THE DEAD GIRL.
Nick Carter glanced at his watch as he entered the street door of the
Borden Building, New York City.
It was exactly half-past five o’clock in the afternoon.
“I am just on time,” mused the great detective, as he hurried toward the
elevator.
Neatly folded and stowed away in one of his inside pockets was a note,
which he had received by a messenger on the forenoon of that day. The
note, written on a typewriter, was not signed, and ran as follows:
“NICHOLAS CARTER, New York City. Dear Sir: Please call at room 59,
Borden Building, at half-past five o’clock this afternoon on important
business. Do not fail.”
There was such an air of mystery about the message that Nick concluded
he would respond, and promptly to the minute he was at the place named
in the note.
The Borden Building is one of those structures in lower New York City
which are used almost exclusively as offices.
It was Saturday afternoon, and when Nick found that the elevator was not
running he was not surprised.
Evidently most of the offices in the building closed on Saturdays before
this late hour.
A young man neatly, almost foppishly, dressed, had entered the building
ten seconds ahead of Nick and was near the first landing on the stairs
walking up when Nick placed his foot on the first step ready to follow.
Just then there came ringing through the building the sound of the
footsteps of some one flying down the stairs in precipitate haste.
Nick, by looking up, saw that the person making the furious descent was
a boy about fourteen years old.
The well-dressed young man stopped when he heard the boy coming, and as
the latter reached him he grasped the lad by the coat, and brought him
up with a jerk.
“What in thunder ails you?” growled the young man.
For a moment the boy could not utter a word. His face was white as
chalk, his teeth were chattering in his head, and he trembled so that it
seemed he must fall in a heap.
The young man gave him a vigorous shake and cried:
“Can’t you speak? What have you done? Where are you going?”
Then the lad found power to chatter:
“Oh-h, Mr. Ga-a-ay, she’s de-de-dead.”
“She’s dead? Who’s dead, you fool?”
“Mi-Miss Langdon,” gasped the lad.
“Miss Langdon dead? Why, what do you mean? Speak!”
“She’s been mu-mu-mur-dered.”
“What! Where?”
“Up there in the of-of-office.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Indeed I am. Somebody sh-sh-shot her.”
“Then go call the police, and be quick,” said the young man, as he let
go of the boy’s collar and hastened his ascent of the stairs.
The lad continued his precipitous descent to the street, and Nick
followed the young man upward. He saw the latter stop on the fifth
floor, and disappear through an open door-way.
When Nick reached the same place, he noted with much interest that the
No. 59 was painted on the door through which the other man had passed.
Instantly he asked himself:
“Has my mysterious note anything to do with what occurred beyond this
door?”
Nick passed through the open door, and found himself inside a large
general office used by a law firm.
The name of the firm was also on the door. It was:
BRIDGELY & BYKE,
Attorneys-at-Law.
At the other end of the room a door stood ajar, giving entrance to a
private office. Beyond this door Nick heard high-pitched voices in
altercation.
He rightly guessed that whatever the tragedy might be, its location was
in that rear office.
Therefore, he crossed the large room, threw the communicating door open,
and, standing in the doorway, took in the scene at a sweeping glance.
There were two men in the medium-sized office.
One was the man who had preceded him up the stairs.
The man whom the boy had called Mr. Gay.
The other was an older man, perhaps thirty-five years of age, tall,
stockily built, with a slight stoop in the shoulder, possessing a rather
cold, cynical-looking face, and a pair of gray eyes, which had a habit
of trying to bore holes into everything upon which they centered.
This man at the time of Nick’s appearance stood leaning against a
flat-topped table with one side of his face toward the door. He saw Nick
as soon as the latter pushed the door wide open.
The other man’s back was toward the door, and Nick’s presence was not
known to him immediately.
He was just saying, his remarks being addressed to the older man:
“Do you think anybody will believe your story?”
The speaker was pointing to something before him.
That something was the form of a young woman seated in a chair before an
open scroll-topped desk. One arm hung helplessly at her side, and she
had, apparently, partly fallen forward until her head and left arm
rested upon the desk.
Nick recognized in this form the victim of a tragedy.
Before the detective had time to move a step forward, the elder man,
with those gray eyes focused upon Nick’s face, said:
“What do you want?”
“I want to know what has been going on here.”
The younger man had wheeled around facing Nick, and he, in turn, asked:
“Who are you?”
“I am Nick Carter.”
To Nick’s surprise the young man moved back several steps as if annoyed
or confused, and the elder scowled without removing his gray eyes from
Nick’s face.
The latter advanced to the desk where the form of the young woman
reclined, and made a quick examination.
There was a bullet wound in her right temple. The ball had pierced her
brain, and she was dead.
On the right hand was a glove into which the fingers had been fitted,
but the thumb and upper part of the hand were still bare.
The first inference drawn from this fact was that she had been shot
while engaged in putting on her gloves preparatory to leaving the
office.
In the minute which followed, Nick made one of his lightning ocular
inspections of the premises, in which very little was left to be
discovered.
At the end of that time the sound of many rushing footsteps was heard
coming up the stairs.
All this time the two men in the room with him remained silent and
inactive.
Nick walked into the main office, and met the first man of the ascending
throng at the door.
It was a young policeman, whom Nick happened to know quite well.
“Ah, Brown!” exclaimed Nick, confronting the officer at the threshold,
“I’m glad ’tis you. You’ll understand me without a lengthy
explanation.”
“Who are you?” panted Brown, for Nick of course, was in disguise.
“I am Nick Carter. There has been a crime committed back there, and
until I know more about it you must keep everybody out. Let none of
these curiosity-seekers intrude.”
“I am at your service, Mr. Carter,” said Brown. “Lord, I’m glad you’re
here. Seems to me you always bob up when anything happens. What is it?
Murder?”
“I want to find out. Is there anybody with you?”
“Yes, McCarthy is coming, but he’s so fat it’s hard and slow work for
him to get up all these stairs. Here he is now.”
Some one rapped on the door at that instant. Brown admitted a policeman,
who was blowing like a porpoise.
“Bad cess to thim shtairs!” gasped McCarthy, “an’ thor had bin tin more
ov ’em, sure it’s a dead mon I’d be this minute.”
“Well, McCarthy, just take charge of this door, and see that no one
enters who has no right. Those who have a right, and whom I want to come
in, are persons who have been in this building within the last hour, and
the boy who carried you the news.”
Brown opened the door and beckoned to the boy to enter. The latter drew
back as if about to fly again, but a man near by grasped him by the
shoulder and pushed him toward the door.
“Who are you?” inquired Nick.
“I’m the janitor,” was the reply.
“Then come in, too.”
Still keeping hold of the terrified boy, the janitor entered the office
and the door was once more closed in the face of the crowd, which by
this time numbered nearly a score.
“Brown, I want you to summon the coroner, or one of his deputies just as
soon as you can get him here.”
Brown asked no questions, but left on his mission instantly.
“What’s your name?” asked Nick, turning to the janitor.
“Bush--John Bush, sir.”
“Then, Mr. Bush, I want you to look out among the people in that crowd
in the hall and identify anybody who has offices in this building.”
McCarthy held the door ajar while the janitor scanned the eager faces in
the crowd.
“There is Mr. Grote, Mr. Kennedy, and Miss Lucas,” was his report.
“Tell them to come in,” commanded Nick, in a low voice.
“Will Mr. Grote, Mr. Kennedy, and Miss Lucas come in?” said the janitor,
addressing his words to the collection of people in the hall.
The three persons answering to these names crowded their way forward,
and were admitted.
Then the door closed again.
To the five people inside, not including the policeman, Nick said:
“You will wait in this room until further orders. Meanwhile, officer,”
turning and addressing McCarthy, “let no one else in until Brown returns
with the coroner, and see that nobody meantime leaves by that door.”
Nick turned toward the inner room to find the young, stylishly-dressed
man looking out, much interested at what had been going on in the larger
office.