THE MAN ON THE BED.
It was more than an hour previous to the episodes last described, when
Chick Carter responded to Nick’s brief instructions from Mrs. Clayton’s
residence, and then set out post-haste for the Hotel Westgate.
He did not know, of course, why Nick had been led to suspect Guelpa, nor
anything about what Patsy had discovered and what had befallen him. That
Nick suspected Guelpa, however, and very seriously, Chick had not a
doubt.
It was not eight o’clock when he approached the huge hotel, and purely
by a stroke of good luck, nearing a side entrance to the house, he
discovered the very man he was seeking.
Doctor Guelpa had just emerged and was hurrying away.
“By Jove, fortune favors me,” thought Chick, with a thrill of
satisfaction. “This is better than I could have hoped. There must be
something in the wind, or he would not be in such a hurry. If he gives
me the slip, however, I’ll eat my hat. I’d give something to know what
Nick has on him.”
Chick knew, however, that he needed only to follow the directions given
him.
With no great difficulty, he shadowed Guelpa to his office in Fifth
Avenue, a walk of about six minutes, and saw him enter the dark rooms,
those on the first floor of a remodeled house.
Much to Chick’s surprise, however, after waiting and watching for
several minutes, no light appeared at either of the windows.
“By gracious, that’s mighty strange,” he said to himself, then concealed
in an opposite doorway. “Is he remaining in there in darkness? What’s
his game, in that case, and why is he--great guns! there he is, now!”
Doctor Guelpa had come hurrying around the near corner, and was
evidently returning to the hotel.
Chick shadowed him again, but not without a quick survey of the opposite
house and the adjoining buildings.
“I’ll swear he did not come out of that house,” he said to himself.
“There is no way of getting to a back entrance from the avenue. There
may be an alley leading in from the side street. Either that, or he went
through the first house around the corner. Later, by Jove, I may
discover which. The game seems to have just broken cover.”
Chick followed Guelpa back to the hotel and saw him enter his suite.
Not content with that, wondering what he might be doing, he crept to the
door and peered through the keyhole.
The aperture, though limited, commanded a view of the parlor and the
bedroom directly beyond it. Both were brightly lighted--and Chick saw
enough to warrant all of the suspicions he had attributed to Nick.
He saw the man within discarding his Guelpa disguise and transforming
himself into a counterfeit of Chester Clayton.
“Thundering guns!” he said to himself. “This does settle it. But what’s
his next move?”
Chick concealed himself to wait and see.
Ten minutes later Guelpa stole down the side stairs and out of the
house. He was just in time to catch a passing taxicab.
Chick reached the side door just in time, moreover, to hear Guelpa shout
his hurried directions to the chauffeur.
“Great Scott!” he muttered, pausing. “To Nick’s residence! Why the
dickens is he going there? By Jove, I have it! He has discovered that
Nick suspects him and he now is out to get him. He reasons that he can
fool the old war horse and get by as Clayton.
“I may be wrong, but I’ll wager that he will get well fooled himself.
It’s now a thousand to one that he went to some house near his office,
probably the one back of it, in order to make arrangements for holding
up the chief. By gracious, that’s good enough for me to take a chance
on. I’ll hike back there and await developments. There would be nothing
in nailing that rascal alone. If I am right, which seems more than
probable, we can get the whole gang by this other course.”
Chick knew, of course, assuming that his theory was correct, that some
little time must elapse before Guelpa could return in company with Nick.
He did not hurry his investigation, therefore.
He returned to Fifth Avenue and had another look at Doctor Guelpa’s
business quarters.
They were in darkness, as before, with no sign of life within.
“I’ll see what I can discover around the corner,” Chick said to himself.
“The rat went out that way, I’ll wager.”
His investigations in that direction took him much longer. He could
find no way of getting to the rear of the house to which Nick was later
brought. It had, as a matter of fact, been boarded up by the rascals.
Chick then went back and picked the lock of Guelpa’s door, entering and
seeking the rear exit.
He then found that it led to the rear door of the other house.
Chick arrived there just in time, moreover, to hear from the back area
the arrival of Nick and Guelpa, both of whose voices he immediately
recognized.
“This does settle it,” he congratulated himself. “I’ll get in there and
hold up the whole gang. If I can get all of them under my guns--well,
there’ll be nothing more to it.”
It took Chick some little time, however, to noiselessly force a rear
basement window.
The scene in the front parlor was in rapid progress all the while.
Chick got in unheard and was stealing up to the adjoining room, just as
Guelpa rushed out of the house.
It was impossible to stop him, but Chick had heard enough to show him
the way.
The four men in the front parlor then were in animated discussion of
what had been said. Thy had no thought of another intruder. The portière
masking the door of the rear room had fallen back into place.
Chick crept into the room from the hall, and he then discovered Patsy
Garvan bound to the chair. He stole nearer and liberated him, then
slipped him one of his revolvers.
Not a word passed between them.
Ten seconds later, however, the portière was flung aside and both
detectives stepped into the room, with revolvers leveled.
“No monkey business, gentlemen!” Chick now said sharply. “The first man
who moves will be a dead one! We’ll shoot to kill!”
The threat was sufficient, or the guns.
Only one of the rascals moved, save to throw up his hands.
Scoville edged nearer the hall door, but stood with his back against it,
a position certainly not inviting suspicion.
“Good work, Chick,” Nick said simply, after the crooks had been
handcuffed and he had been liberated. “It is about what I was
expecting.”
“We’ve landed with both feet,” declared Patsy. “All we now want is the
master crook, the rat who jabbed that needle in my neck.”
“We’ll get him, all right,” said Nick. “Get those jewel cases, Patsy,
and we’ll head for the hotel. You remain here, Chick, and hold up the
rascal if he returns. I’ll have policemen here on the quiet in a very
few moments. I’ll not risk losing the rascal by not following him.”
“I’m with you, chief,” said Patsy.
Three minutes later four policemen entered the house and took the crooks
in charge.
Chick continued to wait for Guelpa.
Nick Carter and Patsy entered the Westgate a few minutes later. The
first man they saw was Clayton, in the office inclosure.
“Good God!” he cried excitedly, seeing the jewel cases. “You’ve got
them, Carter, you’ve got them! When and how----”
Nick checked him with a gesture and placed the cases on the counter.
“Put them in the vault, Vernon, and lock it!” he commanded, turning to
the thunderstruck head clerk. “You come with me, Clayton, and be quick
about it.”
Clayton leaped over the counter and Nick ran to the elevator.
“I’ll show you your double, Clayton, unless I am much mistaken,” said
he, as the car sped up to the fourth floor.
“My double?” gasped Clayton.
“That’s what. A fellow who looks like you. There’s nothing more to it.”
“This way, chief,” Patsy whispered, as they left the car. “I know his
door. Gee whiz! I ought to.”
They arrived at it in a moment.
A light was burning in the suite.
Patsy quietly unlocked the door with his picklock, and the three men
rushed through the parlor and into the bedroom.
An unconscious man was lying on the bed.
“Guelpa himself!” cried Patsy. “By thunder, chief, he has committed
suicide.”
“If he has,” replied Nick, “he will have saved himself a prison term.
Ring for Detective Webber. We’ll give the rascal in his charge.”
“I can’t wait--I can’t wait for that,” cried Clayton, in a frenzy of
joy. “I must telephone to my mother. I must telephone to Mademoiselle
Falloni. The joyous news must not be delayed. I’ll return in a couple of
minutes, Carter. My God! how can I ever repay you?”
“Let him go and spread the news,” laughed Nick, as Patsy turned from the
house telephone. “The crooks are booked to get theirs. As for this
rascal and his--ah, here is Webber now. Look after this scoundrel,
Webber, and put him where he belongs. No, no; don’t ask me to discuss
the case at present. We have made good, all right, and that enough for
now. As for us, Patsy, we’ll compare notes in my library, in company
with Chick.”
THE END.
You will read more of the mysterious David Margate in “The Blue Veil;
or, Nick Carter’s Torn Trail,” which is the title of the long, complete
story you will find in the next issue, No. 158, of the NICK CARTER
STORIES, out September 18th. You will also find an installment of the
corking serial now running, together with several other interesting
articles.
A BAD BOY.
For precocity, irrepressibility, and too often depravity, “Young
America” in these days can hardly be surpassed. Here is a story told me
the other day: A little chap, not eight years old, whose parents live in
one of the fashionable parts of New York, went last week to pay a visit
to his grandmother. While there, in rummaging through his grandmother’s
secretaire, he came across a half dollar, and shortly afterward he was
on his way downstairs to invest his “find.” He expended the whole amount
in candy, and, upon his return, was enjoying it in the privacy of his
room, when his grandmother put in an appearance.
“Why, Robby,” she exclaimed, taking in the situation, “where on earth
did you get all that candy?”
“Bought it,” was the reply.
“But where did you get the money?”
“A gentleman I met in the street gave it to me.”
“Robby, I don’t believe you are telling me the truth,” said the old lady
slowly, looking her grandson in the eyes. “In fact, I am sure you are
telling me a falsehood. A little bird tells me that you are.”
The boy looked at her with a somewhat incredulous expression.
“Now, come, Robby, tell me where you got that money?”
“Why don’t you ask your dickey bird?” was the ready reply of the bad
boy.
SNAPSHOT ARTILLERY.
By BERTRAM LEBHAR.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 153 of NICK CARTER
STORIES. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer
or the publishers.)