NICK CARTER
WEEKLY.
_Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1900 by Street &
Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C._
_Entered as second class Matter at the New York, N. Y., Post Office._
_Issued weekly._ _Subscription price, $2.50 per year._ October 6, 1900.
No. 197.STREET & SMITH, Publishers. NEW YORK. 228 William St., N. Y. 5 Cents.
The Little Glass Vial;
OR,
A BEAUTIFUL BLACKMAILER BROUGHT TO BAY.
By the Author of "NICK CARTER."
CHAPTER I.
THE VIAL IN THE SNOW.
"Well, old man," said Nick Carter, as
he shook the snow from his overcoat,
"what’s the news? Anything strange
since this morning?"
He was addressing Chick, his assistant,
who, to use his own expression, was
"acting the chamber lawyer" for the day.
"Yes. Two small cases have come in;
but there is a telegram from Boston that
may be of importance."
"Let’s see it, my lad!" said the great
detective, throwing his overcoat on a
chair and seating himself. He took the
dispatch in his hands and read it slowly.
"H’m! Yes, there’s something in this,
Chick. What time is it?"
"Five-forty."
"Good! I can catch the Providence
boat. Telegraph anything you have to
say to the Adams House!" and in another
moment the noted detective had left the
office.
The snow lay heavy upon the ground
when Nick Carter arrived in Boston next
morning. Nothing eventful happened during
his journey, and he felt rested and
ripe for his work--whatever it was.
He was about to step into a cab, when
his eyes caught sight of a small vial, half
buried in the snow, which he picked up
and placed in one of his overcoat pockets,
then addressing the hackman, he said:
"When did the snow stop falling?"
"Just after the train for New York
pulled out last night, sir."
"You had a heavy fall?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know where Mr. Samuel
Rogers lives in Dorchester?"
"Of course I do, sir."
"Well, take me there."
Half an hour later the cab stopped at
an old-fashioned mansion, which stood in
a beautifully kept lawn, in the most
fashionable part of Dorchester.
"I wish to see Mr. Samuel Rogers,
junior," said the detective to the colored
man who answered his ring.
"What name shall I say?" asked the
domestic.
"Oh, never mind the name. Tell him
that a friend from New York wishes to
see him."
* * * * *
A few minutes afterward a good-looking
young fellow entered the room.
"Mr. Rogers, I presume?" said Nick.
"Yes, sir. That is my name."
"I received a telegram from you yesterday,"
rejoined Nick Carter.
"Oh!" said Rogers. "You are Mr. Nick
Carter?"
"Yes."
"Won’t you be seated?" continued the
young man. "I wished to see you upon a
very sad and mysterious matter."
The detective watched him keenly as he
spoke; but did not interrupt.
"My father lies dead in the next room.
The doctors say he died of heart disease,
but I have a different opinion."
"Ah!" sighed Nick. "And what may
your opinion be, Mr. Rogers?"
"I believe he was murdered."
"Murdered?"
"Yes."
"Upon what do you base this suspicion?"
"This letter," said Rogers, handing the
detective an envelope, which bore the
Boston postmark of the previous day.
Nick opened it and read as follows:
"Mr. Rogers: Your father did not die
of heart disease. He was murdered. Have
the body thoroughly examined before
burial. You will find that the murderer is
nearer home than you imagine.
"ONE WHO KNOWS."
Nick looked from the letter to Rogers’
face.
In a searching glance, he seemed to
learn what he wanted.
"You wish me to unravel this mystery?"
he asked.
"Yes, sir," replied Rogers.
The detective placed the letter in his
pocket and said:
"Have you had a private examination
of your father’s body?"
"No, sir. I waited until I had consulted
with you."
"You did quite right," said Nick, "and
now, Mr. Rogers, will you be good
enough to let me see your father’s remains?"
The only watcher in the death chamber
was the colored man who had admitted
Nick Carter.
Nick looked at the corpse and noticed
that the face had a peculiar grayish hue.
Turning to Rogers, he said:
"Was the body embalmed?"
"No, sir. Dr. Lord wished to have it
embalmed yesterday; but I objected."
"Why did you object?" asked Carter,
narrowly watching his companion’s face.
"That letter," said Rogers; but before
making any further explanation, he ordered
Jones--the colored man--to leave the
room.
"What about the letter?" inquired
Nick, when Jones had gone.
"I received it by the afternoon mail,
just before the doctor made his examination.
I then telegraphed to you, and decided
that, until you arrived, I would not
allow any interference with the body."
"Was the coroner notified?" asked
Nick.
"No, sir. Dr. Lord has given a certificate
of death from heart disease."
Just then the servant summoned young
Rogers to receive a visitor.
The moment he was gone Nick took a
hasty inventory of the surroundings.
As the young fellow had said, it was
quite apparent that nothing in the room
had been disturbed since the old man
died.
During his examination of the body his
hand touched something with a sharp
point.
It lay within the folds of the coat, and
Nick made an exclamation of surprise
when he discovered that it was a lady’s
hat-pin, with a curious haliotis shell head.
This he put in his pocket.
He had almost finished his examination
of the body, rearranged the clothing, and
was just placing the hands in the position
in which he found them, when his keen
eye detected a slight discoloration of the
left wrist.
Upon close examination, he discovered
a very small wound--almost a pin-hole.
An almost imperceptible discoloration
extended from this wound up along the
wrist.
In a moment Nick produced a small
surgical pincers and drew from the little
wound a needle-like piece of silver.
It was the point of a hypodermic
syringe.
This he stowed away with the hat-pin.
A few moments afterward young Rogers
made his appearance.
"There is a mystery here," said Nick.
"What have you learned?"
"That I cannot tell even you, sir--at
least not yet. But I shall have to ask you
a few questions. Remember, if you do not
answer them truthfully, or if you keep
back any information concerning this matter,
I shall not be responsible for the consequences."
"Mr. Carter," cried Rogers, "what do
you mean?"
"Exactly what I say. You must trust
me with all your secrets, if I require to
know them. Otherwise, you will never
know how your father died."
The young man became pale and flushed
in turn. He seemed to be suffering from
intense mental disturbance.
But, at last, he regained his composure,
and said:
"I shall not conceal anything from you,
Mr. Carter. But," he falteringly continued,
"publicity must only be given to
those matters that directly concern my
father’s death."
"Good!" said Nick. "And now, Mr.
Rogers, let us be seated; for I have much
to learn from you. Had your father ever
suffered from any complaint that would
need hypodermic injections?"
Rogers looked at him in amazement
and answered:
"Yes. He complained of neuralgic rheumatism
for some years."
"And sought relief by injections of
morphine, no doubt."
"Yes, sir. Dr. Lord prescribed it."
"Are you quite sure that he used only
morphine?"
"Certain."
"Did he use the hypodermic syringe
himself?" asked Nick.
"No, sir."
"Who gave him the injections?"
"Dr. Lord."
"Was Dr. Lord here on the evening
preceding his death?"
"Yes; he had dinner here that evening."
"Then he is a friend of the family?"
"Yes, sir. He is engaged to be married
to my sister."
Nick’s face brightened; but he pretended
not to notice the announcement
which young Rogers had just made.
Continuing, he said:
"When did Dr. Lord leave here that
evening?"
"Shortly after dinner. He had an urgent
call to a patient at Roxbury."
"And your father retired shortly after?"
"No; he did not go to his room until
ten o’clock."
"When did you discover that he was
dead?"
"When Jones went to bring him his
chocolate, at seven o’clock yesterday
morning."
"What happened then?"
"We sent for Dr. Lord, who examined
him and pronounced it heart disease. He
went away then, and returned shortly
afterward with another doctor."
"Did the strange doctor agree with Dr.
Lord?"
"Yes. Dr. White also said heart
disease."
"Who was in the house besides your
father, sister, the colored man, and yourself
after Dr. Lord went away?"
Rogers became nervous, which fact
Nick immediately noticed.
The young man replied:
"My sister was not here. She is in
Philadelphia."
"Does she know of your father’s death?"
"Yes. But my uncle has prevailed upon
her not to return just now."
"Is your uncle coming to the funeral?"
"Yes; he will be here this afternoon."
"You have not told me," said Nick,
"who was in the house the night before
last after Dr. Lord went away."
Rogers became disconcerted again; but
he replied:
"My father, Jones, the cook, chamber-maid,
and myself."
"You are sure there was no one else?"
The young fellow again faltered and
became very pale. And then, with an
effort, he replied:
"Yes; I am quite certain of it."
"When was the marriage of your sister
to Dr. Lord to have taken place?" asked
Carter.
Rogers breathed freely again as he answered:
"Father wanted it to take place next
month."
"And was it fixed for that date?"
"Well, no," hesitatingly.
"Was there some barrier?"
"The fact is, Mr. Carter, I am also engaged
to be married, and my sister and I
decided to have the two events come off
together."
"A capital idea!" said Nick. "But
why couldn’t you have arranged it so?"
"Well, we--that is, I hadn’t fixed upon
any particular time. Miss Bland and I are
not in a hurry, you know."
"And your sister? Was she anxious for
her wedding day?"
"Not exactly," hurriedly cried Rogers.
"She is not head over heels in love with
Lord; but father was anxious for the
match."
"And how does the doctor feel about
it?"
"Oh, he is very ardent in his suit."
"I see," mused Nick. "Tell me," he
continued, "did your father make a will?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know its contents?"
"Yes."
"What are the provisions?"
"It is very simple, but a little curious."
"In what way is it curious?"
"It stipulates that his entire property
is to be divided equally between Aimee
and me, upon certain conditions. The
estate is valued at about three hundred
thousand dollars, and the only strange
condition of the will is that, in the event
of his death before Aimee’s marriage with
Dr. Lord she is to get one-half of his entire
estate if she marries him within six
months of his, my father’s, decease. But
that, in the event of this marriage not
taking place within that time she is only
to receive the interest upon twenty thousand
dollars for life."
"And what becomes of the balance?"
"It reverts to me absolutely."
"Does Dr. Lord know the provisions of
your father’s will?"
"Yes, sir. He has seen it."
"Does he know that you telegraphed
for me?"
"No."
"Very well. Now, I shall have to leave
you," said Nick; "but I shall probably
return in the afternoon. In the meantime
do not disclose my presence or identity to
anybody."
And as he moved toward the door, he
added:
"I think you might send for the undertaker,
and have the body placed in the
coffin at once."
Nick immediately walked in the direction
of the telegraph office.
Having arrived there, he sent the following
telegram in usual cipher:
"Mrs. Nicholas Carter, New York City:
Send Ida to Philadelphia immediately.
Tell her to stop at usual hotel. I will telegraph
her instructions this evening."
From here he walked slowly toward the
cars, and was just about to board one
bound for Boston, when he stopped and
said:
"I must see that doctor."
He retraced his steps and entered the
nearest drug store.
"Can you tell me where Dr. Lord
lives?" he inquired from the clerk.
"Certainly, sir. Straight up the road
opposite. I forget the number; but you
cannot make a mistake, for you will see a
brass plate, with his name, on the garden
gate."
"Thank you," said Nick. "But perhaps
that is not the Dr. Lord I want."
"It must be," said the clerk, laughing,
"for he is the only Lord in Dorchester."
A few minutes afterward Nick Carter
was ushered into the reception-room of
Mr. Rogers’ physician.
Apparently the reception-room was also
used as a kind of auxiliary surgery; for,
upon a table, were a number of surgical
instruments of various kinds.
Nick noticed this with satisfaction, and
he moved over toward the table in order
to more closely inspect the contents.
Just then the servant entered the room
and announced that the doctor would be
disengaged in a few minutes.
"You’re in luck, Nick!" muttered the
detective, as he forthwith proceeded to
inspect the surgical instruments. There
were forceps, and lancets, and clinical
thermometers by the dozen; but what attracted
Nick’s eye were four hypodermic
syringe cases.
He opened them one after another, and
when he got to the last--which was
smaller than the others--he held it in his
hand only for a moment; then opening
the case, he found a small syringe from
which the pointer needle had been broken
off at the base.
Taking from his pocket the point which
he had removed from Mr. Rogers’ wrist,
he was not surprised to find that it fitted
exactly.
He quickly replaced the broken syringe
in its case and resumed his seat.
Shortly after a tall, dark, good-looking
man entered the room.
Nick recognized him from a photograph
he had seen at Rogers’.
"Dr. Lord, I presume," he remarked.
"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"
said the medical gentleman, with a pleasant
voice.
"Have you any surgical instruments to
be repaired?" said Nick.
"No, sir," politely replied the doctor.
"When surgical instruments need repairing
it is generally time to get new ones.
I am sorry I have nothing in your line to-day."
As he said this he was very courteously
opening the door for his visitor; but Nick
was not so easily dismissed.
"You will excuse me, sir," he said,
"but while I was waiting I took the liberty
of looking over your instruments yonder.
They are beautiful tools; but I
noticed that a remarkably fine hypodermic
syringe has the point broken off."
"By the way," said the doctor, interrupting
him, "I wish I knew where that
came from. It isn’t mine. It is of a very
curious pattern, too."
"Yes, doctor," said Nick, "it is a
curious little syringe. But it is remarkable
that it could have found its way here
without your knowledge."
The doctor did not quite like this
remark. He showed it in his face, which
Nick was intently watching.
"I would like to buy it from you," said
the pretended surgical instrument maker,
not noticing the doctor’s look of impatience.
"Oh," said the latter, "it is not mine
to sell. I found it upon my table yesterday
evening, and I cannot possibly trace
an ownership for it among my callers."
"It is of Spanish make," said Nick,
who was carefully examining it.
But this did not enlighten Dr. Lord.
He was beginning to tire of the pertinacity
of his visitor, and finally, to get rid of
him, he said:
"Well, you can take it away with you.
It is useless to me, and as it is also useless
to whoever left it here, I dare say they
won’t return for it."
Nick was profuse in his thanks, and
was hurrying toward Boston in a very
few moments.
He had noticed that the graduated
cylinder of the syringe contained a small
quantity of some kind of liquid, and he
determined to have it analyzed.
At the same time he remembered the
small vial which he had found in the
snow, at the Providence depot; and, upon
his arrival at the city analyst’s, he handed
that gentleman the two articles.
He gave him his card, and the moment
the analyst recognized the name of the
great New York detective he became particularly
attentive, and after a careful
examination, he pronounced the contents
of the syringe to be the same as the vial,
and a deadly poison it was.
"Supposing some of it was injected into
a man’s wrist, what would happen?" said
Nick.
"Happen? Why, the man would be
dead in ten second or less. This is a South
American poison, Mr. Carter. It is, perhaps,
the most deadly in existence, and
the peculiar thing about it is the fact that
in doing its work in the human system, it
so quickly assimilates with the blood that
it is next to impossible to trace it. Another
strange thing about it is that it acts directly
upon the heart, and in such a manner that
the most experienced physician will imagine
the victim died from heart disease."
Nick thanked the analyst, and went at
once to the Adams House for letters and
telegrams from Chick. The coincidence
of the fluids contained in the hypodermic
syringe and in the vial, which he picked
up in the snow at the Providence depot,
being the same was remarkable, and, as
he walked along, he mused:
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars
and a pretty girl is a big stake to lose, Dr.
Lord. But it wasn’t a man of science who
placed that syringe point in
man’s wrist!"