THE DETECTIVE’S “HALFWAY HOUSE.”
Chick had been in favor of cutting off all communication with the
detective’s residence in New York. It was not because he himself felt
any great need of a holiday, but rather because he had an exaggerated
notion that his chief was badly in need of a change.
Nick, however, had vetoed this suggestion, and left things largely to
his butler’s discretion. The butler had been in his service for years,
and had shown himself by no means a fool.
“If anything big develops,” Nick had told him, “do not hesitate to
telegraph for me, or have me called on the long distance—if there isn’t
time to write. I don’t want to miss an important case.”
The butler remembered these words now—and forgot that he did not even
know the caller’s name. Carried away by the man’s air of authority, he
blurted out the desired information.
“Mr. Carter is staying at the Buck’s Head Inn, Little Saranac Lake,
sir,” he said.
“Many thanks! That’s all I need. I’m sure Mr. Carter will respond at
once when he hears what’s in the wind,” Gordon declared importantly,
and having made a note of the address, thanked the butler again, and
returned to the waiting taxi.
Green Eye had seen a great light as a result of the butler’s incautious
revelations, and all his previous plans had been discarded. In their
place a new one was growing—a plan that promised to set a record for
daring, and to bring the detective nearer to professional shipwreck
than he had been in all of his career.
The new plan did not involve an interview with Nick. On the contrary,
it was built upon the fact that the detective was hundreds of miles
away, buried in the woods.
Therefore, as may be guessed, Green Eye did not make use of the address
the butler had given him. He was quite satisfied to have created the
impression that he intended to communicate with Nick at once, and that
the latter might return in the course of a day or two.
The following morning an individual climbed the stairs leading to one
of Nick’s “halfway houses,” that particular one being on One Hundred
and Twenty-fifth Street.
Nick Carter maintained a number of these places in different parts
of the city, and in each of them he kept several complete changes
of clothing and a supply of wigs, false mustaches, beards, make-up
articles, and the like.
Their mission is perfectly obvious. Under ordinary circumstances,
it was safe enough for the detective and his assistants to disguise
themselves at home, and to return to their headquarters at their
pleasure. When they were handling an unusually delicate case, however,
or dealing with exceptionally clever lawbreakers, they found it
necessary to take further precautions, and these so-called halfway
houses then came in handy.
In other words, the secret bases of supplies—each of which had
two exits—made it possible for them to leave and return to their
headquarters openly, and without disguise, although the intervening
hours might be devoted to the most relentless shadowing, carried on
under all sorts of guises.
The man who climbed the stairs at the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth
Street place, therefore, might easily have been Nick in the act of
returning from some such expedition. He did not look in the least like
the great detective, but that proved nothing, and his actions went far
to indicate that he was Nick or one of the latter’s assistants.
He boldly approached the door of the room, the location of which did
not seem to give him the slightest trouble, despite the fact that there
was nothing on the door to guide him. He seemed to have some little
difficulty in getting the door open, to be sure; but, after working at
the lock for two or three minutes, he gained entrance.
Many criminals would have given a great deal to know the location of
one of those rooms, but Nick did not dream that one rascal had long
since discovered the halfway house in Harlem.
The man who had gained entrance by picking the lock was Green-eye
Gordon, of course.
He had learned of the place shortly before Nick had caught him, two
years or more back, and had been more or less uncertain as to the
present use of the room. The detective might have given it up in the
interval, for all he knew, but he had resolved to put his knowledge to
the test, and now he was rewarded, for a glance about the place showed
him that it was still employed by the detective.
Rows of clothing hung in orderly array on hooks along the walls. At
one side there was a long mirror, which enabled one to view oneself
from head to feet, and between the windows, at the rear, was a dressing
table, which looked as if it might belong to some musical-comedy star,
so cluttered was it with make-up materials of all sorts.
It was nearly an hour later when Ernest Gordon let himself out, locked
the door behind him—after some further effort—and sauntered downstairs.
Another complete transformation had taken place in his appearance. He
was no longer the hunted criminal who had escaped from Clinton Prison,
no longer the dressy individual who had presented himself at the
detective’s, the day before, and least of all did he look like the man
who had ascended those stairs some fifty minutes previously.
Now, to all intents and purposes, he was Nick Carter himself.
Not only was he wearing one of the excellent suits the detective kept
for his more respectable disguises, but in build, walk, features, and
even expression, he was as much like Nick Carter as one pea is like
another.
His astounding plan had ripened into action.