THE DEPARTURE FOR PENZA.
There was no other word spoken for an appreciable space of time. Prince
Marcos could hardly comprehend the possibility of the plan, and was
silent. Nick waited for him to say something.
“I should think it could not be done if it were any one but you,
Carter,” were the broken words that came from Marcos at last. “But I
can see only success if you undertake the thing.”
“There must be success,” returned Nick gravely.
“Of course. Now let me tell you what you must do. When I left Joyalita
I wore a small mustache. I shaved it off before I got to New York.
Will you kindly hand me my coat--or take the small packet of letters,
fastened by a band, in the inside pocket? That will be better.”
Nick obeyed, and Marcos took from one of the envelopes a photograph of
himself as he had appeared before taking off the mustache.
“You see, Carter,” he said, “I looked a little different when wearing
that. Could you not put one on like that? It would make your disguise
absolutely perfect.”
“I will do that, of course,” answered the detective. “Will you lend
me this photograph? I will get a mustache, and make up my face with
the photo as a guide. That is a common method with professional actors
when they are to represent some well-known personage--such as President
Lincoln, Disraeli, or _Taffy_, in ‘Trilby.’ They generally ‘make-up’
from a portrait of the original. I can get myself exact, I know.”
“You can have the photo. And you’d better take Phillips with you. He
will be a great help, because he knows Joyalita and its people as well
as I do.”
“Certainly. I could hardly undertake it without Phillips,” answered the
detective. “I intended to ask you for him.”
“Who else will you have with you?”
“I shall take my principal assistant, Chick, in the guise of a medical
attendant, and my second man, Patrick Garvan, in place of your late
servant, Jason, who managed to get burned to death during the last
attempt of the gentle Miguel to keep you away from Joyalita.”
“So you will have three people with you,” observed Marcos. “That will
make four in the party, and it ought to be strong enough to throw off
Solado and Miguel, if they should try any tricks on you as you go
along.”
“Which they are likely to do,” said Nick.
Marcos fumbled under his pillow and brought out a chamois leather bag
which he had worn around his neck under his clothing, but had taken off
when his valet had undressed him.
Phillips knew that his employer always had this bag under his pillow.
He often had assisted him to remove the cord from his neck without
making any comment. Any well-trained valet would do that.
“Here is something you must take, Carter,” said Marcos.
He fumbled in the bag, and took out a richly jeweled watch and diamond
fob. Laying them on the counterpane, he regarded the fire and luster of
the precious stones admiringly.
“This watch is known as the Seal of Gijon,” he remarked quietly. “It
has been handed down in my family through a dozen generations, and is
the insignia of the reigning house of Joyalita. You see that it is
old-fashioned in design. But it is an accurate timekeeper, and its
value, merely as gold and gems, is several thousand dollars.”
“I know that,” nodded the detective. “I’ve seen the watch before, you
will remember.”
“Yes, I remember. But here is something that perhaps you have not
seen,” continued Marcos, as he pressed a spring. “This is the great
seal of Joyalita, and it must be used on all official documents. You
will perceive that it is in the form of a double-headed dragon, with
the letter ‘J’ twisted about it like a rope.”
Nick Carter bent over the watch and admired the ingenuity with which
the seal--almost as large around as the watch case itself, but fitting
just inside--would stand forth when the spring was pressed, so that it
could be used on sealing wax.
He put the Seal of Gijon carefully in an inside waist-coat pocket, and
went away, after promising to come back before he started on his long
journey to Penza, in Joyalita.
It was a quarter to nine that night when two taxicabs arrived at the
Grand Central Terminal in New York. Five persons left the cabs and
crossed the great concourse, on their way to the express train ready to
leave.
Three of the four men in the party carried hand baggage of various
descriptions. The fourth was wrapped in a large overcoat, and only his
eyes, nose, and mustache could be easily distinguished between the two
points of the large upturned collar as he walked along.
He was conversing with a very pretty, dark-eyed girl, expensively
dressed and bearing all the marks of good breeding so easily to be
distinguished when present, and quickly missed otherwise.
The man in the big overcoat was Nick Carter; the young lady, Miss
Claudia Solado, niece of the villainous prime minister of Joyalita, Don
Solado, and cousin of Prince Marcos.
Claudia was a warm champion of her Cousin Marcos, and her greatest
regret was that Don Solado was the brother of her dead father.
“I am sure you will get there safely, Mr. Carter,” she was saying, as
they crossed over to the train gate. “Poor Marcos! He would be lost if
it were not for you.”
“Not a bit of it,” laughed the detective. “So long as he has such an
earnest and faithful cousin as Miss Claudia, he could not fail to win
out at last. Will you see me into the train, so that you can report to
him?”
“Yes. If they will let me pass the gate,” she answered.
“I’ll attend to that,” returned the detective confidently. “They will
let you through.”
So they did. She walked up the platform to the Pullman car by the side
of him, talking in low, earnest tones all the way.
Immediately behind came Chick, with a pointed beard, dark spectacles,
and carrying a black leather medical case in his gloved hand. In his
dark clothing and high hat, he was the very picture of a well-to-do
physician, and, when he coughed a sonorous “Hem!” as he passed the
gate, was as impressive as Doctor Sloane himself.
Patsy Garvan wore a light check suit and leather leggings, with a
cap of the same material as his suit. In his pockets were a pair of
handcuffs and the automatic revolver which he always carried when out
on business.
Incidentally, it may be said that both Nick Carter and Chick were
provided with similar useful implements.
The drawing-room which had been reserved for Mr. Marcos and his
physician, “Doctor Fordham,” was ready, and Nick Carter and Chick went
in at once, accompanied by Claudia.
Patsy Garvan and Phillips were to ride in the Pullman in ordinary
seats, and they busied themselves in placing the baggage that had not
been stowed in the drawing-room. Everything was done in the regulation
manner, and no one could doubt that the wealthy gentleman in the
drawing-room was all he appeared to be, with his two servants in
attendance.
“You have not seen anything of our friends the enemy, have you, Miss
Solado?” asked Nick, when they were shut in.
“I cannot be sure,” she answered. “I did not see Miguel or my uncle,
Don Solado, anywhere about the station. But I saw one face I thought I
recognized--only I know he is dead.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Jason, who used to be Marcos’ undervalet.”
“Do you think you saw his face?” asked Nick Carter thoughtfully.
“I saw a face like his. But, as you know he is dead, of course I must
have been mistaken.”
“Of course,” agreed Nick. “Did you see what became of this man who
looks like Jason?”
“I missed him near the gate. He may be on this train.”
“That’s possible,” put in Chick. “It’s a long train, and there might
be a score of people on it whom we know without our ever seeing one of
them.”
“I wish I could come with you, Mr. Carter,” said the girl. “But my
mother does not want to leave New York just yet. She does not go out
much, but she likes to be near the bustle of this big city. It is
just a notion, but it is insistent, too. I do not care to leave her,
although she would not mind, for both she and I are used to traveling
alone.”
“You will be safer here, with your mother,” returned the detective. “So
long as I have Phillips to give me a hint now and then, I shall be able
to act the part of your cousin satisfactorily, I am sure. Then, if I
need any other kind of help, I have my two assistants, and----”
The cry of “All aboard!” came echoing along the platform at this moment.
With a hasty “good-by, and thank you, Mr. Carter!” Claudia Solado left
the drawing-room and was helped down to the platform by Chick.
In another minute the train was softly gliding away, without noise
or fuss, as the electric motor got to work. Claudia was left on the
platform watching the red tail lights as they glimmered smaller and
smaller, and finally disappeared.
As she walked slowly from the station and entered the taxicab which
had been waiting for her, she did not perceive a slim, ratlike-looking
young man, hardly out of his teens, who had been watching her, and who
was close behind her as she told the driver to take her to Crownledge.
“Seen the prince guy off,” muttered the young fellow. “That is all I
wanted to know. I’ll get up to the boss and hand it to him.”
It was a small, subdued-looking sort of hotel, in a side street to
which the spy made his way, and asked for Mr. Miguel.
“There he is, on the other side of the lobby,” replied the clerk at the
desk. “Do you know him when you see him?”
“Sure I know him,” was the reply, as the fellow slouched over to Prince
Miguel.
“Well, Collins?” was Miguel’s greeting. “Did you see Prince Marcos go
away?”
“Yes. He’s gone, with three other fellows. One of them was the man I’d
seen before--his valet, Phillips. I don’t know the other two.”
“Ah! How did the prince look? Was he sick?”
“Didn’t seem so.”
“Couldn’t you tell?”
“No. He was muffled up in a big overcoat, and you could see only his
nose and mustache.”
“Mustache? Did he wear a mustache?”
“Yes. It was a little one, but I lamped it all right. He walked along
steadily, talking to the girl.”
“What girl? Who are you talking about?”
“Miss Solado. At least, that’s who you said she was, when you was
showing me the people I had to pick up later. She was with this here
prince, and she went into the train with him. Afterward she came out,
called a taxi, and told the driver to take her to a place in upper
Broadway. She said she would show him the house she wanted when she got
there.”
Collins delivered all this information with the smoothness of one
accustomed to making detailed reports, and Miguel knew he had heard all
that his spy could tell him.
“You are quite sure Prince Marcos was not seriously hurt?”
“I’ll bet on that. He swung his arms as he walked, and you could tell,
from the move of him, that he felt pretty good all around. I know how
a guy acts when he’s been plugged. There ain’t nothing wrong with this
prince, and you can bet on it.”
“That will do, Collins,” said Miguel, after a pause, during which he
finished the cigarette he had been smoking and lighted another. “Be at
your home, so that I can call you up when I want you.”
“I’ll be there right along as soon as I can get there. It’s a regular
hotel, even if it does look like a saloon, and we have a telephone and
everything to make a fellow comfortable. So why shouldn’t I stay there?”
When Collins had gone, Prince Miguel got up, stretched himself, and
walked up and down the lobby, cigarette in mouth, and deeply cogitating.
“Solado was right!” he muttered, between his teeth. “He’s a sharp man,
is Solado. He knew Marcos was too badly shot to go to Penza just now.
Yet a man supposed to be Marcos has gone. I guess I’ll call up Marcos’
mother from Newport on the long distance, and tell her Marcos has met
with an accident. She’ll come rushing up to Crownledge to see her son,
and if he’s still there, in bed, as I believe, why, I shall know what
to wire to Solado.”
He chuckled as he lighted another cigarette and strolled over to the
telephone desk to tell the operator to call up Newport.