CHICK SIGHTS THE “BUZZARD.”
“Who is it, please?”
Chick Carter, with his ear to the receiver, waited for the reply.
“This is Winthrop Crawford. I wish to speak to Mr. Nick Carter, if I
may.”
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon of the same day that had
witnessed the meeting of Stone and Doctor Follansbee.
Unfortunately, Nick had just left the house, but his assistant had
heard about Crawford.
“The chief isn’t in just now, Mr. Crawford,” he said, “but I don’t
think he’ll be gone very long. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m
his assistant.”
“Are you the man who was with him on board the _Cortez_?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you’ll do as well, then. Are you busy just now?”
“No.”
“Could you come down to the Hotel Windermere? I don’t suppose it’s very
much, but I’d like to talk with one of you. I could come to your house,
though, if you prefer.”
There was no reason why Chick should not accept the invitation.
“No,” he said. “I’ll come down. I’m afraid I can’t reach the hotel
before three, though.”
“Oh, that’s all right; there’s no particular hurry.”
The detective replaced the receiver, saw to a few matters which
demanded his attention, and then, after some twenty-five or thirty
minutes, scribbled a brief message to his chief, and left it on the
latter’s desk—the usual information, telling where he had gone, and why.
Chick had never accustomed himself to riding in motor cars when it
was unnecessary; therefore, he set out briskly for the nearest subway
station.
“The chief seems very interested in Crawford,” he thought, as he walked
along. “We might as well get in touch with him as soon as we can.”
He reached the Windermere a little after three, and found Crawford
waiting for him in the lobby.
The bearded man seemed to be troubled about something, but his face
brightened when Chick appeared. He led the way to one of the rooms
which opened off the lobby. It proved to be deserted.
“It’s nothing very important,” Crawford explained, when they had seated
themselves in a quiet, remote corner, “but I’m just a little troubled
about my partner, Stone. He left the hotel immediately after breakfast
this morning, and wouldn’t tell me where he was going. He said he would
be back in time for lunch, but he hasn’t turned up yet.” He glanced
at Chick for a moment. “Of course. I’m not going to worry much about
that,” he went on, “but in case he doesn’t appear by dinner time,
I just wanted to know what to do. This New York of yours is a very
bewildering place to a man who hasn’t been in it for twenty-five or
thirty years, and I would be at a loss to know how to proceed.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough,” Chick said quietly. “If he doesn’t show up by
night, and you don’t get a message, the best thing to do would be to
ring up police headquarters and give a description of him. If anything
had happened, they would be in a position to let you know sooner than
any one else. They have the whole thing at their finger’s ends down
there, and handle ordinary cases with routine dispatch. You mustn’t
have any anxiety about Mr. Stone, though. He’s surely able to take care
of himself. He may have fallen in with some old friends, or made a new
one.”
“It does sound foolish, and I suppose you’re right,” Crawford admitted.
“This place has got me scared, though. I have been used to solitude for
a good many years, and the only crowds I’ve known have been those about
the bars in mining camps. There must be a frightful number of accidents
here every day.”
He turned slightly in his chair and looked out through a near-by window
into the traffic-filled street.
“You’re free to laugh at me,” he went on, “but I’m almost afraid to
venture out alone. It looks to me as if a man has to take his life in
his hands every time he crosses the street in this pandemonium.” He
paused again and smiled appealingly. “If you’ve got an hour or so to
spare, would it be too much to ask you to pilot me around a bit?” he
inquired. “I’d appreciate it, I assure you.”
The deep, friendly voice had a certain charm in it which the detective
found it impossible to resist.
“Of course I’ll come gladly,” he said.
He and Crawford left the hotel and strolled along the crowded
pavements. The grizzled miner seemed to find a keen delight in halting
to examine almost every window they passed.
“Spending years in the open makes a man fairly hungry for this sort of
thing. I’ve longed to be back home again just to look into these very
shop windows.”
His enthusiasm was infectious, and he and Chick walked along, laughing
and chatting together. They dropped in at the public library, and
Crawford could hardly tear himself away.
When they reached the street again and started back toward Broadway,
Chick happened to glance at a jeweler’s clock.
“Half past five!” he ejaculated. “By George! I had no idea it was as
late as that.”
“Late be hanged!” Crawford answered, with a laugh. “The game is young
yet. Let’s have a look in at one of those continuous performances I’ve
heard so much about—that is, unless you have to get back.”
The detective had nothing pressing in view, and he was thoroughly
enjoying Crawford’s comments on what they saw. He, therefore, expressed
his willingness to do whatever his companion wished, and conducted the
latter to a combination moving-picture and vaudeville house, where
they spent a little over an hour.
It was after seven when they returned to the hotel.
“I’ll just go and see if Stone has come back,” Crawford said anxiously.
“I won’t be long.”
Chick nodded assent and seated himself in one corner of the lobby,
while the miner made for the elevator.
Nick Carter’s assistant had bought an evening paper and stuffed it into
his pocket. He now took it out and began glancing over it.
Presently, as he lowered the paper to turn the page, his eyes chanced
to look into a mirror set into the wall beside him. The mirror was
so placed that it reflected the wide entrance of the hotel, and just
at that moment Chick saw a lean, curious figure approach from the
street. He gave a slight start, and stared for a moment at the familiar
reflection, then instinctively raised the paper again so that it hid
his face.
He never forgot features, and that one brief glance had been enough for
him. As a matter of fact, however, there was little chance of any one
forgetting Doctor Stephen Follansbee after even the most casual meeting.
“The ‘Buzzard’!” he muttered to himself, using the name he had applied
to the famous specialist. “I wonder what the dickens he’s doing here.”