THE CREMATION.
It was seven o’clock when the remains of the dead man from Elmwood
reached New York City. On the train, Nick yielded to Abbott’s request to
accompany them to the crematory.
So reluctantly did the pretended Mr. Ketchum agree to become one of the
small funeral party, that Abbott was far from suspecting the fact that
his new acquaintance left Elmwood with the determination of seeing the
remains in the coffin placed in the furnace, and not lose sight of them
until they were reduced to ashes.
It took two hours for the hearse bearing the remains and the carriage in
which sat the widow, Dr. Abbott and Nick to cross the city to the
Thirty-fourth Street Ferry, reach Long Island City, and make their way
to the crematory.
They found the furnace ready for the reception of the body. The manager
suggested that the widow had better not remain during the process of
incineration, but she insisted in not only remaining, but also in
viewing the process.
Much to Dr. Abbott’s surprise, but not to Nick’s, the widow witnessed
the cremation without fainting, and without even going into an
hysterical condition.
Indeed, her interest in the process was marked and unconcealed. The
ceremony seemed to fascinate her, and while her eyes followed every
movement of the men who were handling the corpse, Nick’s eyes were
watching her just as intently.
Without the twitching of a muscle, she saw the body placed on the
reception slab; she saw it covered with the cloth soaked in the acid
used for that special purpose; she saw the doors of the retort flung
open; she saw the slab containing the body hastily pushed into the
incandescent oven; she saw the doors hurriedly closed forever between
the world and the mortal form of the man with the long, white beard.
Through the place prepared for the purpose, she watched the outlines of
the body under the medicated cloth without a shriek of horror--without
even so much as a sob she stood there, and saw the covered form on the
slab slowly sink, quiver and finally settle down into a thin layer of
ashes.
The cremation was finished; the earthly remains of the man in the white
beard were nothing but a handful of ashes; the manager of ceremonies
gave Abbott a knowing look.
Dr. Abbott drew Mrs. Mackenzie’s arm still closer through his own, and
turning, led her away to the waiting carriage. Nick followed, and heard
the sigh which at last escaped from Mrs. Mackenzie’s lips.
Dr. Abbott’s construction of the sigh differed materially from that
which Nick put upon it.
So they returned to New York City.
At the first opportunity, Nick left them and hastened to the St. James
Hotel.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when he sent up his card to Miss Templin’s
room.
The boy returned with the information that the lady was not in.
“I might have told you that much before your card was sent up,”
exclaimed the clerk, “had not something else been on my mind at the
time. Miss Templin has not been at the hotel since last night.”
“Not been here since last night!” repeated Nick, in surprise. “Why,
where did she go?”
“Excuse me, sir, but if I knew, I think I should not have the right to
answer for her whereabouts to everybody who called, unless I was sure
the inquisitor had a right to receive the information,” replied the
clerk.
“You are quite right,” assented Nick. “When I tell you who I am, I
believe you will not hesitate to give me what information I need.”
The clerk looked at the card Nick had sent up.
“Carter,” he said, as he read the name written thereon. “You are Mr.
Carter.”
“Yes. Nick Carter.”
“What!” cried the clerk; “Nick Carter, the detective?”
“That is I,” smiled Nick.
“Well, you beat the dickens in disguising yourself so your best friends
don’t know you,” muttered the clerk.
“It’s part of my business,” Nick explained.
“Working for Miss Templin?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s something queer about her disappearance. By the way,
here’s a telegram came for her to-day.”
Without so much as saying “by your leave,” Nick tore off the envelope
and read the message.
It was, as he expected, from San Francisco, and merely read:
“Seventy-five thousand dollars cash.”
“I’ll keep that,” said Nick, putting it in his pocket.
“But it is her telegram.”
“It is in answer to a message she sent for me,” explained the detective.
“Now, what is there strange about her disappearance?”
“There is our house detective. He’ll tell you. I’ll call him.”
“Don’t let him know who I am,” whispered Nick, as the hotel detective
came forward, in answer to the clerk’s beck.
“This gentleman is a friend of Miss Templin, the young lady who has been
absent so mysteriously,” explained the clerk to the local detective.
“Please tell him what you know of the circumstances surrounding the
affair.”
Nick and the “local” walked over to a seat near the entrance to the
restaurant and sat down together.
“You see,” began the local, “the first suspicious thing about the affair
that attracted my notice happened yesterday.”
“What was that?”
“I saw her sending a telegram by the hotel wire yesterday afternoon. My
attention was attracted at the time, by the queer actions of a man who
came in at the Broadway entrance while Miss Templin was writing out her
message.
“The fellow passed behind your friend, and I am sure he looked over her
shoulder and endeavored to read what she was writing.”
“You don’t know if he succeeded?”
“No; he scarcely stopped at Miss Templin’s back a moment. Then he passed
on, and left by the Twenty-sixth Street door.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Nothing out of that alone. But there is more.”
“More?”
“This man passed on up Broadway to the Coleman House, where he joined
another fellow--a man older than he, who wore a full, close-cropped
sandy beard. I heard him call this fellow Dent.”
“You followed him?”
“Only that far. The two men walked north on Broadway, when they left the
Coleman House, and I came back to the hotel.”
“That was suspicious.”
“But now comes the most surprising part of my discoveries. Last evening
those two men came back.”
“Here to the hotel?”
“Yes. The man with the sandy beard was on the box--was driving a
spanking pair of horses, to a fine-looking carriage. The other fellow
rode inside.
“The latter, without getting out, called the bell boy to the carriage,
and sent a note up to Miss Templin. Ten minutes later, the young lady
came down, equipped as if for a call, went out, was helped into the
carriage and was driven away. That was the last of her, the carriage or
her two companions.”
“Can you describe the person who came to the hotel and took her
away--the man who rode with her, inside?”
“Like a book.”
And the hotel detective gave Nick a minute description of the man.
“Thank you very much,” said Nick, as he started toward the street.
“Nothing seriously wrong with your friend, I hope?” called the
detective.
“No, I think I know who took her away, and what the man’s object was.”
But as Nick went out on the street, he muttered, under his breath:
“If Miss Templin fell into that fellow’s trap, I can do her no good now.
I must not risk spoiling the whole case in an attempt to find her at
present, especially as such a search would be extremely difficult to
prosecute from the points I have to start with.
“This sudden disappearance of Miss Templin will make my work somewhat
more difficult, and change my plans materially. With her to accompany me
to Elmwood and confront Mrs. Mackenzie and her woman, Emma, my task
would have been easy from this point. Now, I am forced to take a new
tack, and sail up against the wind.”
He went to another hotel, registered and retired for the night.
But he was up and about his business early the next morning.
When the president of the Scotia Insurance Company arrived at his office
that forenoon, he found Nick on hand waiting for him.
“Ah! Mr. Carter,” he cried, “I am glad to see you. What news have you to
report?”
“You must pay the money on that premium, sir!”
The president sat down with a decided look of disappointment on his
face.
“Then it’s a straight case, after all.”
“I did not say so.”
“You said we’d have to pay the policy?”
“For the purpose of saving your own money and the money of the other
four companies.”
“Your words sound queer and paradoxical.”
“It is only part of my scheme to capture the most consummate band of
scoundrels who ever plotted to rob insurance companies.”
“Ah! then it was a plot to defraud?”
“Yes. Now, will you trust me fully in the management of the case?”
“Certainly I will.”
“Then please notify the widow that if she will call here at the
company’s office at two o’clock to-morrow, and furnish the necessary
proofs, a check for the amount of her policy will be given to her.”
“But you don’t want us to give the check?”
“Yes, I do. You will delay that part of it until after the banks have
closed. I’ll promise that it will never be cashed.”
“Do you object to telling me more about the case than I already know?”
“Not at all. Listen.”
Nick remained in earnest conversation with the president for nearly an
hour. The two men then parted on the best of terms.
Half an hour later he was on his way to Philadelphia.
He went straight from the Broad Street Station to the office of the
chief of police, with whom he was closeted for twenty minutes.
When he left the chief’s office, the latter was with him.
The two men took a carriage and were driven to No. 1871 ----th Street,
where Madame Reclaire had her rooms.
Nick knocked, while the chief of police stood at his back.
The door was opened slightly by a woman.
Nick didn’t waste a word in parleying, but pushed his way in--the chief
of police following.
The woman made a vain effort to stop them, but she was helpless to stay
their entrance.
In half a minute they had locked the door, and led her into a
better-lighted room beyond.
“What means this outrage?” panted the woman.
The chief of police showed his insignia of office, and replied:
“It means, Madame Reclaire, that you’ll give us some information which
we want, or go to jail, charged with being accessory to murder.”