BESTED BY A WOMAN.
Chick and Patsy, with eyes of horror, saw Nick Carter fall, and,
forgetful of everything save the fate of their beloved chief, hurried
to his side. Tears of joy were in their eyes when they saw that he was
not dead, nor even badly injured. His body had struck the Russian,
whose head, coming in contact with the protruding spike of a heavy
board, was now still and lifeless. But the head of the detective, as
well as the upper part of his body, had fallen against a hair mattress,
and thus been the means of saving broken bones and the preservation of
a useful life. Beyond a number of painful bruises and a temporary loss
of breath, Nick Carter was as good as ever.
It was some moments, however, before he could speak to Chick.
"Mannion? Where is he?" he asked.
"Patsy is following him," was the answer; "the boy, as well as myself,
let him go when you fell, but as soon as Patsy saw you were not dead he
rushed around the corner of the house."
"I am afraid he has given us the slip," returned Nick disappointedly.
"Never mind," said Chick consolingly; "we'll get him yet. By the way,
do you know you have cooked the goose of one of the men you were after?"
"What! Goloff?"
"Yes."
"How? Ah! I understand. He was the man I flattened to the sidewalk."
"The same hombre, Nick. And he's dead. No more shall the ear-splitting
notes of his fog-horn voice offend the senses of poor, suffering
humanity."
"Have they taken his body away?"
"Not yet. But I'm looking for the patrol any minute."
The wagon soon came and Nick accompanied the driver to the morgue,
leaving Chick behind to supplement the work of Patsy.
At the morgue, in the course of time, the body was searched, and forty
dollars in money, some letters from San Francisco, written by Goloff's
wife, and several copies of a will were the only articles deserving
attention that were found.
The copies of the will were submitted to Nick by the coroner, and, in
an instant, the detective's mind took in their vital significance.
Here was a find, indeed. There were four copies in all, and the
wording of each was the same. The only points of difference--and
they were slight--lay in the handwriting. Looking at and comparing
them carefully, Nick's correct conclusion was that each copy was
written by the same person and for the purpose of using one--the copy
as perfected--as a model upon which to draft a purported genuine
document. The reading of the words--the purport of the alleged
will--revealed the object sought. And this is what Nick Carter read:
"This, my last will and testament, written by myself and without
dictation, when, sound both in body and mind, disposes of all
the property of which I may be possessed at the time of my
death. I hereby declare that I am without wife or children,
brothers or sisters, or any legal heirs at law. Therefore, I
give and bequeath to the Soldiers' Home five thousand dollars;
the Smithsonian Institute, five thousand dollars; and all the
rest and residue of my property, real and personal, to Arthur
Mannion, son of my deceased wife; and I hereby appoint my dear
friend, Jackson Feversham, to serve as executor of my will, and
desire that no bond shall be required of him.
"JAMES PLAYFAIR."
"WASHINGTON, D. C., April 16. 19--."
For some time after he had handed back the papers to the coroner, Nick
remained in a brown study. Soon his mind was made up as to his course
of action. The finding of these copies must not be made public for a
week. Much might be done in that time, perhaps the case might be ended.
Half an hour later the detective, the coroner, the local detectives,
and secret service men, chiefs and subordinates were closeted together.
To the assembled criminal-catchers Nick exposed his hand and outlined
his plans.
"Mannion knows he is suspected," he said, "but blinded by the great
pecuniary interest at stake, he may conclude to remain in the city for
awhile. If he does he will be caught. If, however, this will business
is sprung on him through newspaper publication he will understand that
all is lost and that his life is not worth a candle."
"But, Mr. Carter," spoke up the coroner, "I don't understand what value
as evidence against Mannion these copies of the will possess. They are
evidently not copies made by James Playfair, for they would not have
been found in the possession of a Russian criminal, an utter stranger
to the old man. Looking upon them, then, as having been written by
another man, Arthur Mannion, say, they reveal nothing more than a silly
propensity to build castles in the air. If a will, worded as these
copies are, should, however, be produced by the executor as a genuine
instrument, or, what purports to be one, and which was found among
Playfair's possessions, then I could see some point to your contention."
The coroner paused. Nick, who had listened quietly and with an
impassive face, replied:
"I think I can satisfy your scruples. Will you kindly step to the
phone, call up Jackson Feversham, and ask him to step around here? His
office is not far away, and if he is in he will be with us in a few
minutes."
Feversham was in his office, and five minutes later made his appearance.
He was asked by Nick if any will had been found.
"Yes," was the answer.
"To whom is the property devised?"
"To me, that is, the larger portion of it. Playfair had no relatives.
He was an only child, and so was his father."
"What is the date of the will?"
"October seventh of last year."
"Where did you find it?"
"Among his papers, in his room."
"Had he a deposit box in any bank?"
"Yes."
"Have you examined that?"
"No. I haven't found the key, and I have concluded to procure an order
of court before having the lock forced."
"You are the executor under the will made in October, are you not?"
"I am."
Having been informed by the chief of detectives that court was then in
session, Nick proposed that Feversham go at once to the judge, state
the exigency of the case and obtain an order for the opening of the box.
"The court can act under the assumption that there is only one will in
existence, the one which is in your possession. Of course," Nick went
on, "the time is too short for the institution of regular proceedings;
but under the circumstances the court may appoint you special
administrator, and in that capacity you can go ahead."
"Yes. I think it can be done," returned Feversham, "and I'll make the
attempt at once. I sha'n't be gone long. Will you wait here, or shall
we arrange for another meeting?"
"If there is no objection," said the coroner, "we will wait."
Feversham, on account of his long residence in Washington, and his high
character as a citizen and as a man, had no difficulty in procuring
the temporary appointment from the court. A locksmith was found, and
in less than an hour after his departure from the room which held the
officers he reappeared with a bulky envelope in his hand.
Opening the envelope in the presence of the company, a number of
papers, stock certificates, tax receipts, bankbooks, etc., and a small,
sealed envelope superscribed "My last will and testament," were brought
forth.
"Before you produce the will which that small envelope holds," said
Nick Carter. "I will venture a prediction of its contents. You will
find it to be an exact reproduction in wording and handwriting of this
model."--holding out one of the will copies taken from the body of
Dimitri Goloff.
The coroner's eyes widened. But he said nothing.
Jackson Feversham opened the envelope, read the will with an amazed
countenance, and then compared it with the copy which Nick had handed
to him.
"You are right, Mr. Carter," he said. "The will I took from the
envelope is a facsimile of the one you gave me. But I--I don't
understand. The idea is abhorrent. I can't believe that James
Playfair, in his right mind, ever made that wretch, Arthur Mannion, his
heir."
"Sit down, Mr. Feversham," said Nick, with a look charged with
reassurance, "and I will try to make matters clear to you and at
the same time relieve your mind. And I will also try to satisfy the
curiosity of our friend the coroner. The will you found in the bank
deposit box is a forgery."
"But," said Feversham, "it is in James Playfair's handwriting. I would
be willing to swear to that."
"I will admit that it is an almost perfect imitation of Playfair's
handwriting," replied the detective, "and that the imitation cannot
probably be duplicated by any man in the United States--barring, of
course, Arthur Mannion--but I cannot admit that it is genuine."
"It may be hard to prove that it is not genuine," put in the coroner.
Feversham, who, since he had last spoken, had been looking closely at
the handwriting of the will, nodded his head at the coroner's words.
"It would deceive an expert," was his comment, given in a tone of
mingled sadness and disgust. "I know Playfair's handwriting--every
peculiarity of it, and there is not a flaw in this document."
"All the same," replied Nick Carter imperturbably, "we are going to
prove that it is a rank forgery. How? Mainly by these copies. Don't you
see their importance? Standing alone, the will might be unassailable,
but when it is opposed by these copies, which upon their face show
indubitable evidence of the process by which all the peculiarities of
Playfair's handwriting were reproduced--the careful steps leading from
crudity to perfection--the forgery is unmasked. Why, in the hands of
the veriest tyro in legal practise, the story of the cheat would be
primer reading to a jury even of asses.
"Four copies of a will making Arthur Mannion heir to an immense fortune
are found in the pockets of Arthur Mannion's confederate in crime. Who,
of all persons in the world, criminally inclined, would be capable
of drawing a will likely to deceive the eyes of an expert? Arthur
Mannion, who probably carried away with him when he left Washington,
years ago, specimens of his stepfather's handwriting. Perhaps they were
letters written to himself and containing words of admonition. And the
bogus will stands not only as an instrument by which Arthur Mannion
hoped to come into possession of a fortune, but also as something of
incalculable value as a weapon in the cause of justice.
"In forging that will Arthur Mannion forged the instrument of his own
destruction, for the controlling motive of the murder is now explained.
Revenge for Playfair's refusal to submit to blackmail played but a
small part in the murder. Mannion wanted the old man's fortune; he
had paved the way to obtain it, and when the time came he removed the
living obstacle from his path."
Jackson Feversham's countenance had lost its expression of gloom and
disgust. His eyes were bright and a smile hovered about his lips.
"It's all clear to me now, Mr. Carter," he said, "and I want you to
accept my apology for having seemed to doubt your judgment even for a
moment. Your explanation goes farther--it throws full light upon the
robbery of Playfair's house."
The great detective inclined his head in assent. "Yes," he said, "the
real purpose of the burglarious entrance into your friend's house is
now shown. Mannion went there to steal the key to the deposit box,
and, incidentally, to appropriate whatever articles of value he might
come across. I am inclined to think that the letters found in the
cash-drawer were letters written by his mother to his stepfather during
their courtship."
"That's it, that's it," exclaimed Feversham. "I've seen him fondling
the package many a time."
"And it was the offer of Mannion to return them that made Playfair
consent to the appointment by the river," continued Nick. "The case is
now clear of fog. The only thing is to catch Mannion."
"It is a pity the fellow Goloff could not have lived long enough to
have spoken a few words," said the Washington chief of detectives. "He
might have been able to tell us where we would be likely to find his
partner. By the way," he added, addressing Nick, "how do you account
for Goloff's possession of those will copies?"
"By discounting the old saw, 'There is honor among thieves,' Mannion,
of course, gave Goloff his confidence, told him all about the forged
will and showed him his first imitative attempts. Naturally there was
a pecuniary understanding between them. It is reasonable to conclude
that Mannion promised the Russian a goodly share of Playfair's fortune.
But Goloff was distrustful. He did not bank on his partner's word; he
wanted surety, and he found it when he filched those will copies.
"In his possession they would serve as a club to make Mannion come to
terms, in the possible event of a disposition on Mannion's part to play
the hog. It is possible, though not probable, that Mannion, in a fit
of generosity, gave the copies himself to Goloff as security for the
performance of the agreement he had made. It matters not, however, how
Goloff procured them. The plain deduction is that they were held for
the purpose I have indicated.
"And now," continued the detective, with his eyes on the coroner, "my
suggestion is that the public be left in ignorance, until we have
caught Mannion, both of the identity of the man killed by my fall from
the scaffolding and of the discovery of the will copies. Goloff came
here a stranger; it is doubtful if his name is known to any one except
myself and my assistants. It will, therefore, be an easy matter to
manage the inquest so that a verdict of accidental death of an unknown
man may be rendered."
The coroner, whose eyes had been opened by Nick's latest explanation
and exposition, promptly fell in with the suggestion.
The chief of detectives saw no objection to the plan, and it was
carried out.
"The time to look for the next move of Mannion's," were the detective's
words as the assembly was about to break up, "is at the time or shortly
alter the will is offered for probate. It must be offered," answering
Feversham's shake of the head, "for not to offer it would amount to a
declaration that its spurious character has been discovered. The offer
will be merely a formal matter; its admission to probate, of course, is
not to be thought of. Before the day set for such action arrives I will
be prepared, I hope, to produce Mr. Mannion and expose the fraud."
Shortly afterward Nick went to his rooms, hoping to find either Chick
or Patsy there. Both rose to greet him as he entered.
"Lost him, did you?" he asked, looking at Patsy, whose face wore a
black, angry expression.
"It wasn't my fault, sir," was his reply, "I was bested by a woman."