BOUCICAULT’S.
At certain times Nick Carter had intuitions that amounted almost to
positive knowledge.
It was the “detective instinct,” amplified by years of intelligent
practice.
In the present instance he believed that he would be shadowed, and he
even figured out to himself the successive links in the chain that
brought the conclusion.
Gillman had suspected him and had conveyed his suspicions to the man in
the brown derby at the same time that he had reported the result of the
assay.
It was this man in the brown derby whom Nick had cast for the part of a
shadow, and hence Chick’s instructions to “shadow the shadow.”
The one uncertain element of the situation was Ramsay, or Yasmar, but
Nick was depending on Patsy to take care of the Westerner.
Could Nick have been made familiar with the contents of a certain note,
at that moment lying on his desk at home, there would have been a
decided change in the plan of operations.
Gillman appeared to be very well satisfied with himself, for he carried
a cane and swung it jauntily as he walked.
He paid no attention to the ground behind him, and that might mean one
of two things--either he did not think he was followed, or did not care.
At Sixth Avenue he hailed a downtown car.
It was an open car, and Nick got aboard three seats behind him.
The man in the brown derby followed the car in a hansom, a difficult but
not impossible task considering the slow speed at which the car had to
travel in that part of the city and at that busy hour.
The hardest part of the work fell to Chick.
He could not very well get aboard the car with Gillman and Nick, and, as
there was no cab in sight which he could hire, he slipped a five-dollar
bill to an expressman and told him to keep the hansom in sight.
Thus Gillman, virtually shadowed by three, made his way to his
destination, which proved to be a restaurant in the lower part of the
town--a place famous for the low price of its “table d’hote dinner with
wine.”
There he and Nick had dinner, the man in the brown derby remaining on
the walk outside and Chick watching from across the street.
The meal over, the tactics were continued, Gillman leading the chase to
Brooklyn, crossing by ferry and winding up at Boucicault’s on Hamilton
Street.
It was between eight and nine in the evening, and Hamilton Street was
just “waking up.”
A sleepy and quiet thoroughfare by day, it is anything but sleepy and
quiet under the gas and electric lights.
“Speak-easies” and other haunts of vice abound, and not the least among
the lawless resorts was Boucicault’s.
There were three stories to the building, and Boucicault’s occupied all
three, in addition to a good-sized basement.
Of the basement more will be said hereafter.
The main floor was given up to a saloon and restaurant.
The floors above constituted the hotel part of the establishment, and
here many a drunken victim had been plucked by the human harpies who
made the place their rendezvous.
If darker crimes than robbery were meditated, the intended victim was
conducted to the gloomy and vault-like regions under the saloon.
A long, low bar ran along the left-hand wall; off to the right were half
a dozen tables; in the rear were four or five small rooms partitioned
off.
When Gillman entered the dive it was half filled with a roaring
complement of sailormen, every one in the lot considerably more than
“half seas over.”
The air was thick with tobacco smoke, heavy with the fumes of cheap
beer, and resounding with sea songs--every song pitched in a different
key and sung in a different language.
Nick Carter had established his case and was ready to arrest his man.
What he wanted, however, was to make a clean haul of the entire gang,
and to this end he had shadowed Gillman.
He was now certain that Boucicault’s was the rendezvous of the
swindlers, and he followed Gillman through the fog of smoke, and saw him
vanish into one of the rear rooms.
The time had come when the detective thought it would be as well to
bring matters to an issue with the assayer’s clerk, to find out what he
could from him, and then turn him over to the police for safe-keeping.
Advancing to the door of the room entered by Gillman, Nick tried the
knob.
The door was locked, and he applied his knuckles to the panel.
“Who’s there?” called a voice.
“Yasmar.”
“What do you want to give that name for? Haven’t you got another?” asked
the voice, anxiously.
Nick saw that Gillman was very suspicious.
He felt, too, that he must act quickly. He had already guessed that
Yasmar’s true name was Ramsay, but had never verified it. Now he was
face to face with the question.
He took a long chance, and called out:
“Ramsay.”
To his delight he heard the bolts being drawn back, and the door was
thrown open.
“You know, Ram----” Gillman began, then he stopped dead, for the man who
had entered was not Ramsay, but Nick Carter.
Without taking his eyes off Gillman, Nick closed the door and locked it.
The room was about ten feet square, had paneled side walls and contained
a table and four chairs.
It was lighted by an incandescent bulb, pendant from the ceiling.
Gillman showed a good deal of surprise when he discovered that the
newcomer was not Ramsay.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed, his right hand groping under his coat. “Who
are you and what’s your game?”
“My game is to call yours, Gillman,” answered Nick, sternly, his right
hand in his coat pocket. “Bring that hand out in front of you! I’m
covering you with a gun.”
Gillman brought the hand slowly to the required position.
“You’ve been crowding me pretty close for the last hour or two,” said
he. “What do you want, anyhow?”
“I want you.”
With his left hand Nick brought out a pair of handcuffs.
“What do you want me for?” queried Gillman, sweeping his eyes shiftily
around the room.
“For smoking that brand of gold-filled cigarettes this afternoon.”
That was the point where Gillman began to lose his nerve.
“I--I don’t understand,” he stammered.
“Yes, you do,” answered Nick. “Put up your wrists.”
“Don’t you do it, Gillman!”
This counter-command came from the side of the room.
Out of the corners of his eyes Nick could see that a panel in the wall
had slid noiselessly back.
A square opening was revealed, framing a man’s head and shoulders.
The man wore a brown derby hat and held a revolver, whose point was
leveled at the detective’s breast.
A triumphant smile began to show itself on Gillman’s face; but the smile
vanished as a second head appeared in the opening and another voice
echoed sharply through the room.
“Put on the darbies, Nick! If this fellow tries to pull the trigger it
will be all over with him.”
It was Chick.
He was behind the other man, and was pressing the muzzle of a revolver
against the back of his head.
A baffled oath broke from the man in the derby hat.
Nick, realizing that there was no time to be lost, was about to adjust
the handcuffs.
Before he could do it, however, a rap fell on the door.
Silence followed.
The rap was repeated more emphatically.
“Ask who’s there, Gillman,” whispered Nick, bringing the weapon out of
his pocket and making a significant movement with it.
“Who’s there?” inquired Gillman.
“Ramsay.”
Quick as lightning. Nick put away the handcuffs and developed a second
revolver.
Covering Gillman with the gun in his right hand, Nick turned partly
around.
“Tell him to come in,” he whispered again.
As Gillman carried out the order, Nick pushed back the bolt with the
muzzle of the weapon held in his right hand.
Then two things happened, and happened simultaneously.
The incandescent light was turned off, leaving the room in total
darkness, and a rush of heavy feet followed the bursting in of the door.
Nick discharged his revolvers, but the rush of his enemies was not
stayed.
He was assailed from all sides, and when he found the quarters too close
for revolver work, he gripped the weapons by the barrel and clubbed them
to right and left.
But the odds were overwhelming.
In the midst of his desperate struggle, a savage blow on the head sent
him down.
The shouts and curses of his assailants died away in his ears, he felt
them piling on top of him, and then he remembered nothing more.