A MAN OF NERVE.
While Nick Carter returned to the Strickland flat to impart such
information and instructions as would serve his purpose, Chick Carter
parted from Patsy on the corner of Fifth Avenue, then hastened home to
use the telephone and directory.
Instead of calling up the local undertakers, however, Chick decided that
he first would ascertain from police headquarters whether the theft of
such extraordinary articles as a casket and an undertaker’s team had
been reported to the police. He had no great hope of hitting the trail
so quickly--but he was agreeably disappointed.
“Yes, Chick, sure!” was the reply by a sergeant who responded, and to
whom the detective had mentioned his name. “Both were stolen three days
ago from Michael Hanlon, a Harlem undertaker.”
“I have seen nothing published about it,” said Chick.
“The facts have been suppressed pending an investigation.”
“Do you know any of the details?”
“No, nothing more. I will get them for you.”
“I will not trouble you. I will look them up for myself.”
“Do you know anything about the case?”
“No more than you,” Chick replied evasively.
He then hung up the receiver and started for Harlem to interview Michael
Hanlon, and in search for more definite evidence.
Very little could be found, however, nor could Hanlon impart much
information. He stated that the casket had been stolen from a storeroom
in the basement of his establishment, and the wagon from a stable back
of the building, both occupying a lot adjoining his residence.
The stable opened upon a side street, however, and the wagon evidently
had been drawn out and taken away with a horse belonging to the thieves,
his own not having been removed from its stall.
“If it had been, Mr. Carter, I should have heard the rascals,” Hanlon
declared, after imparting the foregoing facts. “I would have heard the
hoofs on the floor.”
“That probably is the only reason why the crooks brought a horse of
their own and drew out the wagon quietly,” said Chick.
“Most likely.”
“The police could find no clew to their identity, eh?”
“No, sir. The rascals got away clean enough, sir, and I am out the
casket and the wagon, I’m thinking,” Hanlon grumbled bitterly.
Chick then had nothing to offer him in the way of encouragement, having
found no evidence worthy of note, and he returned to the nearest
elevated station, alighting from the train half an hour later at
Forty-second Street.
It then was after one o’clock, too late for lunch at home. Chick decided
to take it in one of the excellent hotels in that locality. As he was
about to enter the café, however, one of Nick’s earlier suggestions
occurred to him.
“There might be something in it,” he muttered. “I’ll go up to the
office, instead, and have a look at the register.”
He did so--and verified the sagacity of the famous detective.
Almost the first entry that met Chick’s gaze, inscribed in the same
fine, clean-cut hand of which he had seen specimens that day, was that
of:
“Charles F. Brooks and wife, Washington, D. C.”
“Great guns!” thought Chick, surprised in spite of himself. “Have I
really cornered the rats so quickly? If that isn’t Deland’s hand, or
that of Gerald Vaughn, at least, I’ll eat my hat.”
Instead of plunging over the traces, however, Chick turned to the clerk
and remarked:
“I see that Mr. and Mrs. Brooks are here, from Washington.”
“Yes, they arrived this morning,” said the clerk, smiling.
“Are they frequent visitors?”
“Well, quite so.”
“Not strangers, then?”
“Oh, no; they are here each month, and sometimes more frequently.”
Chick took a blank card from a tray and wrote a fictitious name on it,
adding that of a leading newspaper.
“Send this up to their suite, please,” he requested. “They may like to
be mentioned in the society notes.”
“Yes, certainly,” nodded the clerk. “Front! To 710.”
“If they are mentioned in the society notes I anticipate, however, I’ll
wager they will not like it,” Chick mentally added.
The bell hop in blue and brass returned in a very few minutes.
“You are to come up, sir,” he announced. “This way, sir.”
Chick followed him to the elevator.
“They certainly apprehend nothing,” he reasoned. “They may, as Nick
inferred, feel entirely safe from suspicion, or absolutely sure that
their identity and connection with the robbery cannot be established.
I’ll wager, however, that I can take the wind out of their sails. If
they don’t weaken when they see me, or betray some sign of
recognition--well, their nerve will surpass that of a wooden Indian. I’m
dead sure I’m not mistaken. There is no mistaking that writing. They
must be the suspected couple, in spite of the clerk’s statements about
them, or I’m no judge of----”
Chick had arrived at the door of the suite and his train of thought
ended.
The page knocked on the door, then bowed and hurried away.
A voice within called agreeably:
“Come in!”
Chick opened the door and was met in the entrance hall by an erect,
slender man in a plaid suit. His face was as fair and smooth as that of
a girl. His skin was peculiarly clear and pale, though his complexion
was dark and his eyes remarkably brilliant.
Chick had staggered for a moment. The face was like that of Gerald
Vaughn, yet not like it. The flowing, black mustache was gone, and there
was no sign of it, nor of a beard, through this man’s clear, white skin.
It was, too, like the photographed face of Mortimer Deland, but that was
so small as to preclude positive identification.
What most amazed Chick, however, was the fact that he was received
without the slightest sign of recognition, without the least betrayal of
perturbation, despite that his visit could not possibly have been
anticipated.
For all this, nevertheless, Chick instantly came to one positive
conclusion--a correct one.
“He’s my man!” flashed through his mind. “This is Gerald Vaughn--and
Mortimer Deland. I’ll stake my life on it.”
While Chick was thus taking his measure, Deland was approaching from an
attractively furnished parlor, bowing and smiling.
“Walk in, Mr. Alden,” said he, glancing at the card he still retained in
his slender, white hand. “Walk in and have a chair. Let me introduce my
wife, Mrs. Brooks.”
Chick again was staggered--even more staggered than before.
The woman who arose to greet him was tall and fair. She was fashionably
clad. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was a deep-auburn hue. Her smile was
captivating. Her teeth were like pearls.
She bore not the slightest resemblance to Clarissa Vaughn.
She was not even remotely suggestive of the black-veiled figure that had
left the Barker residence that morning in company with Gerald Vaughn.
Chick steadied himself. He realized on the instant that he was up
against a man, or couple, fully as crafty, daring, and farsighted as the
letter left for Nick had implied. He realized, too, in view of their
absolute unconcern, that he had perhaps gone a step too far, and that
they might be prepared to foil the best work he could do at that time.
For the recovery of the stolen Strickland treasures was of even greater
importance to him, in so far as the outcome of the case was concerned,
than the positive identification and arrest of Mortimer Deland and his
companion.
That this woman was Fannie Coyle, however, Chick felt reasonably
sure--and again he was right.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Alden, I’m sure,” said the woman,
smiling graciously and extending her hand.
“Thank you,” said Chick, bowing.
“Have a chair,” Deland repeated. “Your card states that you are a
newspaper man, a reporter. Why, may I ask, have you favored us with a
call? Am I to be subjected to an interview?”
“Would you object to it?” Chick inquired tentatively.
Deland laughed slightly and displayed his teeth.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I would, in fact, rather like it. It would be
amusing to see my name in print. I’ll be glad to give you any
information I possess, on whatever subject I can enlighten you.”
“That is very kind, Mr. Vaughn, I’m sure,” said Chick, steadily eying
him.
“Vaughn?” queried Deland, with brows lifted.
Fannie Coyle laughed audibly.
“Pardon. I got my names mixed,” Chick said dryly, observing that he had
evoked no sign of apprehensions. “I’m looking into a case of robbery
committed in Fifth Avenue last night, of which a man named Gerald Vaughn
is suspected.”
“Ah, I see,” Deland exclaimed pleasantly. “That is why you happened to
call me by that name.”
“Exactly.”
“The mistake is quite pardonable, Charles, I’m sure,” remarked the
woman.
“Yes, indeed,” Deland bowed agreeably. “We know, of course, that Mr.
Alden has not called to interview us about a robbery.”
“I should think not. That would be absurd.”
“I leave it to you, Mr. Alden.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Brooks, that is the only reason why I have
called,” said Chick.
“Ah, is it possible?” questioned Deland, with unruffled suavity. “Well,
that does surprise me. What information do you expect from me?”
“Any that you can give me.”
“But I cannot give you any,” insisted Deland, with a ripple of laughter.
“I know nothing about the case, nor the person you have mentioned. What
led you to infer that I do?”
Chick abruptly decided on another tack.
“Only because Vaughn is known to be a resident of Washington,” said he.
“Observing on the hotel register that you dwell in that city, I thought
you might possibly know of him, or have heard of him. If you do not----”
“Let me assure you at once, Mr. Alden, on that point,” Deland put in
smiling. “I never heard of him.”
“Nor I, Charles, I’m sure,” observed the woman.
“Lest you may entertain any erroneous suspicions, Mr. Alden, let me call
up the proprietor of the hotel,” Deland added, rising to go to the
telephone. “He knows me very well. He will vouch for me. He will assure
you that I am entirely veracious and----”
“Pardon!” Chick checked him with a gesture, rising to go. “Do nothing of
the kind. Your word alone, Mr. Brooks, is quite sufficient. I had not
the slightest idea that you know anything about the robbery. I thought
merely that you might know Vaughn, or have heard of him.”
“I do not, Mr. Alden, I assure you.”
“I now am convinced of it, and am sorry I troubled you.”
“No trouble whatever,” said Deland, extending his hand. “I am, on the
contrary, very pleased we met you. Such episodes really amuse me. I hope
to meet you again, Mr. Alden.”
“We shall meet again, all right,” Chick said grimly to himself after
departing. “We shall meet again, Mr. Deland, and I’ll then fit bracelets
on your slender, white wrists. Bluff me, eh? Give me the laugh, will
you? I’ll cram all that down your throat a little later. At the same
time, by Jove, I give you credit for more nerve and audacity than any
rascal I have recently met. But I’ll get you, all right, at the proper
time.”
Chick had only one reason for not arresting Deland then and there. The
attitude of the rascal, together with the assurance he had displayed,
convinced Chick that the stolen property had been disposed of in some
locality felt to be perfectly safe, and that its recovery might be
perverted by the immediate arrest of this couple.
“I’ll wait a while and watch them,” he said to himself, while returning
to the elevator. “I know that I have given them a fright, despite the
coolness of both, and they surely will make some move that will put me
in right.”
Apprehending that it might be made immediately, Chick found concealment
under the rise of stairs, from which he could see the door of suite 10.
He waited and watched for more than an hour, but no one left or visited
the suite, and he then returned to the hotel office and talked with the
proprietor.
The latter confirmed the statements already made by the clerk, that the
couple had been occasional guests of the house during several months,
and were supposed to be reputable Washington people. Beyond that,
however, he knew nothing about them.
“Deland is crafty,” thought Chick, after the interview. “He wanted to
establish some place to which he could flee, if necessary, divested of
the disguise he has been wearing in the character of Gerald Vaughn, and
where his pretensions would be backed up in a measure by the hotel
proprietor. That has been his object in coming here occasionally with
Fannie Coyle.
“But what has become of the dark woman I saw last night? It was she who
left the Barker residence with Deland this morning. By Jove, I have it.
Fannie Coyle was the housekeeper. She has been stopping here since her
pretended death. I’ll have the entire gang, too, before I quit this
trail.”
Chick continued to wait and watch. Twice he telephoned home to
communicate with Nick or Patsy, but neither of them had returned, and he
decided to continue playing a lone hand.
That afternoon waned and early evening came, and Chick could see from
the street that the windows of suite 710 were brightly lighted. He felt
reasonably sure that neither of its occupants had departed.
Returning to the hotel office about seven o’clock, he heard the ringing
of the telephone bell, and then the voice of the clerk addressing a
hallboy, just approaching from a side corridor.
“It’s 710,” called the clerk. “A taxi is wanted.”
“Mullen is at the side door, sir,” replied the hallboy.
“Good enough! Tell him to wait there.”
“All right, sir.”
Chick Carter had pricked up his ears, and his eyes were glowing more
brightly.
“A taxi, eh?” he muttered, heading for the side door. “By the rats, in
710, eh? By Jove, here’s my chance. It’s Mullen for mine.”