THE RESULT OF A RUSE.
It was eight o’clock when Nick Carter left the Clayton residence. He
departed without so much as a backward glance, as if he had no further
interest in the house and its surroundings. He walked briskly out to his
touring car, in which Danny Maloney had been waiting, and was driven
rapidly away.
One would have supposed that his visit was all aboveboard, that he was
actuated with no covert designs, that he entertained no secret
suspicions, aside from those he had expressed during his interview with
Mr. Chester Clayton.
Earlier that evening, nevertheless, while discussing the case with his
junior partner, Patsy Garvan, it was very obvious that Nick Carter had
from the first been working under the surface. Their interview occurred
immediately after dinner, while Nick was making ready for his call upon
Clayton.
“Nothing is more effective, Patsy, than a shot from behind a masked
battery,” he remarked, while knotting his cravat. “When fired at a
concealed adversary, even, whose position and designs are only
suspected, it is almost sure to drive him from cover.”
“There is something in that, chief, for fair,” Patsy agreed. “But why do
you feel so sure you are right in suspecting Clayton’s private
secretary?”
“For several reasons,” said Nick. “First, Patsy, because we can find no
one else to distrust. I have spent three days in a vain search for
another suspect and a reasonable motive for this murder.”
“That’s true, chief. It sure has been a vain hunt.”
“Doctor Thorpe, I have learned, was a man of strong and sterling
character. Suicide is out of the question. He is absolutely above
suspicion, moreover, in so far as having given Madame Clayton any cause
for shooting him. The evidence, also, shows that that theory is utterly
improbable, in spite of the fact that I told Garside I suspected it, and
then took the precaution to bind him to secrecy.”
“But why did you suspect him so quickly, chief?”
“Because he entered so quickly after Chick and I arrived there,” Nick
explained. “Scarce three minutes had passed. If not a coincidence, which
I could not easily swallow, it must have been premeditated. That smacked
of something wrong, of a knowledge of what had occurred, if not having
had a hand in it, even.”
“I see the point,” said Patsy.
“I at once suspected, therefore, that Garside had been watching outside,
that he had seen us entering the house, and that he followed us as
quickly as he dared, bent upon learning how we regarded the crime, and
also lest Madame Clayton might say something of definite significance,
in spite of her mental derangement.”
“You decided, then, that he was responsible for that, also.”
“Certainly. That was a perfectly natural deduction, Patsy, if I was
justified in suspecting him at all.”
“Sure thing, chief; so it was.”
“I immediately shaped a course, therefore, which I thought would enable
me to confirm my suspicions.”
“I see.”
“I soon succeeded in doing so,” Nick continued. “I sent Chick from the
room and pretended to make Garside my confidant. I soon found that he
was very willing to fix the crime upon Madame Clayton. For he not only
agreed with all I said to that effect, but he no sooner found that I was
forming that opinion, or supposed that I was, than he began to point out
evidence and circumstances in support of it. All this, mind you,
regardless of the woman’s lofty character and exemplary past.”
“I get you, chief,” nodded Patsy. “He evidently was afraid you might
overlook something.”
“He appeared to be, certainly,” Nick replied. “He then informed me that
the revolver found there belonged to Clayton, also that it had been
taken from the table drawer. He did so before having examined it, Patsy,
when he could not possibly have been positive of the fact.”
“He overleaped his mount, eh?”
“That is precisely what he did,” said Nick. “I then felt reasonably sure
that I was justified in suspecting him.”
“He left himself open, all right.”
“I saw plainly, however, that he was a rat of more than ordinary craft
and cunning. Otherwise he could not have committed the crime and planted
the evidence we found there, and then got out of the house and returned
in so confident and self-assured a way, all within the half hour since I
had heard Madame Clayton’s voice by telephone.”
“It sure was quick work, chief,” declared Patsy.
“I at once decided, therefore, to meet the scamp with his own weapons,”
Nick added. “I felt sure I could fool him and finally clinch my
suspicions, providing I could throw him off his guard for a time. I have
given him three days’ grace, so to speak, in which to get rid of any
misgivings he may have felt. He ought to be well rid of them by this
time. Now, by Jove, I propose to get after him and drive him from
cover.”
“That’s the stuff, chief.”
“We must discover his game, how and why he committed the crime, and
whether he had confederates,” Nick said, more forcibly. “We must make
dead sure, in fact, that I am justified in suspecting him.”
“That is why you have established a new butler in the Clayton house,”
observed Patsy, with an expressive grin.
“Exactly.”
“Does Clayton suspect his identity?”
“Not yet. I told him merely that I knew a man admirably qualified for
the position. I had no difficulty in persuading Clayton to employ him on
trial.”
“On trial, eh?” laughed Patsy. “Gee whiz! he’ll make good, chief, all
right. My money goes on that.”
“If he fails, Patsy, it will be the first time,” Nick replied, smiling.
“Slip into a disguise, now, and get ready to go with me. I shall leave
in about five minutes.”
“I’ll be ready, chief, all right. Danny has just arrived with the
touring car.”
“We will drop you about a block from the Clayton place,” Nick added.
“You already know why I am going there and what I require of you. If you
get a line on this suspect--well, that should open the way. You must be
governed by circumstances.”
“You leave him to me, chief,” said Patsy confidently, as he hastened
from the chamber in which Nick had been dressing. “I’ll get all that’s
coming to me. Trust me for that.”
In the foregoing may be found not only the occasion for Nick Carter’s
call upon Clayton, with a hint at the subterfuge involved, but also why
he departed without a backward glance, or the slightest sign of interest
in the surrounding grounds.
For Patsy Garvan had arrived there immediately after Nick entered the
house, and upon him devolved the most important part of the work laid
out for that evening by the detective.
It was a fit night, moreover, for the task engaging Patsy. The sky was
clouded, with not a solitary star relieving the inky gloom of the
heavens. A gray fog hung like a thin veil near the earth, sufficiently
dense to lend a sallow glow to the arc lights, and add to the obscurity
in localities beyond the reach of their searching rays.
A gusty wind was blowing, driving the gray mist in confusing swirls over
the Hudson, and sighing dismally through the dripping foliage of the
trees adorning the grounds of the crime-cursed home of the Claytons.
Patsy did not approach the house from in front. Stealing into the
grounds from the side street, he crept around the garage, then picked
his way over the damp lawn, taking advantage of the deeper gloom under
the trees, until he found shelter under a huge clump of rhododendrons a
few feet from the driveway, and within easy view of the side veranda and
the French window of the brightly lighted library.
Patsy arrived there just in time to see Peterson usher Nick into the
room. Both were dimly discernible through the lace draperies and under
the partly drawn shades.
“Gee whiz! there’s the new butler,” chuckled Patsy, when he caught sight
of him. “I hardly expected to get my lamps on him. Stiff as a ramrod,
eh? But he’ll limber up, all right, if there should be anything doing.”
Peterson, having withdrawn from the library, encountered Mr. Garside
just at that moment descending the front stairs. He paused and bowed
respectfully when the private secretary spoke to him.
“Mr. Clayton is engaged, Peterson?” he said inquiringly.
“Yes, Mr. Garside, sir.”
“With whom, Peterson?”
“With Mr. Carter, sir, the detective,” said Peterson, with becoming
humility.
Garside eyed him more sharply.
The florid face of the butler was as inscrutable as that of the sphinx.
“I want Mr. Clayton’s signature to these letters,” Garside remarked,
displaying two typewritten sheets. “It will do in the morning. Would you
mind taking them up to my room, Peterson, and leaving them on my desk?”
“No, sir. Very willing, sir,” said Peterson obsequiously.
He received them with a bow and went upstairs.
Garside sauntered toward the side hall, into which he vanished, only to
peer out cautiously and watch the butler until he disappeared. Then he
seized a woolen cap from a rack on the wall and stole quickly toward the
rear door of the house.
Patsy Garvan caught sight of him a moment later, a stealthy figure
noiselessly picking his way around a corner of the house, against the
lighter background of which his dark outlines were dimly discernible.
“Gee whiz! the chief sure has called the turn,” thought Patsy, instantly
alert. “The rat is coming from his hole. It’s that private secretary,
all right, or my lamps have gone mighty misty. Yes, by Jove, I’m right.
Let the chief alone to drive him from cover.”
Garside was passing one of the lighted windows, when, for a moment, he
could be seen more distinctly and his identity positively determined.
He paused briefly, then moved on like an evil shadow, darker than the
surrounding darkness, until he came to the veranda steps. Up these he
crept, crouching on his hands and knees, until he was within a yard of
the broad French window, through which he cautiously peered, lingering
and listening.
“Driven from cover is right,” thought Patsy, intently watching him.
“He’s out to play the eavesdropper, just as the chief suspected. What
will he do next, after Nick has filled his ears with that fake story
about a Philadelphia physician? It’s dollars to fried rings, now, that
it will drive him to a move of some kind. It will be a chilly day, by
gracious, if I fail to get next.”
Nearly half an hour passed.
Garside remained crouching on the veranda.
Patsy continued to watch him from under the rhododendrons.
The interview in the library came to an end. The crouching man crept
quietly from the veranda, then stole hurriedly to a front corner of the
house. He saw Nick emerge, watched him stride quickly down the driveway,
and enter the touring car, departing without a backward glance; and then
he straightened up, lingering for a moment, and fiercely shook his fist
after the receding car.
“Good enough! That shows your true colors, all right,” muttered Patsy,
still watching him. “Now, you rascal, go ahead and cut loose. I’m right
here to note your next move.”
Patsy had not long to wait.
Garside lingered only until the rear red light of the touring car had
disappeared in the misty distance. He did not return to the house.
Instead, now moving less cautiously, he hastened toward the rear
grounds, passing the garage and seeking the narrow back street adjoining
the Clayton residence.
Patsy stealthily followed him.
The back street was deserted. The scattered dwellings were in darkness.
An incandescent lamp here and there, looking sallow and sickly in the
gray fog was all that relieved the misty gloom.
Garside soon brought up at a narrow wooden door in a high brick wall
flanking one side of an old estate. He opened the door with a key and
disappeared into the inclosed grounds.
Patsy paused and briefly sized up the place. He could see beyond the
wall the upper part of an old stone house, shrouded in darkness. An iron
grille gate in front was all that broke the stretch of the grim brick
wall, which was about seven feet high, and the cement capstone of which
was surmounted with a threatening array of broken bottles and jagged
pieces of glass, a vicious safeguard against unwelcome intruders.
“Gee whiz! that says keep out, all right,” thought Patsy, while he made
a closer inspection of the side wall. “It’s up to me to get in there,
all the same. This may be where the party lives whom Garside said he was
visiting on the night of the murder. Professor Abner Busby was the name
he gave Nick, but it don’t appear in the city directory. I’ll have a
look at the back wall.”
Patsy already had tried the wooden door and found that Garside had
locked it after entering. Near the rear corner of the wall, however, he
found that the branches of the tree overhung the jagged capstone, and he
promptly decided that that would serve his purpose.
Quickly climbing to one of the lowest branches, Patsy worked himself out
on it hand over hand, until he reached a point beyond the wall, when he
dropped noiselessly upon the greensward within the inclosed grounds.
Crouching in the darkness near the wall, he then had another view of the
house, this time from the rear. It looked as grim and gloomy as a
country jail, or the habitation of a recluse bent upon dwelling in
absolute seclusion.
Only one curtained window was lighted, that of a room on the ground
floor, a window in the rear wall. The rest of the house was shrouded in
darkness while most of the surrounding grounds, running to rank grass
and high weeds, appeared to be deserted.