PETER MANNION COMES ON DECK.
It goes without saying that one of the first to buy a paper that
afternoon was Nick Carter. Eagerly he scanned the telegraphic columns
until he found what he sought. Dated from Baltimore, the item read as
follows: "Last night, at St. Luke's Hospital, a patient who had been
under the care of the doctors for several weeks passed away. Upon his
arrival he had given the name of William Jonas, but a few hours before
he died he confessed that his true name was Arthur Mannion, and that
the police wanted him for the murder of James Playfair, the Washington
millionaire. He stoutly asserted his innocence, called upon God to hear
his word, and died with the name of his wife on his lips."
The great detective very coolly folded the paper and placed it in his
pocket. He was not dumfounded over what he had read, though his brow
was wrinkled as he walked toward his residence.
He was a passenger that evening on the B. & O. train for Baltimore,
and the next morning was at St. Luke's Hospital. The superintendent
received him rather coolly, but upon hearing his name became affable at
once.
"Can I see the body of the man Mannion who died here night before
last?" Nick inquired.
"Unfortunately, no. The burial took place yesterday. It was an
aggravated case of typhoid, and we got him underground as soon as
possible."
"Did he leave any personal property behind?"
"Yes. Two hundred dollars in bank-notes, each of one hundred dollars,
several letters from his wife, addressed to him under the name of
Jonas, and a few other pocket articles."
"Will you allow me to read the letters?"
"Certainly. They are in my drawer here. I am waiting to hear from his
wife. She was notified yesterday morning, and an answer signed by her
father came back, which stated that the blow of her husband's death had
prostrated her, and that she was threatened with brain-fever."
The letters were three in number, and all were written within the
fortnight preceding the death.
The one bearing the earliest date Nick read with amused interest:
"MY DEAR HUSBAND: Each day is more lonesome since your
departure. I shall go mad if things do not turn out as you have
planned. Get well quick. Make those nasty doctors take a special
interest in your case. Offer them the highest inducement, and if
you can't fulfil any agreement you make with them, let me know
and I will help you, if I have to sell the gown off my back.
That hateful Mr. Carter is here yet, but from what he told
father the other day, I think he will leave for New York in a
day or two. We've pulled the wool over his eyes so thoroughly
that he is as harmless as a dove. Chick, poor man, is about
well. He is a good fellow, and I don't think he bears any grudge
against me. But Patsy--you remember Patsy, don't you? He's the
boy I told you about--he takes no stock in me. He told me so the
other day. He had the impudence to say this to my face. 'Young
woman,' said he, 'I wouldn't trust you farther than I can sling
a cat.' I laughed at him. I could afford to. Now, do as I tell
you. Get well and--you know what our plan is.
"Lovingly your own NELLIE."
The second and third letters showed the writer's anxiety over her
husband's condition, which had become serious. In the last letter she
said, if he was not better at the end of a week, she would take him to
Philadelphia and place him under the care of a noted specialist.
Nick returned the letters to the superintendent, and then asked for the
bank-notes. As he had expected, they belonged to the batch stolen from
the body of Cora Reesey. "With what was Mannion afflicted when he came
to the hospital?" was his next question.
"A complication of diseases, brought on by exposure. He looked like a
tramp when he arrived, and said that for many days he had been sleeping
in barns, sheds, and on the ground. Typhoid set in a week ago."
"Can you give me a description of his person, not omitting any physical
peculiarity?"
"Yes. He was tall, thin, dark-featured, black-haired--he wore no
mustache, had shaved it off, he said--and half of the forefinger of his
left hand was missing."
Nick's brow clouded for a moment. Then from the innermost corner
of his brain crept an idea. "Doctor," said he, "have you given me a
complete description of the dead man? Was there not some artificial
mark on his left arm?"
"Yes; I had forgotten," replied the superintendent apologetically.
"There was a castle tattooed on his arm."
"I thought so. One more question, and I am done. Did Mannion have any
visitors, friends, while he was in the hospital?"
"One, his uncle, who came a few days before the typhoid symptoms
appeared. Mannion said the uncle was the only blood relative he had."
"Did they hold long conversations?"
"On the first visit they had a long talk. After that they had not much
to say to each other."
"Was the uncle an old man?"
"Sixty, at least, though he has no gray hairs. An old soldier, I should
say, for he was as straight as an arrow, and had but one arm, taken off
close to the shoulder."
"What name did he give?"
"Peter Mannion."
"Were you prepossessed in his favor?"
"Very much so. He was, or appeared to be, a perfect gentleman."
That evening Nick was in Washington. After a long talk with Chick, he
retired to pass a restless night. The next morning Chick left the city,
taking the Baltimore train, but getting off at Beltzville. Patsy, by
another route, left Washington in the afternoon.
A few days afterward, while Nick was at Prosper Craven's house, at
which he had been a constant visitor, a tall, handsome, elderly man was
ushered in by Nellie Mannion, who, the day before, had risen from a
sickbed.
"Father," said she, "this is the uncle of Arthur. He lives near
Baltimore, and has come to see me."
Nick Carter did not remain in the house but a few moments after the
uncle's arrival. Excusing himself, he went out to give utterance to a
soft whistle.
The uncle bore no resemblance to Arthur Mannion outside of his eyes.
There was some similarity in shape, position, and expression. But
Mannion's hair was black. This man's was light-brown. Mannion had full,
red lips. This man's were thin and bloodless. Mannion had a sharp
nose; this man's was broad and full. This man's voice was heavy and
harsh. Mannion's was a light, musical one. There were other points of
dissimilarity, but still the relationship might exist. Nick noticed
that the uncle wore no sleeve to hide the loss of his arm. From
appearances, the arm had been amputated at the shoulder-joint. "And
yet, and yet," muttered the detective, under his breath, but without
going further.
Chick returned three days later.
"Got it?" asked Nick, with no endeavor to hide his eagerness.
"Yes. Luck was with me. I traced Mannion from the time he left
Beltzville until he arrived in Baltimore."
Chick did not remain in Washington but a few hours. Another mission of
importance took him away. After his departure, Nick called on Jackson
Feversham. He did not tell the murdered man's friend all he knew and
suspected, for the detective was a stickler for the preservation of the
dramatic unities. But he did say this:
"Arthur Mannion is not dead. Preparations are making for the attempted
perpetration of a monstrous fraud. If the conspirators knew what we
know about the will, the attempt would never be made. But, thanks to
the coroner and the local officials, the secret of the copies has been
kept, and before many days somebody representing Arthur Mannion will
appear in court and ask, first, to have that bogus will admitted to
probate, and second, to have some person--I can name him--appointed
administrator of Mannion's estate; the estate, of course, being the
property which is mentioned in the will drawn in his favor."
"Who is this person who will represent Mannion?"
Nick told Feversham about the uncle. "Peter Mannion is the man. He came
to Washington to see his nephew's wife, of course, but principally for
the purpose of getting hold of the Playfair property. Playfair himself,
being wanted for murder, could not appear, so the scheme that he should
die was concocted."
"He is in hiding somewhere not far from here, I suppose?"
"That is my opinion. And he will know every move that will be made
in his behalf. It's a pretty plot, a bold plot, but it hasn't the
slightest chance to win."
"How did you discover it? And are you sure that the person who died in
the Baltimore hospital was not Arthur Mannion?"
"When I read the announcement of the death," said Nick, "my suspicions
were aroused. Frauds of this kind are no new thing. The criminal
records, both of America and Europe, are full of them. I had been
waiting for Mannion or his friends to make some move, and the death
scheme, under the circumstances, seemed just the thing. I went to
Baltimore puzzled as to the manner in which the fraud had been
accomplished, but, after my visit to the hospital, I had the whole
thing before me as clear as day. Some of the details are, as yet,
unknown to me, but the fraud itself, the purpose for which it was
perpetrated, the plan of conduct which it suggests, all were revealed.
"Peter Mannion, acting for Arthur Mannion, arranged the cunning
deception, and I must say his work shows the hand of a master artist.
The fellow who died was a petty thief, Knocker Jilson, whom I had
known in New York, and who of late years has been hoboing it about the
country. He must have fallen in with Arthur Mannion while Mannion was
journeying under cover from Washington to Baltimore. Jilson fell sick
and went to the hospital; went there, of course, with Mannion's money.
But the scheme to trick the officers and the public was not broached
to Jilson until he saw death in the near distance. It must have
suggested itself to Mannion when he saw that Jilson, like himself, had
half of his left forefinger missing, and that there was a resemblance
between the two men in height, color of hair, and general appearance.
What inducements were offered I can only guess. But I don't think
I will be far out of the reckoning when I say that the offer meant
pecuniary assistance to some relative of Jilson's; probably an old
mother, whom he had neglected in her days of adversity.
"As it might be unsafe for Arthur Mannion to appear at the hospital and
see that the fraud was carried out, the work fell upon the shoulders
of Peter, who appears to possess all the qualifications necessary for
the purpose. But there was one thing that escaped the notice of the
conspirators--the tattooing on Jilson's arm. It could never have been
observed, otherwise there would have come a hitch in the proceedings.
But the tattooing kills the fraud, for, with the missing finger, it
positively identifies the dead man as Jilson."
"When do you propose exposing the plot, Mr. Carter?" asked Feversham.
"On the day set by the court for hearing the application which I feel
assured Peter Mannion will make. Probate day is to-morrow. We must be
in court when it opens, but not where Peter Mannion can see us. If I am
not mistaken, he will appear to-morrow, for he is not the man to permit
the grass to grow under his feet."
Nick's prediction came true. The next forenoon, after court opened,
Peter Mannion, accompanied by a lawyer of shady reputation, appeared.
A will purporting to have been made by Arthur Mannion and witnessed by
Prosper Craven and Emma Newton, a neighbor of Craven's, was presented
for probate. By the terms of this will all the property possessed by
the alleged decedent was bequeathed to Nellie Mannion, the wife, Peter
Mannion, the uncle, being named as sole executor. As the instrument was
in due form, it took the usual course, being set for hearing on the
next court day. Then the matter of Playfair's will was taken up at the
suggestion of Peter Mannion's attorney, and the hearing set, also, for
the next court day.
On reaching his room after the court-room incidents, Nick found Patsy.
"And your mission. Did it succeed?" questioned the great detective.
"It was too easy," replied Patsy.