THE FLAT BURGLARY.
It was long past midnight, and a slow, winter rain was falling.
Shivering with the cold, and muttering imprecations against the weather,
Parks and Nixon left the shelter of the chophouse and walked rapidly
toward Wabash Avenue.
“We ought to have been out an hour ago,” muttered the former, “then we
shouldn’t have missed the cable.”
“The owl car’s all right for a job like this,” was the sullen reply.
“You’ll be wanting a hack next.”
“Why not take a hack down as far as Thirty-ninth Street?” demanded
Parks. “It will be daylight before we get there at this rate.”
“Have you the price?”
“Of course.”
“Then call a cab.”
In a moment the two men, fairly well housed from the storm, were
whirling southward.
“Who first got onto this plant?” asked Parks, as they rode along.
“Gilmore.”
“He’s a cute one.”
“You bet he is.”
Nixon did not seem disposed to talk.
“How much is there of it?” asked Parks.
“About five thousand dollars, besides the jewelry.”
“The fellow’s a fool to keep so much stuff in his room.”
“He is all of that.”
“And you know the plan of the building well?”
“I was there to-day.”
“And the old man sleeps alone on the third floor away from the rest of
the family?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, you needn’t be so mighty short about it. Do you want to go in and
get the stuff while I watch outside, or shall I go in?”
“Gilmore arranged for you to go in.”
“All right.”
“And there is to be no slugging.”
“Suppose he wakes up and kicks?”
“Snatch all there is in sight and git out.”
“I guess I’ll run the job in my own way,” growled Parks. “I was in the
business when Gilmore was working on a farm.”
“Suit yourself.”
The men were so busy talking, and the night was so dark and rainy, that
they did not notice that one cab passed them several times, went on
south for a block or two on each occasion, and then turned north again.
The man seated in the cab strained his ears each time in the endeavor to
hear what the men in the other vehicle were saying, but he could only
catch a word now and then.
The pursuing cab finally fell in behind the other, and the two vehicles
proceeded together at a fast trot toward Thirty-ninth Street.
There Parks and Nixon got out, and without once looking around to see if
they were followed, walked rapidly toward Forty-third Street.
The man in the second cab never lost sight of them.
He, too, left his cab at Thirty-ninth Street and walked south.
About halfway between Cottage Grove Avenue and the Illinois Central
Railway tracks Parks and Nixon stopped and slunk into a stairway.
Their “shadow” was not twenty feet behind.
While they consulted together, he passed the spot where they stood, and
entered the next stairway to the east.
The apartments in the row--an entire block in length--were all exactly
alike.
There were three flats in each division, and each flat had seven rooms.
There were in each one a front and a back parlor, a dining room, a
kitchen, a bedroom off the front parlor, one off the kitchen and a
bathroom off from the hall leading to the kitchen.
In each instance the back parlor and the bathroom were lighted by an air
shaft running from the first floor to the roof.
The men talked for some time in the hallway and Nick, for it was he, at
last succeeded in getting near enough to hear what they were saying.
“He sleeps in the back parlor on the third floor,” Nixon was saying,
“and he always leaves his watch and diamonds on the dresser, and places
the money under his pillow.”
“Give me the key.”
Nick heard the jingle of keys, and then Nixon said:
“His son sleeps in the hall bedroom. Don’t make any noise at the door.
When you get the stuff make a run for it if there is any kick made.”
Nick darted away, and entering the next stairway, ascended to the second
floor.
Here he rapped softly on the door leading into the flat on the right of
the hall.
In a moment the door was opened about an inch.
“What do you want?” demanded a gruff voice.
“Are you alone in the room?”
“Yes; but I have a good gun with me. Keep away.”
“You’ll do,” said Nick, with a laugh. “You won’t get scared if I tell
you something?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, they are burglarizing the flat opposite, and I want to get where
I can see what’s going on, and make an arrest when the time comes.”
“Who are you?”
“An officer.”
The fellow was becoming more and more suspicious, and Nick was becoming
more and more impatient.
“Will you let me in?” Nick finally asked.
“I don’t believe you are an officer,” was the reply. “If the flat over
there is being robbed, you must be in with it.”
“In that case I wouldn’t be likely to be here telling you about it,
would I?”
“That’s very true, unless you mean to rob this flat, too.”
The fellow finally opened the door, and Nick stepped through the back
parlor, passed into the hall leading to the kitchen, and entered the
bathroom, from which a full view of the flat across the way could be
had.
There was no light in the place, except such as crept in from the street
lamps, but this was enough to show the detective that the man who had
admitted him was dressed from head to foot, even to his collar and
necktie.
“This is a strange time of night for a man to be sitting all dressed in
a dark room,” thought the detective. “Perhaps I have come to the wrong
place for help in capturing these burglars.”
Nick stood looking across the airshaft to the window of the back parlor
opposite, but there was nothing to be seen there.
The window shades were drawn, and there was no sound of life in the dark
space beyond them.
Then the detective heard a voice at his elbow:
“What are you doing?”
Nick did not like the fellow’s tone.
“Waiting,” he replied, shortly.
“You can’t wait much longer in my rooms.”
“Why not?”
“I want to go to bed.”
“With your clothes on?”
The fellow muttered something, and struck a match.
“What are you going to do?” asked Nick.
“Light the gas.”
The detective stepped forward and extinguished the flame of the match.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “You will only warn the men who are on their
way into the next flat.”
“What do I care about the next flat? I don’t believe there are any
burglars about, anyway.”
Nick thought the fellow spoke unnecessarily loud.
He did not like the way he crowded against him.
There was still no light or motion from across the airshaft.
The detective, standing with one hand resting on the window ledge, felt
his fingers come in contact with some metallic substance.
He picked it up, and tried to discover its nature by the sense of
feeling.
But that was a hard thing to do.
He could hear the occupant of the flat moving away toward the windows
facing on Forty-third Street, and, in a moment, lit a match.
The thing he held in his hand was evidently a revolving armature, and in
one end was a “chuck,” into which a diamond-pointed drill could be
fitted. Nick slipped the article into his pocket and turned away from
the bathroom window.
“There is no use in staying here,” he thought, “for the burglary was
probably planned in this room. I was a fool to come in here looking for
help.”
He had no doubt that the burglars had in some way been warned before he
was well in the rooms.
“Where are you going?”
The occupant asked the question as Nick reached the door.
“Going home.”
“Not yet.”
There was a tone of triumph in the fellow’s voice.
“And why not?”
“I want to know who you are, and why you came here with such a story at
this time of night.”
Nick was about to brush past the fellow and pass on downstairs, when a
low cry came from the direction of the bathroom.
He placed his hand on his weapon and hastened back.
The occupant of the flat kept close to his heels.
“You seem to have changed your mind,” he said, with a sneering laugh.
For a single instant the bathroom was flooded with light.
The window shades across the airshaft were up, and the gas in the back
parlor of the opposite flat was burning brightly.
The detective saw a white-haired man sitting up in bed with a look of
terror on his wrinkled face.
In front of the bed stood a masked man, holding a revolver within an
inch of the old man’s forehead.
By the side of the dresser stood another masked figure, eagerly raking
off the articles of jewelry which the old man had placed there on
retiring.
The thief’s hand was, for an instant, clearly outlined against the pure
white marble of the dresser.
In a second the light went out and the place was in darkness once more.
Nick sprang toward the door.
His purpose now was to reach the stairway below before the burglars
descended, and there arrest them both.
As he sprang through the bathroom door he felt himself seized from
behind.
The detective had never before met a strength equal to his own.
He tried to dash his assailant aside, but found that he could not do so.
He tried to bring his revolver to bear, but his arms were bound to his
side by that terrible grasp.
He raised his feet from the floor and threw his whole weight downward,
thinking that a roll and a struggle on the carpet might break the
other’s hold.
The two men went to the floor together.
Nick fell on top, but he could not hold the advantage for a single
instant.
The next instant he realized that he was fighting three men instead of
one, and that they had him in their power.
He knew that he was being beaten about the head, and that a long-bladed
knife was flashing before his eyes.
Then everything passed away, and he ceased to struggle.