NICK HAS HIS OWN WAY.
Two men were guarding the top of the companionway during the colloquy
between Nick Carter and the captain, but, at a signal from the latter,
they drew aside to allow the detective to go down to the prisoner.
The man at the cabin door opened it as Nick Carter stepped forward,
for he knew the detective could not have got below without special
permission from the captain. Besides, he had heard enough of the
argument on deck to know pretty nearly all that had taken place.
Paul Clayton was sitting on the edge of his berth, his chin on his
breast, and evidently in deep thought. He looked up sharply as Nick
Carter went into the cabin, a question in his glance.
Instinctively, he made an effort to hide the handcuffs under a blanket
on the berth. Then he laughed bitterly and brought his hands forward to
rest on his knees, as if defying the opinion of his visitor, whatever
it might be.
“I beg your pardon,” said Nick, with a smile. “I don’t suppose you want
to wear these decorations any longer than you are obliged. Let me see
if I can take them off.”
Paul Clayton stared hard at the detective. He did not know him, now
that he had removed the clothing and beard of Joe Sykes, the boatswain.
But it seemed as if there were a familiar note in his voice.
“May I ask----” he began.
“Not just now,” interrupted Nick. “Let me look at these bracelets of
yours.”
One close look at the handcuffs was enough for Nick Carter.
Taking from his pocket a jackknife, he pressed a spring, and a steel
rod shot forth. With this he opened the handcuffs so quickly and easily
that the sailor at the door, who had been watching him, gave vent to an
involuntary grunt of admiration.
“I’m responsible for this,” remarked Nick, looking at the sailor.
“Captain Lawton will tell you.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” returned the man, as he moved away from the door.
“Now we can talk more comfortably,” was the detective’s smiling
suggestion. “No sense in wearing those things that I can see.”
“Who are you?” faltered Paul Clayton.
“You ought to know me,” returned Nick lightly. “We sailed from New York
together.”
He said this with the drawl he had used as Joe Sykes, and Clayton
started up from the bunk in astonishment.
“The bos’n?”
“Exactly! But, when I use my own name, I am Nicholas Carter.”
“The detective?”
“Yes. But you need not speak so loudly. Don’t let us talk about that.”
“But,” protested Clayton, “this is amazing.”
“Never mind. Tell me what this man said who came and got the jewelry
away from you.”
“The New York detective?”
“Yes.”
Paul Clayton--still wondering, as he looked at his visitor--went over
in detail all that had passed between him and John Garrison Rayne.
Nick Carter compressed his lips and his brows came together over his
eyes as he listened.
“What a scoundrel the fellow is!” was the detective’s comment at the
end. “Well, Clayton, that means that we have to go after him.”
Clayton got to his feet and seemed eager to move out of the cabin
without delay.
“To think that I was so easily cheated of the jewels I stole----”
“Not that you stole, Mr. Clayton,” interrupted Nick. “Let us say ‘the
jewels you were minding for Mr. Reed.’ That sounds much better, and it
is the truth, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it is,” assented the young man, with a wan smile of
gratitude. “I took the jewelry. But I did not use any of it, and when
I had got over the first madness that made me take it from my uncle’s
room, I never had a thought but to return it as soon as possible.”
“But you came to Porto Rico to do it?”
“Because I was afraid that, if I sent the jewels back from New York,
Stephen Reed would put the police on my heels. I did want a chance to
begin life over again and prove that I am honest at heart,” replied
Clayton pathetically. “If I were once sent to prison, I never could
hold up my head again.”
“Well, we will get the jewelry, and back it will go to Mr. Reed. It may
be some little trouble, but I believe I can rely on you to keep at it
till we round up this blackguard who has tried to fool us all.”
“You are quite sure this detective was not really a detective,” asked
Clayton. “He did not look to me at all like the man I knew as James
Boris on this ship.”
“Nevertheless, he is the same. He took the name of James Boris on this
vessel. He is John Garrison Rayne, the Apache. I _know_ that.”
“If there were any mistake, and he really represented the police, he
would have me arrested----”
“My dear Clayton!” interrupted Nick. “Why will you harp on that? You
and I both know that we had him a prisoner on this ship, after taking
the suit case away from him in the engine room. Then he managed to get
free and dive overboard.”
“I suppose it was this Boris who fell or jumped off the ship in the
early morning,” murmured Paul.
“Beyond all question. He swam to shore, got a new suit of clothes,
altered the look of his face, and came back, in the guise of a
detective, to steal the jewelry for the second time. There is only one
man I know of who could carry out such a trick successfully, and that
is the man I am going to find--John Garrison Rayne--the fellow you know
as James Boris.”
“Can I go with you? Or shall I have to stay here?” asked Clayton.
“Remember, you found me a handcuffed prisoner, and the captain promised
that I should not get away.”
“I’ll attend to that,” replied Nick briefly. “Come with me.”
The sailor who had been at the door of the cabin was on the
companionway, talking to the two men at the top, one of whom was Clegg,
the boatswain. He was telling of what had happened in Paul Clayton’s
stateroom.
“I don’t know anything about it,” rumbled Clegg. “But there’s Captain
Lawton. We can ask him.”
It was at this moment that Nick Carter pushed Clayton ahead of him up
the stairs, and led him to the deck.
Clegg stepped aside involuntarily before Nick Carter’s masterful
manner, although not without glancing at the captain, to see what he
would do in such a strange situation.
“Is the boat ready?” asked Nick, stepping up to Lawton.
“I’ll have it ready in a brace of shakes.”
The captain turned to give an order to Clegg, who passed it forward,
and the activity of half a dozen sailors gave promise that the boat
would be at the ladder in a few moments.
“I am going ashore--with Mr.--er--Miles,” announced Nick carelessly.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” hesitated the captain. “I don’t feel
as if this passenger ought to go without something more being known
about him. I believe you are really Nicholas Carter, and that the other
detective is a fraud. Still, if he should turn out to be the genuine
article, where would I be?”
“He is not the genuine article,” returned Nick. “So you need not
speculate on that.”
“But, if he _should_ be, you see, I’d be on the rocks--piled up, with
my back broke and out of the game for good.”
Captain Lawton shook his head with an air of ponderous wisdom that
tried Nick Carter’s patience sorely.
“You have my word that he’s a fraud,” the detective reminded him
sternly. “I thought that would be enough. If you like, I’ll sign a
paper taking all the responsibility. Only, let’s have that boat!”
“Well, all right! Let it go at that!” grumbled the captain; “I guess
I’m going to get the worst of it. I always do. Boat, there!”
He bellowed this last at his men, and Nick Carter went down the ladder,
with Paul Clayton following him into the boat.
Four sailors rowed them to shore, and it seemed to the detective as if
they were trying to move as lazily as they possibly could.
“Pity they don’t hurry!” broke out Clayton impatiently.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” returned Nick. “Our man has got a good
start, and a few minutes more or less in crossing the harbor won’t make
much difference. When we get ashore we can hustle. Meanwhile, we shall
have to take it philosophically.”
The boat trip was over at last, and Nick Carter, who was familiar with
the beautiful city of San Juan, walked with Paul Clayton along the
shaded avenues until he got to the Ionic Hotel.
Situated on the side of a hill, and overlooking the harbor, the hotel
was a favorite stopping place for visitors, and one could be sure of
hearing most of the gossip of Porto Rico if he lounged about the lobby
for an hour or so.
This was one of the reasons that Nick Carter had taken up his abode
there. Another was that he knew John Garrison Rayne’s love of luxury,
and he felt pretty sure that the Apache would be at the Ionic if he
thought it safe.
“It ought to be easy to catch him, I should think,” observed Paul
Clayton, as Nick Carter said this.
“Can’t tell,” answered the detective. “I have had dealings with this
scoundrel before, and he is as cunning as a rat. However, we’ll go into
the grill room and have a good meal, anyhow. I expect my two men here
soon.”
The anticipation of the detective proved to be correct. He and Paul
Clayton had not yet begun on the luncheon Nick Carter had ordered,
when his quick eye made out Chick and Patsy strolling along the big
lobby, looking in every direction, but in a careless way that disarmed
suspicion.
Suddenly Chick caught sight of his chief, and whispered to Patsy to
stay behind for a moment or two.
“All right, Chick!” responded Patsy. “I see what you mean. There’s the
chief over there. You go slowly to him, and I’ll join you afterward.”
These precautions were rather elaborate, perhaps. But the two
assistants knew that they were dealing with a dangerous man in Rayne,
and that he was quite likely to have some spies at work in the hotel,
even if he should not be there himself.
“What do you know?” asked Nick casually, as he bent over his plate,
when Chick and Patsy were both seated at the table. “Have some luncheon
and answer me cautiously.”
“We haven’t found out a thing,” acknowledged Chick.
“Haven’t seen or heard anything about him,” added Patsy.
“Exactly! Just what I expected,” returned Nick Carter coolly. “Let me
help you to some salad, Mr. Clayton.”
The detective did the honors of the table with as calm and smiling an
air as if there were not a thing on his mind. But his brain was working
busily.