CRAY WIRES FOR “CARTER.”
It is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Simpson looked surprised at a
question which appeared so irrelevant.
“Yes, I do,” she answered, “but I don’t see what in the world that has
to do with Mr. Simpson’s absence.”
“Nothing, of course,” was the prompt response. “I’m trying to get at
something else, Mrs. Simpson—I’m afraid I can’t tell you just what at
present. Are you a light sleeper?”
“Yes, very.”
“I suppose your room is on the second floor, there, where those double
windows are?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the windows are open these nights?”
“Of course—all of them. It has been very warm, you know.”
“Was that the room you originally planned to occupy?”
Mrs. Simpson looked amazed.
“Why, no, it wasn’t,” she confessed. “Naturally, the best bedroom is
supposed to be at the front of the house. It has a big bay window,
and gets the air from three sides. It’s so big, though, and seemed so
lonesome after Mr. Simpson was gone, that I changed to this back one
after the first night. But I don’t understand what’s in your mind, Mr.
Jones.”
“Don’t try to, Mrs. Simpson,” he advised. “I have an idea, but I’m not
free to share it yet, even with you. That’s all I care to look at here,
Mrs. Simpson; let’s go back to the house.”
They went around to the front door, and the woman invited him in again
somewhat reluctantly. He would have liked to get hold of a pair of
Simpson’s shoes, but he did not dare ask that, feeling sure that she
would smell a rat if he did.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I have imposed on you too much already.”
He paused for a moment, and went on, picking his words carefully.
“I suppose you haven’t got a very good opinion of my abilities along
this line, Mrs. Simpson?” he said deprecatingly. “Mr. Griswold himself
has thought fit to send me here, and I have an idea or two that I would
like to test. It’s too soon to tell you what I believe, but I think I
have a clew to your husband’s behavior. Will you help me to find out
whether it’s good for anything, or not?”
“Of course, I will—I’ll do anything I can.”
“Then—it sounds like a mystery thriller, but the explanation is very
simple—will you sleep in the front room for a night or two, and see
that all the windows at the back are closed and dark?”
Mrs. Simpson looked at him as if she thought he had lost his senses,
but she reluctantly agreed to do as he asked.
“Thanks ever so much,” Cray said uncomfortably. “I know how it sounds,
but I have a notion that it will help.”
And, after a few more words, he left the house, being careful, however,
to caution Mrs. Simpson to say nothing to any one concerning his
peculiar request, or the trend of his inquiries.
Incidentally, he had secured from her the name of the garage at which
Simpson had rented the car—an electric.
The ex-police detective’s manner, as he strode down the hill, was a
very thoughtful one, but there was something triumphant about the swing
of his shoulders and the carriage of his massive head.
In his opinion, he had done a good day’s work. Certainly, he had made
some very curious discoveries, and if his theory were anywhere near
correct, he had hopes of solving the mystery—and, incidentally, of
capturing John Simpson, and recovering a large share of the stolen
gold—before many hours had passed.
And the best of it was that he had done everything single-handed. To be
sure, his friend Carter had advised his going to New Pelham first of
all, but, beyond that, the great detective had had nothing to do with
the affair, thus far.
“Carter will be sorry he didn’t get into the game at the start,” Cray
told himself, with a satisfied grin. “If this thing goes through, as I
hope it will, I’ll cop about all the credit there is. Too bad I called
Carter in at all. If I had known what a cinch it was going to be, you
can bet I would have handled it alone.”
He and Nick were great friends, but Cray saw no reason to hide his own
light under a bushel for that reason. On the other hand, he well knew
that Nick would rejoice in his success, and decline to take any credit
or pay that did not rightfully belong to him.
He would have been less certain of the outcome, however, had he
suspected that he was not dealing with Nick Carter at all, but with one
of the most unscrupulous criminals in the country.
Cray found the garage easily enough, and lost no time getting down to
business.
“Friend of mine, Mr. Simpson, rented a car here,” he said. “An
electric. It looks pretty good to me. Is it still for hire?”
“No, sir,” the owner of the garage answered. “Didn’t you know I sold it
to Mr. Simpson nearly a week ago?”
“The deuce you did!” ejaculated Cray. “That’s a new one on me. Haven’t
seen Simpson lately.”
“Well, he liked the machine so much that he took it, after having it
out several times. I’ve got other cars here for sale, but that was the
only electric. There isn’t very much demand for them, you know.”
“It was an electric I wanted,” Cray told him, with apparent regret.
“Like them quiet.”
“That’s what Mr. Simpson said,” the garage owner vouchsafed. “They may
be quiet enough, but I like something a little faster and bigger. I’ve
got a dandy Wellington here, sir, as good as new, that I’ll sell you
for——”
“Nothing doing,” Cray interrupted. “Wife has set her heart on an
electric, and you know what that means. Thanks just the same, though.”
They exchanged meaning glances, and Cray left the garage. As he walked
along the main street, he whistled softly, but very cheerfully. The
garage man’s hint as to Simpson’s reason for purchasing an electric car
had served to strengthen his suspicions. The more he thought about it,
the more certain he became that he was right, and the more eager he was
to lay his amazing theory before Nick Carter.
He desired the great detective’s approval, and his cooperation in
the last dramatic scene, which he hoped would take place that night.
But again there would have been a fly in his honey had he known
that another had arrived at practically the same conclusion by pure
reasoning, and that that other was not Nick Carter, but an impostor and
ex-convict, who was posing in Nick’s place.
Perhaps it is just as well that Jack Cray did not know that fact when
he proceeded to the combined railroad station and telegraph office, and
wrote out the following message:
“NICHOLAS CARTER—_Madison Avenue, New York_: Come to New Pelham by
7:30 train this evening. Important. Will meet you.”