THE HOUSE IN LAUREL ROAD.
The direction taken by Nick Carter and Grady to reach Laurel Road and
the house of Amos Badger was the same as that in which the highwayman
had fled with his confederate in the touring-car.
Nick felt some little chagrin over thus having been successfully held
up and robbed, yet this feeling was somewhat assuaged by the fact that
he had obtained a good look at the thief, and had a clear impression of
his general features.
Nick felt quite sure, despite the rascal’s disguise, that he could
identify him if they again met, or, at least, recognize his peculiarly
keen eyes and cutting voice.
Though it then gave him no surprise, the distance to Laurel Road from,
the scene of the hold-up was less than a quarter of a mile, and then
about the same distance to the place owned and occupied by Mr. Amos
Badger.
The surroundings were about as stated by Chief Weston.
The road ran through an extreme outskirt of the town, and was for the
most part shut in by woods, cleared only here and there for building.
There were but three dwellings on this secluded road, none of which
was within view of Badger’s place, which was less modern and much more
extensive than the others, as if it had been a family homestead for
several generations.
Nick surveyed the place with some interest as he approached it.
The house was a large, wooden mansion, standing fully fifty yards from
the road. It had a broad veranda in front and on one side, the latter
terminating with a porte-cochère at the side entrance of the house.
A gravel driveway between a double row of elms and beeches led in from
the road, passing the front and one side of the house, then leading out
to a large stable well to the rear of the dwelling.
In addition to these there were several wooden outbuildings, one of
which was a long carriage-house adjoining the stable.
The features mentioned, together with the broad estate covered with
garden plots and shade trees, with a background of woods in the near
distance, gave the entire place a rural aspect not often seen so near a
large and thickly settled town.
As the runabout sped up the long driveway, Nick saw a man cleaning
a large automobile just beyond the porte-cochère; but the vehicle
bore no resemblance to the one in which the crooks had fled, and the
circumstance did not then appeal to him with any special significance.
“Run round to the side entrance, Grady,” said he. “I’ll ask that
workman who’s at home.”
Grady nodded, and presently brought the runabout to a stop under the
porte-cochère.
Nick quickly sprang down and approached the man at work near-by.
Instead of making any inquiry concerning the inmates of the house,
however, Nick abruptly demanded:
“Have you seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road, my man?”
My man was one Jerry Conley, chauffeur, hostler, and all-round workman
out of doors for Mr. Amos Badger. He was a short, stocky man, of about
thirty years, with a head nearly as round as a bullet. His face was
smoothly shaven, and was lighted by a pair of as shifty, crafty eyes
as ever lighted a human countenance.
They came round with half a leer to meet those of the detective,
while the man arose from his work on the car. Wiping his hands on his
overalls, he indulged in a series of jerky nods, steadily eying Nick
all the while, then deliberately inquired:
“What’s that you say?”
“I asked if you had seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road,” replied
Nick, not half-liking the fellow’s looks.
“Aye, I have,” said Conley.
“Which way did it go?”
“Which one d’ye mean?”
“Which one?” echoed Nick, sharply eying the fellow. “I mean one that
may have passed within five or ten minutes.”
It was then less than ten minutes since the robbery.
“Oh, if that’s what you mean, mister, I haven’t seen any,” Conley now
vouchsafed, with a less steadfast scrutiny of Nick’s countenance.
“You haven’t, eh?”
“Not to-day.”
“Did you think I meant last week?”
“I didn’t think at all, mister,” said Conley, stooping to pick up a
bit of cotton waste from the ground. “I only heard what you asked, and
that was whether I’d seen an automobile pass along Laurel Road. I’ve
seen hundreds of ’em, mister, but none this morning.”
“You should have known that I meant this morning.”
“So I would, mister, if you’d said this morning,” Conley replied, with
a leer. “I never know more’n I’m paid for knowing.”
“See here, my man,” said Nick quite sternly. “If the master you serve
carries the same cut of jib as yourself, it’s long odds that he——”
What more Nick would have said was abruptly withheld, however, for his
quick ear heard the side door of the house opened, and then the fall of
a man’s feet on the veranda, followed by the inquiry:
“What’s the trouble, Jerry?”
“None at all, sir,” replied Conley, turning with a grin to his
questioner. “Not unless this gentleman is looking for trouble, which I
reckon he isn’t.”
Nick had already turned to survey the first speaker, whom he rightly
conjectured might be Mr. Amos Badger, despite that it was then an hour
when a stock-broker should have been busy at the market.
He stood near the rail of the veranda, an erect, well-built man of
forty, cleanly shaven, with dark hair and eyes, the latter lighting a
rather attractive yet noticeably strong and determined face.
He was in slippers, and wore a house-jacket of figured woolen, while
his neck was bandaged with several thicknesses of red flannel, as if
he was afflicted with a sore throat or with a cold. This was further
evinced by his hoarse voice when addressing Conley, yet his gaze all
the while was fixed upon the detective.
Nick promptly took up the remark of the chauffeur, saying, with a quiet
laugh:
“No, I’m not specially looking for trouble. I have had enough of it for
one day.”
“Enough of trouble?” inquired Badger, with an air of wonderment at
Nick’s meaning.
“Quite enough, sir, and at considerable expense. I’m out a valuable
watch and chain also what money I had on my person.”
“Not robbed?”
“That’s what,” nodded Nick. “Held up by the crooks who are doing such
rascally work in these parts. But there’ll come a day of reckoning,
sir, you may safely wager your whole fortune on that.”
There stole into Badger’s dark eyes, which were still fixed upon Nick’s
face, a momentary gleam of resentment.
“What sent you here so quickly after being robbed?” he asked, with
sinister inflection. “Did you expect to find the thieves in my house?”
“Oh, no, not at all.”
“Or did you come to condole with me over a like mishap, since misery
likes company? The headquarters of the police is, I should say, the
proper place for you to have hurriedly visited.”
“I have just come from there,” replied Nick, a bit dryly.
“Ah, that is different.”
“I merely asked that man if he had seen an automobile pass,” added
Nick, now approaching the veranda-steps. “As a matter of fact, sir, I
was on my way to this house when I was held up by the crooks. Is Mrs.
Badger at home this morning, or her husband?”
“Both are at home.”
“Ah, very good!” exclaimed Nick.
“I am Mr. Badger.”
“I would like a brief interview with you and your wife.”
“Regarding what?”
“The recent robbery of which your wife was a victim.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“I am a detective.”
“From Pemberton Square?”
“From New York,” replied Nick. “Yet I have just come from Chief
Weston’s office, in Boston, and at his request I shall undertake to run
down the gang of thieves who are at work in this section.”
Though a doubtful smile curled Badger’s thin, firm lips at this
confident announcement, he at once displayed more cordiality when Nick
stated his vocation.
“I hope that you may succeed, officer,” said he, with the same husky
voice. “Come into the house. From New York, did you say?”
“Yes,” replied Nick, entering. “You may wait for me, Grady.”
“All right, sir,” cried Grady, from his seat in the runabout.
“What name, officer?” inquired Badger.
“My name is Carter.”
“Not Nick Carter?”
“The same.”
Badger appeared surprised, Nick observed, and his eyes lighted. He
quickly extended his hand, saying heartily, in wheezy tones:
“Well, well, I’m glad to meet you, Detective Carter, and to hear that
you think of getting after these highwaymen. I know you by reputation,
sir, and I have no doubt that you will accomplish more than is being
done by Weston’s pack of mongrels. Forsooth, if you do not, you will
accomplish very little.”
The last was said with a covert sneer that fell unpleasantly on Nick’s
ears. He decided, however, that Badger was probably nettled by the
failure of the Boston detectives to recover the property of which his
wife had been robbed, and Nick thought no more of the matter at that
time.
As he followed the man into the attractively furnished library, from
the windows of which could be seen the stable and driveway, Nick
agreeably rejoined:
“I am told that not much progress is being made against these road
robbers?”
“None at all, Mr. Carter, that I can discover,” replied Badger, with a
scornful shrug of his shoulders. “Here is my wife, sir. Claudia, this
is Detective Carter, of New York, sent out here by Chief Weston to
inquire about the robbery. My wife, Mr. Carter.”
In the light of what Chief Weston had told him about her, Nick surveyed
the woman with more than cursory interest.
Though now but thirty, she still retained in face and figure most of
the beauty and freshness of youth. She was dark, like her husband,
and rather above medium height, with a figure at once noticeable for
its grace and suppleness. She had clean-cut features, a firm mouth
and chin, with a square jaw that plainly indicated more than ordinary
womanly strength.
She met Nick with a lively flash of her dark eyes, and said agreeably,
as they shook hands:
“I am pleased to see you, Detective Carter. I do hope you’ll excuse my
husband’s appearance, however, for he looks dreadfully with those red
flannels around his neck. A sore throat has confined him to the house
several days, and he insists that nothing but red flannel bandages will
cure——”
“Oh, never mind my looks, Claudia,” interrupted Badger petulantly. “Mr.
Carter can put up with my looks, I’m sure, and probably he has more
important business than that of discussing the curative virtues of red
flannel bandages.”
“No apology is necessary, Mrs. Badger, I assure you,” smiled Nick, as
he accepted a chair. “I did have a little business with you when I
started for here this morning, but I do not now regard it as important.”
“How is that?” inquired Badger, with a furtive gleam of distrust in his
watchful eyes.
“It has lost the element of importance,” laughed Nick. “I did intend
to question you closely as to the personal appearance of the rascals
by whom you were robbed, Mrs. Badger, but since I have now seen one of
them myself, I need make no inquiries. I have no doubt that the rascal
I encountered was the same by whom you were robbed.”
“You don’t mean that you, too, have been robbed?” exclaimed Claudia,
with countenance reflecting profound amazement.
“Exactly,” nodded Nick.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“On your way here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, well! What are these suburban roads coming to, Amos?” cried the
woman, quite aghast. “It soon will not be safe to venture even into
one’s front yard.”
“I believe you,” said Badger, with a wheezy growl. “I do hope, Mr.
Carter, that you’ll accomplish something. What do you intend doing
toward rounding up these scoundrels?”
Nick laughed and shook his head.
“That is a difficult question for me to answer at present,” said he.
“I must first discover some clue with which to start, some thread
that is strong enough to follow, and which possibly may lead to the
identification of the knaves and where they are located.”
“Have you any such clue at present?” inquired Mrs. Badger, with a smile
and glance well calculated to invite a frank rejoinder.
“Not the slightest.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Stay,” added Nick, as if with an afterthought. “I believe I have
something that may prove of advantage.”
“Good enough!” exclaimed Badger, with eyes dilating curiously. “Of what
does it consist, Mr. Carter?”
Nick was then reaching into his breast pocket, and did not observe the
speaker’s quickened interest, which had not been betrayed in his husky
voice.
“A photograph,” he replied, producing it. “The one taken by you, Mrs.
Badger, at the time you were robbed.”
“Oh, you are mistaken about that, Detective Carter,” Claudia quickly
exclaimed.
“Mistaken?”
“I took no photograph, sir.”
“Yet——”
“It was taken by my sister, Miss Clayton,” interrupted Mrs. Badger.
“Dear me, I couldn’t have done it for my life. I was so unnerved by
the terrible episode and sight of the robber’s revolver that I had no
power to see or do anything except what he commanded.”
“Yet one of them was a woman,” smiled Nick.
“I admit that, sir, but she had a revolver, and the mere sight of a
weapon has always terrified me,” explained Claudia, with a shudder.
“You were quite sure that she was a woman?” inquired Nick.
“Sure.”
“That it was not a man clad in woman’s apparel?”
“Oh, absolutely. Her voice would have convinced me of her sex.”
“A voice may be assumed.”
“Yet I am positive that I am right.”
“She was thickly veiled, I understand?”
“True.”
“Then you did not see her face?”
“I did not.”
“Her figure, as seen in the photograph, appears very tall—too tall for
a woman,” persisted Nick.
“Nevertheless, Detective Carter, I am positive that she was a woman,
and not a man in female apparel,” declared Mrs. Badger, with emphasis.
“Not only her garments and voice plainly prove it, but I also noticed
her hands. They were too slender, white, and well formed for the hands
of a man.”
Nick now laughed lightly, remarking, in bantering tones, not then
attributing any serious weight to his words:
“That last, Mrs. Badger, is capital. Yet I must observe that, for one
too terrified at the time to say or do anything but obey the commands
of that brace of crooks, you did note some quite delicate details.
Small hands, eh? Well, well, I think quite likely you are right.”
A wave of crimson had risen over Mrs. Badger’s face, while on that of
her husband a darker frown was settling.
“I only happened to notice the woman’s hands, Detective Carter,
merely because she held in one of them the revolver by which I was so
frightened, and from which I scarcely could take my eyes. Naturally,
then, I noticed the hand that held it.”
Nick vaguely wondered why she had gone to the trouble to make this
explanation, for there seemed to him to be no special occasion for it;
and before he could frame any reply, Badger huskily demanded, with
sinister curiosity:
“Why are you pressing such questions as these, Detective Carter? I
fail to see that they signify anything very important.”
“It signifies considerable to me, Mr. Badger, this question of sex,”
replied Nick, with a quiet laugh.
“Why so?”
“Because I shall be able to proceed much more intelligently, sooner or
later, if I know positively that this gang of crooks consists only of
men, one or more of whom is masquerading at times as a woman.”
“There is something in that,” admitted Badger.
“Female highwaymen are not common in these days,” added Nick
pointedly; “and I find it hard to credit the evidence presented in
this photograph, despite your wife’s very natural confidence in the
reliability of her own eyes.”
“I don’t much wonder at it,” Badger now laughed indifferently.
“It is not at all material who took the photograph,” Nick went on. “I
understand that Miss Clayton has an office in town. I think I will call
upon her this morning, in the hope that she may have seen something
worthy of note at the time of the robbery. Am I likely to find her at
this hour?”
“Yes, surely,” exclaimed Mrs. Badger, rising. “If you will wait just
one moment, Detective Carter, I will give you her business-card.”
“If you please.”
“You will then have no trouble in finding her rooms.”
Nick bowed, then arose and took his hat from the table.
Both Badger and his wife accompanied him to the door, the latter giving
him the card mentioned, and the former remarking, as Nick descended the
steps and entered the runabout:
“I hope you’ll inform me, Mr. Carter, if you get any reliable clue to
the identity of these rascals. If I can aid you in any way, moreover, I
beg that you will command me.”
“Thank you,” returned Nick, nodding for Grady to start the machine. “I
will bear it in mind, Mr. Badger.”
As he rode down the driveway he read the card which he still retained
in his hand, but the name of Miss Clayton did not appear upon it.
It was the card of—Madame Victoria.
It gave the street and number of her suite of rooms, and announced that
she was an astrologer, an impressionist, and a spiritualist medium.
It further stated that she could tell one’s fortune from the cradle
to the grave, that she could be profitably consulted for information
concerning dead friends, lost articles, missing relatives and heirs,
or for advice in business matters, love-affairs, and all things
pertaining to one’s personal welfare.
Nick read the card twice with considerable interest.
“Quite a round of accomplishments!” he grimly said to himself. “I
wonder why she doesn’t locate the property of which she was robbed. The
woman is evidently a charlatan, a pretender, who imposes upon credulous
and weak-minded fools to get their money.
“Madame Victoria, eh? Well, I will now give you a call, madame, and
possibly a call-down! I’ll wager I take means to fool and expose you!”
Such was the trend of Nick’s thoughts after reading Madame Victoria’s
card, to whose rooms he next proceeded.
Without the slightest faith in this woman’s alleged powers, however,
Nick was approaching one of the most strange and startling experiences
of his checkered career.