NICK CARTER TASTES SALT.
When Nick Carter dashed up to the front entrance of Crownledge in his
own big touring car, with Danny Maloney at the wheel, he found Claudia
Solado on the porch, looking for him.
“Oh, Mr. Carter! I’m so glad you have come. He’s gone!”
“Who? My assistant?”
“Marcos, my cousin.”
“What do you mean? That there have been two disappearances?”
“Yes. Did they go together?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where was Marcos when he vanished?”
“The last seen of him was when he went into his bedroom to lie down for
a nap. He is not strong, and Phillips advised him to take a sleep. He
thought that a good idea, and Phillips went with him. My cousin leaned
on his arm, and I noticed how pale and weak he seemed as he left the
library, where he had been sitting.”
“What does Phillips say about the disappearance? How long did he stay
in the bedroom?”
“Only while my cousin lay down on the outside of the bed, with a quilt
over him. Phillips put the quilt on, saw that he was comfortable, and
that the electric-bell button, hanging loosely to a wire, was within
reach of his hand on the pillow, so that he could call any one he might
want without getting up. He told Jason to look in now and then, without
disturbing my cousin.”
“Who is this Jason? Was he born in Joyalita?”
“No. I think he came from New York about a year ago,” replied the girl.
“I am not sure. You know, English is the tongue generally spoken in
Joyalita, although there is some little Spanish. Jason speaks English,
but I fancy I detect a certain twang that you hear from many people in
New York, especially those who were born there.”
“We’ll have Jason into the library and hear what he has to say,”
announced Nick, as he went into that room with Claudia.
“Jason has gone!”
It was the cool voice of Phillips. He had heard the conversation
between Claudia and the detective, and had followed them into the
library.
“Where’s he gone?” demanded Nick Carter.
“I don’t know, sir. I might say, if you please, that I have not been
quite satisfied with Jason since we have been here,” ventured Phillips.
“Why?”
“He has twice, to my knowledge, been away all night, without any one
knowing it but me. He seemed very tired when he returned on both
occasions. He told me he had been sitting up with a friend of his who
was sick, and who lived downtown somewhere.”
“Did you prove that to be untrue?” asked the detective.
“No, sir. But I took the liberty of examining his trunk one day when I
had sent him on an errand that would keep him away for two hours. In
the trunk I found two valuable watch movements----”
“Watch movements?”
“Yes, sir. The cases were not there. Just the movements. I was a
watchmaker once, and I know the value of such things, although they
are not easily disposed of, except to a watchmaker who might happen to
want them.”
“I understand,” interrupted Nick. “What else did you find in his trunk?
Anything suspicious?”
“Yes. There were two chisels, a pointed crowbar, or ‘jimmy,’ a pair of
fine steel pliers, and an automatic revolver.”
“I wonder whether they are in his trunk now?”
“No, sir. I have looked in it, and there is nothing but the ordinary
clothing, and not much of that.”
“He is in his regular livery, is he?”
“No, sir. He never wears that when he goes out on his private business.
Even the trousers he changes, although there is nothing distinctive
about them except a blue stripe down the outside of each leg, which
would hardly be seen at night, anyhow.”
“How did you open the trunk? Wasn’t it locked?”
“No. And that is where I look upon Jason as a man of particular
cunning,” replied Phillips. “He must have found out that I had been
examining his belongings--or suspected it. So he had shut down the
trunk, without locking it, and put some of his clothes on top. That
would enable him to see if I disturbed anything.”
“Not if you put them back the same way,” suggested Nick. “You could do
that, couldn’t you?”
“I tried. But Jason is a cunning rascal, I’m afraid, and he would be
pretty sure to see that some one had been at his trunk.”
“If you think he is dishonest, why do you keep him here? Mr. Joyal--the
prince--would allow you to discharge him if you thought it well to do
so, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes. But I want to keep Jason till I can catch him in the act. Then I
may find out several things that are distressing me. Mr.--er--Joyal has
missed some valuable property, and we think Jason is the man who took
it.”
“What kind of property?”
Phillips looked from side to side, as if to make sure no one should
overhear. Then he whispered:
“The Seal of Gijon is gone.”
“I have heard of it,” answered the detective. “It is a jeweled watch,
with a diamond-mounted fob.”
“That’s it, sir,” nodded Phillips. “The prince--I mean, Mr. Joyal--lost
it several days ago. He is very anxious about it.”
“Does he suspect Jason?”
“No, sir. There would have been no use in telling him that Jason was
acting peculiarly until I had proof.”
“What theory have you of the disappearance of Mr. Joyal?” asked the
detective, changing the subject abruptly.
“None at all, sir. I can’t account for it.”
“Well, you keep a close watch around Crownledge. I may be back here
this evening.”
“I hope you will find Mr. Joyal.”
“I will try,” returned Nick, as he went out of the room, with Claudia
by his side.
They walked to the front porch together. When Nick Carter had thrown
a glance around, to make sure they were not followed, and that no one
could overhear, he said to the girl, in a low tone:
“I wish you would stay at Crownledge for the remainder of the day, if
you can. Keep a watchful eye on everything. It may be that Marcos has
gone out for something that he thinks he should attend to promptly in
his own person, and that my assistant has gone with him as a sort of
bodyguard.”
Claudia shook her head incredulously.
“I can hardly think that. My cousin would most likely have told me or
Phillips, or both of us, if he had intended to be away even for half an
hour. Besides, he was lying down when last seen by Phillips.”
“Well, at all events, if you can stay here for the remainder of the
day, it may help us materially. I still intend to leave here to-night
with Marcos for Joyalita, if possible. If not, we will go not later
than to-morrow.”
“Do you know where Marcos is, then?”
“I know where he may be,” answered Nick. “I am going to see.”
His touring car was still at the front steps. With a smiling farewell
and lifting of his hat to the girl, the detective took his place in the
car and directed Maloney to take him home.
When Nick Carter told Claudia that he knew where Marcos might be, he
was not speaking without reason. Nor was his guess so wild as to be
almost uncertainty.
True, as he had come to his conclusion by a process of induction only.
But it was a process that had served him well at every stage of his
career, and he had the faith in it that is based on proven tests.
When he reached the porch of Crownledge with Claudia Solado, and
glanced around him, his eye lighted on a trifle which his quick brain
told him might not be such a trifle, after all.
Without the girl observing him, he stopped suddenly and picked up a
small cake of mud and grass that evidently had dropped from somebody’s
shoe. From the shape of it, Nick knew that it had been wedged into the
instep of a rather large shoe which must have belonged to a man.
The mass of soil, with half a dozen clipped-off blades of grass
embedded in it, had filled all the space in the instep between the heel
and the beginning of the sole.
When the detective picked it up, he held it carefully in the fingers of
his left hand, so that it should preserve its shape until he was ready
to examine it at his leisure. He held his hand at his side, and the
girl took no notice of it.
Until the car reached Madison Avenue, and he had told Danny Maloney,
the chauffeur, that he might want him again at night, but that he need
not stay any longer then, Nick Carter contented himself with surveying
his prize casually as it lay flat on the palm of his hand.
No sooner was he locked in his library, however, than he closed the
blinds, and, having lighted a cigar, turned his strong incandescent
light down upon his table.
On a sheet of white paper he laid the mass of mud and grass.
It was nearly dry. Therefore, it was possible to handle it without its
losing its shape.
“I don’t think I can be mistaken,” muttered Nick. “I think I know this
wiry grass too well, and this sandy mud is of a kind that is not found
in many places hereabouts. However, I’ll look at it through my glass.”
He took a very strong magnifying glass from his table drawer and
studied the mixture for nearly half a minute.
As he put the glass down, a satisfied smile flickered across his strong
face.
“There is just one more test,” he muttered. “Although I believe it is
superfluous. However, here goes.”
He put the tuft of grass to his tongue.
“I knew it,” was his soft exclamation. “Salt! It could not be anything
else.”
He pressed a push button at the side of his table, and then unfastened
the door of the room. As he returned to his seat, he puffed contentedly
at his cigar, still regarding the mud and tuft of grass on the white
paper.
“Want me, chief?”
A young fellow, with the bright, alert expression on his rather thin
features that tells of an active brain, stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Patsy! Close the door and come over here.”
The young man obeyed, and Nick Carter pointed to the stuff on the paper
on his table.
“What’s that, Patsy?”
Patsy Garvan--for it was the trusted young assistant of that name who
had come in--bent closely over the paper and studied the grass for a
moment.
“I should say it is salt meadow grass,” he answered.
“Why do you think so?”
“It is coarse, and there is a color to it you don’t see in any other
kind. If you’ll let me taste it, I can tell you.”
Nick Carter laughed and drew several whiffs of smoke from his cigar
before he spoke again.
“That’s just what I did, Patsy,” he said, at last. “Put your tongue to
it and let me know what you think.”
Patsy lifted the paper and put out his tongue.
“I should say so,” was his remark, as he replaced the paper and its
contents on the table. “Gee! You couldn’t fool me on that. Where did
you get it?”
“Never mind about that, Patsy. Where do you suppose this grass and mud
came from?”
“Hackensack meadows, of course! Have you been over there?”
“No. But the man from whose shoe this came must have been. Look here
Patsy! Chick has been taken away against his will----”
“What?” blurted out Patsy Garvan. “Chick? Say! Let me----”
“And one of the men who took him dropped this mud and grass from his
shoe.”
“He did? Say, chief! We’re going after Chick right away, ain’t we?”
Patsy was on his feet, his fists clenched, and anger blazing all over
his face.
He had a regard for Chick only second to that he felt for Nick Carter
himself. The thought of his chum being held anywhere made him frantic.
“Keep cool, Patsy! We’ll go, of course! But we’ll have to be careful.”
“How do you mean careful?”
“This is the open season for duck hunting, and there are any number of
ducks over there, in the meadows.”
“Sure! But I don’t quite get you? What do I care for the darned ducks?”
“Put on that leather coat you have,” directed Nick calmly. “And your
high boots, as well as your big corduroy cap. Get your double-barreled
gun and that string of wooden decoy ducks we used down on the
Chesapeake two years ago. You have them, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. Don’t be more than ten minutes. Then come down to the
library again. I’m going to put on my duck-hunting rig, too.”