AN EARLY-MORNING CALL.
It was a custom of Nick Carter to take a brisk walk by himself in the
early morning when he had been able to get to bed at a reasonable hour
the night before. In accordance with this habit he was out of the house
and on his way to Madison Square before seven the day after his visit,
with the Benthams and Mrs. Morrison, to the home of Ched Ramar, in
Brooklyn.
The grass looked and smelled fresh at that hour, for it was a bright
morning, and there had been a light shower of rain during the night,
which had freshened the verdure and flowers, and brought out their
fragrance more than usual. The detective enjoyed a stroll about the
little park, and his thoughts were clearer than they would have been in
a room. At least, he believed they were.
“Hypnotism!” he mused, half aloud. “That is the explanation, no doubt.
But it doesn’t make everything clear. For instance, it doesn’t tell me
who this Ched Ramar really is. I looked at him closely last night, and I
couldn’t see anything in him that warranted my doubting him.
Nevertheless, I _do_ doubt him--from the top of his turban to the heels
of his slippers.”
He took another turn up the path he had chosen for his stroll, in a
rather retired part of the square, before he resumed his half-audible
cogitations. Then he went on slowly:
“It is fortunate for society that the understanding of hypnotism rests
chiefly in the hands of men who are to be trusted. Were its power to be
wielded to any great extent by criminals, there would be many innocent
tools of lawbreakers. It may be that Clarice Bentham is one of them. I
hope not, but it looks suspicious.
“The greatest tragedy is that, while under the dominion of another’s
will, the hypnotic subject has no realization of its doings, and, when
consciousness returns, no remembrance. Well, if Ched Ramar is taking
advantage of that young girl’s innocence of the ways of the world to
make her do things she would shrink from under ordinary circumstances, I
don’t think it will be well for Ched Ramar. In fact---- Hello! What’s
the trouble now? Here comes Chick!”
Indeed, Chick came hurrying along the path at a pace that told he had
something important to communicate--even if his face had not shown that
he was excited.
“Telephone, chief!” cried Chick, as soon as he came within hearing. “It
is Professor Matthew Bentham. Wanted to know if you could see him if he
came. I told him you were out just then, but I believed I could find
you.”
“Yes?”
“I also said that I had no doubt you would see him, and that he’d better
come over from Brooklyn--that’s where he lives--and get to our house by
the time you were there.”
“That was right. Did he say he would come?”
“Yes. He said he would come over in his motor car and be there in a few
minutes.”
So well had Matthew Bentham timed himself that his car drew up in front
of the Madison Avenue house just as Nick Carter and Chick walked up from
Madison Square. The three entered the house together, while the
chauffeur kept the car at the curb, to wait.
“It’s gone!” were Matthew Bentham’s first words, as soon as they were in
the library. “I’ve just found it out.”
“You mean the package of papers sent by Andrew Anderton?”
“Yes. There are not many things would have made me trouble you at this
time of the morning, so you can easily guess. I was tired when I got
home last night, after that reception at Ched Ramar’s, or I would have
looked then to see that the records were safe. But I went to the place
where I had put them the first thing this morning, even before
breakfast.”
“In a secret place?”
“Yes. The one I told you about yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you say nobody knew where they were but yourself? Think hard,
please. You are quite sure you have never let it out to your daughter,
for instance?”
“I told you yesterday that I have been careful to keep it from her--for
her own sake. She has not the slightest idea where I kept those papers.”
“What is the name of the boy who does odd jobs about your house--and
sleeps away?” asked Nick, with seeming irrelevance.
“Swagara.”
“Curious name. What countryman is he?”
“Japanese.”
Nick Carter started and looked hard at the professor. Then he smiled
grimly, as he asked:
“Where did the boy come from? How did you get him?”
“An employment agency in New York. He had been a valet for a theatrical
man before he came to me. But he didn’t like traveling, and he was
willing to do the menial work I require rather than go on the road
again. He wanted to stay in New York, so that he could study more
conveniently. He is a bright chap, and he speaks German and French, as
well as English and his own native tongue.”
“He brought good references, I suppose?”
“Unimpeachable,” was Bentham’s prompt reply. “He has been in this
country three years, and there are many persons in Brooklyn who knew him
before he went with the theatrical man, Goddard. They all speak well of
Swagara. He attended a college there, studying languages, and everybody
says he was marvelously quick.”
“I don’t doubt it,” was Nick Carter’s dry response. “However, please
tell me all the facts of this case. Then we will see what we can do.”
“There is nothing to tell, except that the records sent to me by my
friend Andrew Anderton, just before his death, have been stolen from my
home since yesterday afternoon, when I last looked at them. The theft
may have been committed while we were at Ched Ramar’s, or afterward,
when we were asleep.”
“Who was in the house while you were at Ched Ramar’s? This Japanese of
yours, Swagara?”
“No. Only the two maids--the cook and the general servant. They would
never touch anything. We’ve had them a long time. Besides, I’ve seen
them proof against all kinds of accidental temptations. They could have
robbed me hundreds of times if they had been criminally disposed. You
may as well cut them out of the list of possible thieves, Carter.”
“I have cut them out,” replied Nick.
“And Swagara, too?”
“Not yet. I should like to know a little more about Swagara. You are
sure he was not in the house while you were away?”
“Quite.”
“How do you know?”
“He has proved an alibi--without trying to do so. He mentioned that he
was visiting a fellow countryman of his who is employed at Yonkers, and
that he did not get home till two o’clock this morning. This friend of
his is in the service of a friend of mine, and I had him on the
telephone just before I came out this afternoon. Swagara did not leave
the house in Yonkers till one o’clock. He and his chum sat in the
kitchen, talking till that hour. My friend happened to have company,
and he did not go to bed till Swagara left. So he knows. I was home by
one.”
“That settles that, then,” agreed Nick. “We must look elsewhere. By the
way, have you ever heard exactly how Andrew Anderton died?”
“No. I was told that he died of heart failure. But from what I have
heard about Sang Tu and the Yellow Tong, and of its hatred for Anderton,
I am inclined to think that hideous Chinese organization was somehow
responsible for his death.”
“It was responsible,” declared the detective. “Wait a moment. I want to
show you something.”
He went to his iron safe, and, twisting the combination knob for a few
seconds, opened the great door. Then, after using a key he carried on
his key ring to open one drawer within another, he brought out a small
tin box and placed it on the table.
“Don’t touch what I am about to show you, Mr. Bentham,” he warned. “It
is dangerous.”
When he opened the box, he held it close to his visitor. Inside were two
long, glittering needles, crossed and held together at the point of
contact.
“Harmless-looking things, aren’t they?” asked Nick. “Yet it was these
that killed Andrew Anderton. Well, not these exactly, but two needles of
the same kind. They are poisoned, so that even a slight scratch with one
of the points will cause instant unconsciousness, followed by death in a
few seconds.”
“Who did it?”
“That has never been found out. Two men concerned in the murder have
paid the penalty. But the one at the back of it all is still at large.
We shall get him, but we haven’t done it yet. I only mentioned this to
convince you that the power which put Andrew Anderton out of the world
is not likely to hesitate at breaking into your house and stealing the
records that were the cause of his assassination.”
“The crossed needles,” murmured Bentham musingly. “I have heard of them.
But I did not really believe they were in use in New York. They are a
cheerful feature of certain phases of life in China, I understand. I
heard a guest of mine talking about them the other night. He was a
Chinese professor from Peking, introduced by a member of the Oriental
Association.”
“What was his name?” asked Nick casually.
“Upon my word, I forget. Something like Ning Po, though I don’t think
that was it exactly.”
“Not Sang Tu?”
“No, indeed,” replied Bentham, with a slight smile, as he shook his
head. “You don’t suppose I should receive the head of the Yellow Tong in
my house without knowing who he was? This Professor Ning Po--or whatever
his name was--did not look the kind of man to be connected with such an
infamous organization. He was a very mild sort of man, blinking behind
large spectacles, and a decidedly entertaining personage.”
“I should like to have seen him.”
“I think you would have found him worth while. He has made himself
famous by his translations of ancient Chinese literature into English. I
hope to see him again. I enjoyed his conversation very much.”
“Was Professor Ning Po, by any chance, alone in the room in which you
have these records hidden, at any time, during that evening?” asked
Nick, with one of those sudden changes of topic that he often indulged
in when working on a puzzling case. “I don’t ask which room that was.”
“It was the library,” replied Bentham. “I was about to tell you that. In
fact, I should like to show you the secret place where I kept the
package of papers, if you can spare time to come with me.”
“I shall spare the time, of course. I could not give you much help, I am
afraid, unless I had your entire confidence. That means that I want to
see the receptacle from which the thieves took the papers. You have not
breakfasted, I think you said?”
“No, I was too anxious. I just hurried right out, to see you, without
thinking about breakfast.”
“Nevertheless, it is not well to work seriously without proper meals.
Will you honor me by taking breakfast here?”
“Thank you, I will,” answered Matthew Bentham. “Now that I have confided
the case to your hands, I am not so worried, and my appetite seems to be
returning.”