NICK CARTER'S FALL.
In the afternoon Nick, disguised as a negro porter, went to L Street.
Chick and Palsy had been instructed in the rôles they were to play. The
house described by Patsy was found, but the carpenters and painters
were not there, although the scaffolding was still in place. As the day
was Saturday, Nick found an explanation for the absence of the workmen.
According to union rules, every Saturday afternoon is a holiday. The
sidewalk had not been cleared and there were boxes, bricks, broken
boards, and odds and ends lying about. Just beyond the entrance to the
stairway, and near the edge of the sidewalk, was a large hair mattress,
the ticking which covered it being torn in many places.
Nick went up the stairs and stopped in front of a small, dingy office,
presided over by a slatternly woman of middle age.
"Is Misto Mannion stayin' heah?" he asked, with an engaging smile.
"Room eighteen, this flo'." was the short answer.
"Ah'm gretly ableeged, Mistis. Ah'll fine hit, mahse'f. Don' yo' stir
you' bones on mah 'count." As the woman made no effort to move, but
simply stared at him, the false negro's courtesy seemed not to have
been required.
Before the room, whose windows overlooked the back yard, Nick stopped,
for inside a man was singing softly to himself. The voice was a light
tenor and was pleasing to the ear.
"The fellow is in happy spirits, apparently," thought the detective.
"Hope I won't agitate him too much."
He knocked gently and presently the door opened and a tall, rather
handsome young man, with dark face, red, womanish lips, cold blue eyes
set close together, and a low forehead confronted him. Women might be
deceived in respect to his character. Men of sense would not be likely
to trust him. He was dressed in the height of fashion and seemed,
entirely at his ease.
His eyes, in cool inquiry, sought the face of the black-faced caller,
whose form trembled slightly.
"Well," he said curtly, "what can I do for you?"
"Ise--Ise de pusson yo' talked to tudder day down by de w'arf, sah,"
said Nick humbly. "Yo' gimme dat bank-bill fo' ter git changed, sah.
Don' yo' 'member dat perceedin'?"
"Yes." A change, swift as lightning, swept over Mannion's countenance.
He was no longer cool and nonchalant, but keen, alert, on his guard.
"What about it?"
"Nuffin', sah, on'y I sho' don' desiah fo' ter git inter no trubble
'bout dat bill."
"Get into trouble? How can you get into any trouble? The bill was all
right, and, anyhow, you didn't change it. You gave it back to me."
"Dat's truf, sah, but de coppers done foun' hit an' days er keepin'
hit. Dat's wat eatin' mah heart out, sah. Wat do de coppers want wid
dat bill? Lucy Miranda--dat's mah ole woman--she say dat de bill is a
hoodoo, an' dat I gotter hab dat young man wat gib hit ter me go git it
an' take de hoodoo off."
Nick, looking at Mannion closely, thought he observed signs of
perturbation.
"Have you spoken to any one about our transaction the other day?"
"No, sah. Ise bin erfraid ter speak, an' Lucy Miranda wouldn' tole de
debble ef he was ter come in an' ast her."
Mannion drew a breath of relief. "I'll go down-town and get the bill,"
he said, "so don't bother your head about it any more. To tell the
truth, I hadn't missed it, or I would have tried to find out what had
become of it."
"De coppers foun' hit near de spot whar de killin' was done." said
Nick, in an awed whisper.
Mannion regarded the false negro sharply, but any suspicion that might
have entered his brain was dissipated at sight of the honest, disturbed
countenance of the speaker.
Mannion did not say anything for a few moments. Then he asked this
question, in what was meant to be a careless manner: "Have you heard
any talk about the bill--that is, any talk in connection with the place
where it was found?"
"Yes, sah, I hab," replied Nick hesitatingly, as he cast down his eyes
and fumbled with his hat. "Ise heard a heap o' talk. Some say dat de
man wat drapped dat bill is sho' 'sponsible fo' de murder." Before
Mannion could open his mouth Nick went on: "Yo' los' dat bill, sah, an'
yo' sho' gotter fine dat killer else de coppers may git after yo', sah."
"Come inside," said Mannion, his face now as pale as death. Nick
entered and the door was closed. "Now be seated and tell me every
word you have heard. This--this is terrible"--meeting Nick's look of
innocent inquiry--"that the man who found that bill, which I carelessly
dropped, should be the murderer the officers are looking for."
The great detective had come to Mannion's room in pursuance of a
definite plan, which he had not seen fit to divulge to any one. He
might have told both Chick and Patsy, for they were to be trusted; but
every detective is human, and Nick may be pardoned for desiring to give
his assistants a surprise. Ever since he had looked upon the dead face
of the murdered man, he had had a card up his sleeve. In examining the
neck upon which the marks of cruel fingers were discernible, he had
made two important discoveries--first, that the marks on the right side
of the neck were heavier than those on the left side; second, that
between the first and second marks, the first being that of the thumb,
was a space of twice the width of each of the other spaces.
It is the business of a detective who hopes to make a success of his
vocation to seize upon what to the layman would appear as the slightest
trifles. Nick Carter's eyes, trained to see every point that would aid
him in the investigation of a criminal case, had let nothing escape him
when he entered the morgue. Now, seated in front of Arthur Mannion, he
knew that he was in the presence of the murderer of James Playfair.
The heavy finger-marks on the right side of Playfair's neck showed to
the expert that the murderer was not only left-handed, but that the
muscular power of the two hands and arms had been reversed from the
ordinary. Once, while the talk was going on at the door, Mannion had
shown that he was left-handed. Twice since entering the room he had
made a similar exhibition. He had raised the window with his left hand,
and with his left hand he dragged from a corner a heavy Morris chair.
But the most damning discovery was, that half of the forefinger of the
left hand was missing. It was not a deformity, as Nick could plainly
see. The finger had been amputated at the middle joint.
"Why don't you speak?" Mannion said irritably, for Nick, lost in his
reflections, had not answered promptly the question that had been put
to him.
"Oh, yo' wan' me ter say wat de udder pe'ple say. Dat hit, sah?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, Ise heahed a heap o' gossip, an' all de talk is des one way. De
killer had dat hoodoo bill."
"Is any one suspected?"
"Yes, sah--dat man Craven is speculated."
"Craven? Who is he?"
There was apparent unconcern in the way the question was asked. And
there was something more. Nick Carter, shrewd student of human nature
as he was, knew that he was now treading on dangerous ground. But he
cared not. He had made his point, and in a few minutes he would prepare
to close in.
"Don' yo' know, sah?" looking at Mannion in a surprised way.
"No, I don't. Never heard of the man before."
"Den it was yo' double, sah, dat was talkin' to him de day ob de
killin'."
Arthur Mannion, with a glint in his blue eyes, which spoke of a sudden
resolution, arose to his feet and went to the wash-basin. Taking a
towel from the rack, he advanced toward the detective, who, divining
what was coming, remained seated. One hand was in his coat pocket,
the other rested on his knee. The hand had gone into the pocket while
Mannion's back was turned.
With the towel concealed behind his back, Mannion came to Nick's side.
Suddenly, without a word, the hand with the towel appeared, when, like
a flash, out came Nick's hand from his pocket, and the villain, looking
down into the muzzle of a revolver, saw sudden death and knew that his
purpose was stayed.
Retreating to the middle of the room, he hissed out these words:
"I didn't need the towel to tell me you were a cursed detective in
disguise."
"And I didn't need much more evidence to prove that you are the man
I want," retorted Nick, in his own character. "So divest yourself
of your weapons and hold out those pretty wrists. The handcuffs are
ready for them. Come, be quick about it"--the voice was now stern and
menacing--"and don't try to come any of your California tricks, for at
the first treacherous move I'll make a shambles out of the room."
Mannion gritted his teeth, cast a murderous glance at the triumphant
man-hunter, and then, from his hip pocket, produced a silver-mounted
revolver.
"It is a pity to give this up," he said surlily, as he fondled it in
his hand, without, however, turning the muzzle in Nick's direction.
"Throw it on the bed or----"
The sentence was not finished, for in an access of desperation, and in
entire disregard of his personal safety, Mannion, as swift as thought
almost, sent the weapon whirling through the air. It struck Nick Carter
squarely on the forehead, cutting the flesh, and sent him tumbling out
of the chair. The next instant, Mannion brushed past his fallen enemy,
opened the door, and rushed to the head of the stairs.
There he hesitated, for the thought struck him at the moment that the
great detective he had just left had not, probably, come to the house
alone; that there were officers down-stairs, ready to give assistance
whenever it should be needed. Therefore, turning from the stair
landing, he hurried to a vacant room fronting the street.
The door was open, and he entered the room just as Nick Carter reached
the corridor. The blow he had received had been a severe one; but the
detective had bathed his face and head, removing the black paste that
disguised him, and had not lost consciousness. Though weak and dizzy,
he was fixed in the resolve to follow and arrest the murderer, no
matter what the danger to himself might be.
Mannion crossed the room and was raising the window to step upon the
scaffolding, when a bullet from Nick's revolver cut a lock of hair from
his head. The detective could have easily killed the man, but it was
not his desire to do so. Mannion must be taken alive and must be made,
under the law's direction, to suffer for his crime. What the fugitive's
object was in seeking the scaffolding, Nick at the time could not
conjecture.
But it was evident that he believed he was taking the most available
way, both to escape from the house and from the detectives who might
be in waiting on the sidewalk. As was afterward learned, Mannion's
intention was to follow the planking of the scaffolding to the side of
the house, around which it ran for a few feet, then descend into the
garden and make his way through the grounds to the street in the rear.
The shot fired by the detective did not stop Mannion in his flight. It
accelerated it. He was out of the window and on the planking as another
bullet whizzed by his head. Chick and Patsy, who had been stationed
below, around the corner of the house, saw Mannion come out of the
window, and did a little pistol-practise themselves, but the fugitive,
who by this time must have arrived at the conclusion that bullets were
harmless, kept on his way.
He was at the front end of the scaffold when Nick Carter passed through
the window. The great detective saw his enemy, and his lips parted in
a grim smile. The man could not escape while he, Nick, was alive, and
Chick and Patsy were below. "Keep an eye on him," he shouted to Chick,
"and we'll get him, sure."
The words were spoken as the detective reached the planking, but the
next moment something happened which was not down on Nick Carter's
program. The scaffold, weakly put together, gave way, through the
breaking of one of the supports, there was a crash, and then sudden
death. It all happened in the twinkling of an eye, and Dimitri Goloff,
who was passing on the sidewalk on his way to Mannion's room, was the
victim. As the support yielded, down went Nick, his body falling with
crushing weight on the head of the Russian.