NICK CARTER
STORIES
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=No. 155.= NEW YORK, August 28, 1915. =Price Five Cents.=
THE GORDON ELOPEMENT;
Or, NICK CARTER’S THREE OF A KIND.
Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.
CHAPTER I.
AN OPEN QUESTION.
Nick Carter did not interrupt the sobbing girl. He listened patiently,
grave and attentive, letting her run on in broken, desultory phrases,
until her first paroxism of grief immediately following his arrival
should abate sufficiently for her to tell him connectedly what had
occurred.
“They may say what they will--what they will, Mr. Carter, but I cannot
believe it, will not believe it,” she tearfully declared. “My faith in
him is unshaken. He is incapable of such deceit, such cruelty, such
terrible treachery. He is the victim of a plot, a hideous conspiracy, or
some terrible crime--oh, I am sure of it! He would not betray me in this
way, not for life itself! I know he would not. Arthur is above such
duplicity, such terrible----”
Nick now checked her with a gesture.
“I agree with you, Miss Strickland,” he said kindly. “Arthur Gordon is,
in my opinion, a thoroughly honorable man. As you are so sure of it,
too, and that he is the victim of a conspiracy, you best can serve him
by subduing your agitation, and telling me precisely what has occurred.
I can do nothing, nor form any opinion of the case, until I know all of
the circumstances.”
“Mr. Carter is right, Wilhelmina,” said her elderly uncle, Mr. Rudolph
Strickland. “It is very kind of him to come out here, with his
assistant, this morning. Dry your eyes, therefore, or let me talk with
him. I can inform him, Mina, better than you.”
“Do so, Mr. Strickland,” said Nick, turning to him. “What has befallen
Arthur Gordon, as far as you know?”
The scene of this interview, which was the beginning of one of the most
extraordinary criminal cases in the career of the famous detective, was
the library of a new and exceedingly fine wooden residence in one of the
most beautiful rural sections of the Bronx.
The hour was about ten o’clock, on a charming May morning, nearly seven
months since Nick Carter first met these people, and recovered for Mr.
Rudolph Strickland the costly art treasures stolen from the Fifth Avenue
flat, in which he then resided, resulting also in the arrest of the
notorious European crook, Mortimer Deland, together with a gang of local
confederates.
Nick had frequently met Arthur Gordon since then, and he knew that this
wealthy young banker and broker of Wall Street was contemplating
matrimony, but he was ignorant of many of the particulars which Mr.
Strickland hastened to impart.
“This is Mr. Gordon’s new house,” said he, “though he already has deeded
the entire estate to Wilhelmina, who soon is to be his wife.”
“We were to be married next Wednesday evening,” put in the girl more
calmly.
“This is to be their home, Mr. Carter, and I am to live with them,” Mr.
Strickland continued. “Both insist that I shall dwell no longer alone in
the flat I recently occupied.”
“You now are living here, I infer,” Nick remarked.
“Only Mina and I, aside from our several servants.”
“I see.”
“It was Arthur’s wish that the wedding should take place in the home he
is to occupy. So he bought this fine estate of several acres and then
built and furnished this beautiful residence. It was completed nearly
three weeks ago.”
“It certainly is a fine place and a fine house,” Nick admitted, glancing
around.
“I since have been living here with Mina, while she has been making
preparations for the wedding,” Strickland went on. “Mr. Gordon has been
living at home with his parents, in Riverside Drive, all the while, but
he has been coming out here each afternoon after business hours to
direct the laborers who still are at work on various parts of the
estate.”
“Was he here yesterday afternoon?” Nick inquired.
“Yes, until nearly six o’clock.”
“And then?”
“We supposed he would return to dinner at that time, as usual, and we
sent one of the servants to call him from the golf links, where he went
to supervise the work of some of the laborers. The servant returned in a
few moments and stated that Mr. Gordon had gone.”
“Gone where?”
“That’s the question,” said Mr. Strickland. “I am stating the
circumstances in the order they occurred, that you may be better able to
determine whether----”
“Oh, you are too slow, Uncle Rudolph,” cried Wilhelmina, interrupting.
“I cannot endure this suspense. Here, Mr. Carter, read this! It came by
mail this morning. It will tell you, in a nutshell, what is said to have
occurred; but I cannot believe it, will not believe it. They say---- Oh,
Mr. Carter, they say that Arthur Gordon has deserted me, and eloped with
his handsome stenographer!”
Nick had heard of such cases. He did not reply to the grief-stricken
girl, nor make any comments. He took a letter which she, starting up
while speaking, hurriedly brought from the library table and tendered
with trembling hand.
It was a typewritten letter, on paper bearing the printed business
heading of the missing banker, also the date of the previous day. It
read as follows:
“My Dear Mina: I am writing you a few lines before leaving my
office, on a subject which, though I am to see you within an hour,
I have not the heart or courage to discuss with you in person.
“This is a late day, indeed, for me to discover that it is best for
us to part permanently; that I would do you a far greater wrong in
making you my wife, than in taking the step I am about to take.
Conditions have arisen that make it imperative, however, and I can
see no wise, or even possible, alternative. I shall be far away
when you read this, and it is my intention never to return. I
cannot ask you to forgive me. My only hope is that you can forget
me, and in time find one more worthy of you.
“You already have the deed of the new place, which, with all it
contains, I hope you will keep in part amendment of the wrong I
have done you. Do please try to forget me.
ARTHUR GORDON.”
Nick Carter’s grave, clean-cut face, on which Mina Strickland’s tearful
blue eyes were anxiously riveted, underwent no change while he read the
letter. He handed it to Patsy Garvan, his junior assistant, who had
accompanied him there, saying quietly:
“Read it, Patsy. The case evidently is one that we must investigate.”
Patsy obeyed, without replying.
“Please tell me at once, Mr. Carter,” Mina pleaded. “Do you think
that----”
“That Arthur Gordon wrote it?” Nick interposed, turning to her.
“Yes.”
“Frankly, Miss Strickland, I do not.”
“Oh, thank Heaven for that!” cried the girl. “Your opinion is worth more
to me than that of all the world. It must be, then, that he is the
victim of----”
“Stop a moment,” Nick again interrupted. “My opinion will be worth more
after I know all of the circumstances. It now is based only upon the
fact that all this is very unlike Arthur Gordon.”
“It is, indeed.”
“Let me question you. That will be the quickest way to bring out the
salient points,” said Nick. “Answer as briefly as possible. You received
the letter this morning?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mina, eager to proceed.
“The written signature is like Gordon’s?”
“Precisely.”
“You have had other letters from him, of course?”
“Yes, many, Mr. Carter.”
“Were they usually typewritten?”
“No, no, very rarely. He nearly always used a pen.”
“Do you know whether he can use a typewriter skillfully, or even
easily?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mina. “I think he dictates all of his
typewritten letters.”
“I doubt very much, nevertheless, that he would have dictated such a
letter as this,” said Nick, when Patsy returned it to him.
“That’s true, chief, for fair.”
“Bear in mind, Mr. Carter, that it would have been dictated to the girl
with whom he is said to have eloped,” put in Mr. Strickland
suggestively.
“Admitting that, even, he would have been much more likely to have
written so personal and private a letter,” Nick replied. “Who is his
stenographer?”
“Her name is Pauline Perrot,” said Mina.
“A French girl?”
“Of French extraction, I think.”
“You have seen her?”
“Yes. She has been out here twice in the past ten days with Mr. Gordon.
She boards in Fordham, through which he passes when coming out here with
his touring car. He has, for that reason, frequently taken her home from
his office when on his way here.”
“Is she a very attractive girl?” Nick inquired.
“I don’t think so,” said Mina, with brows knitting. “She is tall and
dark, with black hair, and eyes that frighten me. I tremble when she
looks at me. She fills me with awe, and---- Oh, Mr. Carter, I have felt
sure there was something wrong, some calamity coming, though I could not
imagine what. A cloud has been hanging over me ever since I first saw
Pauline Perrot.”
“How long has she been in Gordon’s employ?”
“Four or five months, I think.”
“Have you suspected her of other than business relations with him?”
“Not for a moment,” cried Mina. “Nor do I now believe him guilty of
anything wrong. I feel sure he is the victim of a plot, a conspiracy,
or----”
“One moment,” said Nick. “Did he come out here with his touring car
yesterday afternoon?”
“He did, but sent his chauffeur home with it. I wondered at that, Mr.
Carter, for he never had done so before, nor did he offer any
explanation.”
“And you did not question him?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he appear as usual?”
“Not quite,” Wilhelmina admitted.
“In what way was he different?”
“He was more serious and self-absorbed, as if he had something on his
mind. He remained with us only a short time, then said he was going out
to see how the work on the links was progressing. He added that he would
return a little later. That was the last I saw of him,” Mina concluded,
with a sob.
“There is much more to this, Mr. Carter,” said Mr. Strickland. “I went
out to seek him, or make further inquiries concerning him, after our
servant stated that he had gone.”
“What did you learn?”
“I was told by one of the workmen that he left the links about five
o’clock. When last seen by them he was walking south toward a woodland
road in that locality. I continued my search in that direction, and I
soon met two women who had seen him.”
“Women you knew?”
“Yes, two sisters, Mary and Ellen Dawson. They could not be mistaken,
for both were employed here by Mr. Gordon to help clean and settle this
house.”
“Ah, I see,” Nick nodded. “When and where did they see him?”
“About ten minutes before, at the juncture of a crossroad half a mile
from where I met them,” Mr. Strickland went on. “He then was talking
with Pauline Perrot. Both of the Dawson women have seen her here, and
both immediately recognized her.”
“There evidently was a rendezvous,” said Nick.
“I think so,” Mr. Strickland agreed. “Gordon then had a leather suit
case, but the women did not know whether it belonged to him or his
companion. She was clad in a dark-green traveling costume. When Gordon
saw the two women approaching, he hurried away with Miss Perrot, as if
anxious to avoid recognition.”
“In which direction did they go?”
“East, through the crossroad.”
“Did you continue your search?”
“I did not, Mr. Carter, for I supposed that Arthur had unexpected
business to look after, having been sought by his stenographer, as I
then inferred, and that he would return during the evening, or telephone
to us.”
“Have you telephoned to his residence this morning?”
“Yes, indeed. He was not at home last night, nor can his parents explain
his absence. They supposed he spent the night here.”
“Have you telephoned to his Wall Street office?”
“I have, of course--about half an hour ago,” said Mr. Strickland.
“With what result?”
“Only two of the clerks then were there. They could give me no
information, but I directed them to call me up at once, if Mr. Gordon
came in. I have no hope of that, however, in view of the letter Mina has
received.”
“It does not, indeed, seem probable,” Nick allowed.
“Added to all this,” said Mr. Strickland, “there now are rumors,
probably resulting from the gossip of the Dawson women, that Gordon has
eloped with Pauline Perrot. If she is not in his office at her customary
hour, ten o’clock, I shall begin to fear----”
Mr. Strickland was interrupted by the ringing of a telephone on a stand
in one corner, and Wilhelmina uttered a cry, and ran to the instrument.
“Wait!” Nick exclaimed. “Let me answer it.”
The girl obeyed without a remonstrance, if not quite willingly.
“Well?” queried Nick over the wire.
The response came in quick, agitated tones:
“Hello! I want Mr. Gordon, if he is there, or Mr. Strickland. Hurry!”
“Mr. Gordon is not here. Who are you?”
“Mr. Beckwith, his cashier. Where can I communicate with Mr. Gordon? Do
you know? He was not at home last night. I have just called up his
residence. I must find him, or----”
“One moment, Mr. Beckwith,” Nick interrupted. “This is Nick Carter
talking.”
“Nick Carter! Good heavens! What has occurred out there?”
“Tell me, instead, what is wrong in Gordon’s office, that you are so
disturbed.”
“Wrong enough!” came the quick reply. “Cash, bonds, and securities,
aggregating sixty thousand dollars, are missing from the vault. Unless
Mr. Gordon removed them----”
“Wait!” Nick commanded a bit sharply. “Is Pauline Perrot there?”
“She is not. She has not come in yet.”
Nick glanced at a French clock on the mantel.
It struck the half hour at that moment, a single stroke, like a sudden
death knell--the half after ten.