A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
Nick Carter had accomplished his object, but at some little cost. He had
aimed to force the suspects into some impetuous move that would fully
confirm his suspicions.
He had expected it to follow his assertion that Cyrus Darling was alive,
and that the supposed suicide was but part of a knavish scheme,
including Kate Crandall, Jim Dacey, and Cyrus Darling himself. The
speedy effect of his declarations, however, as well as the resources of
the rascals, had exceeded his anticipations.
But there was still another reason for the sudden aggressive move made
by Philip Floyd, a reason that Nick could not possibly have anticipated,
yet which alone necessitated the desperate step Floyd had taken.
Patsy Garvan was responsible for it, though not because of any fault on
his part. Following the instructions that Nick had given them, Patsy and
Chick arrived at the Ashburton Chambers about ten minutes after Nick,
separating before entering, Patsy to look up Sheldon and Floyd, while
Chick undertook to identify the suspect seen by Danny in company with
Kate Crandall that afternoon.
Nick had remarked, before leaving home, that, with three strings to
their bow, there certainly should be something doing--and there was.
Patsy entered the house about ten minutes after Nick went up to Kate
Crandall’s suite, and, as luck would have it, he shaped the same course
that his chief had taken. He began his work with buying a cigar and
interrogating the girl clerk with precisely the same question.
“Have you seen Ralph Sheldon here this evening?”
The girl laughed while giving Patsy his change.
“You’re not alone,” she remarked. “Another man just asked the same
question.”
“That so?” queried Patsy, knowing it must have been Nick. “How long ago
was that?”
“Not more than ten minutes,” said the girl. “Sheldon must be in demand
this evening. He was talking with the clerk a short time ago. I guess
you’ll find him in his suite, third floor, rear corridor, number
ninety-four.”
“Thanks,” said Patsy, with a smile. “It’s not material.”
“That’s just what the other man said,” replied the girl, laughing.
“Gee! I must be walking right in the chief’s tracks,” thought Patsy,
moving away. “That denotes that I’ve got a long head, at least; but I
must cut it out, all the same, or some one may get wise to what we are
doing. It’s odds that the chief took the elevator, so I’ll vary the
program by hoofing it.”
Patsy knew, of course, that Nick had gone to seek an interview with Kate
Crandall, as he had stated.
“I’ll look up Sheldon’s suite,” he said to himself. “If he still was
with the Crandall woman, it’s odds that he left when the chief showed
up. He may be with a confederate in his apartments by this time, in
which case their conversation might enable me to clinch the chief’s
suspicions, if I can contrive to overhear it. I’ll locate the suite, at
all events, and find out what’s doing.”
Patsy climbed the stairs to the second floor, then sought a corridor
leading to the rear of the house. He found it with no great difficulty,
but upon entering the corridor adjoining the rear rooms, he turned in
the wrong direction to find the main stairway.
He brought up in a narrow, dimly lighted hall, instead, and at the
narrow stairway already mentioned.
“Gee, I’m in wrong!” he muttered, glancing at several doors in the dim,
uncarpeted entry. “I ought to have gone the other way. These stairs will
take me up to the next floor, however, and the rear corridor must run
parallel with one of this floor. These doors must be rear exits from
some of the side and back suites. I’ll go up and have a look.”
Patsy started up the stairs with the last.
The long corridor through which he had just come was deserted. The
narrow entry and stairway appeared to be for the use of servants only,
and entirely out of use at that hour.
Nevertheless, while still only part way up the stairs, Patsy suddenly
heard the rustle of skirts and hurried footsteps in the narrow entry on
the third floor.
He stopped short and listened.
The sounds ceased in a moment, and Patsy thought he heard the cautious
closing of a door. Uncertain as to the last, however, he remained
motionless on the stairs, holding his breath, and listened intently for
several moments.
“By Jove, that’s mighty strange,” he said to himself. “I certainly heard
a woman’s steps and the rustle of skirts. She was in a hurry, too, yet
was moving stealthily. That ought to signify something. Have I stumbled
upon a rear entrance to Kate Crandall’s suite? Has she eluded the chief
by stealing out of a back door? Gee! I’d better look into this.”
Patsy’s suspicion was perfectly natural under the circumstances. It
acted upon him like a spur, moreover. He crept quickly up to the third
landing and glanced through the narrow hall.
It was unoccupied. The several doors were closed. A short side entry
around a corner, and several feet from the stairs, caught Patsy’s eye.
That also was deserted. It contained only a single door, also closed,
and Patsy stole nearer to it and listened.
He could hear no sound from within, nor detect any sign of light on the
threshold. He stole away, retracing his steps, and listened at one of
the other doors, then another and still another.
Patsy paused longer at the last, then suddenly crouched and tried vainly
to peer through the keyhole. He had heard a man’s voice from within,
crying curtly:
“Come in!”
“Gee! he’s not addressing me,” thought Patsy. “He couldn’t have heard my
catlike tread.”
Then other words reached his ears, and a familiar voice.
“Holy smoke! it’s the chief himself,” he muttered. “He just inquired for
Sheldon, or Floyd. He has just arrived in Sheldon’s suite, as sure as
I’m a foot high, instead of interviewing Kate Crandall. He already has
seen her, mebbe, and----”
Patsy’s inference was correct, but his rapid train of thought ended
abruptly. He heard a sound from the direction of the stairs. He thought
some one was ascending them.
“Gee! I must not be caught playing the spy here,” flashed through his
mind. “Nor must I lose the chance of doing so later. I’ll hide in the
side entry.”
He darted toward it on the instant, eager to round the corner before the
approaching person could arrive at the head of the stairs--on which
Patsy still supposed him to be.
He had, however, mistaken the precise direction of the sound. He moved
like a flash, yet as noiselessly as a shadow. He turned the corner at
nearly top speed and collided violently with another--none other than
Mr. Philip Floyd.
Patsy needed no introduction to him. The description of him provided by
Nancy Nordeck and Mrs. Darling was fresh in his mind. There could be no
mistaking him under the circumstances--his dark face, his piercing black
eyes, and his drooping black mustache.
Yes, Patsy recognized him instantly--but with an unexpected discovery
and a thrill that went through him like an electric shock from head to
foot.
For the figure with which he had collided, that he had seized in his
arms to prevent a fall, that at once began to struggle to free itself
from his involuntary embrace, was not the figure of a man.
It was the supple, yielding figure of--a woman!
Patsy guessed the truth on the instant. There was no need for
explanations. He knew, now, why Nancy Nordeck had distrusted her
master’s visitor, why she felt sure that she had seen him before, and
why he had involuntarily betrayed his recognition of her when she first
admitted him to the Darling residence.
It was a discovery that clinched all of Nick Carter’s suspicions. For
Patsy now plainly recognized the cleverly disguised face. It told him on
the instant that Philip Floyd and Kate Crandall were one and the same.
The recognition was mutual, moreover, and a half-smothered oath broke
from the lips of the dismayed woman.
“Let me go!” she hissed, struggling viciously. “Let me go, I say!”
“Not much!” muttered Patsy exultantly. “I know you, now, and I’ve got
you for keeps.”
His arms closed more tightly around her. He had seized her, by chance,
so that her arms were confined to her sides and she could not free them,
could not use them to scratch and tear him, as she fain would have done.
But she writhed from side to side like an eel in his powerful grasp, her
eyes glowing like balls of fire, her breath coming in quick, sharp gasps
and falling hot on Patsy’s cheeks.
“Let me go! Let me go!” she repeated in fierce, frantic whispers. “Curse
you, let me go!”
“Not by a jugful,” said Patsy. “I know you now. You’re Kate Crandall.”
“Let me go!”
“You’ll go, all right--but you’ll go with me.”
“You devil! You----”
“Oh, cut out your struggling. You can’t get away,” Patsy interrupted,
though content to let her exhaust herself with her furious efforts.
“I’ve got you and I’m going to hold you.”
“I’ll kill----”
“Here, none of that! You’ll be roughly handled if you try to pull a
gun.”
Patsy had felt her working one hand behind her to reach a hip pocket. He
seized her wrist and held her closer, almost crushing her in his
embrace; for not for an instant had she ceased her fierce, frantic
struggles, and she was possessed of more than ordinary womanly strength
and was giving him quite a battle.
She muttered a vicious oath again when foiled in her attempt to draw a
weapon. Then, while they still swayed to and fro in the narrow entry,
she took another course. She suddenly bowed her head and tried to set
her teeth in Patsy’s neck.
Patsy expected no less. He forced her quickly away, then swung her
around, to crowd her against a wall, rendered a bit impatient by her
fury, and now determined to handcuff her and end her struggles.
Instead of forcing her against the wall, however, Patsy forced her
against the only door in the narrow side entry--the rear door of her own
suite.
It was an unfortunate move on his part. The struggle was now heard from
within. The door was suddenly opened--by the man whom Danny had seen
with Kate Crandall that afternoon.
All this proved disastrous for Patsy Garvan. He partly lost his balance
when the door opened, and he fell against the casing.
A gasp of relief came from the woman, and then a fierce cry.
“Down him! Down him, Jim, for God’s sake!”
Dacey needed no bidding. He had guessed the truth upon hearing the noise
of the struggle. He had drawn a weapon while approaching the door--the
same weapon that felled Nick Carter a quarter hour later.
It fell like a flash when Patsy reeled against the casing, and while the
frantic appeal was still on the woman’s lips.
The sandbag caught Patsy squarely on the head, dropping him as it
dropped Nick a little later. Without a groan, even, he sank in a crimped
and senseless heap on the threshold of the door.
It was a brutal blow, dealt by the hand of a brutal man. It was this man
who had been smoking a cigarette in Kate Crandall’s suite just before
the arrival of Nick Carter, but who had stolen into the rear entry
before the detective entered, returning after his departure. Safely
enough, indeed, the woman had given Nick permission to search her
apartments.
“Quick!” she now said curtly. “Drag him in here, Jim.”
“Do you know him?” questioned Dacey, hastening to obey.
“Know him--I should say so!” snapped Kate. “He’s one of Carter’s
assistants. His name is Garvan.”
“The devil!” Dacey exclaimed. “Things are looking bad.”
“We can right them, or get what’s coming to us, at least,” Kate
hurriedly replied. “Come what may, Jim, these dicks will have nothing on
us. We must stave off arrest and exposure, however, if possible. Cut one
of the window cords and bind this whelp.”
Dacey hastened to do so, asking, in the meantime:
“How did you run foul of him?”
“We met in the entry.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Give it up,” said Kate tersely. “There must be more doing than we have
suspected. There is only one course for us, Jim, until we can land the
coin.”
“What’s that?”
“We must get Nick Carter, also, if he has gone to Sheldon’s suite, as I
suspect,” Kate hurriedly explained. “We must get away with both of these
dicks and hold them at your place until we can bring Sheldon to our
terms. There’s nothing else to it.”
“Can it be done?” questioned Dacey doubtfully.
“It must be done,” Kate insisted. “Is Moran in the side street with your
limousine?”
“Yes.”
“Open the window. Whistle him up here. He will aid us.”
“Surest thing you know,” cried Dacey, darting to the window.
“Note me, Jim, and follow my instructions,” Kate quickly added. “I’ll go
at once to Sheldon’s suite, as planned, and find out whether Carter is
there.”
“I get you.”
“If he is, and appears likely to give us further trouble, I’ll hold him
up with a gun in about ten minutes. In the meantime, with Martin Moran
to aid, gag this whelp and tie his hands together. Then steal into
Sheldon’s suite through the rear door. He left it unlocked for me.”
“I’m on,” Dacey nodded.
“Come quietly, mind you, and be ready to lend me a hand,” Kate directed.
“If we can get away with Carter and this fellow and confine them in your
crib, we’ll jump this house and remain at your place until we can bring
Sheldon to his milk. He’ll be so rattled up by this turn of affairs,
that I think he will weaken.”
“But how----”
“I’ll explain later,” Kate interrupted. “There is no time at present. I
must hike to Sheldon’s suite, in case Carter is already there. Follow me
with Moran as soon as possibly. The rear door, mind you. I must go round
to the front.”
“I understand,” Dacey replied. “But how can we get them out of the
house?”
“There’s a lift for trunks and merchandise just beyond the back stairs,”
Kate hurriedly explained. “We can use it without being detected. We’ll
lower them both down and get away with them in your car. It can be done,
all right. Take my word for that.”
“Your word goes with me, Kate,” Dacey declared significantly. “Be off,
then, to Sheldon’s suite. I’ll be on hand with Moran in less than ten
minutes.”
As already has appeared, Jim Dacey proved to be as good as his word.