DICK PLAYS THE PART OF A SPY
The two men who entered the trading room within a few minutes after
Corporal Rand’s sudden exit were undoubtedly half-breeds. Both were
heavy, powerful-looking specimens of the lowest type of humanity to be
found in the North. Their appearance was far from prepossessing. They
shambled over to the counter, elbowed their way through the small group
of customers and stood for a moment watching Factor MacClaren wrapping
up merchandise purchased by the various members of the chattering party.
Behind the pages of his magazine, Dick covertly watched them. Thus far,
they had made no effort to approach or accost Nichols, whose indolent
form slouched on one of the high stools, which had been placed before
the counter. To all appearances, the two newcomers were entirely
oblivious of the presence, or even the existence of the big prospector.
Not once had their dark, insolent glances been turned in his direction.
But—and here was a curious thing—each passing moment seemed to bring
them closer and closer to the man under police surveillance. They
accomplished this maneuver in a manner that would have done credit to an
experienced horseman, jockeying for position at the commencement of a
race. Almost imperceptibly, and by degrees, they had edged nearer,
covering the short space separating them from the imperturbable Nichols
without once creating the impression that the thing had been done
intentionally.
They were so close now that Nichols might easily have reached out with
one long arm and placed it on the shoulder of either one of them. The
prospector’s eyes were upon Factor MacClaren and his face was perfectly
immobile and expressionless. If he was aware of the proximity of the
murderous looking pair, he gave no sign of it. He moved slightly in his
chair but completely ignored them. Dick had about come to the conclusion
that the two half-breeds were not those whom Corporal Rand had expected,
when a very suspicious movement on the part of Murky caught his alert
gaze. With a lazy, seemingly unconscious action, the prospector’s hand
was thrust in a pocket, held there for a moment, then was drawn forth,
palm down and thrust quickly towards the nearer of the two stalky forms.
Swift as the movement had been, Dick had, nevertheless, caught a glimpse
of the roll of bills so secretly exchanged.
The half-breeds lingered for a very short time near their benefactor,
then advanced along the counter and purchased several plugs of smoking
tobacco from Factor MacClaren. Completing this transaction, they turned
nonchalantly and walked out. No sooner had the door closed after them,
than Murky rose and sauntered over to the window. He was still gazing
out when the door creaked again and Corporal Rand entered.
“I’ve been out inspecting MacClaren’s new warehouse,” he announced
cheerfully. “You must be expecting a large volume of business this
winter.” He addressed the factor.
Walter MacClaren put down a large bundle of merchandise and paused to
wipe his perspiring face.
“Yes,” he answered, “trading is good this year. Just now the indications
are especially bright. Although this is just the beginning of the fur
season, I’ve never seen better prices or the promise of so large a
trade.”
“Indian trappers are out everywhere,” Corporal Rand remarked. “Yesterday
I ran into a party of them going out to the Big Smoky. They told me they
expected a good catch this year.”
MacClaren nodded as he went back to his work. The mounted policeman
moved over to the table where Dick sat and placed a friendly hand on
that young man’s shoulder.
“If I can pry you loose from that magazine,” he declared jovially, “I’m
going to ask you to step up to my room for a few minutes for a private
consultation. No! Don’t look frightened. I really don’t intend to take
you into custody just yet. If you’ll bring your cribbage board and a new
deck of cards, I’ll promise to be lenient.”
Grinning, Dick got to his feet. Well he knew that the game he and the
corporal would presently play had nothing whatever to do with cribbage.
Something a great deal more important was at stake just then—he could
tell that from the serious, thoughtful expression so poorly concealed
under Rand’s effort at deception. The jovial manner, the subterfuge of
the cribbage board and the forced laugh—all were intended for the eyes
and ears of the man who still stood near the window, and whose
suspicions, under any circumstances, must not be aroused.
With a quickening pulse, Dick followed the policeman through the door at
the back of the trading room, down a long hallway and into an
immaculately neat and clean-looking chamber, which MacClaren always
reserved for the use of various members of the R. N. W. M. P. who came
frequently to the post.
Rand motioned his visitor to a chair.
“Well, what did you find out?”
“Nichols handed a roll of bills to two half-breeds who entered the room
shortly after your departure,” Dick replied quickly.
“Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?” came the next
question.
“They didn’t talk,” the other informed him. “The breeds moved close to
Nichols, but pretended to be interested in the customers and the
trading. Until he put his hand in his pocket and passed the money
quickly over to one of the half-breeds, you never would have known that
Murky realized that the two were standing there.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing. At least nothing of importance. The pair bought some tobacco
and walked out. Nichols went to the window and seemed to be watching
them as they hurried away. You came in yourself a moment later.”
“Thanks, Dick, you’ve done well,” approved the corporal. “You’ve helped
me to weld the first link in the chain. In time, I hope to piece
together the other links that will lead me to the solution of this
mystery.”
Dick’s curiosity was aroused, but hesitated about asking any questions.
To what mystery did Rand refer? He waited patiently for the policeman’s
next words:
“In fairness to you, Dick, I think it’s advisable to give you some
information regarding this case. I’ve already hinted to you that Murky
Nichols is under police surveillance. We’ve been watching him closely
for a long time. His movements have been suspicious. Although he
professes to be a prospector, he really hasn’t done a tap of work in the
last four years. He always has a large amount of money and he spends it
liberally.”
“Where does he get this money?” Dick inquired.
“From three or four different sources. To my certain knowledge, there
are two men who pay him money regularly. One is Fred Hart and the other
is Tim O’Connell. Both of these men are packers in the summer and
freighters in the winter. They have almost a monopoly on the
transportation business in this particular section of the country. The
Hudson’s Bay, in addition to several of the independent fur companies
and free traders, give practically all of their business to these men.
Last year Factor MacClaren’s business alone amounted to nearly five
thousand dollars. Hart and O’Connell get the preference over the other
packers and freighters because they are more efficient, careful and
responsible.”
“Why,” said Dick, as the thought suddenly occurred to him, “perhaps
Nichols is a silent-partner in their enterprise.”
Rand smiled at the other’s quick perception, but he slowly shook his
head.
“That’s the conclusion we came to ourselves. Investigation, carried out
secretly, proves that he isn’t. No—the thing goes deeper than that.
Nichols is engaged in some secret and probably illegal enterprise.
Little by little we’ve been picking up new clues—making new discoveries.
We’ve found nothing incriminating yet, but I don’t believe it will be
very long before we will.”
“What about the money that exchanged hands today? What business dealing
do you suppose Nichols could have with those two hard-looking
customers?”
“Both of them are thieves, but we haven’t yet been able to prove
anything against them. For several weeks past we’ve suspected that
either they’re in Murky’s employ or that the breeds come to him to sell
stolen goods. The fact that Nichols paid them money today is a pretty
strong indication that one or other of these suppositions is correct.”
Corporal Rand paused to fill his pipe.
“Nichols is shrewd and clever,” he went on. “He’s amiable and
well-liked. He has many friends in every part of the country.
Notwithstanding, there’s a deep, treacherous side to his nature, a
diabolical cleverness that can find its outlet only through criminal
channels. Your friend, Sergeant Richardson, believes firmly he’s a
master crook, a sort of genius at crime, and that he contrives to
distract attention from himself by assuming this role of genial, lazy,
ignorant prospector.”
Dick laughed outright.
“Sergeant Richardson has a vivid imagination,” he declared, “but very
often in cases of this kind his deductions prove correct.”
“True enough!” Constable Rand puffed reflectively. “He’s worked out a
very unusual theory in regard to Nichols. It was shortly after the
finding of old Daddy McInnes’ body that he told me about it. The whole
thing is so extraordinary, so wild, and yet so convincing that we’ve
decided to look into it. It’s this theory that we’re working on now.”
“Won’t you tell me about it?” pleaded Dick.
“Certainly. There’s no harm done, that I can see. Besides the sergeant
informed me that I could trust you implicitly. He even hinted that you
contemplated joining the force. What about that?”
“It’s true,” Dick was forced to admit, his face red with embarrassment.
“I’ve made application to the commissioner at Ottawa, but I’m not sure
that anything will ever come of it.”
“I’m not so certain,” Rand shook his head. “We need more men, especially
here in the North. You’d have to spend a period of training at Regina
though.
“But to go on with Richardson’s theory,” resumed the corporal.
“Incredible as it may at first appear, it’s logical enough. I’ll give
you its substance briefly: Nichols is the leader of a small band of
crooks. Hart and O’Connell are his accomplices, or, what I should say
his accessories—they’re both honest. Nichols never actually commits any
crime himself. He purchases fur, which he knows is stolen and disposes
of it.”
“Through Hart and O’Connell, I suppose,” Dick put in. “They take it to
civilization and sell it.”
“No. You’re a thousand miles from the mark. Hart and O’Connell play a
less important part in this scheme. Murky is more clever than that. He
disposes of his own stuff in a more original and unheard-of way. Hart
and O’Connell merely supply him with means of transportation—pack horses
in summer and dog teams in winter.”
Corporal Rand paused again and rose to his feet. He tiptoed softly to
the door, opened it and looked out.
“I thought there might be someone in the hallway,” he apologised. “One
can’t be too careful.”
He closed the door, a slight frown on his face, and went back to the
chair opposite Dick.
“I guess we won’t be bothered. Where was I—oh, yes—As I just said Hart
and O’Connell supply Nichols with ponies or dog teams, depending upon
the season, and Murky proceeds to transport his stolen fur to the
coast.”
“To the coast!” gasped Dick. “How could he?”
“Through Blind Man’s Pass.”
Dick sat and stared incredulously at the grave, serious face of the man
opposite.
“You’re fooling me, corporal.”
“Not a bit! Richardson feels that he’s absolutely sure that such is the
case. I’m almost convinced myself. Every clue that we’ve been able to
pick up since the Sergeant hit upon this wild theory seems to bear him
out. Another thing, there’s the case of Daddy McInnes. The story I told
in the trading room an hour ago was an elaboration of or a tampering
with the true facts.”
“I don’t think I quite understand.”
“Daddy McInnes was murdered. A blow on the back of the head.”
Dick shivered.
“Naturally, we don’t want anyone to suspect—least of all Nichols—that we
know McInnes came to a violent end. That would spoil everything. We
never would catch Murky if a breath of this ever leaked out. The
abrasion on the back of Daddy’s head caused a little comment, but we
took immediate steps to check it.”
“How?” asked Dick.
“We claimed that in his weakened and starved condition, McInnes fainted
and fell, his head striking a rock. Everyone believes it now.”
“But why should Nichols—I mean, what motive would he have?”
“Daddy found the pass and came through it. If he had lived, its exact
location would have become public property. In that event, Murky Nichols
would have been out of a job.”
“But what about Hart and O’Connell? They must know where Blind Man’s
Pass is.”
“No, I don’t think so. There is only one white man in this country who
could lead us unerringly to Blind Man’s Pass—and that person is Murky
Nichols!”