Nick Carter wore a worried look at eight o’clock that evening. Both
he and Chick then were dressing for the elaborate reception and ball
tendered to the local National Guards, generally admitted to be the
chief social event slated for that season in Madison, and during which
the unknown crook whom the detectives were so anxious to identify had
threatened to commit the crime the latter were grimly determined to
prevent.
Nick Carter’s anxiety, however, was not because his life also had
been threatened and might possibly be taken, in case he became an
insurmountable obstacle to the designs of the mysterious and daring
desperado. He was thinking of Patsy Garvan, his prolonged absence, the
occasion for which he could not fathom, knowing that Patsy ordinarily
would have reported by telephone, at least, in view of the work
engaging him, unless something very unexpected and equally serious
prevented him.
The detective did not blind himself, moreover, to the fact that his own
designs had been repeatedly anticipated and balked by the unknown knave
or by members of his gang, in spite of his own expeditious work and
the precautions he had taken. He realized most keenly that he was up
against a remarkably crafty and resourceful scoundrel. He began to fear
that Patsy had fallen into his hands and, in spite of his confidence
in his own skill and prowess, that he also might be booked for failure
and utterly unable to prevent the threatened theft of Mrs. Mortimer
Thurlow’s pearls.
“It would be perfectly easy to foil the rascals, if that was all we
wished to accomplish,” said the detective, while he and Chick were
discussing their plans. “But that is not enough.”
“Certainly not,” declared Chick. “We must take advantage of the
circumstances to discover their identity and in some way contrive to
arrest them.”
“Exactly. We must allow them enough leeway, therefore, to be sure they
will attempt the crime,” Carter pointed out. “They know what they are
up against and that we are out to get them. If we remain too near to
Mrs. Thurlow, as if ready to instantly grab any one that lays a finger
on her, there will be nothing to it. The miscreants will throw up the
job.”
“Surely,” Chick agreed. “No sane man would attempt it under such
conditions.”
“The fact that we are carefully disguised, moreover, would not deceive
them. They would suspect any men who constantly hung around within
reach of Mrs. Thurlow, and would very soon identify us. We must give
them enough leeway, therefore, as I have said, to be sure they will
make the attempt.”
“I agree with you,” Chick nodded.
“It goes without saying, nevertheless, that we must be in a position
to constantly watch the woman,” Carter added. “Having no idea just
when the theft may be attempted, we must not lose sight of her for a
moment.”
“What plan had we better adopt?”
“We can lay no elaborate plan. It will be of advantage, however, if we
keep an eye on one another, as well as on the woman, and contrive to
keep her constantly between us. That will enable us to head off a thief
in two directions, at least.”
“I see the point.”
“We must be alert, also, to detect any person whose looks or actions
warrant suspicion,” Carter continued. “It is barely possible that one
of us can discover the crook before the theft is attempted.”
“I’ll put you wise, chief, in that case, and you do the same.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Her nephew is to be her escort, you say.”
“Yes. His name is Dorson. He will accompany both Mrs. Thurlow and her
daughter, and we can identify them when they arrive.”
“And our work must begin at that moment.”
“Exactly. Naturally, of course, Dorson will pay considerable attention
to Mrs. Thurlow, and I don’t think his presence will deter the crooks,
for I have directed her to say nothing to him about expecting a crime.
There is no occasion for any one to suspect him, of course, even though
he is with her much of the time.”
The detective added the last while they were about to leave. It was a
perfectly natural supposition, of course, that the man of whom he was
speaking was entirely trustworthy. He did not have a thought to the
contrary, and, therefore, he could not foresee the fatal result of this
misplaced confidence in Mr. John Dorson.
It was a brilliant scene upon which the two detectives arrived soon
after eight o’clock, which they knew would be sufficiently early. The
streets adjoining the park in which the handsome new armory building
was situated, in the vast hall and drill room, on the second floor
of which the ball was to be held, were crowded with costly, brightly
lighted automobiles of nearly every type, leaving as rapidly as
possible a throng of fashionably clad men and elaborately gowned women,
many lavishly adorned with radiant gems and jewels.
Fortune favored the detectives at first. They had been waiting only
a few minutes in the broad reception hall on the ground floor, when
Carter saw Mrs. Thurlow and Edna arrive in company with a tall,
somewhat cadaverous man, who he knew must be Mr. John Dorson.
“There they are, Chick,” he said quietly. “The woman has not weakened.
She is doing her part, indeed, to help us nail our man. She is wearing
the rope of pearls.”
“Some pearls, too,” Chick muttered admiringly. “By Jove! they warrant
taking a desperate chance. That tall fellow is Dorson, I suppose.”
“Surely.”
“He’s not very attractive. He has the look of a rounder.”
“Not as bad as that, I guess,” said Carter. “I think Mrs. Thurlow would
have told me. Step down that way and keep an eye on her. We now must
watch her constantly.”
Both had been standing in an alcove formed by the rise of the broad,
main stairway. The latter led up to a wide corridor flanking three
sides of the ballroom, which was accessible from each through several
broad, pillared doorways. In the end wall of the room was a row of open
French windows, leading out upon the balcony roof of a wide veranda
overlooking an avenue through the park mentioned, in which numerous
automobiles already had gathered to await the end of the festivities.
One among them had arrived quite early and obtained a position of
special advantage, close to the broad avenue and within easy view of
the veranda and balcony. It attracted no more attention than any of the
others, neither did the chauffeur, who sat motionless at his wheel.
None would have recognized his bearded face, nor could the car have
been traced from the license number it then appeared to bear.
It was to these conditions and surroundings that Professor Karl Graff
had referred while talking with Dorson in the road house, and of which
he and his knavish confederates were prepared to take every advantage.
Chick slipped away from his chief, as the latter had directed, and
took a position from which he could watch the door of a room to which
Mrs. Thurlow and Edna had gone to leave their outside garments, while
Dorson hastened to another to check his crush hat and Inverness. Though
his face was unusually pale and grave, it wore no expression inviting
suspicion.
He returned in a few moments and rejoined Edna Thurlow, departing with
her through the throng in the lower corridor and mingling with the
stream of wealth and fashion then seeking the ballroom.
Mrs. Thurlow came out a little later and joined a group of women acting
as a reception committee, and for nearly an hour she remained in the
lower hall, apparently undisturbed by the threats of which she had been
informed, and conducting herself precisely as if ignorant of them, as
Carter had directed.
Both detectives, though they then were separated, had an eye on her
all the while and on the rope of lustrous pearls adorning her shapely
neck and perfect shoulders. Neither could detect any person near her
inviting suspicion, however, and it really seemed improbable that so
daring a theft could be successfully committed, in view of the fact
that it had been predicted and prevention audaciously invited.
It was ten o’clock when Mrs. Thurlow went up to the lavishly decorated
ballroom. There, and in the adjoining corridors, a throng of several
hundred guests were assembled. A dance then was in progress, however,
and the corridors were less crowded than during the intervals between
the dances.
Carter and Chick met on the stairs while following the woman quite
closely, and Carter said a bit hurriedly, noting the direction she was
taking:
“She’s going to that end of the hall overlooking the balcony. I’ll
follow her. You hurry around through the corridor, so as to watch her
from the opposite side of the hall. We then will have her guarded from
both directions.”
“Suppose she goes out on the balcony?”
“Slip out through one of the other windows. You must not lose sight of
her.”
“I’ve got you,” Chick muttered, as he turned at the head of the stairs
and hurried away.
Carter followed the woman in the opposite direction, admiring her
outward composure and the nerve she was displaying. He saw her enter
the last of the broad doors and thread her way by the throng of
dancers, finally halting near one of the windows leading out to the
balcony, where she was immediately joined by a colonel of the Guards,
in full-dress uniform, and a lady, with whom he had been dancing.
Carter paused in the broad doorway, with a quick and searching glance
in each direction. He caught sight of Chick, just entering a door
directly across the broad, brightly lighted hall. He saw Edna Thurlow
amid the throng of dancers, and noticed that she was pale and paying
little attention to the remarks of her partner. He saw, too, the tall
form of Mr. John Dorson, who then was standing alone near the second
window beyond that near which Mrs. Thurlow had halted.
Though none could know it save the miscreant who had planned the daring
job, the situation then was one for which he had been waiting, the
crucial moment when conditions assured him of success, when the avenue
fronting the veranda was unobstructed, when flight would be easy, when
the throng in the ballroom were absorbed in the dance, when the strains
of orchestral music drowned all other sounds, and when the victim of
his designs had paused at a time and place that perfectly served his
purpose.
Two inconspicuous, bearded men in evening dress, who had apparently
been talking carelessly on the balcony, suddenly separated.
One of them glided quickly toward the window near which Mrs. Thurlow
was standing, taking a position close against the wall.
The other moved in the opposite direction, stopping short near the
second window and taking a small electric flash light from his pocket.
Hooding it with both hands, so that its glare might not be observed
by any of the persons then on the balcony, he lighted the lens for a
moment, so holding it that it could be seen from the grounds, on which
motionless motor cars then were parked.
The signal was answered almost instantly. The lamps of one of the
motionless motor cars shot a quick glare outward over the avenue, and
in another moment it was moving moderately in that direction.
The man with a searchlight turned quickly and entered the French
window. He passed directly back of Dorson, and, without stopping,
whispered hurriedly:
“Now, Dorson, be quick! Get in your work!”
Dorson started as if stung. He did not recognize the bearded man, but
there was no mistaking his voice, that fierce, sibilant hiss that he
had heard at the road house--the threatening voice of Professor Karl
Graff.
Dorson instantly pulled himself together, nevertheless, and nerved
himself for what he had undertaken. He took the celluloid box from his
pocket, concealing it in his hand, and removed the cover, at the same
time walking toward Mrs. Thurlow, at whom he had been gazing when he
heard Graff’s threatening command.
When nearly back of her, Dorson stooped to the floor and pretended
to pick up a handkerchief--which he had deftly removed from the box,
quickly replacing the latter in his pocket.
“Pardon me,” said he, stepping in front of her. “You have dropped your
handkerchief, Aunt Clara.”
The colonel talking with her turned at once to his partner, and they
whirled away amid other dancing couples.
“My handkerchief, Jack?” Mrs. Thurlow took it, but with a look of
surprise.
“I think so.” Dorson drew back a step and with one hand covered his
mouth and nostrils.
“No, this is not mine. You are mistaken.”
“Are you sure, Aunt Clara? It was on the floor behind you. I thought
you had dropped it.”
Mrs. Thurlow bowed her head a little closer to examine it, still much
crumpled, unfolding it and seeking an initial.
“No, it is not mine, Jack,” she repeated. “It may be marked, however,
or--or----”
Her voice suddenly died away to a whisper. She looked up at Dorson, as
if strangely dazed, and he saw her eyes quickly taking on the vacant
expression that had been predicted, the pupils contracting to mere
pinpoints, abnormally bright, while her lips turned from red to a dull
gray.
Though his every nerve was quivering with secret terror, Dorson kept
his head and continued to play his part. He instantly took the woman’s
arm, saying quietly:
“You are pale and look tired. Step out on the balcony with me. The air
will revive you.”
Mrs. Thurlow obeyed him as if in a trance or a victim of an hypnotic
spell. She walked out with him through the French window. There was a
large wicker chair near by, and Dorson placed her in it, then whisked
the fateful handkerchief from her fingers and thrust it into his
pocket. Then he hurried back into the ballroom, through which he passed
as if in haste to obtain water, as he really was.
The man lurking near the wall in the dim light instantly approached the
woman. Pausing beside her chair, he bowed as if to converse with her.
His keen, black eyes shot one swift glance at a few persons on a remote
part of the balcony. None was observing him. His deft hands quickly
lifted the rope of pearls and dropped it into his pocket. Then he took
out a small glass vial, poured the contents of it upon a sponge, and
held the latter to the woman’s nostrils for a few seconds.
Mrs. Thurlow gasped and caught her breath.
The man accidentally dropped the vial and it rolled out of sight. He
did not wait to search for it, did not dare to delay his departure.
He walked quickly toward a corner of the balcony, where the top of a
vine-covered trellis rose just above the railing.
Toby Monk was at that moment passing the corner with his motor car.
Both Nick Carter and Chick had witnessed the episode in the ballroom,
and the same thought arose in the minds of both--that Mrs. Thurlow was
perfectly safe while with her nephew.
The moment that Dorson returned alone, however, both detectives felt
a quick thrill of suspicion, an instinctive feeling that the fateful
moment had arrived, and both hurried toward the nearest of the French
windows, making their way as quickly as possible through the maze of
whirling dancers.
Chick was the first to reach the balcony. Coming from the glare in
the ballroom, he could not immediately see the seated woman in the dim
light outside. He discovered her in a moment, however, and ran toward
her--just as his chief hurriedly approached from the opposite direction.
One glance at Mrs. Thurlow’s white face, at her vacant eyes and lax
figure, at the neck, then bare of its lustrous adornment--one glance
was enough.
“By thunder, they’ve turned the trick!” Chick cried, staring. “That man
Dorson must----”
Carter did not wait to hear him. He had swung around like a flash,
seeking the thief, knowing that scarce a minute had passed since the
woman left the ballroom. The few persons then on the balcony had not
observed any disturbance, but the detective instantly caught sight of
the swaying top of the trellis mentioned.
He ran in that direction, reaching for his revolver, but he arrived
at the corner of the balcony rail only in time to see a slender,
black-clad figure leap into a moving motor car, that instantly sped
away down the avenue--Tim Hurst, with the rope of pearls in his pocket.