have met you.”
Every moment Kidd thought that the Frenchman was about to spring at
him. Jacquet continued to wear that imperturbable smile.
“I shall be delighted to show you around,” said Dick.
“How is Aimee?”
“Who do you mean?”
“My wife.”
“How should I know? Is she not well?” remarked Kidd.
The latter felt that a crisis was coming. He looked toward the door
longingly. Had he sprung toward it Pierre could easily intercept him.
“Villain!” hissed Jacquet, and now the smile disappeared; “you stole
my wife from me!”
Kidd laughed. The wretch’s laugh was unreal.
“I have never seen your wife since I left your cabaret; some one has
been imposing upon you, my dear Jacquet.”
“Aimee left a letter behind saying she had gone away with you, and
friends of mine saw you together at Havre.”
“A lie!”
“It is truth. I came across the ocean to see you, Monsieur Kidd.”
“Pierre, I will be candid with you,” remarked Dick.
“Well?”
“Your wife did come to America on the same vessel as I did.”
The Frenchman’s eyes blazed with passion and he compressed his lips.
“But,” continued Kidd, “I swear to you it was not a case of
elopement. I did not even know your wife contemplated coming to this
country until I met her on shipboard.”
“That is a nice tale.”
“It is a true one.”
“How can you prove it?”
“By your wife.”
“I have no wife.”
Jacquet’s speech contained more truth than he thought. Aimee
Jacquet’s remains had become food for the fishes long before.
“You have a wife.”
“I had one; she disgraced me, and is now forever dead to me.”
“She has not disgraced you.”
“No?”
“She is now in Philadelphia.”
“Do you know her address?”
“Yes; I have forgotten the number, but I have it written down in a
book, which is in my room. I know the name of the street is Callow
Hill.”
“Did she give you any reason for leaving me?” asked Pierre.
“She declared she could no longer mix with the class of people who
visited your cabaret,” answered Kidd.
Dick began to entertain hope that Jacquet believed his story. It did
seem so.
“Aimee did not tell you,” remarked Pierre, “that one of her brothers
is undergoing life imprisonment for murder and robbery?”
“No.”
“I did not know but she had confided her own family history to you.”
“I did not seek to win the lady’s confidence; as a matter of fact, I
desired her to return home.”
“How good of you, my dear Monsieur Kidd,” sneered the Frenchman.
“Pierre, you will not feel offended if I tell you something
unpleasant?”
“No.”
“I believe your wife has become insane.”
“Then you drove her to it!”
Pierre whipped out a revolver and fired pointblank at the destroyer
of his home. With a groan, Dick Kidd tumbled out of his chair to the
floor.