OFF TO TEXAS
Like a flash and without stopping to ask questions, Nat Ridley leaped
toward the window, through which, the Spanish translator indicated, the
window cleaner had entered and left.
The man with the chamois was not in sight, but his pail was still on
the broad, stone ledge, and Nat at once guessed what had happened.
"He walked along the coping here like a human fly and got into the next
office," decided Nat. "He was a spy, disguised as a window cleaner! I
thought he acted like an amateur when I first spotted him. The Tola
gang is after me hot and heavy!"
Nat Ridley needed but a second to make up his mind.
"Where he went I can go!" exclaimed the sleuth. "Look after things
sharp here for a minute or two," he called over his shoulder to Berry.
"Where are you going, Chief?"
"After that fellow!" exclaimed Nat.
"Be careful!" murmured the stenographer, who, with Toodles, had
run into Nat's private office at the alarm given by the startled
translator.
But Nat was already out on the ledge, which, aside from its height
above the pavement, was a safe place to walk. In a few seconds the
detective had entered the window adjoining his own--the window of
an importing firm with the heads of which the sleuth had a slight
acquaintance.
There was a clerk in the room into which Nat leaped from the window--a
clerk who seemed rather startled.
"Another one!" he exclaimed, and Nat knew he had guessed right.
"Did a man just come in here?" asked the detective quickly.
"Yes. The window cleaner."
"He was no window cleaner," Nat stated, with a grim look. "But let that
pass. Did he have anything in his hand?"
"Yes, some papers."
"Which way did he go?"
"Out through our office into the corridor. He said something about
feeling sick and needing medicine. I thought you were another one when
I saw you come in."
"You mean another window cleaner?" remarked Nat. "No, I'm not," and, as
he was in disguise, the clerk did not recognize him. Nat let it go at
that.
"Is anything wrong?" the young man asked, as Nat, after a look down
the corridor and noting it was vacant, decided it would be useless to
chase after the spy.
"No, not much wrong," was the reply. "I just wanted to ask him some
questions. Another time will do."
Nat was anxious to get back and ascertain how much of the letters the
translator had copied before they had been snatched away from him. So,
with a nod to the clerk, Nat went back the way he had come, along the
window ledge, somewhat to the surprise of the clerk.
The sleuth found his office force and the Spanish scholar awaiting his
return somewhat anxiously.
"Did he beat it?" asked Berry.
"He sure did! It was quite a plan--pretending to be a window cleaner
and even impersonating the janitor in telephoning up to tell Toodles
he was coming. He got both letters, I suppose?" Nat ruefully asked the
translator.
"Unfortunately of a truth, yes, señor," was the reply. "But not before
I had made copies of them both. Here they are," and he held out two
sheets of paper.
"Good!" cried Nat. "You copied them both, did you? Fine! As long as
we know what the letters say we don't need the originals, unless they
contain something incriminating."
"They do not seem to be of that nature," said the translator. "The
missives do but contain some directions about oil wells and something
of a contest over them. There are a number of names of persons and
places."
"Good!" cried Nat again. "That is what we want."
Eagerly, he began perusing the translations of the letters found in the
torn coat and, as he read, a pleased smile spread over the sleuth's
face.
"This settles it!" murmured Nat.
"Settles what?" Berry wanted to know.
"About going to Texas and possibly to Mexico. I'll have to leave in a
few days. I'm on the track of the double dagger gang now, all right!"
"Then you're going to run them down?" asked Berry.
"I am if it's humanly possible. I promised Mrs. Lemberg I would do what
I could to avenge her husband's death. But I also have a big bone to
pick with these devils in the matter of Dan Steele's death. Dan was
once a pal of mine. I'll make those imps sorry they knifed him!" and
Nat's eyes blazed.
Once more he read the translations, and then had his stenographer make
copies of them which he put in his pocket, leaving the pen translations
in his safe.
"That spy window cleaner wasn't as smart as he thought himself,"
chuckled Nat as he prepared to go out to arrange about transportation
to Paloma. "He wasn't quite quick enough getting those letters back.
You did your work quickly and well," he said to the Spaniard.
"I am glad that the señor is pleased," was the reply, and Nat added a
generous bonus to the fee the man charged.
"Well, what's the game now?" asked Berry when he and his chief were
alone in the private office after the excitement had calmed down. "Am I
to go on being you?"
"Until you get orders to the contrary," Nat answered. "And now
let me see--I've got to assume a new character. What would be a
natural disguise for one who is going to the Mexican border? I think
I'll go as a travelling hardware man, looking for orders for farm
machinery--tractors and the like. I'll brush up a bit on the talk of
the trade."
Nat Ridley had a wide acquaintance in New York, and among them was a
friend in the whole-sale hardware business. Putting on a new disguise
from his office stock--making up to look like an inconspicuous office
clerk, Nat left his headquarters and sought out Jabez Norman, the big
hardware man.
To the latter Nat explained enough of the matter to satisfy the natural
curiosity of his friend, and then, for a day or so, Nat absorbed a
lot of information about shovels, rakes, hoes, disk harrows, plows,
tractors, and the like, together with trade and discount terms. He also
managed to pick up a smattering of Spanish which was to stand him in
good stead.
Having gotten enough hardware knowledge, he thought, to serve him in a
pinch, Nat began to put his affairs in shape so that he could leave for
his Mexican trip. For he did not doubt but that he would have to cross
the border.
"These plotters and murderers probably slide back and forth over the
line several times a week," the sleuth decided. "I must do the same."
The publicity following the murder of Lemberg, the solution of which
baffled the police, and the stir made by the attack on Nat and Berry in
the Spanish club, seemed to have sent the Tolas to cover.
During the time, after he had had the letters translated, when Nat was
preparing to start for Paloma, there was no further attempt on the part
of Ramon and his gang to interfere with the detective.
The unfortunate Lemberg was buried and Nat made a last call on his
widow, promising to do what he could to bring the murderers to justice.
Mrs. Lemberg was not able to give any more clews than those which she
had already furnished the sleuth.
"My last word to you, though, Mr. Ridley," said Mrs. Lemberg as the
detective was about to take his leave, "is to be on your guard."
"I will," he replied.
"You little know the desperate character of those men," she went on.
"My husband did not realize it until too late, or he might be alive
now."
"They certainly are desperate and cunning," agreed Nat, as he reflected
on the fact that, in spite of all his precautions and disguises,
the Tolas had, in some manner, found out about his visit to the
Club Tamalle, learned that he had the letters, and had made such a
successful attempt to get them back. It was only by chance that the
translations had been made before the window cleaner played his trick.
"You shall hear from me," promised Nat as he bade Mrs. Lemberg a final
good-bye.
"I hope in person," she answered, with a wan smile. And there was
meaning and emphasis in what she said.
From her apartment Nat went to a railroad office where he bought a
ticket and berth for Paloma. He thought he was well disguised and that
he had come by such a roundabout route that none of the Mexican gang
would be able to trail him.
Yet when Nat emerged from the office he was sure a dark, swarthy man,
shabbily attired, who shuffled around the corner, was a spy watching
him.
"I'll give him a run for his money!" decided the sleuth, with a grim
look in his eyes.
Nat pretended to be in a great hurry and hastened along the street head
down, looking at some papers he took from his pocket. But out of the
corner of his eyes, he was watching the shabby man and saw him prepare
to do some shadowing. Then, when opposite the fellow, Nat turned
suddenly, as though to go back, having forgotten something. But he
deliberately collided with the spy, and with such force as to knock him
into the gutter where there was a puddle of water.
"Sorry!" exclaimed Nat. "You should look where you are going, my
friend!" he added sharply.
For a moment the fellow said nothing, though his face grew darkly red
with rage. Then he cried out a Spanish imprecation, shook his fist at
Nat while scrambling out of the puddle, and added:
"Son of a pig!"
"Ah, ah! Señor Ramon or one of his friends! I thought so!" chuckled
Nat, and before the fellow could arise to follow, Nat slipped into an
office building, went up in the elevator, down again and out through
another entrance, thus effectually throwing the shadower off the trail.
Yet with all his precautions and this strategic upsetting of one of his
enemies, Nat Ridley felt that they were still on his trail, and he was
more positive of it when he went to take the night train for Texas.
Some might ask why Nat did not arrest this rascal and force him to
confess. The answer is, the great detective knew that this could not be
done. The secret society was too powerful--no member would say a word,
not even when in the shadow of death. If a man thought to squeal, he
well knew that, once at liberty, his life would pay the penalty.
Tired out, Nat entered the sleeping car and was groping his way along
the green-curtained aisle when the porter accosted him, asking the
number of his berth.
"Twelve," answered Nat.
"Yais sah, dat's right! Lower twelve," and the colored bed-maker looked
at Nat's ticket.
"Lower twelve and upper twelve," said Nat, holding out a second coupon.
"Upper twelve?" gasped the darkey. "Am dere two ob you?"
"No, I'm traveling alone," replied Nat, with a smile. "But I always buy
two berths, an upper and a lower. I don't like anyone above me."
"Oh!" gasped the Porter. "Dat's too bad!"
"What's odd about that?" asked Nat. "It's a whim of mine."
"I wish I'd knowed dat, boss," the negro went on scratching his woolly
head. "I didn't spect anybody had upper twelve, an' I jes' done put a
gen'man in it."
"Oh, did you?" asked Nat sarcastically. "Well, then you can just rout
the gentleman out and leave that berth empty. I've paid for two and I'm
going to have them. No one sleeps above me!"
As he spoke the curtains of the upper berth parted and a dark face
looked out.
"Pardon, señor," said a man in soft Spanish accents. "But there is no
other place vacant in the train, and if you are not going to use this
berth I shall be glad to pay you for your lower one and also for this."
"Nothing doing!" snapped Nat briskly. "That's my berth, and I'm going
to have it."
An ugly look came over the face of the man in upper twelve.