THE STOLEN IDENTITY.
It was several weeks after the arrest of Jimmy Duryea that Nick Carter
one morning laid aside the newspaper he had been reading and gave his
attention to the hearty breakfast that had just been put before him.
He made no remark, although Chick, who was seated at the table at his
right, and Patsy Garvan, his second assistant, who was at his left, and
Adelina—the wife of Patsy—who was opposite him, all raised their eyes
inquiringly to his face, as if they had confidently expected some sort
of a statement from their chief.
But the detective ate his breakfast in silence; and the three persons
who were closest to him in point of intimacy respected that silence,
and preserved it on their own several parts.
Never, in the house of Nick Carter, had there been a more wordless meal.
The two assistants knew what their chief was thinking about; Adelina’s
intuitiveness made her aware of Nick Carter’s desire for silence. All
knew that presently, when he had thoroughly digested the thoughts
induced by the reading of that article in the paper, he would say
something upon the subject that so strangely interested each of them.
But he had pushed away the breakfast things and had carefully selected
a cigar from his case, before he broke that unusual silence; and then
he said, addressing no one in particular, but all of them generally:
“I don’t care a hang what that supreme court judge says, or how much
proof has been brought to sustain the contention of Bare-Faced Jimmy;
not a hang. I know that the man is Bare-Faced Jimmy Duryea, otherwise
Howard Drummond, and what is more, I am going to chuck everything else
aside until I have proved it. I won’t let that fellow beat me.”
Chick and Patsy glanced across the table at each other, and nodded.
Adelina replied:
“Nobody has ever supposed that you would permit such a thing,” she said.
“The thing about it that hurts,” said Nick, “is the fact that my
testimony and all that Nan Nightingale swore to, went for nothing.
I wonder if that judge thinks me a fool? One would suppose that
my reputation would stand for something; and yet—— Listen to this
paragraph from the learned opinion.”
The detective seized the paper, and read aloud:
“‘It is one of the most remarkable cases of mistaken identity that
has ever been brought to the attention of this court. The testimony
of Nicholas Carter, the detective, of his assistant, and of Miss
Nancy Nightingale, would seem to be conclusive, if the evidence they
gave were not so entirely overwhelmed by the voluminous testimony
in contradiction. But where a whole community comes forward, as in
this instance, and offers what must stand as irrefutable testimony
concerning the identity of the appellant, Mr. Ledger Dinwiddie, the
duty of the court is obvious. Men and women of advanced years, who
have known Ledger Dinwiddie since his birth, swear to his identity—and
there can be no gainsaying them. Men and women of approximately his
own age, who knew him in his childhood and youth, who attended school
with him, swear to his identity—and there can be no question of their
entire sincerity. A negro woman who nursed him in his babyhood, and
who watched him grow to young manhood, swears to his identity, and
demonstrates her fondness for him, now—and her love for him speaks in
his favor even stronger than her words. On the other hand, the proof
offered, establishing the death of the man called James Duryea, seems
incontrovertible. There is only one conclusion at which this court can
arrive, namely, that Ledger Dinwiddie has sufficiently established his
identity.
“‘The judgment of the lower court is affirmed.
“‘All concur.’”
“Now, what do you think of that?” the detective asked, turning his
glance from one to another of his companions at the table.
“It sounds to me,” replied Patsy, who was always plainspoken and who
was apt to call things by their right names, “as if the judge meant
to let you down as easily as possible, chief, but that he evidently
believes you to be one of two things; a——”
“A liar, or a jackass,” Nick interrupted his second assistant.
“Well, that is putting it rather strong, chief. I didn’t mean to say
exactly that. In the first part of that lengthy opinion, he cites case
after case of mistaken identity, and tries to show that he hasn’t the
slightest doubt of your sincerity; but all the same he implies that
your zeal has got the better of your judgment—and that is what hurts
most, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Nick, nodding.
“Anyhow,” said Chick, smiling a bit grimly, “Jimmy seems to be on top
at the present moment. He has established his legal right to the name
of Dinwiddie; he has placed on record, legally, the death of Bare-Faced
Jimmy Duryea. He has won out.”
“For the present—yes.”
“But,” volunteered Adelina, “there is still the charge against him of
the theft of the diamond necklace, and the other jewels; and there
is the unpleasant fact that he posed as a single man, and affianced
himself to Lenore Remsen from whom he stole the necklace, when all the
time he was a married man. That——”
Nick Carter shrugged his shoulders so significantly that Adelina
stopped. Then she asked:
“What will he do about those charges?”
“He will manage to slip away from them,” replied the detective; “and,
for the present, I am quite content to let him do so. In fact, I would
rather he would succeed, for the moment.”
“Isn’t it an unfortunate circumstance,” asked Patsy, “that the Remsens
should have started away for an unlimited stay in Europe, the moment
after they had given their testimony?”
“Yes; and no. The additional testimony they might have given would have
done little or no good to our side of the case; at least, it would not
have injured Jimmy. He would have succeeded in establishing himself
just as firmly as he has now done, if they had remained. And, when all
is said, one cannot blame them for wishing to get out of the country.
It isn’t a very pleasant experience for people in their position to
have had their only daughter engaged to be married to a man who is even
suspected of having been the sort of crook that Bare-Faced Jimmy was,
to say nothing of the fact that he was already married.”
“I suppose that is why Theodore Remsen came out in that interview in
the paper and stated over his own signature that the report of his
daughter’s engagement to Jimmy was all a mistake; was not true, and
that there had never been the slightest foundation for the report.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you do the same under like circumstances?”
“I don’t know but I would, at that.”
“We will not concern ourselves about that part of the affair,” said
the detective. “It is not vital to what I wish to accomplish in this
matter, whether Jimmy posed as a single man or not, or whether he
became engaged to Lenore Remsen, while he already had a wife living,
or not. It is not particularly vital whether he stole those jewels, or
not—save only from one standpoint.”
“What is that one?” Adelina asked him.
“That one standpoint is Nan Nightingale,” replied the detective.
The others were silent and waited for the detective to proceed with
what he was saying.
“The fact of the matter is right here,” Nick continued. “Up there at
the Remsen residence—The Birches—all of Nan’s previous history was
brought out. She confessed it all herself. She was all right after that
confession—so far as those who were present and heard it are concerned;
but she was not, and is not, all right in the estimation of thousands
of others who have had only the reports in the newspapers to direct
their thought.”
“I see,” said Adelina.
“Aside from those who were present in that house at the time of the
finding of the jewels, when I put the irons on Jimmy, nine out of ten
people believe to this day that Nan Nightingale knew more about the
disappearance of that necklace and the other jewels than any other
person. So you see for Nan’s sake, if for no other, the fact that
Ledger Dinwiddie is not Ledger Dinwiddie, but is really Bare-Faced
Jimmy, must be established. It is the only thing that can be done
to set her right, for, in doing it, we also prove that he was,
unquestionably, the thief.”
Patsy got upon his feet and crossed to the window. He stood there
for a moment and then turned about, delivering himself of an opinion
which was by no means original, since it has been voiced since time
immemorial by thousands of others. He said:
“I’m no lawyer, and I’m glad that I am not; but I do want to say this:
I think that many of the rules practiced in a court, governing the
admission of evidence, are far from right.”
“Why?” asked the detective, smiling.
“Because, as in this affair, every bit of testimony we relied on
relating to the engagement between Lenore Remsen and Jimmy was ruled
out; every question that Jimmy was asked relating to this wife of his,
who is said to have been a countess, or a duchess, or something of the
sort, was ruled out. We don’t know a thing about that, officially.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Chick, or you, Patsy, to ask who and what
that woman, who is now Jimmy’s wife, has been in the past?”
“It had not—until this moment,” confessed Chick.
“I thought of her only as another possible victim of Jimmy’s,” said
Patsy.
“Well,” said the detective slowly, “in my opinion you will find that
she is a product of the underworld, just as Jimmy is one. This whole
thing was a conspiracy planned and hatched between those two. This
wife consented to leave him, for the time being, that there might be
no obstacle in the way of his marrying the millions that Lenore Remsen
would have brought to him.
“After Jimmy had succeeded in getting his clutches upon the aforesaid
millions by divorcing the wife who has been called Juno, and marrying
Lenore for her money, Lenore would have been put out of the way
quietly, and then Jimmy and Juno would have come together again to
remarry and enjoy the great fortune which could be obtained only by
sacrificing the life and happiness of a sweet girl.”
“Gee, Nick!” said Chick. “If I thought that——”
“I think it, Chick; and it is because I think it, and also for the sake
of Nan Nightingale, that I am determined to search this affair to the
bottom and to explore the whole rotten business.
“The weak point in Jimmy’s case is the woman, Juno,” said Nick.
“Just how do you mean that?” Chick asked his chief.
“I’ll give you a left-handed answer to that question,” replied the
detective. “I am not going to waste my time in trying to search out
what Jimmy has done and where he has been since he was supposed to have
died on that island in the Sound.”
“Why not?”
“Because the chances are about ten thousand to one that Jimmy has
covered up his tracks so thoroughly that there would be no tracing him.
He’s an adept at that sort of thing, as you know.”
“Yes.”
“There never was a craftier villain on earth than Jimmy; there never
was a more far-seeing one; there never was a man so well adapted to
throwing others off the scent as Jimmy has proved himself to be ever
since I have known anything about him.”
“Well?”
“And, to begin with, we already know that salient fact about him and
his present situation; but the point is, we cannot prove anything.”
“I know.”
“So does he know. And all the time he is laughing in his sleeve at us.
He knows that we know—and he doesn’t care a rap.”
“That is true enough.”
“And why? Simply because he knows also that we cannot establish
evidence that would be upheld in a court of law. That has been tried.
Jimmy has ceased to be Jimmy and has become Dinwiddie. His position
from that point is unassailable.”
“I guess you are right about that.”
“But, Chick, there never yet was a fortress so impregnable that it did
not have its one weak spot; just as the speed of a fleet is determined
by the slowest vessel in it, so is the strength of a fort established
by its weakest spot; and so is the invulnerability of evidence made
vulnerable.”
“And you look upon this woman, Juno, as being the weak spot in the
armor?”
“Precisely.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
“Not that I know of. The name means nothing, suggests nothing, to me;
but a name is of no importance.”
“No; the woman may have had a dozen names.”
“Well, Chick, I am going to look up that woman. The very circumstance
of her being so decidedly in the background just now, when Jimmy was
trying to marry that little Remsen girl, assures me that Juno was as
deeply concerned in the plot, as Jimmy. If she was as deep in the mud
as he was in the mire of it, it follows as naturally as two-plus-two,
that Juno not only knew Jimmy before she married him, but that she had
lived the same sort of life as he had. I’m going after that woman.”
“At once?”
“Yes. I’m going to leave Jimmy severely alone and trace the woman; but,
first, I’ve got to see her; to have a look at her; to make a sketch of
her face.”
“What am I to do in the case, Nick?”
“I’m going to give you the part that is really most difficult, because
it will be less likely to be productive of results,” replied the
detective.
“Well?”
“I’m going to send you out on Jimmy’s track. I want you to start at the
island.”
Chick nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “You want me to go there and see what can be
found concerning the supposed death and burial of Jimmy.”
“Exactly. When the time comes to bring forward the proofs which I am
confident that we shall find—the stronger we are in that quarter the
better it will be for us.”
“I see. I’m to keep on that lay, no matter whether I succeed in digging
up anything or not.”
“Exactly. Patsy will go with you and assist you.”
“You mean that you will work alone?”
“Not entirely alone. I think I will call upon Nan for assistance. But I
want you and Chick to bear in mind just one thing.”
“What is that?”
“No matter what comes to the office in the way of cases, everything
is to be turned down and put aside until this one is finished. Every
energy of this office, yours, Patsy’s, and mine, is to be devoted to
putting Bare-Faced Jimmy behind the bars. Understand that?”
“Yes. Thoroughly.”
“Well, with that understanding, go ahead. Be your own master. Do as you
want to do. Do not wait to ask a question of me. I shall go away this
afternoon. I won’t be back here in this office until I have solved this
case and am ready to put Jimmy where he belongs. It may take me six
days, and it may take me six months—but if it takes me a year to do it,
it shall be done just the same.”
It was only a few hours later when Nick Carter was seated in the parlor
of the little apartment which Nan Nightingale called home, in Riverside
Drive, and presently Nan entered the room and hurried toward him with
extended hand.
“I know what has brought you here, Mr. Carter,” she said, as she took
a seat opposite him. “I have read the morning papers containing the
report of that decision—and also an edition of one of the afternoon
papers, which is just out. I was finishing that article just as you
were announced.”
“Something in one of the afternoon papers?” returned Nick. “What is
that? I have not seen it.”
“I have it here. I will show it to you in a moment. Don’t you think it
is a remarkable thing that Jimmy should so thoroughly have established
himself that he was able to satisfy the court that he is Ledger
Dinwiddie and has not been Bare-Faced Jimmy?”
“Remarkable? Of course it is remarkable. It only goes to show what
a thorough plotter the fellow is. He had prepared himself for every
emergency before he started on this affair.”
“Yes. He was not so far wrong when he defied you up there at The
Birches, was he?”
“No; and he did defy me, too. He said that he could prove that he was
Dinwiddie, even while he did not hesitate to admit to me that he was
Jimmy. But what about that article in the afternoon paper? Tell me
about that.”
“Shall I tell you about it, or would you prefer to read it for
yourself?”
“Tell me about it. I am satisfied that you have gleaned all there is in
it.”
“Oh, it isn’t much; only one of Jimmy’s old tricks.”
“Old tricks? How is that?”
“Why, he has condescended to permit a reporter to interview him—about
his wife.”
“Ah! There ought to be some meat in that—for me.”
“I think there is. That is why I was so interested in it.”
“Tell me about it.”
“There is more than a column and a half in the story that the reporter
tells about the interview.”
“Yes? Well?”
“The account starts in by giving a resumé of the case. It tells
how Mr. Ledger Dinwiddie, the last of his race, broken in fortune,
land-poor, left his home in despair before he was seventeen, and had
never been heard of since then until a short time ago, when he suddenly
reappeared, bringing with him a beautiful wife.”
“Yes.”
“It tells how old friends of the family would never permit the lands of
the Dinwiddies to be sold for taxes, and how Jimmy paid up the interest
on the mortgages when he returned, and paid off the taxes. Then it
recites the remarkable case of his being mistaken for a criminal,
and how readily he proved that he was not—and goes into quite a long
explanation of a distant relationship existing between that dead
criminal and Ledger Dinwiddie, which accounts for the resemblance.”
“Oh, yes. Never mind all that, Nan. Get down to the part about the
wife. That is what interests me most just now.”
“In the interview Jimmy explains to the reporter that the alleged
engagement between him and Miss Remsen was in the nature of a joke. He
admits that there was some foundation for the report, but says it was
given out at the request of Miss Remsen herself—and, by the way, there
is a printed cablegram from Theodore Remsen which says that the stated
version of it is substantially correct.”
“Of course Remsen would say that. It lets him down easy and stops
gossip. Go on.”
“The impression that Jimmy succeeds in giving is to the effect
that Lenore Remsen’s father wanted her to marry a man she did not
admire—whose name is not mentioned.”
“Naturally, since there was no such man. But, go on.”
“And that it was a put-up job between Jimmy and Lenore that they
should pretend to be in love with each other in order that she might
escape the other man. That is all there is to it, save that Jimmy
speaks at length about his wife, whom he calls Juno.”
“Yes. Well, that is the part of it that I want to hear.”
“He says that soon after he left his home in Virginia he made the
acquaintance of the young woman, who is now his wife. That he fell in
love with her at once, but that because he had no means with which to
support a wife, he did not ask her to marry him until about a year
ago. And then, he states, it developed that she had been in love with
him all the time—and so they were married. A real love match. He says
that he adores his wife and that she is equally fond of him, and that
he makes this statement to the reporter in order that the world may
understand exactly how things stand, and may not misjudge him, or her,
ever again.”
“The cheek of the fellow is monumental, Nan.”
“It certainly is,” she replied.