WAITING FOR A NIBBLE.
Nick Carter hardly knew what to do about the members of his household.
They had not yet been informed of the way in which they had been taken
in, and it was difficult to decide whether they should be or not. After
some reflection, however, the detective decided to say nothing about
it, for the present.
They accepted his presence as a matter of course, just as they had done
in the case of the impostor, and if he told them the truth, they would
be plunged into a state bordering on panic.
Moreover, if Gordon should take a notion to return to the house, after
such a revelation, it would be almost impossible for the butler,
housekeeper, and the rest to be their natural selves in his presence.
If they betrayed their knowledge, they might scare him off just when
Nick wished him to be most at his ease.
Nick entered his study, and, after walking up and down for a few
minutes, seated himself in his desk chair.
There was a tenseness about his look and every movement he made. He
was like a perfectly trained athlete, crouched for a start of some
record-breaking dash.
The famous detective was well acquainted with danger, and to risk
his life was an easy matter of everyday occurrence. He took up the
most serious and dangerous cases without a thought of the possible
consequences to himself. Here, however, was something different.
This came nearer home, perhaps, than anything else had ever
done, for, through him the honor and peace of mind of numbers of
persons—conspicuous targets, all of them—were threatened.
Too late the detective recognized that his reputation was not enough
to protect his house and his private safe from violence, and that
he had no right to keep such records there. They should all be in a
safe-deposit vault.
The reports of his ordinary cases might continue to be kept in his
steel filing cabinets, where they were available for ready reference,
but those concerning persons of wealth and position—men and women who
were tempting prey, and whose secrets, if revealed in the newspapers,
would cause a widespread sensation—must be better protected in future.
That, however, would not help the present situation which Nick was now
forced to face.
He actually shrank from going over the disarranged papers which Green
Eye had left behind, but after a little delay he forced himself to open
the safe, empty the remaining pigeonholes, et cetera, and dump their
contents on the desk. That done, he sat himself down and went to work.
Fortunately, there was a comparatively small number of papers of
that description in the safe, therefore it did not take very long to
go through them and check off those which remained—for the methodical
detective had a list of all of them.
In this way, by a process of elimination, Nick quickly learned the ones
which had been stolen, and his expression grew grimmer than ever as he
realized the shrewdness of Gordon’s choice.
Most of the missing papers concerned individuals or families in
and around New York, which seemed to imply that a quick clean-up
was contemplated. Some few, though, involved persons farther away,
and these appeared to have been selected because they had offered
particularly tempting bait to the blackmailer.
It needed only the brief entries in the index to bring back to Nick’s
mind all of the important details of each case, and he ground his teeth
as he pictured the scoundrel gloating over those same details, and
cleverly scheming to demand the top price for their suppression.
“What a haul!” he murmured aloud. “All those papers, and seventy-five
or eighty thousand in gold, to boot! If it’s really Ernest Gordon with
whom we have to deal—and I’m morally certain it is—he must be drunk
with joy, for he has made blackmailing an art, and he could not ask
anything bigger or more promising of that sort. In his calmer moments,
though, he must realize that he won’t have the chance to hold up many
of these people.
“Doesn’t he know that the first man he approaches will in all
probability come running to me to demand an explanation, if nothing
more? And hasn’t it occurred to him that I would receive an urgent
summons home under such circumstances? Well, if it has, he’ll see all
the more reason for striking while the iron is hot.”
He had put the papers away temporarily, intending to find a safer place
for them at the earliest opportunity, when the butler entered the study
with a telegram. It proved to be from the warden at Clinton prison, and
was a long one—sent “collect,” of course.
It contained certain new and significant, though minor, details
concerning the supposed death of Green-eye Gordon, and the escape of
the yegg from Buffalo, which served to confirm Nick’s suspicions, but
the most striking thing about the message was the tone of it. It gave
the impression that the warden had been doubtful, or was doubtful now
concerning the identity of the man who had been burned. He did not say
so, of course, but Nick could read doubt between the lines.
Obviously, the identification had been a very careless one, or else the
prison authorities had deliberately winked at the misleading statement
which had found their way into the newspapers. Very likely they took it
for granted at first that the partially burned body was that of Gordon,
and afterward preferred to hush the thing up rather than let it be
known that there was any reason to believe that the redoubtable Green
Eye had escaped.
“Well, that settles it, I think, for all practical purposes,” the
detective told himself. “Cray’s identification was a very hasty one,
made under very unfavorable circumstances, but when it’s taken in
connection with this transparent telegram, and especially in connection
with the nature, daring, and adroitness of the crime itself, it seems
safe enough to conclude that Ernest Gordon is the man I must look
for—and find.”
Which would be the best course, though? To warn those who might be
expected to be approached by the criminal, or to wait until they came
to the detective?
After some thought, Nick decided on the latter course. Naturally, he
did not wish that every one concerned should know what had happened,
for that seemed unnecessary. He believed that Gordon would concentrate
on a few intended victims at first, and if the detective could discover
who those persons were, he ought to be able to trap the rascal without
allowing the others to know what had threatened them.
It was his confident belief that practically every one who might be
visited or written to by the blackmailer would try to get in touch with
him—Nick Carter—at once. That made him willing to play this waiting
game—at least, for a time.
“The first one who communicates with me,” he thought, “should give me
a line on the fellow’s methods and plans. No one is likely to yield to
his demands on the spot, and if I can learn of a proposed rendezvous
or two, the rest should be fairly plain sailing—unless the scoundrel
learns of my return and plays dead for a while.”
He had reached this point in his musings when he heard a furious ring
at the doorbell.
“Possibly that’s the first of the victims now,” he thought. “If it is,
I must prepare myself for some more or less well-grounded reproaches. I
can stand them, though, if in addition I’m put on the track of the man
I want to lay my hands on more than I ever wanted to lay them on any
one else.”