THE DETECTIVE ACQUIRES A WIFE.
“Now, then, my boy,” the detective went on, pointing to the telephone
on his desk, “you’ll oblige me by calling up Miss Worth and telling her
that your friend has agreed to place himself in her hands. Say that
he’ll arrive there about half past nine to-night.”
Patsy eyed his chief doubtfully. “It’s a risky business,” he warned
him. “You’ll have to stay there for some time to keep up the bluff, and
Follansbee will probably visit Stone to-morrow. If the scoundrel should
recognize you——”
“I’ll take that risk,” Nick put in; “but I don’t think he will. If I
can’t make use of a disguise that will deceive him, I ought to go out
of the business. It’s settled, anyway. I want you to accompany me to
Miss Worth’s and see me safely deposited.”
“How long do you expect to stay there?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. That will depend on circumstances.
Perhaps I can get away after a day, but it may be a week, for all I
know.” And he left the room.
Patsy nodded after the lithe, upright figure. “I’ll give you
twenty-four hours, chief,” he said to himself; “and if you’re not out
of that place by that time, I’ll be hanged if I don’t come and get you.”
He turned to the desk, and, after consulting the telephone book, found
the number of Miss Worth’s private hospital.
“Number two bed in Ward E will be reserved for your friend, Mr.
Bainbridge,” Miss Worth informed him over the wire. Gerald Bainbridge
was the name Patsy had given to Nick on the spur of the moment.
About nine o’clock that evening young Garvan, who was fidgeting about
in the study, heard the door open softly. Some one entered the room.
He knew that it was his chief, but he was forced to think that the
disguise was one of the most successful Nick had ever attempted. He had
dressed himself in a suit that was a size or two too large for him. The
garments hung loosely on him, he stooped slightly, and it seemed as
though his shoulders were much thinner and narrower than was actually
the case. His cheeks looked hollow and his eyes had dark rings around
them that seemed to indicate a weakened frame and long hours on a sick
bed. A straggling beard, badly in need of trimming, covered his cheeks
and chin. It was by no means an ordinary false one, but one of Nick’s
own invention—of the kind used by him when the occasion called for
extraordinary care against detection.
He knew that he would be in charge of a nurse, and that a commonplace
disguise would not stand the close inspection he would be obliged
to undergo. It would have taken a Nick Carter himself, however, to
discover that that beard was artificial. It had been put on with a
great deal of care, and the thin substance into which the hairs were
embedded so closely resembled the human skin in hue and texture that it
was almost impossible to tell where one began and the other left off.
Ordinary washing would not effect it in the least, and yet it could be
removed in fifteen minutes’ time—if one knew how. It was the same with
the wig.
He was leaning heavily on a stout walking stick, and caught the look of
admiration in Patsy’s eyes.
“Well, will I do?” he asked.
His assistant drew a deep breath. “You’re the real thing,” was the
enthusiastic comment. “I never saw you turn out anything better than
that.”
A moment later Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman assistant, entered
the room. She, too, was to play a part in the sketch that had been so
hastily staged. Nick waved one trembling hand toward her.
“For an old friend, my boy, you don’t seem to be on your job. Is it
possible you don’t recognize ‘Mrs. Bainbridge?’”
Patsy looked bewildered for a moment, and then broke into a grin. “Mrs.
Bainbridge, eh?” he queried. “So you’ve taken a wife for the occasion,
have you? Is she going with us?”
“Of course. She’s devoted to her husband, and it wouldn’t do, you know,
for you to take me there alone. We’ll have to have a woman along to
fuss over me and make the thing seem real.”
The young assistant’s grin broadened. “Well, I must say I admire your
taste,” he remarked, with a wink. “I could have told you long ago that
Ida is just the girl for you.”
Miss Jones laughed. “None of that, Patsy,” she said laughingly. “If the
chief ever comes to think of me as a girl, he’ll fire me as sure as
fate.”
Nick looked at her admiringly. “I’m not quite as bad as that, Ida,” he
said. “Give me credit, please, for knowing that you’re a girl, and a
remarkably attractive one. But you’re a corking good detective, also,
and I’m afraid that interests me more. No more nonsense now, you two.
It’s time to go.”
A couple of travel-worn suit cases had been provided and packed.
Catching these up, Patsy went off down the stairs, followed by Nick and
the girl.
About half an hour later their machine—a hired taxi—halted at Miss
Worth’s steps. Patsy and the girl jumped out and solicitously helped
their companion to alight, while the chauffeur rang the bell. Miss
Worth herself followed the servant to the door, and all concerned
played their parts to perfection. Patsy was a rather officious, but
tender-hearted friend. Ida Jones made a beautiful and devoted wife,
while Nick assumed a querulous voice and a crotchety manner which went
well with his apparent weakness.
“I don’t want any nurses fussing about me, except when it is absolutely
necessary,” he declared. “I’ve had quite enough of nurses. I want just
a quiet, peaceful time, you understand?”
Miss Worth assured him that he would have no cause to complain of
overattention, and gave Mrs. Bainbridge a reassuring look behind his
back.
Patsy was having all he could do to keep a straight face, and, indeed,
when the others had left the reception room, he felt obliged to relax
and indulge in a hearty, though silent, laugh. In a moment he became
serious enough, however, when he remembered Follansbee’s threats and
the defenseless position in which his chief was placing himself.
Ida Jones had, of course, accompanied her “husband” to the room which
he was to occupy. She had declared that she must see it, in order to
be sure that he would be comfortable. Five minutes later, however, she
returned to the waiting room, still escorted by Miss Worth, and, after
leaving many parting injunctions, she accompanied Patsy out of the
house.
“When the taxi starts, you must applaud, Patsy,” she whispered, as they
crossed the veranda. “I flatter myself that I did that fairly well.”
“You certainly did,” he answered. “You could give points to most
wives—except mine.”
He was thinking of something else though—of Stephen Follansbee’s
diabolical cleverness.
“Twenty-four hours is the most I’ll allow the chief,” he said,
repeating his resolve. “If he isn’t out by that time—unless I know
everything is all right—I’m going to stick a finger into the pie once
more.”