PATSY TRACES THE AMBULANCE.
There is always a certain element of luck in one’s experiences, and
chance ordained it that Patsy Garvan should arrive in front of St.
Swithin’s Hospital at just the right moment. His anxiety had sent him
in that direction after his repeated failures to reach his chief, but
he had no very definite idea in view.
He had driven the little runabout to Amsterdam Avenue partly to kill
time during his chief’s absence from the hotel. Having left the car
around the corner, he had approached the hospital on foot. When he came
near the big entrance, he noticed an ambulance—evidently a private
one, for there was no lettering on it—drawn up at the curb with a
circle of the curious loitering about it. Evidently some patient was to
be taken away in the ambulance; perhaps a convalescent. Patsy mingled
with the crowd, but before he had time to make any inquiries, a couple
of hospital attendants appeared, half carrying, half supporting a tall
man.
One glance at the face was sufficient for Patsy. Despite the intense
pallor which lay under the tan, he recognized it at once as being that
of James Stone, whom he had previously taken pains to identify. The
miner was fully dressed, but his eyes were sunken, and every line of
his naturally powerful frame bespoke weakness and listlessness. The
two attendants, although they were supporting Stone, were allowing him
to make use of his lower limbs, and the mine owner was able to walk
unsteadily toward the ambulance.
Nick’s assistant looked about and into the wide hallway, but could see
no signs of Doctor Follansbee. A dapper-looking interne in a white
uniform was superintending the removal. When Stone had been placed in
the vehicle, a stout, matronly looking nurse in uniform came out of the
hospital and entered the waiting ambulance. Immediately the vehicle, a
motor one, started quietly and shot ahead down the street.
Patsy bitterly regretted that he had left his runabout. If he had
brought it to the front of the hospital he could have followed the
ambulance, but as it was there was no hope of that. The ambulance was
already a block away, and going at a high rate of speed, and there was
no other available vehicle within reach.
“Confound it,” thought the young detective. “Why didn’t it have a sign
on it? If it had I would have known where to look for Stone.”
As a matter of fact, he did know where to look, although indirectly.
He had to have something to worry about, however, for this succession
of anticipated developments was getting on his nerves, and he felt
very much aggrieved because he had been unable to share the knowledge
of them with any one else. He had taken the precaution of fixing the
license number of the ambulance in his memory before it had been
whisked away, and he knew that all he had to do—unless the number was a
false one—was to get into communication with the license bureau.
He chose to follow that line rather than to question the young interne,
since the latter course might have aroused suspicion, and his questions
might be reported to Follansbee. It involved some delay, but that could
hardly be avoided, and the sight of Stone, though weak and ill, had
reassured Patsy somewhat. At any rate, he knew now that the man was not
dead, and there seemed to be no reason to believe that a few hours’
further delay, if it came to that, would have very serious consequences.
Apparently Doctor Follansbee was playing an unusual game, and one
that could not be brought to a conclusion at once. Patsy had no
doubt that the head of St. Swithin’s had planned this move from the
beginning. Stone had probably been taken to the big hospital the night
before merely as a temporary expedient, and to lend an appearance of
regularity to the proceedings. Now he was being removed to some place
where Follansbee would find himself less hampered in his dealings with
him.
The crowd had quickly melted away, and the young interne and the
hospital attendants had reëntered the big building while Patsy stood
staring after the vanishing ambulance. Now he strode away and returned
to his own car. Entering it, he drove a few blocks and stopped in front
of a telephone pay station. After a little delay he obtained the number
of the license bureau, and asked for the name of the institution owning
the designated machine.
It was two or three minutes before he received a reply, but when it
came, it told him all that he needed to know for the time being.
“Nineteen-nineteen license, number five hundred and fifty thousand,
three hundred and thirteen, New York, is issued in the name of Miss
Worth’s Private Hospital for Convalescents, fifteen thousand Flatbush
Avenue, Brooklyn,” he was told.
Patsy thanked his informant, to whom he had been obliged to give his
name in order to obtain the desired information. When he had reached
the street again he paused before entering the runabout.
“Now, it’s up to me to make another stab at an interview with the
chief,” he thought. “If I don’t catch him this time, I’ll begin to
think I’m the victim of a jinx.”
He entered the little car and headed back to the Hotel Windermere.
There he received another slap. Nick had been in and left, but the
clerk questioned Patsy as the detective had suggested, and satisfied
himself of his identity. The young assistant learned in this way that
his chief had revealed himself to the clerk, and had left word that he
was going back home.
He swallowed his disappointment as best he could, and felt sure that
the trail must be nearing its end. He had no doubt that he would find
his chief when he reached the house.
But Fate took the next trick away from him also.