MAGNET LIBRARY No. 304
A weekly publication devoted to Detective literature.
September 2, 1903.
THE TWIN MYSTERY;
OR,
A Dashing Rescue
BY
NICHOLAS CARTER
AUTHOR OF
“A Chance Discovery,” “At the Knife’s Point,” “Lady Velvet,” “A Game of
Craft,” “A Klondike Claim,” “A Blow for Vengeance,” etc.
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street
Copyright, 1903
By STREET & SMITH
CONTENTS
I. The Brown Robin 5
II. The Way of the Robin 14
III. A Blind Chase 24
IV. The Real Thing 33
V. The Brown Robin Dines 43
VI. An Audacious Visitor 53
VII. Chick’s Great Discovery 61
VIII. A Deep Game 71
IX. The Trap 81
X. How the Trap Was Sprung 90
XI. At the Dog Show 101
XII. Dead in Her Carriage 111
XIII. Possibilities 123
XIV. A Change of Front 132
XV. Closer to Masson 146
XVI. Ida in Trouble 154
XVII. A New Side 164
XVIII. In Durance Vile 172
XIX. A Dashing Rescue 180
XX. Patsy’s Triumph 190
XXI. The Murderer 200
THE TWIN MYSTERY.
CHAPTER I.
THE BROWN ROBIN.
“Mr. Nick Carter: I have come to town to do business. I give you
notice before I begin, because I am quite certain you will be informed
immediately after I commence operations. It really makes little
difference; you cannot reach me. Really, my dear Nick, I have a
contempt for the so-called detective ability. You, with your Ida,
Chick and Patsy, are a little better than the rest, but you are in the
same running when you undertake to stop me.
“The Brown Robin.”
This letter Nick Carter found in his mail one morning a short time ago,
on coming to his breakfast table.
He read the letter with some interest, noting that it had been mailed
late the afternoon before, and in the sub-district in which he lived.
Tossing it over to his wife, Edith, to read, he said:
“That might be taken for a challenge, I suppose.”
Edith read it, and replied that she should take it for an impertinence.
“Who is the Brown Robin?” she asked.
“Ah! That is the great mystery,” answered Nick.
“A woman?” asked Edith.
“When you ask that question in that way,” replied Nick, “you mean to
make the statement that you believe it to be a woman.”
“Well, yes; I judge the writer of this is a woman.”
“Why?”
“The writing, in the first place.”
“That will hardly do. It might be taken for the writing of a woman a
little more masculine than is usual, or of a man a little more feminine
than is usual. I carefully examined the writing before I gave you the
letter, and could not determine satisfactorily to myself which it was.”
Edith again examined the letter, and said that she should be afraid,
after a second look, to stand on either side.
“The truth is, Edith,” said Nick, “it is an assumed hand, not the
natural one of the person who wrote it, and is not always employed by
that person. That is my belief.”
Again Edith studied the letter.
“There is something about the whole thing,” she said, “that impresses me
with the notion that the writer of this is a woman. But if you were to
ask me why, I could not tell you.”
Nick laughed.
“It is the same old story of puzzling mystery.”
“Then you know something of the Brown Robin?”
“I know that the Brown Robin puzzled and mystified the police of Chicago
two winters ago. I was appealed to then to go to Chicago, take up the
case, and ferret out the mystery, but then I was engaged in an important
matter here and could not go.
“Suddenly the Brown Robin disappeared from Chicago and turned up in
Boston, where the police were put at their wits’ end in an endeavor to
detect the person.
“As suddenly he, she or it flitted to Philadelphia, with a like result,
and then back again to Chicago. Now it would seem that the Brown Robin
is making New York its roosting place.”
“But who is the Brown Robin, and what does it do?”
“As I said, who the Brown Robin is—whether a he, she, or it—is a
mystery. What the Brown Robin does is to extort money from various kinds
of people, and most successfully, by blackmail.
“The Brown Robin moves about so skillfully and shows up in so many
guises, that he, she or it has always escaped detection, and has left
the police of each place where it has operated in doubt whether it is a
man, or a woman, or a lot of men and women, moving under the directions
of a very skillful person.
“That is all I can tell you, for I have not looked deeply into the
matter.”
“This is a direct challenge to you.”
“Yes, but I shall not accept it, unless I am retained by a victim of the
Brown Robin’s arts, and then only if the victim will consent to be
guided wholly by me in the matter.”
He tossed the letter aside and finished his breakfast. He had hardly
time to open his morning paper, when the servant entered with a note,
which, she said, had been brought by a messenger boy.
Opening it, Nick read:
“My Dear Carter: Very shortly after receiving this you will have a
call from Mr. Alpheus Cary. He is my first victim in New York. I
should judge by this experience that New York is very easy to work.
The incident afforded me a good deal of amusement, for Mr. Alpheus
Cary hates to give up.
“He was in a panic when he did, but regretted it a minute after.
Indeed, my operation came perilously near robbery, for his hesitancy
began before he really handed the money over.
“The only regret I have is that the sum was so small. In that sense it
was not a brilliant beginning in New York. But you can complete the
operation by getting a stiff retainer out of him. Then, if you choose
to “whack up,” why, you can send me half. That proposition is the
reason why I write.
“Really, Carter, there is quite a stroke of business to be done by us
in this way. I know you pose as an honest man, but, pshaw! let there
be no nonsense between us.
“The Brown Robin.”
The first sensation Nick experienced on reading this letter was that of
anger. Then the audacity of the writer excited his sense of humor.
“You thought the other letter was impertinent,” said he, handing the
last one to Edith, “but what do you think of this one?”
Edith read it with flushed face, but, inspired by an idea, she said:
“Nick, if I were you I would capture that person, no matter what I did
to accomplish it.”
“What would you do?”
“I’d pretend to enter into a bargain with the Brown Robin, such as is
here proposed.”
Nick did not reply at once. When he did, he said:
“Do you know, Edith, I am under the impression that this is an impudent
and audacious beginning of an effort to blackmail me.”
“Nick Carter!”
“Yes, a trap is being laid for me to walk into, of which this is only
one of the strings.”
“But why should they attempt to blackmail you?”
“I suppose my money is as good to them as that of any other person. But
what a triumph it would be to have the boast that Nick Carter had been
trapped that way!”
“True.”
“Edith, let me warn you to be prepared for any trick. Whether I will or
not, the Brown Robin has thrown down the gauntlet.”
“Do you know Mr. Alpheus Cary?”
“I only know that there is a person of that name, who is a man of wealth
and the president of a bank in this city—a man of some prominence, but
that is all I do know of him.”
“Where does he live?”
“Somewhere in Central Park West, but just where I don’t know. What are
you thinking of?”
“I was thinking that perhaps the Cary whom you are told will call on you
might be the Brown Robin made up, and that it would be well to send
Chick or Patsy to find if he is at home.”
“Good, Edith,” cried Nick, with a laugh, “you are getting to be a great
detective. Well, I shall act on your suggestion, only I shall send Ida
to Mr. Cary’s house, for she is near by.”
He went to the ’phone and rang up Ida, and received an immediate
response. But Edith, closely watching, saw him start as a look of deep
suspicion came over his face.
He made a quick signal to his wife. Asking through the ’phone whether he
was talking to Ida, he received an answer which brought again the
suspicious look to his face. But he continued, as usual, though his
message was a surprise to Edith. He said:
“As soon as you can, Ida, I want you to go to Herman Hartwig, and,
giving him the word ‘Passen,’ tell him to give you his report. Then
bring it to me. Do you understand?”
Waiting for a response, he said:
“Then repeat what I have said.”
He listened, and, as he did, a broad smile came over his face. He hung
up the ’phone and rang off, turning to his wife with a queer light in
his eyes.
“Why, Nick,” asked Edith, “who is Herman Hartwig?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what is the word ‘Passen?’”
“Never heard of it before.”
“Then what is the meaning of your message?”
“Nothing. It was diamond cut diamond. That was not Ida on the other end
of the line.”
“Who, then?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the Brown Robin. The wires have been tampered
with in some way. It was not Ida for, if it had been, she would have
wanted to know where Herman Hartwig was to be found, since she had never
heard of him before, because I invented the name at the moment.”
“Then your suspicions were excited at once?”
“Yes; it was a good imitation of Ida’s voice, but a certain trick of
Ida’s speech was wanting, and I was watching for it.”
Nick thought a moment; then, hastily stepping to the ’phone, he cut the
connecting wires.
“It is the safest way,” he said. “Now, Edith, hurry to the drug store on
the corner and send for Chick, Patsy and Ida.”
As Edith went out, Nick sat down to his paper again, but he had read a
short time only when the servant entered with a card, saying that a
caller was in the parlor.
He read the card. The name on it was Mr. Alpheus Cary.
Bidding the servant to tell the gentleman that Mr. Carter was engaged
for the present, but would see him presently, he continued to read his
paper.
His intention was not to see his caller until his aids should arrive,
for he meant that Chick should be present at the interview, and Patsy
should shadow the caller when he left.
He was thus engaged when Edith returned.
She bore in her hand a card and note, and, as she entered the room, she
was about to speak, but Nick checked her with a gesture.
She handed Nick the card and note. Reading the card, Nick looked up with
surprise and compared it with one he had just received. It was the same
exactly.
Tearing open the note, he read:
“Dear Mr. Carter: I beg you will call on me at the Zetler Bank, on a
matter of importance, at your earliest convenience. I do not call on
you for the reason that I fear the call would become known to a person
I desire to keep in the dark. Respectfully,
Alpheus Cary.”
“Where did you get these?” whispered Nick.
“At the drug store,” returned Edith, also in a whisper. “I was about
going out when the druggist called me by name. An elderly gentleman,
standing near, started and spoke in a low tone to the druggist, asking
if I was Nick Carter’s wife.
“Being told that I was, he came to me, handing me his card and this
note, with the request that I should give it to you.
“He said that he had intended to call, had even driven past the door,
but, on second thought, believed it were not best, and had gone to the
drug store, where he was known, and had written the note there.”
“And you came directly back with it?”
“Directly.”
“Where did Mr. Cary go?”
“He got into a cab and drove down Columbus Avenue.”
Nick thought a moment, and said, in a whisper:
“This must have occurred about the time my caller handed in the other
card.”
He sprang to his feet and hurried to the parlor.
But it was empty. The waiting caller had left without a word.
Nick, calling the servant, inquired if she had seen the caller leave,
but she had not, nor could she give any information.
Pursuing his inquiries, all that he could learn was that a moment after
Mrs. Carter was seen to enter the front door an elderly-appearing man
had darted from it and had gone down the street, hastily, to the west.
Satisfied that a spurious Mr. Cary had called on him that morning, and
that the genuine Mr. Cary had accosted his wife in the drug store, Nick
returned to his room to await the arrival of his assistants, Chick,
Patsy and Ida.