PLAYING A LONE HAND.
Patsy Garvan, following the instructions Nick Carter had given him, did
not ring a bull’s-eye until four o’clock that afternoon. He then rounded
up the hackman he had been seeking.
Patsy recognized his face and discovered him standing beside his
carriage in front of a hotel in Forty-fourth Street.
“You’re the very man I want,” said he, confronting him. “Have a look at
this.”
Patsy displayed the detective badge under the lap of his vest. Sharply
watching the hackman’s ruddy face, however, he saw at a glance that his
hearer felt no alarm, or consternation, as would have been the case if
he was guilty of anything wrong. His countenance took on a look of mild
surprise, nevertheless, and he surprised Patsy, also, by saying, with a
sort of gruff heartiness:
“You don’t need to show me that, Garvan.”
“Ah, you know me, then?” said Patsy.
“Sure. There are mighty few dicks I don’t know by sight. None in your
class, Garvan, as far as that goes.”
“Thanks,” smiled Patsy. “What’s your name?”
“Pat Mulligan.”
“A namesake of mine, eh?”
“I reckon so,” grinned Mulligan. “What d’ye want? I know you have not
started a spiel with me for nothing.”
“This is between us, mind you.”
“That goes.”
“You took a couple from a house in Fifth Avenue at seven o’clock this
morning.”
“Sure. Where the stiff was being taken away.”
“That’s the place. What do you know about the couple?”
“Nothing,” said Mulligan, but a curious gleam lighted his eyes. “I went
there on a telephone order.”
“Where did you take them?”
“Grand Central Terminal. They had no luggage, so I did not go in with
them. That was the last I saw of them.”
“Did you see the undertaker’s wagon again?”
“Not after it left the house,” said Mulligan. “I supposed it was heading
for the station baggage room. I know nothing more about it.”
“I believe you, Mulligan,” said Patsy. “You know something,
nevertheless, that you have not told me. I can read that in your eyes.”
“You’ve got keen ones, Garvan, all right,” Mulligan said, with a laugh.
“’Tain’t much.”
“Come across. What is it?”
“I’ve seen a woman coming out of that house who don’t stand ace high.
She pretends to be all right, but between you and me, Garvan, she’s as
clever and crooked a jade as you’ll find from Harlem to the Battery.
Harlem--that’s where she hangs out when at home.”
“What is her name?” questioned Patsy, with increasing interest.
“Nell Margate.”
“Any relation to Jim Margate, of Harlem?”
“She’s his sister.”
“H’m, is that so?” thought Patsy, who not only knew Jim Margate
personally, but also knew him to be a decidedly bad character.
“Margate’s sister, eh? If you knew Nell Margate to be in that house,
Mulligan, why didn’t you tip some one to the fact?”
“A dick?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I?” said Mulligan, with a deprecatory shake of his head. “It
was no funeral of mine. How could I know why she was there?”
“A crook is always out for crooked work.”
“But I’m not hired to catch them, Garvan, like you,” said Mulligan.
“Many a crook has paid me good money. It isn’t up to me to stool-pigeon
for the police. I’ve got to shut my eyes and keep my trap closed, or I
might get mine for not doing it. I wouldn’t have mentioned this, only I
know I might get in wrong from not telling you, since you’ve questioned
me about it.”
“Is there anything more you can tell me?” asked Patsy.
“Divil a thing. You’ve got all I can hand you.”
“When did you see Nell Margate leaving the Barker residence?”
“Something like a week ago.”
“Describe her.”
“She’s a well-built, dark girl, about twenty-five years old,” Mulligan
responded. “She’s a good looker, Garvan, and makes the most of it. Being
clever, too, she gets by with many a stunt. I happen to know all this,
Garvan, because Jim Margate’s place isn’t far from my own.”
“In one of the outskirts, isn’t it?”
“Yes, pretty well out. The old man used to run it for a road house.
There’s been nothing doing since he died--that is, nothing on the
surface,” Mulligan pointedly added.
Patsy knew what he meant--that Margate’s place was the resort of crooks.
He slipped Mulligan a bank note, remarking:
“Forget it--also what we have said.”
“Bet you!”
“So long.”
Patsy stepped into the hotel and tried to telephone to Nick, but Joseph
told him that he had not returned; also that Chick, though he had
telephoned an hour before, had left no message.
“Nothing doing,” thought Patsy, returning to the street. “I’ll keep
going, then, on my own hook. Nell Margate, eh? She was the woman Chick
saw last night. Mulligan’s description fits her to the letter.”
“I guess it’s up to me, by Jove, to have a look at Jim Margate’s place.
It’s no crazy bet that Deland and Nell Margate are there, if not the
whole knavish bunch. I’ll soon find out.”
Patsy already was acting upon these resolutions.
Nearly an hour later, or soon after five o’clock, found him stealing
cautiously along a sparsely settled road within half a mile of the
Harlem River, his-features carefully disguised, and his movements those
of one having no definite destination in view.
Presently, nevertheless, after crossing a number of vacant lots piled
with refuse, and rubbish, Patsy picked his way through the trees and
underbrush still covering a belt of land in that section, and finally
brought up back of an old stable and dwelling fronting on another road,
from which both were somewhat shut in by a few remaining trees. The
surroundings were uninviting, however, and the place somewhat isolated.
Having shaped a course that precluded observation from the windows of
the old wooden house, Patsy crawled under a fence back of the stable,
and succeeded in finding concealment in an old shed near by, from which
he could see the back door and windows of the dwelling.
It appeared to be deserted. Most of the faded curtains were drawn down.
The door of the near stable was closed, moreover, denoting that it was
unoccupied. The yard in front of it and the ill-kept grounds surrounding
the house looked desolate and dismal in the waning light of the cloudy
November day.
“Gee! it don’t look much like business,” muttered Patsy, after a
cautious survey of the place. “I’ve blundered, perhaps, in coming out
here. The rascals may have sought shelter somewhere else. They may have
other headquarters, where--no, by gracious! those are recent hoofprints
in front of the stable. The dirt turned over by the horse’s shoes is
hardly dry. But there are no very recent wheel tracks, judging from--by
Jove, I think I had better have a look in the stable. I’ll never have a
better chance.”
Patsy invariably acted promptly upon a definite impulse. Stealing from
the shed, he found an open space under the rear of the stable, half
filled with straw and refuse, above which was a trapdoor through the
floor. Crawling up amid the festoons of cobwebs, he raised it cautiously
and found himself directly under a large wagon.
“There’s no one here,” he murmured, after listening. “That’s a cinch.
I’ll go a step farther.”
Drawing himself up through the opening, he dropped the trapdoor and
crept from under the wagon. He then discovered in the dim light that it
was--an undertaker’s wagon.
“Gee whiz! I’ve struck oil, all right,” he said to himself, with a
thrill of satisfaction. “If the plunder is here--no, by gracious, it’s
gone!”
Patsy had opened the rear door and found that the wagon was empty.
Further inspection revealed that the brass name plate on each side had
been skillfully altered with a coat of gilding, and that it bore a name
obviously fictitious.
“By Jove, I’ve got a sure line on the gang, at least,” thought Patsy,
after these investigations. “Under the mask of death, so to put it, they
have succeeded in turning this knavish trick. But where is the plunder?
That’s the question. I’d better sneak out and telephone to the chief, I
guess, and then return and watch this place. I can direct him to it
and----”
Patsy’s train of thought ended abruptly.
So suddenly as to preclude any extensive move, the heavy tread of men’s
feet sounded on the wooden run in front of the stable, and a key was
thrust into the padlock of the door.
Patsy knew that a successful retreat through the trapdoor was utterly
impossible. He sought the nearest place of concealment--a corner back of
a grain chest that stood under the overhang of a rear haymow. He no
sooner had dropped out of sight, than the broad, sliding door was opened
wide enough to admit three men.
Looking cautiously over the grain chest, Patsy immediately recognized
two of them.
“Jim Margate and a well-known running mate of his, Bob Pitman, a pair of
desperate blacklegs.”
The third man was Mortimer Deland.
He was laughing in a cold, mirthless way, while he followed the two more
roughly clad men into the stable, saying at the same time:
“Oh, I easily gave him the slip by sneaking down the servants’ stairway.
Fannie and Nell will make a quick get-away later. Leave that to Fan.
They’ll show up here during the evening. Fan will slip out from under
his guns, all right.”
“Do you think he knew you?” Margate asked, while all three seated
themselves on some empty boxes near the partly open door.
“Know me! Sure he knew me,” said Deland, still laughing icily. “I
suspected what was coming when he sent up his card. The phony name did
not blind me, not much!”
“By Jove, either Nick or Chick has seen and interviewed this rascal,”
thought Patsy, easily hearing all that was said. “This must be Deland
himself, who has been posing as Gerald Vaughn.”
“I sent Nell into the next room, which connects with Fan’s suite, and
then told the bell hop to send him up.”
“Was he in disguise?”
“No, nothing doing,” grinned Deland, with teeth gleaming. “He wasn’t
dead sure of us, you know, and he hoped we’d weaken when we saw him. He
don’t know us, Jim.”
“You don’t suppose he knew me when we lugged out the stuff this morning,
do you?” questioned Margate apprehensively.
“Or me, Mort?” put in Pitman.
“The undertaker and his assistant,” thought Patsy. “That was nearly a
cinch before.”
“Knew you!” exclaimed Deland derisively. “That’s rot! How could he have
known either of you through the disguise I loaned you? No, no, you’re
away, all right.”
“That listens good to me,” said Pitman. “But these Carters are
infernally sharp dicks. They’ve got eyes like needles.”
“They’d better watch out, then, lest they lose them,” Deland said, more
seriously, and his voice and countenance evinced a devilish streak in
his nature. “I left Nick Carter a word of warning to that effect this
morning. If he presses me too closely, hang him, he shall feel my teeth.
He don’t dream who I really am and of what I am capable.”
“Any gink capable of the roof stunt you did last night can do anything,”
said Margate, with an approving scowl. “You’re the real thing, Deland,
and then some, or you couldn’t have framed up such a job as this and
pulled it off.”
“Child’s play, Jim,” said Deland coldly. “A kid’s stunt. Has Ruff gone
after the wagon?”
“Sure. He’ll come with it after dark.”
“We must transfer the stuff as early as possible.”
“Why early? It strikes me late would be better.”
“Wagons are not out late where we are going,” said Deland. “Some guy
might take it into his head to watch us. No, no, Jim, the earlier the
better after darkness gathers. There’s no danger of our being seen in
the road back of the last bedroom. It’s going and coming that’s risky,
so the earlier the better.”
“That’s true, mebbe,” Margate allowed. “I’m not so sure the hiding place
is safe at that. If the newspapers----”
“There’s nothing in the newspapers,” Deland interrupted. “I’ve made sure
of that. Besides, Ruff has had an eye on the place most of the day. He’d
have reported any investigations.”
“Sure, as far as that goes.”
“It’s as safe as a Wall Street bank vault,” Deland confidently added.
“Who would think of looking there for it? It beats taking the risk of
coming straight here this morning, for all we afterward took a chance
with the big, black wagon.”
“Mebbe so,” Margate again allowed. “We’re banking on your judgment.”
“I never went wrong in my life,” said Deland. “Look me up across the
water. You’ll find that no blooming inspector ever put darbies on me.”
“An American detective will do so,” thought Patsy. “I’ll bet my pile on
that.”
“It will be a good night for the job.” Deland added, gazing out at the
sky. “Cloudy and dark. What more can we ask? We’ll wait here till Ruff
returns with the wagon.”
“That won’t be long,” said Pitman. “It will be dark in half an hour.’
“Gee whiz! there’s no get-away for me,” thought Patsy, wondering where
the rascals were going, though their mission was obvious. “I could not
steal out unheard if I had the feet of a fly. I’ll stick close to these
rats, therefore, and let come what may. If they undertake to shift their
plunder--well, there’ll be something doing, all right. Let me get my
lamps on it, and I’ll hold up the whole bunch single-handed.”