THE MAN IN THE WARDROBE.
“There’s a dead man down there.”
“Down where?”
“In the doctor’s flat.”
The man living in the flat above the one where Nick Carter had been
assaulted looked up from the morning paper.
“How do you know?” he asked.
The wife gave a little shiver as she answered:
“I saw it.”
The head of the family laid down the paper.
“When?” he asked.
“When I got up,” began the woman, “I stepped to the window looking into
the airshaft. I did not sleep well last night, on account of the noise
down there, and I thought I would see if everything there looked as
usual.”
“Well?”
“Of course I couldn’t see into the rooms under us, so I turned my
attention to the rooms on the other side of the shaft.”
“How slow you are. Go on.”
“Well, a heavy black curtain hung over the opposite windows, making an
almost perfect mirror of the plate glass in the sash.”
“Well--well?”
“And there, in that mirror, I saw the body of a dead man lying in the
back parlor of the doctor’s flat.”
“Was the doctor there?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing--preparing to cut up the body?”
“No; he was cleaning up.”
The head of the house resumed his paper for a moment and then laid it
down again.
“Why didn’t you tell me of this before?” he asked.
“Oh, I thought it merely a freak of the doctor’s.”
“What noises did you hear down there last night?”
“You are not in court now,” said the woman, with a laugh. “I don’t know
as I can describe the noises I heard. There were blows and the sound of
scuffling.”
The man of the house walked to the hall door, and opened it.
“I wonder if the doctor is there yet?” he asked.
“He went away an hour ago,” was the reply.
The man went down and tried the door.
It was locked, and no one answered his call.
“He’s gone, all right enough,” said the man, going upstairs again, “and
I’m going to have a look into that room.”
“You have no right----”
“Oh, yes, I have, my dear. The law gives me a right to go anywhere I
believe a crime is being committed.”
“Will the law heal your head if you get it hurt?” asked the wife,
anxiously.
“I’ll look out for that, too.”
The head of the house got his wife’s clothesline down, and raised the
window opening the airshaft.
The flat straight across was unoccupied, and the heavy curtains which
had revealed so much still hung across the windows in the flat below, so
there was no danger of making a scene.
The man swung himself down, and landed on the heavy ground glass at the
bottom of the shaft.
The window was fastened and heavy curtains had been drawn across the
panes, but the investigator, by the exertion of all his strength, forced
the sash up, and looked inside the room.
The man he saw lying there on the carpet was bound, and gagged, and
bloody, but he was not dead.
“Help me out of this,” his eyes said, as plainly as words could have
done.
The man removed the gag and stood looking down at him.
“How did you come here?” he asked.
“I didn’t get into this shape for the fun of it,” was the reply. “Take
these things off before those men come back.”
“Who are you?”
Nick nodded his chin toward an inside pocket.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said, “so you may look at my
credentials.”
The man did look, and in about a second after he had done looking Nick
Carter was free of all bonds, and on his way to the flat above.
It took but a few moments for the detective to explain all that had
taken place in the building the previous night.
Nick was not seriously injured.
A weaker man would have been laid up for days from the effects of the
bruises he had received, but Nick had too much work to do to think of
going to bed at all.
He washed and dressed his wounds as best he could, partook of a light
breakfast, and then asked the man who had rescued him to inform the
officer on the beat below that something unusual had taken place in the
old man’s flat the night before.
“That will place the matter in the hands of the police,” he said. “I
don’t want to take a hand in it just yet.”
The man soon came back, and reported that the policeman had broken in
the door, and found the old man lying bound and gagged on the bed. A
large amount of money and some valuable jewelry had been taken.
“And you have the clew?” said the man, inquiringly.
“Yes, but I can’t give it now. I want to have another interview with
those people downstairs before the officers get hold of them.”
“And they are in with the burglars?”
“It seems so. How long have they lived there?”
“About two weeks.”
“It is a part of the electric-drill scheme,” said Nick.
“What’s that?”
“I was thinking aloud.”
“But you spoke of an electric drill.”
“Yes.”
Nick Carter, for once, had been caught napping. He had spoken when he
should have remained silent.
“That makes me think,” continued the man, “that the two doctors
downstairs are cranks on electricity.”
“What do they do with electricity?”
“They have a motor down there, and they have been drilling all sorts of
substances.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Ever since they have lived there.”
Nick thought of the armature he had found in the rooms below not long
before, and remained silent.
“Now,” said the detective, “I want to be back in that room when the
doctors return, and I want you within reach in case I should need help.
What do you say to that?”
“All right. I am dying for a scrap, anyway.”
The two men descended to the lower flat, and Nick was placed in the
shape in which he had been left.
The gag was in his mouth, and the ropes were on his wrists and ankles,
but they were fixed so that they could be cast aside at any moment.
Nick’s companion secreted himself in a huge wardrobe in the room.
In ten minutes the door was unlocked from the outside, and two men
entered, only one of whom the detective knew.
One was the man who had attacked Nick and the other was the man who had
thrown the poisonous ball at Chick in the cellar of the chophouse.
“It worked like a charm,” the latter was saying. “The spy keeled over in
a second, and you ought to see the stuff we got out of his clothes.”
“Money?”
“Yes, money and disguises and letters of introduction. He’ll make an
excellent subject for the dissecting table in a day or two.”
Nick trembled, for he knew that they were talking about Chick.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but you know that he will die if restoratives are not applied
inside of twelve hours.”
“The twelve hours will be up at two o’clock this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Why, we’ll cut him up--in the interest of science, of course.”
The doctor laughed brutally as he spoke.
“How’s the chophouse to-day?” asked the other.
“It stinks.”
“Closed up?”
“Tight as a drum.”
“The cellar is being worked, I suppose?”
“Yes, the boys are all at work, except the watchman Chick came so near
killing. He’s gone to bed.”
“Things must be about ready down there?”
“The drilling begins to-night.”
Nick thought he heard a faint exclamation from the direction of the
wardrobe.
One of the doctors also heard the noise.
“What’s that?” he asked.
His companion made no reply, but stepped up to the place where the
detective was lying.
“See here,” he said, “your friend is awake.”
The other advanced, and removed the gag.
“You might have done it yourself,” he said, addressing Nick, “it’s loose
enough.”
“How do you like your quarters?” asked the other doctor.
“Not very well,” was the reply.
“You heard what we have been saying?”
“Yes.”
“How do you like the fate in store for Chick?”
“He’s not dead yet,” replied Nick.
“You have an idea that you’ll both get away?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you’ll both be on the dissecting table in twenty-four hours.
You’ll make good subjects, too.”
“Put me in a chair,” said the detective. “The floor is like a rock.”
The doctors lifted him up.
“You have only a short time to live,” one of them said, “and we may as
well make you comfortable.”
The next moment one of the ruffians stood before the detective with a
rag saturated with ether.
“It’s time to put you to sleep,” he said. “You’ll wake up in a place
where you won’t need an overcoat.”
The instant the muscular doctor came within reach, Nick sprang to his
feet, and struck out with his right, throwing all the strength of his
strong arm and all the weight of his body into the blow.
The doctor caught the blow under the ear, and went to the floor like a
dead man.
Then the door of the wardrobe was thrown open, and Nick’s rescuer dashed
out.
The other doctor sprang for the door, but the man from the wardrobe got
there first.
In a moment the doctor was thrown to the floor and handcuffed.
But although captured, the fellow was not conquered.
“There’s one sure thing,” he said, “and that is that you can’t save
Chick. He’s got a dose that will finish him.”
“All right,” said Nick, coolly, “I can get another assistant, but you
can’t get another neck after the law gets done with the one you have.”
“Will the charge against me be murder?”
“Certainly.”
“Is that other chap asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want to talk to you alone.”
Nick motioned to his friend to step outside.
The next moment there was a sharp report, and a terrible odor crept into
the room. The doctor had thrown another poison ball.