DADDY DREW’S DIVE.
“What! those two scoundrels!” cried Nick.
“Yes, you were right when you prophesied that we would come upon them
again.”
Nick looked suddenly at the picture.
“By Jove!” he muttered, “I believes I know them now.”
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” said Patsy, “but you couldn’t swear to it to
the satisfaction of a jury.”
“True, and the jurymen could look at the picture for themselves, and
see that the likenesses are not there. We’ve got to get more evidence
than this, Patsy. Nobody saw them do the deed. This picture almost
tells the story, but not quite. But go on. You must have more to tell.”
“A little. I shadowed Hamilton and Thompson to a dive where you and I
have been before—Daddy Drew’s.”
“Whew!” whistled Nick. “It means a fight with all the crooks in Denver,
if we go there.”
“Well, that’s where they are, and they’re waiting for Claymore.”
“All right. We’ll go there and get them, then, if we decide we’d better
arrest them. Is that all?”
“Not quite. Knowing they were there to stay, I ran back to Claymore’s
office. He had just put out his lights and was leaving the building.
“He went to police headquarters.”
“Did you go in, too?”
“With a disguise, yes. I saw that Claymore had a private talk with
Kerr. Then he went out again.”
“How did he look?”
“Rocky, but he was saying, ‘Very good,’ and ‘Quite right’ to Kerr.”
“That means that Kerr told him,” said Nick.
“Told him what?” asked Patsy.
“What I have done. He shouldn’t have said a word, but I can understand
how he should make such a slip, for Claymore was the first to direct
suspicion at Hank Low. What became of Claymore?”
“He went home. He lives in a boarding house——”
“We must have him! Come on!”
They left the hotel together hurriedly.
* * * * *
In a corner of Daddy Drew’s dive—the worst place in Denver—sat the two
men who had escaped from Nick Carter in Helena a short time before.
They had liquor in front of them, but they drank little.
Every time the door opened to admit a newcomer, they looked that way
eagerly.
The place was pretty well filled.
All the scum of the city seemed to drift in there, for it was known
that once inside the doors a man need not leave until morning.
Daddy let his customers sleep on the floor, if they had nowhere else to
go.
At last it was closing hour.
The doors were locked, and the curtains pulled tightly across the
windows.
Jack Thompson muttered an oath.
“He’s going to bilk us,” he muttered.
“Not him,” responded Hamilton. “Wait, I tell you. The night’s young
yet. He can’t afford to bilk us, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t. He might skip——”
“But he’s not suspected! He’s got every reason to stay, for here is
where the money is. He’ll get around before the night is over.”
“I hope he brings his wad with him.”
“He will.”
They were silent for a moment, and then Jack muttered:
“I’d have liked it better if he’d paid us for the other job and not
asked us to tackle the detective.”
“Pooh! what scares you so?”
“Nick Carter. Ain’t that enough?”
“Nick Carter is dead.”
“Do you believe it, Nat?”
“I’m going to tell Claymore so.”
Jack shuddered.
“I see you don’t believe it,” he said; “But I hope Claymore comes along
and believes it. Then he’ll pay us, and we can skip before the cuss
comes to life.”
Nat Hamilton smiled.
“He won’t come to life if he’s dead,” he remarked, coolly, “any more
than the preacher chap will.”
“Ugh!” grunted Jack, and they were silent again.
Not less than thirty men were in the place.
They were fairly quiet, for they knew that loud noise might bring the
police down on the dive, and then their night’s shelter would be closed
up.
But they were a tough lot, and every man of them would have joined in
to help anybody there if a policeman, or a dozen of them, had come in
to make an arrest.
This was so well known that the police usually waited for their men to
come out before trying to arrest them.
There hadn’t been a murder in Daddy Drew’s for a long time, and a tough
present on this night remarked to another that one was about due.
A few minutes after twelve, there was a light knock at the door.
The bartender, who went to it and looked through a slide, came back to
Nat.
“Feller out there askin’ fer youse,” he said.
Both men got up, but Nat pushed Jack back into his chair.
“I’ll see who ’tis,” he said.
He went to the door and looked through the slide.
Claymore’s face appeared there as if it were a picture in a frame.
“He’s all right,” said Nat to the bartender; “friend o’ mine. Let him
in.”
The door was opened, and Nat’s friend came in.
As he went to the back of the room silently with Nat, many curious
glances were cast at him.
“Who is he?” asked one of another.
And those who answered came pretty near to guessing the truth.
“Some fellow,” said they, “who gets others to do his work for him.”
Two or three knew Claymore by sight, and they were not surprised.
“Well?” said the newcomer, when he sat down at the table in the corner,
and three heads were put close together.
“We done it,” said Nat.
“Sure?”
“He’s dead as a nail.”
There was a short pause. Then, in a low voice:
“You lie, Nat.”
Both the criminals started angrily, but they gritted their teeth and
looked at the man, who added:
“He’s just as alive as I am. Less than an hour ago he brought Hank Low
in on a charge of murder.”
“Then,” exclaimed Jack; “it’s all right, ain’t it?”
“No! it isn’t all right. Carter believes that Low is innocent, and he
has arrested him for a bluff. He knows that you did it.”
Jack turned ghastly pale.
Nat looked as if he didn’t believe it.
“He can’t have any evidence against us,” said he.
“He’ll get it. You know Nick Carter.”
“But how can he get it? Nobody saw us.”
“Somebody must have seen you enter the hotel.”
“No,” said Nat, positively; “I swear, Claymore, we got in without being
seen.”
“You haven’t told me how you managed that.”
“No, for you sent us down the road on the chance of a pot shot at the
detective. I’ll tell you. There’s an office building next to the hotel,
you know, with an alley between.”
“Yes.”
“We went in there and found an empty room. It was easy enough to pick
the lock and get in. Then we found that a short board would reach from
the window to an open window in the hotel. Jack went out and swiped
a board from the place where they’re putting up a new building. At
twenty-five minutes past three we put the board out, crawled across
and got to the preacher’s room without meeting anybody.”
“And left the board there?”
“Not on your life!” replied Nat. “We took the board in and hid it in
a closet until we had tumbled the preacher out of the window. Then we
slipped back, returned to the office building by the same way, and so
went down to the street.”
“And left the board——”
“Of course! We weren’t going to lug it around in daylight. What harm
could it do in an empty room?”
“Oh, no harm, of course,” very sarcastically. “Nobody would find it,
and wonder about it; oh, no!”
“What do you mean, Claymore?”
“I mean this: Nick Carter has that infernally sharp Patsy along with
him. I believe you know Patsy.”
“Yes, confound him!”
“So I say! but while Nick went out to get Low, Patsy was nosing around
town. He probably found that board; he probably saw you two fellows,
and knew you; then he put two and two together, and the long and short
of it is that Carter is after you.”
“We’ll be hanged, sure!” groaned Jack.
“There’s only one way out of it, boys.”
“Well?”
“Carter will come here to a dead certainty. He knows the town, and
knows that this is the place where you would most likely hang out.
He’ll come here.”
“Then he’ll get a warm time of it,” said Nat.
“If you think so, stay. But you know the Carters. If you want a chance
to escape, take it now. There’s a train for San Francisco runs through
here in half an hour. You can catch it.”
“Come on,” said Jack, rising.
“Hold on a bit,” said Nat. “Who pays the freight? We haven’t had our
money yet.”
“I’ve got it, but I’ll be hanged myself if I pay you in here. Get out
on the street. I’ll go with you part way to the station, and settle
with you.”
“Don’t wait,” urged Jack.
“That’s good advice. Carter may break in here any minute, or he may
sneak in in disguise. That’s his most likely way, and then you’ll be
nabbed before you know it.”
Nat was rather pale now.
“I’ll give him a fight for it, if he comes,” he muttered, but he got
up, and the three went out.
When they were on the street Nat turned.
“Will you settle now?” he asked.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” was the sharp reply. “Your only safety is
to get away from this place. Walk along toward the railroad. I’ll be
close at your heels until I think it’s safe to stop and settle.”
Nat hesitated.
“Don’t you dare to try to skip without paying!” he hissed, savagely.
“I’ll settle with you both before you get to the station. Get a move
on! Carter may be here the next second.”
The crooks started away, looking back frequently to see that Claymore
was following.
He kept about half a block behind them.
Nobody but themselves seemed to be on the streets.
There was a drunken man staggering along some distance ahead, but he
didn’t count.
He, too, disappeared around a corner before the crooks came to it.
When they were about to pass that corner a quiet voice behind them said:
“This will do. We’ll settle here.”
“All right,” responded Nat.
Both men halted and turned about.
They looked into the muzzles of two revolvers.
The face back of the hands that held the weapons was not that of their
employer, Claymore, but that of their deadly enemy, Nick Carter.