THE ROPE IN THE DARK
"Now just what?" mused Nat Ridley to himself, as the three
dark-featured men sauntered on their way. "What does that mean? No
good, I'm positive. But were they referring to me or to someone else?"
The detective, now that he had decided to enter this mysterious case,
determined to do his best, not only to avenge a fellow practitioner,
but for the sake of his own reputation. That is, his reputation as
regarded by himself. He cared little for what the public thought or
said, did Nat Ridley. But it was something to make a good, clean
clearing up of a case for the sake of himself and those in his office.
So it was a matter of pride with the sleuth not to be beaten in this
battle of murder and wits.
"If I challenge them," reasoned Nat, "and accuse them of speaking of
me as a pig, I shall lay myself open to the charge of butting in on
somebody else's business. That might queer matters at the start."
Therefore he decided against that, but as he watched the men walking
slowly away he mentally photographed their features in his memory
so that he would know them again. And not only did he make a lasting
vision of the men's faces, but of their walk, their actions, and such
of their peculiarities as appeared on the surface.
"For if they are what I think they are, they'll use disguises the next
time I see them," reasoned Nat. "They must have spotted me all right,
though how, I don't know."
On the other hand, Nat realized that he might be on the wrong track,
that these men might be idle, curious individuals who had heard about
the murder--as who had not by this time?
"And they could easily claim, if I talked with them, that they were
speaking of one of their own acquaintances when they used the endearing
term of pig," chuckled Nat. "Well, what's the next move, I wonder?"
And wondering this, the detective also wondered whether, by the talk he
had indulged in with Duffy, he had or had not thrown the dark-featured
men off the track.
"First of all," decided the sleuth, "I'll have a go at those fellows.
No use letting them get away with anything. I'll shadow them and see
where they hang out."
It was the work of but a few moments for him to slip into a sheltered
corner where he made some quick changes in his clothing and appearance,
so that when he emerged and took up the trail of the trio, Nat Ridley
resembled anything but the efficient officer who, a little while
before, had been peering into the murder taxi.
The three Mexicans--Nat decided they were of that nationality--strolled
along, talking in Spanish, as the sleuth made certain by catching a
few words that floated back to him. He knew something of the language,
though not much.
The trio appeared to be in no hurry, and evidently did not suspect that
they were being followed, for they did not use any of the ordinary
devices to confuse a trailer. Nor did they look back.
When they were a few blocks away from the police station and the cab in
which Carl Lemberg had been slain, the Mexicans hailed a passing taxi.
"They're in a hurry," decided Nat who was not far behind the three. He
quickly looked around for another taxi that he might use for himself,
but saw none that was empty and he had a vision of being left behind.
Then he noticed a small delivery wagon from one of New York's big
department stores. The driver was a young man and Nat signaled to him.
For a moment the young fellow seemed to think it was a case of being
held up in broad daylight, and he was about to step on the gas as he
neared Nat when the latter called:
"I'm a secret service man chasing some crooks. I need your help."
"Oh, that's different," and a relieved look came over the lad's face.
"I thought you were a stick-up man. But I haven't got anything, anyhow.
What's the dope?"
"Follow that taxi--that is, if you can spare the time," begged Nat,
showing his shield. "If not, drive along until I meet a cruising cab."
"I've got time," was the answer. "I'm through for the day."
And with such speed and skill did he follow the cab containing the
three Mexicans that he was not far behind them when their vehicle
halted in front of the Club Tamalle, a resort frequented by Spaniards.
"This is what I want to know," said Nat as he slipped the young fellow
a two-dollar bill. "Much obliged."
"Are they counterfeiters?" the lad asked, with a smile, as he pocketed
the money.
"Maybe that, and worse," answered Nat. "Just keep still about what
happened just now."
"That's what I will. I hope you get them."
"I will!" declared Nat.
He waited until the three entered the club, which was at its liveliest
later at night, and then got out of the delivery auto. Using that,
instead of another taxi, to chase his quarry had enabled Nat to fool
them completely, he thought.
He slipped over to the nearest subway and went back to his office with
the mysterious card he had taken from the crack between the back and
the seat cushions of the taxi in which Lemberg had breathed his last.
It was now early evening, but Berry Todd was on duty in the office,
having sent out to get some sandwiches while waiting for Nat's return
or for some word from the chief.
"Anything doing?" the younger sleuth greeted his employer.
"I think so," was the answer. "Get out the magnifying glasses, Berry,
and the finger-print records. This card may show something," and Nat
carefully laid the bit of pasteboard on a clean sheet of paper. "Any
report from Columbia about that little dagger?" he asked.
"It came in over the 'phone a few minutes ago," was the reply. "It
isn't a deadly poison on the points of the pin shaped like a dagger,
but it is some kind of dope that numbs a person."
"That accounts for it!" exclaimed Nat. "They must prick or scratch
their victim with that, and so render him helpless--so he can't
yell--then they knife him! We're coming on. Now for some finger-print
work."
Though the card bore several different finger or thumb prints, they
were those of persons not registered in the books of criminals on file
in Nat Ridley's office.
"Well, whoever handled this card hasn't yet been finger-printed around
here," decided Nat when the test was over. "I'll have to get in touch
with headquarters and some of the international books to-morrow. But
I've got another job on hand now."
"You don't mean to say you're going to keep on with this case now, do
you?" objected Berry. "You haven't had supper!"
"Well, I'm going to get a bite, and then I'm going to see Mrs.
Lemberg--the widow of the murdered man. She may be able to throw some
light on why he was killed. But you needn't stay, Berry. Lock up the
office."
A little later, having again changed his disguise to that of a
care-free man about town, Nat called on Carl Lemberg's widow. Mrs.
Lemberg lived in the Bronx, and Nat found with her Anna Lemberg, the
sister of the dead detective.
Both women showed traces of their grief when Nat was ushered into their
apartment, having sent up his card which brought a ready invitation to
come up.
"It is very good of you to come," said Mrs. Lemberg. "My husband often
spoke of you, and said, after poor Dan Steele was killed, that he was
going to engage you."
"He did engage me, and no later than to-day," stated Nat. "But he
should have been a bit sooner, it appears."
"Yes, they--they got him!" muttered the sister. "Tell me," and her blue
eyes sparkled dangerously, "do you know who the scoundrels were? Have
you any trace of them?"
"It is a little too soon for that," Nat answered gently. "But I am
going to do my best. I came to see if you could throw any light on this
mystery."
"We will tell you all we know," promised Mrs. Lemberg. "But,
unfortunately, it isn't much. My husband seldom brought his office
affairs home."
However, she and Miss Anna brought out some papers from the desk of
the dead detective, and Nat delved into them. Some of the things he
discovered seemed to give him satisfaction, for he smiled in a grim way
as he made some notes in his book. Then he questioned the two women
closely, and learned a bit more.
"Well," the detective said finally, as he prepared to leave, "I think
it looks a little more hopeful than it did at first."
"You mean you think you can find the murderers?" asked Anna.
"I hope so. At least, I can make a start and perhaps get on their
trail, though where it will lead, no one can say. I may have to go to
Mexico."
"Oh, I hope not!" exclaimed Mrs. Lemberg.
"Why not?" asked Nat, with a quick look at her.
"Because I fear it means death," she answered simply. "Look what
happened to my husband's brother and his uncle. If only they had not
gone there!"
"But they had business there," said Nat.
"Yes, I know. And then Mr. Steele went, and they killed him. My husband
talked of going--only talked, mind you--and see what happened to him!"
"It does seem a sinister place," admitted Nat. "But forewarned is
forearmed, you know. If I go to Mexico I will be on my guard. I may
call to see you again," were his parting words.
The widow, as she escorted him to the door, said again:
"Whatever happens, don't go to Mexico!"
Something appeared to have happened to the street lights, for when the
detective emerged from the Lemberg apartment the thoroughfare was in
considerable darkness, the only illumination coming from stores and
residences along the way.
But Nat thought little of this as he started off toward the nearest
subway, intending to go to his home on Central Park West, to spend the
night.
There was a dark alley midway in the block along which Nat Ridley was
walking, his thoughts busy with the strange happenings of the day. But
if he saw this dark side passage he gave it little thought until he
heard a peculiar hissing sound coming from it.
"A snake!" thought Nat instantly, for that is exactly what it sounded
like. He gave a momentary thought to the possibility that one of the
big pythons from the Bronx Zoölogical Park might have escaped and be
hiding in the dark alley.
The next instant he felt some thin, but powerful, coils circling about
his neck. For an instant the iron nerve of the sleuth almost failed,
and he put up his hands to ward off what he thought were the folds of a
serpent.
Then, in the dark, he felt the coils of a rope. An instant later the
noose was pulled tight, almost choking him, and he was hauled backward,
pulled off his feet, and dragged in the silent and gloomy alley.