A CONNECTING LINK.
Nick Carter had spent much less time at the St. Lawrence rectory than
one might infer from the nature and extent of his investigations. He had
covered the ground rapidly, despite the numerous deductions and
explanations with which he had assisted Detective Fallon, from whom he
parted shortly before ten o’clock.
Something like twenty minutes later, Nick alighted from a taxicab at a
handsome stone residence in Massachusetts Avenue. It was that of Senator
Ambrose Barclay, one of the leading statesmen then in the higher house,
and the man directly responsible for Nick Carter’s arrival in Washington
late the previous night.
A butler admitted the detective and at once ushered him into a richly
furnished library, where Nick was almost immediately joined by both
Senator Barclay and his daughter Estella, a beautiful brunette in the
twenties. The great service already done them by the detective was fresh
in their minds, only a month having elapsed, and their greeting was
extremely cordial.
“I got your wire saying you would see me this morning,” Senator Barclay
then said, while Stella quietly closed the door. “I’m very glad you
could make it convenient to comply with my request. I have not forgotten
how deeply I am indebted to you, Carter, for having saved my reputation
in that foreign-spy affair. I will not say my honor, of course, for I
was in no degree culpable, though malicious persons, or an uninformed
public, might have thought differently.”
“I was very well aware of it, Senator Barclay, and I made sure that your
name did not appear in the matter,” Nick replied. “But let the dead bury
the dead. What’s the trouble, now, that you again need my aid?”
“I am in a quandary, possibly in an equally bad mess,” said the
statesman. “It concerns, to begin with, the same young man who was
robbed of the government coast-defense plans by those infernal
foreigners, aided by that traitor, Dillon, all of whom woolly-eyed me
into friendly relations with them for more than a year. I cringe with
chagrin when I think of it.”
“But how is Harold Garland involved in your present trouble?” questioned
Nick, keeping him to the point.
“Involved in it!” blurted Senator Barclay. “Damn it--excuse me, Stella;
I forgot you were here. How is Garland involved in my present trouble?
Hang it, Carter, he is something more than involved in it. He is the
trouble.”
Nick laughed, while Stella Barclay blushed profusely.
“Suppose you explain, senator, without any expletives,” Nick suggested.
“Yes, dad, dear, do,” pleaded Stella. “Tell Mr. Carter the whole
business. Don’t mind me, I shall survive it.”
“It can be told in a nutshell, Carter,” said Senator Barclay familiarly.
“Since you opened his eyes to the devilish treachery of that jade,
Madame Irma Valaska, Garland has transferred his affection to my
daughter. He always was fond of her, mind you, and he now declares that
he loves her. I am glad that he does, and she him. I am fond of Garland
myself, as far as that goes, for he’s a clean-cut, manly, and
wonderfully capable fellow. I know of no man whom I would rather have
for a son-in-law.”
“Permit me to extend my best wishes,” said Nick, with a sort of droll
pleasantry, glancing at the crimson face of the smiling girl. “I think,
like your father, that Harold Garland is a remarkably fine fellow.”
“I think so, too, Mr. Carter,” Stella said simply.
“But what is the trouble?” Nick inquired, turning again to her father.
“What is wrong with Garland?”
“That is what I want you to learn,” Senator Barclay said gravely.
“Garland is not himself. He is frightfully worried about something.”
“You don’t know about what?”
“No; I only suspect. Although he firmly denies it, Nick, he is in
serious trouble of some kind. It is something that came up about a week
ago, when Stella and I first noticed his changed manner and appearance.”
“Changed in what way?” Nick inquired.
“He has become indescribably moody and depressed. I have watched him
covertly at times and seen him wearing an expression of utterly
indescribable anxiety. He has lost twenty pounds in a week and looks as
pale as a corpse. Something must be done, Carter, and you are the man
who must do it.”
“We are dreadfully anxious,” put in Stella, with an appealing glance at
the detective. “Do, Mr. Carter, see what you can learn about him, or
from him.”
“You have questioned him, of course,” said Nick.
“Yes, vainly.”
“Does he say nothing at all in explanation of these changes?”
“He attributes them to our imagination and insists that there is nothing
wrong,” said Senator Barclay. “I know better, however, and that he is
all wrong. I called him down quite severely night before last, Mr.
Carter, and he then made the remark which afterward led me to send for
you.”
“What was that?”
“I charged him with being in serious trouble of some kind and insisted
that he must confide in me,” Senator Barclay explained. “My persistency
irritated him a little. He seemed to lose his head for a moment, and he
asserted quite resentfully that I must cease interrogating him. He then
added impulsively that I would be quite lucky if I kept out of the
trouble myself.”
“H’m, is that so?” said Nick. “Did you ask him to explain?”
“Yes, certainly. He declared that he meant nothing definite, however,
that he had spoken impulsively and only in a cursory way. I am sure,
nevertheless, that the remark had much more serious significance, and
that he implied that I might become involved in the very trouble with
which he was burdened.”
“That is a natural inference,” Nick agreed.
“And you know, too, what it might signify,” Senator Barclay responded
gravely. “There is only one bad mess, Mr. Carter, in which I could be
involved with Garland. That is something relating to the theft of those
government plans, and the fact that my name was kept out of that
unfortunate affair.”
“That is what I have in mind,” bowed Nick.
“You also know, of course, that the miscreant who stole them from Dillon
after he had received them from Irma Valaska, is still at large. I
refer to Andy Margate. He is capable of any kind of knavery. If he----”
“I know all about Andy Margate and of what he is capable,” Nick
interposed. “It may be, of course, that he still is in Washington. He
may be attempting to blackmail Garland.”
“That is precisely what I fear.”
“I inferred so. Have you said as much to Garland?”
“I have. He declares that he has not seen Margate, however, and that he
knows nothing about him. If he is lying, if my suspicions are
correct--well, you know, Carter, what that would mean for me. My
reputation would again be in jeopardy. My honor, my seat in the senate,
my political career--all would be frightfully threatened.”
“I agree with you,” said Nick seriously. “I will look into the matter,
Senator Barclay, and sift it to the bottom.”
“That is precisely what I want.”
“There is, I infer, nothing more definite that you can tell me.”
“No, nothing.”
“When did you last see Garland?”
“Night before last.”
“Does he know that you have sent for me?”
“He does not. He might resent it.”
“Possibly,” Nick allowed. “Is he still living at the Grayling?”
“Yes.”
“Does he occupy the same office in the war department?”
“He does.”
“Very good. I will leave immediately, then, and try to see him during
the day,” said Nick, rising to go. “I will either call here again this
evening, or telephone to you and let you know what I have learned. I
think, as you do, that the matter may be serious.”
“You will go right at it?” Barclay anxiously questioned.
“Like a bull at a gate,” Nick assured him. “You will hear from me this
evening.”
Nick did not, nevertheless, immediately start in search of Harold
Garland. He returned to the Willard, where he was registered under an
assumed name, and went up to his apartments. He was thinking of the
shocking murder brought to his notice that morning, of the dead priest,
of the unknown woman, or girl, who by that time perhaps had suffered a
like terrible fate.
Hoping to give Detective Fallon further assistance, and suspecting that
the torn letter he had found might have a bearing upon the double crime,
Nick set to work matching the edges of the numerous fragments of the
letter, placing them together, and pasting them on a sheet of blank
paper.
It took him half an hour to complete the work. He found that several
fragments from the bottom of the letter were missing, presumably having
been blown away from the vacant lot where he had found the others, or
dropped elsewhere by the recipient of the letter. It was decidedly
suggestive, in view of the double crime and the surrounding
circumstances. It was written with a pen, evidently by a woman, and read
as follows:
“DEAR HARRY: You must meet me this evening, Tuesday, at the time and
place I mentioned. Do not disappoint me. There is no question as to the
conditions of which I informed you, and immediate steps to meet the
situation are absolutely imperative. Meet me this evening, therefore,
without fail. I will not take ‘no’ for an answer. Unless you comply, I
shall do what I have threatened. I will take steps to compel you to
rectify the terrible----”
The remainder of the letter was missing several fragments from the
bottom of the torn sheet. They evidently had contained, however, only a
few concluding words and the signature of the writer.
Nick read it, then reread it, with brows knitting, and a more serious
expression on his thoughtful face.
“Tuesday evening,” he muttered. “That must have been last evening. The
scraps of paper would have blown away, or have become soiled, if dropped
on the ground a week ago. The appointment was for last evening, surely,
and the significance of the letter--by Jove, it might be!”
Nick’s train of thought abruptly digressed.
“He frequently is called Harry. He was not at the Barclay residence last
evening, not since night before last. Can this be what is troubling him?
Is he in some way involved with another woman? Was Harold Garland the
recipient of this letter? Have I blundered egregiously in my estimate of
his character? Is he a wolf under the surface? Now aiming to wed Stella
Barclay, has he found it necessary to rid himself of a woman and kill a
priest, in order to preclude an exposure of previous vices? I don’t
believe it, by Jove, but I’ll mighty soon find out.”
Nick arose abruptly, folding the pasted letter and putting it into his
pocket. He then selected a simple disguise from among several in his
suit case, one of which he felt sure was adequate to serve his purpose.
He adjusted it carefully at his mirror, and then left the hotel and
headed straight for Harold Garland’s office in the War Department
Building.