THE WATCHERS MAKE THEMSELVES SCARCE.
When Cray and Gordon first came within sight of No. 31 Floral Avenue
there were lights in some of the upper windows, but before they had
reached a point opposite the house, the lights went out.
“Mrs. Simpson is just going to bed,” announced Cray. “Good enough! Glad
to see she isn’t a night owl. Thought of that, but was afraid to pile
on any more injunctions.”
They passed the house and continued along the road toward the brow of
the hill, then turned about and paced slowly back. There were lights in
some of the other houses, and Green Eye could see that Cray had been
right in saying that there were no other windows to overlook Simpson’s
rear yard and garage.
“Like to see the wheel tracks?” asked Cray, just before they reached
the house again. “Safe enough, I guess, if she isn’t snooping around.”
Gordon shook his head. “I’d like to have a look at them myself,” he
answered, “but we’d better wait for a while and give the woman a chance
to quiet down. She may be peering out of those back windows for all
she’s worth at this very moment, you know. What you said was enough to
arouse any woman’s curiosity, and she’s probably imagining all sorts
of things. I don’t believe she’s in touch with her husband, and even
if she were, it’s unlikely that she could get word to him. Still, you
never know what a panicky woman is going to do. She has no man to fall
back upon now, remember, and if she saw us lurking about, she might
call up the police.”
“Well, what if she did?” demanded Cray. “We haven’t anything to be
afraid of at their hands.”
Having once been a police detective himself, he often found it hard
to sympathize with his companion’s attitude, which was that of most
private detectives.
“That’s a foolish question, Jack,” Green Eye returned, copying one
of Nick Carter’s gentle rebukes. “We’re not down in the city now,
remember. We’ll be up against some country officers, who might yank
us off to the lockup before we had a chance to explain. While we were
gone, what if Simpson should appear on the scene? Where would our plans
be then?”
“That’s right, too,” Cray agreed ruefully. “Might get away and not turn
up again. Take it all back, Mr. Carter. We can wait for a while—long
enough for Mrs. Simpson to get tired if she’s on the watch—and still
have time to look about a bit, with the help of our flash lights,
before midnight. Not much chance that Simpy will show up before then.”
Accordingly, they concealed themselves near by and waited impatiently
until nearly eleven-thirty, by which time all the houses in the
neighborhood were dark.
“Now we’ll do a little exploring,” announced Green Eye. They cautiously
skirted Simpson’s property until they reached a point from which they
could see that the rear windows were all closed, after which they
continued to the rear of the lot.
They remained outside the low fence until they had satisfied themselves
that Simpson was not in the vicinity. Having ascertained that, they
crept about the corner of the fence, and, lurking in its shadow,
approached the wide gate which the fugitive had had cut there.
Cray switched on his flash light, and turned it downward so that it
shone upon the footprint he had noted earlier in the day.
“That’s Simpson’s, I’m pretty sure,” he declared. “Got the data of it,
anyway. The fellow stood here to open the gate.”
“Show me the tire marks first,” Gordon said.
He was trying to simulate Nick’s thoroughness, but he had a more
personal reason as well. He wished to see if the tracks would tell
him the same story they had told his companion, because if they did
not—well, the stolen gold might prove to be much more elusive than he
had hoped, and the sooner he found it out the better.
The night was dark. Along the street an occasional arc lamp spluttered
characteristically, but there at the rear of the house it was very
lonely and gloomy; nevertheless, the two men threw frequent glances at
the Simpson back windows, and their ears were strained all the time to
catch the first sounds of approach.
Gordon’s examination did not take long. Every mark that he saw served
to confirm what Cray had told him, and as the light was switched off
the darkness permitted a significant grin of satisfaction.
“I see nothing to upset your reasoning, Jack,” he said judicially.
“We had better go into the yard, though, and see if there are any new
tracks in front of the garage, and then get under cover.”
Cray had noted that morning that the hinges of the gate had been very
thoroughly oiled, but it seemed best not to put them to the test, but
to crawl over the fence at one side, where their own footprints would
not be conspicuous.
Thereafter, keeping as much as possible in the lee of the little
garage, they examined the corner in front of the door.
“Nothing new seems to have taken place here,” Cray informed the
supposed Nick Carter. “Here’s the one set of tire marks, you see, and
nothing more of consequence, not even an obliterated trail. If the
stuff was inside the garage this morning, it seems safe enough to say
that it’s here still.”
As he spoke, he tried the door once more, but found it locked, as it
had been that morning. They passed on around the little structure of
metal, keeping to the side, away from the house.
“There’s the lumber pile I told you about,” Cray announced. “About time
to hunt our holes, isn’t it?”
His companion agreed, and they made themselves as comfortable as they
could beside the pile of boards. Now, however, as Cray had foretold,
they were exposed to view from the back of the house, but the only
alternative was to take a position which might reveal them to Simpson
if he should come, as they counted on his doing.
“Let’s hope he shows up, and is considerate enough not to keep us
waiting too long,” murmured Gordon. “I’ve seen cozier places than
this.”