NICK IN A TRAP.
"I got in with a mob of hoboes at Patapsco," said Patsy. "I know their
holes, and when I left the train at Patapsco town and went toward the
river, I felt sure I'd strike 'em. And what do you think? The main
hiker is Snub-nosed Johnny, who used to be train-boy on the Boston and
Albany. The minute I lamped him I knew the game was mine. Inside of
five minutes he handed me out a dope about Jilson and Mannion that put
me on velvet. Both these guineas were with the gang, Mannion for a few
days, Jilson for several weeks.
"Johnny said Jilly and Mannion--the hoboes called him Serious
Silas--had their blocks together about all the time. One day he
saw Serious writing a letter for Jilly. The letter, he afterward
discovered, was to Jilly's mother, who lives at Hagerstown. Did I go
to Hagerstown? Cert. And I found the old lady. She is over seventy,
sickly, and a washerwoman. Had she heard from her son lately? Her
old, honest, patient face lit up with a smile that was heavenly in
its sweetness. Yes, indeed, she had heard from the dear boy, who had
forsaken his evil ways and was now at honest work in Baltimore.
"He had not forgotten his old mother, for during the past month he had
sent her one hundred dollars. And, what was better still, he was on
the way to making a lot of money all in a heap, and when he had made
it, he intended to send enough to keep her for the rest of her life.
Then she broke down and cried, but the tears were tears of joy. My eyes
were wet, too, and I could not say a word to undeceive her."
"You are a good boy, Patsy," said Nick, with a look of approbation,
"and I'll see that Mrs. Jilson gets the money she is expecting."
The days came and went. Chick appeared, remained a day, and went off
again. Patsy made several trips out of the city. Nick remained, like
a spider watching its web. On the afternoon of the day preceding the
probate day, upon which so much depended, the detective and Patsy were
sitting in the E Street room, talking over matters pertaining to the
morrow's program.
The windows of the room overlooked the street. The detective, while
talking to Patsy, was seated near one of the windows, and he had
occasionally looked out. As Patsy was preparing to go out, Nick's eye,
turning toward the street, fell upon the form of Peter Mannion, who,
cane in hand and with soldierly dignity, was walking along the opposite
sidewalk. He glanced up once, saw Nick's face, and then quickly turned
his head.
The appearance of the man in that quarter, while it might not mean
anything, yet gave rise in Nick's mind to a suspicion that the uncle
was out for a purpose. Although Peter Mannion might think that the
scheme upon which he was working was perfect in all its details, yet
the presence in Washington of the noted detective, Nick Carter, on the
day preceding the calling of the probate cases would have a disquieting
effect upon his nerves. Nick said a few quick words to Patsy, who at
once put on his hat, left the room, and went down the stairs.
The boy did not follow Peter Mannion, but went unconcernedly up the
street toward the railway depot. He walked slowly, and Nick, without
showing his face to passers-by in the street, saw that the uncle had
taken note of Patsy, had turned about and was now following him. The
detective's face showed satisfaction. What the next act on the program
would be he could not guess, but that there was an act scheduled for
near performance he would have staked his existence.
The day passed without incident. Toward dark Nick went out and had
dinner in a Pennsylvania Avenue restaurant. After his refreshment he
walked about, enjoying his cigar and the calm, soft night. He was
standing on the marble walk of the little triangular square at the
corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Seventh Street, listening to a
colored quartet, the singing adjunct of an outdoor gospel meeting,
when Peter Mannion passed him. Nick did not turn his head, and he was
satisfied that the uncle was going on under the impression that he had
not been observed. Where was he going?
Nick became a shadower, and when he saw the uncle disappear through the
double doors of the Metropolitan Hotel, a look of disappointment crept
into his face. All at once an idea, containing a queer suggestion,
came to him. Egress from the rear of the hotel would take a person
either on to John Marshall Avenue or C Street, and by either route
there was a short and easy walk to the detective's quarters on E Street.
Hurrying around the corner, Nick saw no sign of his quarry on the
avenue. He then hastened to C Street. Peter Mannion was nowhere in
sight. Perhaps he had not had time to get there. The detective in the
dark shade cast by the sidewalk trees waited for ten minutes, his
observation covering both ways of departure from the hotel premises.
Then he went to the hotel, entered the office, which held only the
clerk and several colored attachés, and asked if a person, describing
Peter Mannion, had been in that evening. The reply of the clerk was
that the gentleman referred to had engaged a room for the night, and
had then gone out.
"By the front way?"
"Yes."
"I may have been making a mountain out of a mole-hill," thought Nick,
as he went out, "but I don't like the look of things. Peter has a card
to play, and I will confess that he is a deeper man than I imagined."
Arrived at the stairway leading to his rooms, he scrutinized it
carefully from top to bottom. No trap was there. In the corridor above
his searching eye again came into play. All was as it should be. Before
his own door he paused and listened. Silence within. Then with his
pass-key he unlocked the door and threw it open, but did not enter.
The lights inside were out, but the illumination from the street
enabled him to see that everything appeared to be as he had left it.
True, he could not see into the closet, but, stooping, he could see
under the bed.
He was in this posture, when the door of a room on the opposite side
of the corridor opened quickly; a man sprang out, and, with uplifted
sand-bag, struck the detective a powerful blow on the head. Nick
flattened out and did not move. Swiftly the body of the unconscious
detective was dragged into his room, and the door closed and locked.
Fifteen minutes later Nick opened his eyes, to find that he could
neither move nor speak. His enemy had restored him to consciousness,
but had taken the precaution to bind and gag him.
The room was now full of light, and Nick, with aching head but with
clear sense, saw that he had fallen a victim to the wiles of Peter
Mannion.
The uncle, seated in an easy chair, looked at the disgruntled
man-hunter with an evil smile.
"You did not realize what you were up against?" the harsh voice jeered.
"Thought you had a farmer in tow, I suppose? Well, you might have made
the proper crack at Arthur, if he had been alive, but you are no match
for the mature individual who is now before you."
Nick clenched his hands. It was all he could do. He would have gritted
his teeth, but the gag was in the way.
"I don't know as this move of mine was required," Peter Mannion went
on, "for I think the game is in such shape that even Nick Carter could
not have checkmated it. But it's best to have the ground entirely
clear. You were obnoxious; the sight of you at Craven's the other
day offended my sense of proportion. You don't fit into the picture.
To-morrow is my day, and butters-in are barred."
The uncle lighted a cigar, and, stooping over, deliberately blew smoke
into his captive's face. Nick blinked his eyes, but the glance he gave
his tormentor was cool and defiant.
"You are probably consoling yourself with the idea," pursued Peter
Mannion, with easy assurance, "that your smart friend, Chick, will play
your hand in case you are unable to do so. Don't think it. It's not
on the program. Chick may come here to-morrow--I reckon he will--but
he will not find you here. He will, however, find a note in your dear
handwriting, informing him that you have struck a clue which clinches
the whole business beyond the possibility of a doubt, and that he must
come to your assistance without the delay of a moment. The note will
further state that you are to be found on the outskirts of Georgetown,
about a mile below the big bridge and at a boat-landing, with boat
all ready for a sail. Will Chick bite? Of course, he'll bite. Chick
is impulsive. Even if he suspected a trap he would go, for Chick is
devoted to you, and would brave any danger for your sake. How do I know
this? Through Nellie, my niece-at-law. Chick talked himself nearly
blind while he was staying at Craven's house. He did not give anything
away, but he said lots of nice things about you. Wish I could do the
same, but I can't. You are not nice in my eyes."
There was a soft expression on the great detective's face. His thoughts
were of Chick. But when this passed, alarm did not follow. On the
contrary, a calm, deadly look shone in his eyes.
"As for Patsy," resumed Peter Mannion, with a contemptuous wave of the
hand, "he's a boy and doesn't count. Besides, he's out of the way, for
I was at the depot to-day, and saw him buy a ticket for New York. And
if he does come back here within a week, it will be an easy job to fix
him. This is the note which will settle Mr. Chick," he concluded, as he
took from his pocket a folded paper and held it, opened, before Nick's
eyes.
It bore evidence of having been written hurriedly, but the handwriting
was a masterly imitation of the great detective's.
"Don't imagine that I did it," said Peter Mannion, "for such tricks are
beyond me. But there's a smart little girl down at Craven's who spent
a whole day in dressing up the document. How did she get a specimen of
your fist? your eyes ask. Luck gave it to her. Chick's clothes, when
they were changed, shed a note which you had written to him, and Nellie
picked it up from under the bed after he had left the house. There was
nothing in the note of value to us outside the handwriting."
The uncle might be lying, or he might be telling the truth. Nick had
his own opinion on the matter, but he could not express it, and he
would not have expressed it if he could.
"I suppose you are wondering what fate is in store for you?" showing
his teeth in a diabolical smile. "It is the fate of the interferer.
To-morrow morning you will sleep at the bottom of the Potomac. The
prospect doesn't seem to frighten you. Well, I'll give you credit for
being a thoroughbred. Pity you hadn't been born with a little more
sense. Yes, you're booked for fish-bait, all right, and this is how
I'll do the job. That big trunk, there in the corner"--pointing to
a Saratoga--"will hold you fast and sure. A little after daybreak
to-morrow morning an expressman will come for it. He will deposit it
near the Mt. Vernon wharf, from which it will be conveyed to a small
launch. On board that launch will be your humble servant, and, after an
hour's trip down the river, the launch will return without the trunk.
Am I explicit enough for your understanding?"
Nick nodded his head, and Peter Mannion thought he saw his face blanch
with fear and dread.
"Everything," the villain went on, as he blew a wreath of smoke toward
the ceiling, "has been arranged with care. The landlady of this flat is
unsuspicious. She is a German, and she is resting under the belief that
I am your elder brother. She did not see me as you see me now. Oh, no,
Nicholas, not for your honey-boy. She talked with a very old man, with
two arms--thanks to this wig and these whiskers"--fishing them from
his pocket--"and this wooden arm"--picking it up from the floor--"and
if she sees me go out, she will again see the same aged abuser of
trusting innocence. I have nothing more to say at this moment, except
to remark that I shall remain here with you until just before daylight.
Then I shall put you into the trunk, stuff the blank places with
pillows and sheets, lock the trunk, take away the key, and leave you
for the kind offices of the expressman."
And so the night passed. Nick Carter suffered, how much he never told,
for he was not one to expose his scars. The cords hurt his wrists and
ankles, and the gag was a source of torture. But he bore it all without
a sign of distress, and there was nothing of the craven in his pale
face when at daylight he was lifted and doubled up into the Saratoga
trunk.
Peter Mannion's words as he left the room were these:
"We shall never see each other again. I leave you with this reflection
to make more bitter your last hours on earth: For the first time in
your life you have bumped up against a smarter man than yourself. Ta!
ta!"