NICK CARTER
STORIES
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=No. 152.= NEW YORK, August 7, 1915. =Price Five Cents.=
THE FORCED CRIME;
Or, NICK CARTER’S BRAZEN CLEW.
Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.
CHAPTER I.
A TALE OF BURGLARS.
“You say this burglar has got into your bedroom three times?”
“Yes, Carter. Three times that I know of. He may have got in oftener for
aught I know.”
“Hardly likely, Mr. Bentham. If you woke up three times and saw him, it
indicates that there is something in his presence which affects you even
in your sleep. It is a psychological influence, evidently.”
Professor Matthew Bentham, one of the most learned scientists in
Brooklyn, shook his head. He knew too much about psychology to believe
it was an agent in his case.
“That explanation won’t do, Carter,” he declared. “On each occasion I
have been awakened by a distinct noise in the room.”
“But you never got up to interfere with the man,” Nick Carter reminded
him. “That isn’t your way. No one ever has insinuated that you lack in
physical courage. You are an athlete, too. I have had the gloves on with
you, remember, and I know how you handle yourself. There must have been
something to make you lie still in bed while a stranger was ransacking
your bedchamber.”
The famous detective was sitting comfortably in Professor Bentham’s
well-appointed library on the ground floor of the latter’s home near
Prospect Park, and both were smoking.
Carter had dropped in casually to see his friend, and the subject of the
mysterious burglar had come up without any previous knowledge of it by
the detective. They had been talking about other things, particularly
about some important records of a Chinese secret organization which were
in Matthew Bentham’s care, and which were soon to be sent to Washington.
Suddenly, Bentham had confided to Carter that he was worried over
certain midnight visits that had been forced upon him, and instantly the
great criminologist was deeply interested.
“Did your burglar--or burglars--get away with anything?” he asked.
“There is only one of him. At least, I think so. I never have had a
clear view of his face. He is a slim, active sort of man, dressed in an
ordinary dark business suit, with a soft hat pulled down over his eyes.
The hat has always prevented my seeing as much of his features as I
should like.”
“There are many thousands of slim, active men, in dark business suits
and soft hats, moving about Greater New York,” remarked Nick, between
puffs at his cigar.
“True,” conceded Bentham. “But you know, as well as anybody, that every
human being has certain peculiarities of movement, attitude, and poise,
that are not exactly the same as those of anybody else. There is a sort
of what I may call ‘atmosphere’ about each one of us--an aura--that
distinguishes us from all our fellows. You know that, Carter?”
The detective nodded.
“Yes, professor. That is pretty well understood by most persons, I
think. Well, we’ll say it is only one particular burglar who favors you
with his company in this way. What I asked is whether he steals
anything.”
“He never has yet. But I think that is because I never leave valuables
lying about the room. I never carry much cash in my pockets--have no use
for it unless I am going away somewhere--and my watch is always under my
pillow.”
“And why have you never got up to argue matters with him?”
“Because I can’t. He seems to hypnotize me.”
“Then there _is_ a psychological influence?” smiled Nick.
“To that extent, yes. But I do not believe it is that that awakens me.”
Nick Carter took his cigar from his mouth, and, with a careless gesture,
knocked off the ash into a silver tray on the table.
“Well, that is of not much consequence, after all,” he said. “What is
the fellow after? He must have some purpose in coming three separate
times, only a night or two apart. You say you don’t know how he gets
in?”
“Haven’t an idea. The doors and windows are all locked at night before
we retire, and we find them the same way in the morning.”
“What servants have you?”
“Only two maids, besides the boy who does odd jobs, such as polishing
brasswork, sweeping the front steps, and waiting on the cook. He sleeps
out of the house. My daughter lets him in early in the morning. There is
an electric contrivance, operating from her bedroom, which opens the
side gate, and also connects with the lock of the back door to the
kitchen.”
Nick Carter stopped smoking and looked hard at the professor. He was
interested in this mechanical device.
“I should like to see that electric connection,” he said. “Can you show
it to me?”
“Certainly. Wait a moment.”
Bentham went out of the room. When he returned he smiled apologetically.
“My daughter is dressing to go out this afternoon. But I can tell you
all about it. There is nothing remarkable about the apparatus. I had it
put in by a regular electrician. It is a great deal like the electric
door openers used in flat houses, by which tenants open the front door
at the street without leaving their apartments.”
Nick Carter resumed his cigar and smoked for several minutes in silence.
His host could see that he was thinking hard, and did not disturb him.
Instead, he kept on gravely smoking himself.
“The last time this fellow came in was last night, eh?” asked Nick
Carter, after a long pause.
“Yes.”
“And you have not told anybody about these visits?”
“No one. You see, my daughter Clarice and I are alone, except for the
two maids. I would not worry Clarice, and there would be no use in
telling the maids. They probably would take fright and leave. You know
what a bother is to get good servants in New York.”
“Those records of the Yellow Tong, sent to you by Andrew Anderton on the
night that he died--you have them?”
“Yes.”
“Who brought them? As I remember Mr. Anderton’s last letter to you, he
said they would be sent by safe hands. What did he mean by that?”
“They were sent by express to a club I belong to, but which I seldom
visit. Then I got a cipher telegram from the club, informing me that
there was a package in the safe there for me. I went to the club and got
the package.”
“I see. It was a wise precaution on the part of Anderton. He knew that
you were likely to be shadowed by some members of the tong, and that if
you brought anything direct from his house, in Fifth Avenue, it would be
doubtful whether you ever would get it home.”
Nick Carter spoke in low tones, as if he were deep in thought, and were
letting his tongue run on almost without guidance. At the same time, it
need hardly be said that this astute, long-experienced student of
criminology was not the man to say anything without knowing exactly what
he was saying.
“You have the package quite secure, I suppose?” he asked.
“Quite, I believe. Nobody knows where it is but myself--not even
Clarice. It is not that I would not trust my daughter. But there would
be nothing gained by her knowing, and it might worry her to think that
she held an important secret.”
“Women like secrets generally, don’t they?” smiled Nick Carter.
“That is the tradition,” acknowledged Bentham, also with a smile. “But
Clarice is a level-headed girl. Then she has had to take care of me for
three years, since her mother died, and that has given her a sense of
responsibility, I think, which is beyond her years. She does not know
anything about the package, and would not be interested in it, anyhow.”
“Don’t you see any connection between the visits of this mysterious
stranger and the package?” asked Nick slowly. “May it not be that the
Yellow Tong--and you know how powerful and far-reaching it is--has set
its agents to get from you the records that it is so important to the
organization to keep from the government at Washington?”
Bentham smoked a few seconds before replying. The same suspicion had
been in his own mind, but he had brushed it away. Now, here was this
cool-headed, straight-seeing master detective suggesting the same thing.
“It is possible you are right, Carter,” admitted the professor. “I’ll
take those records to Washington to-morrow night. I can’t go before,
because I am going to a reception this evening given by the famous
Indian savant from the Punjab, Ched Ramar. You have heard of him?”
“Yes. He has been in the newspapers a great deal the last few weeks. Who
and what is he?”
“One of the most eminent scholars from that country,” answered Bentham
enthusiastically. “He has traveled a great deal, especially in Tibet. He
has a collection of idols from that country which are well worth seeing,
I am told. I am delighted with the prospect of looking them over
to-night.”
“I should think you would be. Is there a special invitation needed to
get into his house this evening?”
“Well, I don’t know. I got a card addressed to me. But there is a line
on the card to the effect that any friend of mine will be welcome. It is
written in pencil. The remainder of the card is lithographed. If you
would like to go, I should be pleased to take you in. My daughter is
going, with her aunt, Mrs. Morrison. She is Clarice’s mother’s sister.”
“I accept your invitation with pleasure,” said Nick Carter. “But--here
is a request I have to make. You won’t think it very strange, knowing my
profession. I should like to go in disguise, and under another name than
my own.”
“Don’t want to be recognized, eh?” smiled Bentham. “Why? You don’t think
there will be anybody there who would be afraid of you as Nicholas
Carter, the detective, do you? Ched Ramar is a man who moves in the
highest circles and is known all over India. His house, in Brooklyn
Heights, is one that questionable characters would find it hard to
enter. He has two tall men of his own race perpetually on guard at his
door--besides many other servants engaged in this country.”
“It is merely a fancy of mine, perhaps,” returned Nick. “I will be
Doctor Hodgson, if you don’t mind. Shall I come here to-night?”
“If you will. I’ll take you in our car. Mrs. Morrison and Clarice will
be with us. Get here about half past eight. We don’t want to go too
early. It will be ten o’clock or so before things get into full swing at
Ched Ramar’s house.”
“All right! I’ll be here at eight-thirty,” replied Nick, as he got up to
go. “I’ll have just about time to go home and dress, and get back
again.”
“It takes you a long time to dress,” laughed Professor Bentham. “I can
get ready in half an hour any time.”
“My dress will be rather more elaborate than yours, perhaps. I have to
change my face, you know.”