HELP FROM THE HOUSE DETECTIVE.
Nick looked at his watch. It was ten minutes of one.
More than an hour and a half remained before half past two. There
seemed to be plenty of time, therefore; but he could not be sure
that Stone would take Follansbee’s advice and wait until that hour
before attacking his partner. The man’s insane impatience might get
the upper hand and lead him to act before the time set. But the plan
which had come to Nick could be put into execution at once, and thus a
nerve-racking delay could be avoided.
The detective might have acted wholly on his own responsibility, but
many difficulties would have been involved in that case, and he decided
against it. He turned on the lights in his room and looked up at the
wall in the neighborhood of the door. As he had anticipated, his eyes
fell upon an electric bell, which had doubtless been placed there in
order to arouse guests who might have left instructions for an early
call. If there was one in his room, there was doubtless one in each of
the others—including James Stone’s. Having made up his mind as to that,
the detective switched off the light again, softly unlocked and opened
his door, and slipped out into the corridor.
The Hotel Windermere was a modern one, with all the latest safeguards,
including floor clerks; in other words, there was a clerk on each
floor night and day. These clerks had desks in the main corridors,
with mirrors about them so arranged that they could see what went on
in all of the side passages. Calls from their floor were handled by
them, and it was their business to see that everything was orderly and
respectable, to scrutinize visitors, to note the comings and going of
guests, and to keep a watch for delinquencies on the part of employees.
Nick approached the clerk on his floor, a young woman of thirty-three
or four.
“Will you kindly tell me where I can find the house detective at this
hour?” he asked.
The clerk looked him over in some surprise. “Has anything happened?”
she asked quickly. “Have you lost anything?”
Nick smiled slightly. “Oh, no,” he answered. “It’s nothing of that
sort. I simply have business with your detective.” As he spoke, he
took out a two-dollar bill and laid it on the young woman’s desk.
“And I must ask that you look upon my interest in him as strictly
confidential,” he added.
The clerk frowned slightly as she saw the money, then gave the
detective a searching look. “I can’t accept that, Mr. Mortimer,” she
said, giving him the name he was using at the hotel. “We clerks are
not allowed to accept tips. It wouldn’t do, you know. Thank you just
as much, though. You may be sure I won’t say anything about it. You’ll
find Mr. Stickney, the detective, in room twelve hundred and twelve.”
“Thanks,” Nick replied. “And accept my apologies, please. I didn’t
think for a moment of the policy here. I don’t want to go up to the
detective’s room, though, for that would arouse the curiosity of the
elevator boy. Will you kindly telephone and ask him to meet me here as
soon as he can?”
“Certainly,” was the reply.
Ten minutes later, the house detective, having dressed hastily, put in
an appearance. Nick greeted him and drew him aside. He knew Stickney,
but had not seen fit to reveal that fact to the floor clerk.
“Look here, Stickney,” he said, as soon as they were out of earshot, “I
suppose you wonder what you’re up against. I’m registered here under
the name of Thomas Mortimer, but you know me better as Nick Carter.”
Stickney gave a low whistle. “For the love of Mike!” he ejaculated
under his breath. “Let me have a good look at you. Yes, I guess you’re
Nick all right, although I wouldn’t have dreamed of it if I’d passed
you a dozen times. What’s the matter? Is there anything queer going on
here?”
Nick nodded. “Very queer,” he answered. “This isn’t the proper time to
go into particulars, but I’ll tell you this much. The man in number
twenty-two has a room or two to rent in his upper story, and if you’re
not careful he’s going to commit a terrible crime this very night.
There are reasons for keeping dark, and for not taking him into custody
just yet. Will you help me, though, to save him from himself, and to
shield his intended victim?”
“Sure thing!” was the prompt answer. “I’ll do anything I can. I’d like
to know a little more about it, and I’d insist if you were any one
else. I can trust you, though, and I’ll keep mum until you give me the
word. What is it you want?”
“Something very simple.”
Nick drew nearer to the house detective and spoke even lower. “Do you
get the idea?” he asked, in conclusion.
Stickney nodded. “Of course,” he answered. “I can fix that up without
any trouble. Is that all you want me to do?”
“That’s all,” Nick replied. “Wait for ten minutes after I get back to
my room, and then let it go. I’ll be ready to take advantage of the
opportunity. Keep out of sight yourself, and tip off our young friend
at the desk, so that she’ll know what to do when Stone complains. Tell
her to keep the whole affair quiet. I’ll let you know in due time how
I’ve succeeded; and if I need any more help later on I’ll surely call
upon you.”
“I get you,” declared the house detective, and turned briskly away.
Nick Carter quietly returned to his own room, locked himself in, and
went to his window. Stone’s light was still burning, but Crawford’s
window was as dark as before. To all appearances, Stone was biding his
time as Follansbee had advised.
The detective consulted his watch once more, made a few preparations,
and then, stationing himself finally at his open, unlighted window,
awaited the prearranged signal. At the end of ten minutes a startling
din came to his ears from near at hand, and he prepared for action.
The time had come.