THE MAN WITH A DOG.
Nick Carter had a keen eye for faces, remarkably keen, and that of the
man encountered while he was returning to the Gordon residence did not
appeal favorably to the discerning detective.
It was an angular, swarthy face, with a sinister expression accentuated
by several days’ growth of stubby beard, and a certain sly, shifty light
in the fellow’s eyes aroused in Nick a feeling of suspicion.
Suppressing any betrayal of it, nevertheless, he exhibited an immediate
interest in the bloodstained articles the man was displaying, asking
earnestly, while he subdued Patsy Garvan with a significant nudge:
“When did you find these, my man?”
“’Twasn’t me as found them,” was the quick reply. “Ginger found them. He
nosed them out. He’s got a scent like a bull moose in the hunting
season. I pulled them out from under a log and some underbrush, after
Ginger found them.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Nick.
“Less than half an hour.”
“And how far from here?”
“Less than a mile. I reckoned a murder----”
“One moment,” Nick interposed. “What is your name?”
“Pete Henley. I live off yonder in the crossroad a piece. I was gunning
for birds around the pond when I struck this sort of game.”
“Did you find any other evidence of a murder?”
“That’s what,” nodded Henley. “Blood on the grass and bushes. Some are
trampled down, and a lot of footprints and heel holes in the ground
point to an ugly fight.”
“I see,” Nick said gravely. “That does look bad.”
“I did not wait to hunt for the girl’s body,” Henley went on, with grim
glibness. “It might be in the pond. I reckoned I’d better rush these
things to Bailey, the constable, and then show him where Ginger found
them.”
Nick was quick to notice that the man invariably attributed the
discovery to his dog, rather than taking it upon himself, from which
there appeared to be only one logical deduction--that Henley had some
covert reason for doing so.
“You can do better, Mr. Henley, than take these to the constable,” said
Nick, who had merely glanced at the bloodstained articles.
“How’s that?” questioned Henley.
“I am a New York detective, Nick Carter, and I am already investigating
the disappearance of the two persons you claim to have seen last
evening,” Nick explained agreeably. “The man is Arthur Gordon, the
banker, and the girl is his stenographer, Pauline Perrot. She is known
to have worn a hat and jacket like these yesterday afternoon. Besides,
her initials are on the handkerchief.”
Henley’s jaw sagged perceptibly when he heard the detective’s name.
“I dunno about that,” he demurred. “D’ye mean you want me to go with
you?”
“Certainly,” said Nick, in friendly fashion. “I would not permit
Constable Bailey to interfere with my work on the case. I never allow
anything of that kind.”
“But he might----”
“Never mind Bailey,” Nick insisted. “I will take charge of these
articles, and I may want you to aid me further. So get into the car with
us, Henley, and go to the Gordon place. There will be something in it
for you, if you help us solve this mystery. There is room for your dog,
also. Tumble in with him.”
“I dunno----”
“Nonsense! You want to see justice done, don’t you?” Nick demanded. “If
you don’t----”
“Yes, yes, sure,” Henley now cried, as if suddenly hit with an idea that
a persistent refusal would occasion suspicion. “That’s just what I want.
That’s why I was hiking to see the constable. But I’ll go with you, Mr.
Carter, and later will show you where Ginger found these things, if you
say so.”
“That’s precisely what I want, Mr. Henley.”
“He’s got some nose, this dog,” Henley added, while he seized the
scrawny animal and tossed him into the car. “Some nose, that’s what he’s
got. Ginger can’t be beat.”
“He looks bright and intelligent,” Nick allowed pleasantly. “Sit in
front with the chauffeur, Henley, but put the articles Ginger found into
the tonneau. That’s the stuff. I’ll examine them after we reach the
Gordon place. Let her go, Danny.”
The remaining distance was speedily covered, with merely cursory
inquiries and remarks by the detective, well calculated to relieve
Henley of any misgivings. Upon arriving at the house, however, he turned
to Patsy and said:
“Go in ahead and tell Mr. Strickland and Wilhelmina that they must go
upstairs and remain until I send for them. I don’t want them butting in.
You need not explain in just those words, however.”
“I’m wise, chief,” said Patsy, springing from the car. “I’ll clear the
field for you.”
“Leave the car here, Danny, and take Henley and the dog around to the
kitchen,” Nick then directed. “Have the cook give Ginger some meat.
You’ll kindly wait there till I’m ready to talk with you, Henley, won’t
you?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Carter, if you say so,” Henley quickly consented.
“Good enough!”
“I’m right here to lend you a hand.”
Nick detected in the fellow’s narrow eyes, nevertheless, that same sly
and shifty gleam he at first had noticed, a look that seemed to give the
lie to his apparently agreeable consent.
Patsy returned a moment later to assist in taking the various articles
into the house, stating that Wilhelmina and her uncle had complied with
the detective’s request.
It was nearly one o’clock when Chick Carter arrived in a taxicab,
directing the chauffeur to wait, and Patsy appeared at the door to admit
him.
“Gee whiz!” he said quietly. “You’re just in time.”
“Time for what?” Chick questioned.
“To see the chief cut loose,” said Patsy. “Talk about having a long
head. No four-footed beast has got anything on him, ears included.”
“I’m well aware of that, Patsy, already.”
“But this yanks the bun. Wait a bit and you’ll see. Come into the
library.”
Nick Carter then had been studying the evidence he had found for nearly
half an hour, but he really had mentioned to Patsy only a few of his
discoveries and deductions, being too absorbed in the work to discuss
it.
With a lens in his hand, and a frown on his intent, clean-cut face, he
was bending over a table on which the various articles had been placed,
and which gave Chick some little surprise when he saw them.
“Great guns!” said he, approaching. “Are you starting a
secondhand-clothing store.”
“Not by a long chalk,” said Nick. “I’m starting a ball rolling that will
probably crush a gang of crooks. Sit down. Have you been to Gordon’s
office?”
“Certainly.”
“What have you learned? Close the door again, Patsy.”
Chick then made his report in detail, adding confidently:
“Take it from me, Nick. Pauline Perrot is a remarkably clever crook.
I’ll wager my pile that she is the one who robbed the vault, in spite of
Gordon’s mysterious absence and his suspected relations with her.”
Nick smiled a bit oddly.
“Have a look at this evidence, Chick, while I tell you where we found
it,” he replied. “You may change your mind.”
Chick hastened to comply, while Nick mentioned all of the essential
points in the case, as thus far presented.
Chick’s face became more grave while he looked and listened. He twice
read the letter found in Pauline Perrot’s wastebasket, bearing Gordon’s
signature, and then he glanced at the bloodstained garments she was
known to have worn when last seen with him.
“By Jove, I may be wrong, after all,” he said seriously. “The case looks
different to me. It must have been Gordon himself who took the bonds and
money from the vault. Are you sure this is his writing?”
“Here is a specimen of his writing,” said Nick, taking a letter from the
library desk. “Compare them.”