SUSPICION FALLS ON NICK.
“For the love of Heaven!” exclaimed Lane Griswold, in a shocked voice.
“You are crazy, Simpson, or lying! Do you actually mean to charge
Carter, who is one of the greatest detectives we have in this country,
and a man who is absolutely above suspicion in every way, with having
turned on his friend and associate, Cray, and then made off with the
money?”
Simpson’s air was one of injury. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not lying,” he
answered. “I’m telling you, or am ready to tell you, just what I know,
and all I know. You’ve got me where you want me. Is it likely that I’d
do anything to get in deeper than I am?”
“Then, tell me about it—everything.”
“Well, it isn’t much, and I didn’t actually see anything. I heard
things, though—more than I was intended to, I guess. They tied me up
here, and then, while Carter was looking at the money in the suit cases
which I had already got in the car, Cray dug over there to make sure
that there wasn’t any of it still buried. When he got through, Carter
called him to come out, saying that he had something to tell him that
he didn’t want me to hear.”
“Where was Carter then?”
“He wasn’t in sight. He had stepped to the corner out there, just back
of where the car was. You can see that he could not have been many feet
from here, so it was easy enough for me to hear things.”
“Well?”
“Well, Cray went out, leaving the door open behind him. The next thing
I knew, I heard a queer sort of dull thud, and pricked up my ears. It
sounded as if somebody had been hit, perhaps with a fist, or, more
likely, with something else.
“Of course, I didn’t know then which man had done it, but I suspected
that Carter had, because he had called Cray out. The blow must have
given Cray something to think about, for there was a pause before I
heard him say ‘Mr. Carter!’—just like that. He said it as if his best
friend had turned on him, and he didn’t know what to make of it. I
guess Carter must have tried to hit him again right away, for they had
a little tussle. It did not amount to much, because, as I figured it
out, Cray must have got a pretty nasty blow that first time, and there
wasn’t very much fight in him. He must have done something, however,
for the other fellow snarled, ‘Curse you; take that, then!’ and rapped
him again, as I could tell by the sound. Still Cray was not down and
out. They clinched, apparently, and then Cray muttered something, or
whispered it in a hoarse sort of whisper. I couldn’t hear all of it,
but it was something about ‘green-eyed.’ That seemed to make Carter
more furious than ever, so far as I could tell. He cursed Cray some
more, and seemed to strike him again and again. That was the end of
it. Carter locked me in then, and I think he dragged Cray around the
garage before he drove off.”
Lane Griswold had been listening with all his ears throughout
this recital, his face the picture of amazement and incredulity.
Incidentally, his keen eyes seemed to search Simpson’s very soul.
The man was a thief, and might easily be a liar as well. What possible
motive could he have for lying, however? The millionaire could think of
only one, and that seemed far-fetched. It was conceivable, of course,
that, despite all the probabilities, John Simpson might have had one or
more confederates who had struck down Cray, and carried the loot off
to some new place of concealment. In that case, the treasurer’s story
might be made up out of whole cloth.
But after a brief mental consideration of this, the millionaire
rejected the theory. If Simpson had had any one to help him, surely he
would not have remained tied up there in a locked garage to starve, or
be caught by those who were searching for him.
Even if he had actually been surprised and handcuffed by Cray before
the arrival of his friends, the latter would not have left him there to
such an uncertain fate. After giving the detective his quietus, they
would have carried Simpson off with them, handcuffs and all, and found
a means of releasing him later on.
No, the man must be telling the truth. He had suffered great hardships,
and he was face to face with the employer he had defrauded. Surely,
he was not the sort of man to lie under such circumstances, especially
after having confessed to hiding the money under the earthen floor of
the garage.
But if he had told the truth, and had not misinterpreted what he
heard—which seemed unlikely—what could it possibly mean, except that
the sight of so much gold had proved too much for the great detective,
and that he had turned criminal.
Griswold faced the possibility very reluctantly, but he felt obliged to
face it. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he
became that it was the one and only solution.
As a newspaper proprietor, he knew a great deal about the seamy side of
life, and was the custodian of many discreditable secrets which for one
reason or another had never been allowed to see the light of print. He
did not need any one to tell him that all is not gold that glitters,
or that a man is necessarily straight in every respect because he has
never been found out in any wrongdoing, and has always enjoyed the best
of reputations.
As far as that went, this might not be Carter’s first fall from grace.
The detective was undoubtedly an extraordinarily clever man, and was
said to be wealthy. Might it not be that he had contrived for years to
deceive his clients, and fatten his bank account at their expense?
The thought made Griswold gasp, but at the same time it caused his
heart to race with excitement.
What a beat it would be if his papers could announce exclusively that
Nick Carter, one of America’s greatest detectives, and the so-called
“archenemy of criminals,” was in reality a master criminal himself! It
would cause a sensation, the like of which had never been known.
Of course, Griswold confided none of this to the man before him.
Instead, with the instinct of the reporter, which had never deserted
him since his early days of struggle, he surprised Simpson with a
question.
“Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.
The thieving treasurer’s mind had reverted to his own troubles, and it
was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together sufficiently
to answer.
“Why, I—I hardly know what to think, Mr. Griswold,” he replied. “It’s
pretty hard to reconcile that sort of thing with what I’ve always heard
and read about Nick Carter, but I have to believe my own ears, don’t I?
The money seems to have looked good to Carter, just as it did to me,
but that wasn’t all of it, I’m sure.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m thinking about that whisper of the other fellow’s,” Simpson
explained. “I told you, remember, that he said something about
‘green-eyed.’ We use that expression in only one connection, don’t we,
in speaking of ‘green-eyed jealousy?’ Don’t that look as if Cray was
accusing Carter of turning on him because he was jealous of him for
some reason?”
Griswold was impressed. “That sounds plausible enough,” he admitted.
He was unconsciously allowing himself to be led still further astray,
and it began to look as if the outcome might be decidedly unpleasant
for the great detective, for the owner of a chain of great newspapers
is not an accuser who can be ignored or despised.