THE CRASH OF THE IDOL.
The utter astonishment in the face of Ched Ramar when he saw these three
men where he had expected to find one only--and he a submissive
servant--made Patsy Garvan emit a shrill chuckle. Patsy never would hold
back his emotions when they got a good grip on him.
“Gee! Look at the map of him!” he shouted.
“Who are you?” roared Ched Ramar. “You’re not Swagara!”
“Not by a jugful!” returned Patsy Garvan. “There isn’t anything like
that in me. Say, chief! We want to work quick! There’s two more right
outside the door.”
Nick Carter stepped in front of the East Indian and held up his hand for
a chance to speak.
“Ched Ramar,” he said in his usual cool tones, “the game is up. You have
some papers in your pocket that you stole from Professor Matthew
Bentham. You got them with the help of the man you call Swagara, who is
already my prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” broke from Ched Ramar’s lips before he knew that he was
speaking. “Prisoner? Who are you?”
“My name is Nicholas Carter,” answered Nick.
“Nicholas Carter? Ah! Yes! I never saw you before. But your picture is
in our archives. We all know what you look like. If it had been lighter
here, I should have recognized you at once. Well, Mr. Nicholas Carter,
all I have to say to you is--this!”
The curved scimitar, with its richly jeweled hilt and its heavy,
Damascus-steel blade, swept through the air like a great half moon of
fire, as it caught and reflected the red glow of the lamp. The next
moment, it circled Nick Carter’s neck, and seemed as if it must actually
sever his head from his body.
But the detective had been in critical situations of this kind before,
and he knew how to meet even an attack by such an unusual weapon as this
cruel, curved saber.
He stooped just in time. He had very little to spare, for the keen blade
caught the top of his soft hat and actually shaved away a thin sliver as
clean as if done by a razor. In fact, the convex edge of the scimitar
was ground almost to a razor edge.
The force of the blow made Ched Ramar swing around, so that he could not
recover himself immediately. Nick took advantage of this momentary
confusion to close with the tall Indian and grasp the handle of the
saber.
There was a short and desperate struggle. The muscles of Ched Ramar were
as tough and flexible as Nick Carter’s, and the detective knew he had a
foe worthy of his best endeavors.
Up and down in the narrow space behind the big idol they fought, each
trying to gain possession of the scimitar.
Nick did not want to make noise enough to attract outside attention. But
he soon realized that this was something he could not prevent--the more
so as Ched Ramar seemed desirous of causing as much disturbance as
possible.
A banging at the door explained why Ched Ramar had made as much noise as
he could.
“Now, Mr. Nicholas Carter,” hissed the tall Indian, “I think you will
find you have stepped into a trap. I have two men outside that door who
will do anything they are commanded, and never speak of it afterward.
You have been in countries where men are slaves to other men, I know.
You shall see what my men will do for me.”
During this speech, which was delivered jerkily, as the two struggled
for possession of the scimitar, the banging at the door increased in
violence. Chick and Patsy were against it on the inside, trying to
prevent its being battered down.
“Chick!” called Nick. “Come here!”
Chick looked over his shoulder.
“If I leave this door, Patsy can’t hold it by himself. It takes all we
can both do to hold those fellows back.”
“Never mind!” returned Nick. “Come here!”
As Chick came toward the two powerful fighters, Ched Ramar laughed
derisively.
“The door will fall,” he shouted. “When it does, you will wish you were
out of this place. I’m glad you are here. It is fortunate.”
He wrenched with tremendous energy to get the scimitar away from Nick
Carter. But the detective’s grip was not to be shaken. He held the
handle of the weapon at top and bottom, with the Indian’s two hands
doubled around it between. Neither could gain any advantage over the
other.
“What am I to do?” queried Chick, looking at his chief, and making a
grab at the handle of the scimitar.
“Don’t bother with this,” directed Nick sharply. “Feel in the front of
this man’s robe and get the papers he has hidden there.”
“What?” bellowed Ched Ramar. “You’ll try such a thing as that? Ha, ha,
ha!” he laughed, as the door broke down, throwing Patsy Garvan to the
floor. “Get these men, Keshub! And you, Meirum! You did well to come!
You heard the noise? Yes? Now to your duty!”
Instantly there was a fray in which all six were engaged. The two guards
were nearly as strong as their employer, and all three of the Indians
were vindictive, and determined to be victorious.
“Get the one who is trying to rob me!” shouted Ched Ramar.
The two big guards rushed on Chick together, and with such sudden
violence that they hurled him away before he could set himself for
resistance.
“Look out, Patsy!” cried Chick. “Get those papers! The chief wants them!
Didn’t you hear him?”
“Did I hear him?” roared Patsy Garvan. “Well, I guess I did! Let me in
there!”
As Chick was hurled aside, Patsy rushed at Ched Ramar and sent his head
full into the Indian’s stomach. Patsy had had training in
rough-and-tumble warfare in the Bowery in his younger days, and he still
remembered the tricks that had availed him then.
The concussion was too much for Ched Ramar. It doubled him up, so that
Nick Carter got a better hold on the handle of the scimitar than he had
been able to obtain heretofore. At first he thought he had won the
weapon altogether. But Ched Ramar’s hold was too sure for that. He still
retained his grip, but not quite so good a one as he had had, because
there was not so much room for his fingers.
As Ched Ramar bent forward, still intent on not letting the scimitar out
of his grasp, Patsy reached in among the flowing robes that were flying
in all directions in the turbulence of the fight, and, after a little
fumbling, felt the end of the packet of papers sticking from an inner
pocket.
“Got them!” he shouted, as he dragged out the papers and passed them to
Chick. “Gee! This is where we make the riffle!” cried Patsy delightedly.
“Hand them to the chief!”
Nick Carter shook his head quickly. He was holding Ched Ramar with both
hands.
“No! Keep them yourself, Chick, until I’ve got this man where I want
him. They’ll be safe enough now. Patsy, lay out that big fellow behind
you with your gun, before it is too late.”
Patsy employed a little ruse, and grinned as he saw how successful it
was. Turning swiftly, he presented his automatic pistol at the head of
Meirum, and there was a glint in the eye looking along the barrel which
convinced the man Patsy meant business.
As a result of his terror, Meirum backed away quickly, and let go of
Patsy’s arm, which he had seized as Patsy handed the papers to Chick.
On the instant, Patsy changed ends with his pistol, and brought the
heavy butt down on Meirum’s turbaned head with a crash that made nothing
of the white linen swathed about it. A turban is not much protection
against a hard blow with a steel-bound pistol butt.
As Meirum went down, there were only the two left--Keshub and Ched
Ramar.
“Take those papers, Keshub!” cried Ched Ramar. “Quick! Before he goes
away.”
“I’m not going away!” interposed Chick. “I’ve something else to do
before I go.”
He threw his arms suddenly around the big Keshub as he spoke, and forced
him backward.
“Pull that turban off the other fellow’s head!” he shouted to Patsy. “It
will make a good rope.”
This was a happy thought. Patsy unceremoniously stripped the white
turban from the head of the unconscious Meirum, and found himself with a
long strip of strong, white linen, which would, indeed, make a
serviceable rope.
But Keshub had not been overcome yet. He was almost as powerful as Ched
Ramar, and quite as full of fight. He tore himself out of Chick’s grasp
and rushed to the aid of his employer. The two of them set to work to
get the papers from Chick.
Nick Carter was equally resolved that Ched Ramar should not interfere
with Chick. He argued that Patsy Garvan and Chick were quite able to
deal with Keshub together--even if Chick could not do it alone.
“But Chick could do it himself,” he muttered. “Only that it might
require a little more time.”
It seemed as if Ched Ramar might have guessed what was passing in the
mind of Nick Carter, for he redoubled his efforts to get away, scimitar
and all, to go to the aid of his man.
“You may as well give up, Ched Ramar,” panted Nick Carter--for the long
fight was beginning to tell on his wind, just as it did on his foe’s.
“We’ve got you. We have the papers, and one of your men is done right
here. Another is a prisoner in my house. What is more, I know who you
are.”
“I am Ched Ramar!” cried the Indian proudly.
“Perhaps. I don’t know what your name may be. The main thing is that
you are a member of the Yellow Tong, and that you are trying to steal
these papers for your chief, the infamous Sang Tu.”
“He is not infamous!” shouted Ched Ramar indignantly. “He is the
greatest man in the world to-day, and it will not be long before he will
control every nation on earth.”
“Beginning with the United States, I suppose?” exclaimed Nick Carter
ironically.
“Yes. We have this country of yours mapped out and given to different
sections of our great organization already,” snarled Ched Ramar. “As for
giving up, why--see here!”
He bent almost double, as he exerted every ounce of his immense strength
to tear the scimitar away from the detective. The latter felt the handle
slipping through his fingers. But he had strength, too, and in another
instant he had gained a firmer hold than ever, as he pushed with all his
might against the powerful bulk of his towering antagonist.
For a moment neither side gave way. It was like two mountains pressing
against each other. No one could say what the end might be. They might
stand thus for an indefinite period.
But they didn’t. Nick Carter felt his foe yield ever so little--not more
than a fraction of an inch. But the fact remained that he had given way
slightly, and Nick was quick to take advantage of anything that would
help him in such a desperate fight as this.
He pushed harder, and back went Ched Ramar two or three inches this
time.
“Keshub!” shouted Ched Ramar.
But Keshub had his own troubles just now. Chick had applied a backheel
to him, and was slowly pushing him backward, until he must fall flat on
his back, while Patsy hovered above them and grumbled because he
couldn’t get into the fight.
“Keep off, Patsy!” cried Chick. “Don’t come into this, or you’ll spoil
it. Don’t you see that?”
“Gee! I can see it, all right. But it’s mighty tough on me. I’ve been
shut out of this whole circus. When this is over, I’m a goat if I don’t
go out and hit a policeman. I’ve got to get action somehow.”
Nick Carter saw that he had Ched Ramar giving way now, and he determined
to make an end of the struggle without further waste of time. The fight
had been conducted very quietly. It had not even disturbed the two
maids, asleep upstairs, and there was no reason to suppose the fracas
had been heard on the street.
“You think you have me, I suppose?” hissed Ched Ramar, as he fought with
all the energy he had left.
Nick Carter did not answer. He knew that the cunning Indian was trying
to make him talk, and thus divert his attention. Instead, he gave his
enemy a sudden and harder twist that took him an inch farther back.
There was an inarticulate ejaculation of rage from the Indian, and his
black eyes glowed fiercely through his glasses. He stopped for a second
the onward rush of his assailant. Then, as he was obliged to give way,
he jerked up his arms and tried to bring the edge of the scimitar across
Nick Carter’s face.
The attempt failed, but it brought the battle to an abrupt end.
As Nick Carter leaped aside to avoid the scimitar, he kicked the feet of
Ched Ramar from under him. Back went the Indian, crashing against the
gigantic image of Buddha behind him.
For a moment the enormous idol rocked on its pedestal. Then, as it lost
its balance, down it came, pedestal and all, toward the two fighters!
One corner of the pedestal struck Nick Carter on the shoulder and laid
him out flat on his back.
He was not hurt, and he jumped to his feet on the instant. As he did so,
he shook his head--partly in satisfaction, but still more in horror.
The body of Ched Ramar lay under the great idol, and the brazen knees
were pressed into its victim’s head, crushing it out of all semblance to
what it had been!
Ched Ramar had paid the penalty of his rascality through the very agent
he had employed to make an innocent girl a participant in his crime.
“Look out, Chick!” shouted Nick Carter, as he saw Keshub breaking away
from his assistant’s hold. “He’s going to get out, if you don’t hurry.”
But Patsy Garvan was on the alert. He was only too glad to get into the
fight in any way, and he tripped Keshub, just as he leaped through the
doorway, in a very skillful and workmanlike manner.
“Oh, I guess not!” observed Patsy. “I saw you getting up after Chick had
laid you out, and I was looking for you to make a break like this. Come
back here!”
The cloth from Meirum’s turban was bound about Keshub, and he was laid
on the floor by the side of the knocked-out Meirum. Then, with
considerable exertion, the image of Buddha was rolled completely away
from the body of Ched Ramar, so that Nick could look it over with his
flash light.
“He died on the instant,” decided Nick. “Cover it with one of those
curtains, while I go downstairs and telephone the police station.”
In due course, the remains of Ched Ramar were viewed by the coroner, and
a verdict of “accidental death” was rendered.
Very little got into the papers about it. This was arranged by Nick
Carter. He did not want too much publicity while any of the Yellow Tong
were still likely to be active. It might interfere with work he had yet
to do.
Keshub and Meirum, as well as Swagara, were not prosecuted. Nick made up
his mind that he could better afford to let them escape than to draw
general attention to the rascality they had been carrying on.
So he put them aboard a tramp steamer bound for Japan, and India, and
which would not touch anywhere until it got to Yokohama. Swagara was to
be put off there.
The next port would be Bombay. Both Keshub and Meirum said they would
never leave Indian soil again if once they could get back to it, and
there is no reason to suppose they were telling anything but the truth.
Matthew Bentham never knew the part his daughter had played in taking
and returning the precious papers. Nick Carter decided that no good end
would be served by letting him find it out.
Even Clarice herself was quite unaware of what she had done. The subtle
influence of hypnotism had permeated her whole being at the time, and
when she came to herself, it was entirely without recollection of what
she had passed through when in the power of another and stronger will.
Hypnotism is a wonderful science.
“Is this all of the Yellow Tong, chief?” asked Chick, smiling.
“There will be no end to this investigation until I have my hands on
Sang Tu,” replied Nick Carter sternly.
“I thought so,” was Chick’s reply.
THE END.
“The Doom of Sang Tu; or, Nick Carter’s Golden Foe,” will be the
title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next
issue, No. 153, of the NICK CARTER STORIES, out August 14th. In
this story you will read of the great detective’s ultimate triumph
over the shrewd leader of the Yellow Tong. Then, too, you will also
find an installment of a new serial, together with several other
articles of interest.
Sheridan of the U. S. Mail.
By RALPH BOSTON.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 148 of NICK CARTER STORIES.
Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the
publishers.)