THE FATE OF THE TRANSGRESSOR.
At the time of Nick Carter's meeting with Cora Reesey she was but a
novice in crime, but the detective was convinced by a study of her
character that she needed only experience to make her a dangerous
foe. Foiled in her scheme to enrich herself at the expense of Roland
Garrett, a fortunate member of San Francisco's society, she had
turned upon Nick Carter, the author of her defeat, and had venomously
announced her intention to get even. Perhaps it had been her plan to
try conclusions with the great detective in the city of New York, his
headquarters, and, perhaps, the stay in St. Louis was meant to be but
temporary and for the purpose of putting her in funds.
After arranging a disguise which completely concealed his identity,
Nick boarded a car bound for Broadway, transferred to that long
thoroughfare which runs parallel with and through the river district,
and near the hour of eleven found himself in front of the door of Luke
Filbon's house. It was a small, one-story, brick structure, located
but a short distance from the river and near a large grain-elevator.
The house was in darkness, and all was silent within. Nick pressed the
button by the side of the door, and soon was heard a weak, querulous
voice from within.
"Who's there?"
"Some one to see Mr. Filbon on important business. Is he at home?"
"No, and he won't come to-night, I'm thinking. He said he had work to
do at the office that would likely keep him until after midnight. I am
his mother. I suppose you know."
"I took it for granted that you were. Has any one been here to see him
this evening?"
"Yes. John Dashwood was here about an hour ago."
"No one else?"
"No. What's the matter? Luke isn't in any trouble, is he?"
There was maternal anxiety in the tone of the voice. Nick believed that
evasion would be charity.
"I hope not," he said. "Good night," and he walked quickly away from
the door before further and probably embarrassing questions could be
asked.
The patrolman on the beat was found. He had seen two men go from
Broadway toward the Filbon house between nine and ten o'clock. They
were not together, but were fifteen minutes apart. He had not been
near enough to observe them closely, but was satisfied from their
build--they were both large men--that neither was Filbon, who was small
and thin.
Perplexed and dissatisfied, the detective went to the river end
of the street. There was a rotten wharf extending toward the big
grain-elevator. It was short, and for a portion of its length the
planking had been torn out.
The night was clear, with a half-moon, and Nick picked his way about
the wharf, in the hope that he might find a clue to the night's
mysterious proceedings. There was a possibility that Luke Filbon,
determined on suicide, had given up the idea of going home to secure
the revolver--to take which action he would have to tell a story that
would deceive his mother, and that would be no easy task--and instead
had thrown himself into the Mississippi.
Nick, with his bull's-eye, investigated the water space under the wharf
without much hope of making a discovery. If death by drowning had been
Filbon's purpose, he would, in all probability, have jumped from the
edge of the wharf into the river, and the swift current would have
carried him far down-stream.
The water, muddy and but slightly disturbed, carried nothing upon its
surface that was out of the ordinary. Nick moved to a point where he
could get an outlook on the short section of bank beyond the water. He
was rewarded by the sight of a human figure huddled up on the sloping
bank of the levee a few feet from the water's edge. The figure was that
of a man, with head bowed, elbows on knees, and face in hands. As the
light of the bull's-eye was flashed upon him the man lifted his head
with a start, but made no effort to arise. Nick believed that a way to
get under the wharf would be found at the street abutment. Hastening
over the planks, he soon discovered an opening, and quickly descended.
The man was still there. He had not moved. Walking over to him, the
detective saw a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with a haggard
face and bloodshot eyes.
"What do you want?" he asked, in a surly tone. "I am minding my own
business here."
"I want your confidence," said Nick kindly. "I am not your enemy. I may
prove to be the best friend you ever had."
The young man gazed stupidly at the detective, then lowered his head
and said, in a voice broken with emotion: "No; I have no friends."
"That remains to be seen, Mr. Luke Filbon."
"My God! Do you know me?"
There was the ring of abject despair in the utterance.
"Yes, I know you now, if I did not know you before."
For a few moments there was silence. Then Nick asked: "What do you
fear?"
"If I ever see daylight, I fear the anger and vengeance of one man."
"Gabriel Leonard?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"By putting two and two together."
"Who are you?"
There was both fear and curiosity in the expression of Filbon's face.
"I am a friend of John Dashwood, and he is one man among a thousand.
That ought to satisfy you."
Filbon groaned.
"Yes, yes," he huskily replied. "I can guess who you are. You are Nick
Carter, and that means----"
"It means," was the detective's quick interruption, "that you must
tell the truth and that you need not fear me. I have talked with your
mother, and I pity her son. Come, confide in me, for I believe you have
been hounded into your present position."
"I--I can't tell you."
Great drops of perspiration showed themselves on Filbon's brow. Nick
lighted a cigar.
"Let me help you a little," he said easily. "You have been led into
crime by a woman, and you are afraid that if you betray her your life
will be attempted. Am I right?"
"You are not far wrong," said the young man wearily.
"Now, if you can aid me in tightening the cords about this woman, will
not that furnish protection for yourself? For how can you be harmed if
the person you fear is in prison?"
Filbon shook his head, and then compressed his lips. He was now sorry
that he had admitted anything, and he cursed his want of backbone. And
he thought, bitterly: "If I hadn't been a mean, spiritless wretch, I
would never have got into this mess."
Nick knew the nature he had to deal with. He said quietly: "Listen to
me a moment, and maybe you will find it advisable to change your mind.
You are the bookkeeper and cashier of the manufacturing company of
which Gabriel Leonard is president and John Dashwood is manager. You
have been stealing from the company. The crime would never have been
committed but for the evil prompting of a wicked woman, who, protesting
love for you, would have cast you aside the moment she received the
money she urged you to steal. To-night John Dashwood surprised your
guilty secret. You had hidden the stolen money in the office, and you
went there to get it, in pursuance of this woman's order. You did not
get it, or, if you did, it was taken from you. Dashwood allowed you
to go. His heart overflows with charity and--and I presume he knows
your mother. As you left the elevator you saw the woman. You told her
that the scheme had failed. She reproached you, cast you off. You then
announced your intention to go home, get a revolver, and blow out your
brains. What induced you to reconsider that determination?"
Luke Filbon had listened to this clear exposition of his case in sheer
amazement. "No need to keep silent longer," he said, in a husky voice.
"I'll tell you all."
But he did not at once begin his story.
For some time he sat without speaking, his eyes on the water. What
thoughts passed through his mind the detective never guessed until his
account with Filbon had been closed.
"This woman," he began, in a steady voice, "came to St. Louis a short
time ago. I met her on the evening following her arrival here. It was
at a Parisian beauty show, which has since been interdicted by the
police. She was the star of the outfit, and my admiration seemed to
please her. We had opportunity for a quiet confab, and she invited me
to call upon her next day. I was fool enough to do so; and before I
had been with her an hour she knew all about my affairs. I have never
associated much with women of her class, and she exercised her powers
of fascination so well that the next visit I promised to do all she
wished me to do. I was infatuated, and when she painted in glowing
colors a life abroad without work, a life that should be one long
round of pleasure, I stood ready to furnish the means if such a thing
were possible. She said we would require twenty thousand dollars, and
proposed that I should steal that amount from the company. I could not
see my way to the performance of such a thing. I told her that, though
I was the cashier, there was never more than a few thousands in the
safe on any one day, and that every afternoon, before the banks closed,
the money in the safe was banked.
"She had thought of that, she said, and could suggest a way out of the
difficulty. I could every day hold out something, say a few hundred
dollars, as a rule, and more when the receipts should be unusually
large, and cover up the shortage by falsifying the books. In this way
the twenty thousand dollars could be withdrawn within thirty days. The
plan seemed feasible, for I was fully trusted by Dashwood, and before
the expiration of thirty days I had drawn out of the safe and secreted
in the office twenty thousand dollars in bank-notes."
"Of course, you did not take the numbers?"
"But I did. There was no reason for it. Force of habit, I suppose, made
me put them down."
"Did you keep the list?"
"Yes, and I have it with me. But it is of no importance, as you must
see before I have finished my story. Yesterday afternoon I saw Madam
Ree--that's her name, and she took up the palmist business when the
beauty show shut up shop--and told her the twenty thousand would be
ready to-night. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was never more
gracious. All the details of our contemplated trip to Europe were gone
over, and when I left her she promised to meet me across the street
from the office at seven-thirty o'clock to-night.
"At seven-fifteen I went to the office, and was surprised to see John
Dashwood there, and at work on the books. This was suspicious, and I
was all of a tremble lest he should discover one or more of my false
entries. His first words told me that the game was up.
"'Sit down,' he said sternly. 'I shall have something to say to you
before long.'
"I waited in an agony of dread for nearly half an hour. Then Dashwood
turned and faced me. 'You have been taking the firm's money, Filbon,'
he said sorrowfully. 'Why have you done so? And what has become of it?'
I was so taken aback, so overwhelmed by the gravity of my position,
that I could only stammer a few inarticulate words.
"'Come,' he said, 'where is the money?'
"In an instant my brain cleared up.
"I knew what I must do.
"I would give him the money, then go home, get my pistol, and blow out
my brains. Taking the notes from their hiding-place, I handed them to
Dashwood, without a word.
"'Very well,' he said kindly. 'Now, go home, get a good sleep, and come
around in the morning and we'll talk over this matter.'
"So saying, he turned his back on me, opened the safe, put the notes
in a box, and then relocked the safe. Before he looked up again I
was gone. Down-stairs I met Madam Ree. She had become impatient over
my delay, and was beside herself with rage. When I told her what had
happened she lost all control of herself. While she upbraided me, the
scales fell from my eyes. I saw that I had been tricked, that the woman
cared nothing for me, had been using me as a tool to enrich herself.
I left her resolved to end my life. I went down the street, intending
to take the first car for Broadway that came along. But the thought of
showing my telltale face to any of the passengers so distressed me that
I gave up the idea of riding and determined to walk the distance. I
went down to Washington Street and from Washington Street to Seventh,
and so on out to my home. But I did not enter the house. I knew I could
not meet my mother's eye"--here great sobs shook his frame--"I knew I
could not invent a story that would be likely to allay her suspicions.
No, if I wished to die, I must try some other way. I came down here to
think over the matter. That's all."
"Did you see any one on the wharf or in its vicinity as you came down?"
"No."
"How long have you been here?"
"I had been here about half an hour before you came."
Nick regarded the young man thoughtfully. "You have made a serious
mistake," he said slowly, but not unkindly, "but there's hope for you.
Your nature is not a vicious one. I can't give you positive assurance,
but my opinion is that you will not be prosecuted for what you have
done."
"You don't know Gabriel Leonard," was the reply, given in a hopeless
tone. "He is hard, hard as nails. I know him. And there is my mother.
Even if I escape prosecution, I must lose my place. She will discover
the truth. I could not lie to her."
"You should have thought of your mother before," said the detective
coldly.
"I know it, I know it, and I'm lost, lost! Go away. Leave me to myself
for a minute. Let me consider. Oh, my poor brain!"
The spectacle of Filbon's anguish was not a pleasant one, and Nick
moved a few paces away. But he kept his eyes on Filbon, who, rocking
his body and sobbing violently, seemed to be in the lowest depths of
despair. Suddenly, with a wild laugh, he straightened up. "I have
settled it," he almost shouted. "It's all right now."
Nick rushed forward, seized him by the arm, and let the lantern's light
fall full upon his face. What he saw filled him with dismay.
"What have you done?" he demanded harshly.
"Got the stuff at a drug-store coming down here," was the answer, given
with chattering teeth. "Fooled you, didn't I? Ha! ha!"--the laugh
quickly ceased, the face grew ashen, the form stiffened, there was a
sharp rattle in the throat, and Nick, dropping his bull's-eye, caught
the body as it was falling forward. Luke Filbon, weak instrument of a
woman's wicked cupidity, was dead.
A small phial on the ground by the side of the body told the story of
the fatal agency. It had contained prussic acid, one of the deadliest
and quickest-acting poisons known to the pharmacopœia. It had been
procured that evening at a Broadway drug-store, for the label was
there, and there were the death's head and cross-bones below the word
"Poison." By what representations had he obtained the poison? A visit
to the drug-store would furnish the explanation.
The detective was about to leave the spot, when a sudden thought caused
him to stay his steps. In Filbon's pocket was the list of bank-notes
which he had stolen and replaced. The peculiar happenings of the night
contained mysterious suggestions. The list, apparently without value,
might become useful. No harm in obtaining possession of it. It was
found and placed in Nick's pocketbook. Now the detective hurried away
to find a patrolman, state what had been discovered, and have the
nearest police-station notified.
When this duty had been performed, Nick went to the drug-store where
the prussic acid had been purchased. He had left the phial where he had
found it, for it bore evidence that would, at the coroner's inquest, in
connection with an analysis of the contents of the dead man's stomach,
absolutely determine the cause of death.
It was an all-night drug-store, and the one clerk readily gave the
information desired. He had known Filbon as a customer for many years,
and the poison had been sold upon the representation that it was to be
used for the asthma, with which Filbon's mother was afflicted. "Diluted
with water, it is often used by asthmatics," said the clerk, "as it
gives quick relief." When informed that the poison had been used for
quite a different purpose, the clerk was horrified.
Nick Carter could do no more that night. He sought his room in
Jefferson Avenue, but was an early riser. At nine o'clock next morning
he called at the office of the manufacturing company. It was closed. He
went away, returning at ten o'clock. In response to his knock, the door
was opened by Gabriel Leonard. His face was pale, and there were dark
circles about his eyes. He did not greet the detective with his usual
heartiness.
"Where is Dashwood?" was Nick's first question.
"I don't know," was the answer, in a half-angry manner.
"Didn't Dashwood go home last night?"
"No. I haven't seen him since early yesterday afternoon."
Leonard passed a trembling hand over his forehead, met Nick's frowning
gaze for an instant, and then his eyes sought the floor.