PICKING UP A TRAIL.
Chick Carter appeared at the door of the Lexington Avenue lodging house
about nine o’clock that evening, and his ring was answered by the
landlady herself, one Mrs. Hardy, to whom he stated his mission and
plausibly explained why he applied to her at that hour.
That Chick made a favorable impression upon the woman, moreover,
appeared in that he was invited to enter, though Mrs. Hardy added, a bit
doubtfully:
“I have only one vacant room at present, sir, and that may not please
you. It is a back room on the second floor.”
“I think it will answer,” Chick said agreeably. “I can not say just how
long I may remain in New York, but I will pay you liberally for the time
I am here. My name is Fred Lamont. I am a nephew of Mr. Calvin Page,
cashier of the Trinity Trust Company. You can talk with him by
telephone, if you require a reference, and he will assure you that I am
a desirable tenant.”
“I will do so a little later, Mr. Lamont, if I think it necessary,” said
the landlady. “I first will show you the room.”
Chick accompanied her to the second floor and into a small but neatly
furnished back chamber.
“That in front is occupied by a young lady, Miss Helen Bailey, who is
not at home this evening,” Mrs. Hardy observed, while Chick was glancing
around the room. “She has gone to a picture show with a girl who lives a
block south from here.”
Chick did not demur over taking the room. It was decidedly satisfactory
to him, in fact, to have quarters so near the girl’s room, in that he
would be easily able to keep a constant eye on her movements when at
home, and to learn whether she was visited by her disreputable brother.
Chick took the room at once, therefore, paying a week in advance, and
inquired, while doing so:
“Does Miss Bailey frequently have visitors in the evening? I usually
retire quite early. Her room is so near mine that any loud conversation
might disturb me.”
“Dear me, no!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, with a shrug. “Miss Bailey has only
two gentlemen callers, and she always receives them in the parlor.”
“That’s all right, then,” said Chick, smiling agreeably.
“She could pick her choice from most men, Mr. Lamont, as far as that
goes,” added the landlady, becoming communicative. “She is a beautiful
girl. She could marry the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in New
York, if she wanted to, or another one of the firm. I know that, sir,
though you may think it improbable.”
“One of the firm,” thought Chick. “By Jove, that must be Goulard. Father
and son would not be rivals. Besides, Mantell, senior, now has a wife
and family. Goulard is a widower, however, and--h’m, this may be worth
looking into.”
Chick decided not to display any undue curiosity at that time. He left
his suit case in the room and accompanied Mrs. Hardy downstairs, stating
that he had business outside for about an hour, when he would return,
and he then left the house.
Three minutes later found him in the vestibuled doorway of a dwelling
nearly opposite, from which he could see the electric-lighted avenue for
a block in each direction.
Chick reasoned, in view of Nick’s suspicions, that Bart Bailey might
already have heard of his sister’s conduct and might possibly be seeking
her that very evening, particularly if impending danger necessitated his
early departure from the city.
Chick had decided, in fact, that he would see Helen Bailey home after
she parted from the girl who had accompanied her to the picture show. He
knew that she would be in no danger while having a companion, and the
vantage point he had selected enabled him to watch the avenue as far as
the location mentioned by the landlady.
“She’ll not return later than eleven o’clock, if she has gone to the
movies,” he said to himself. “There is one chance in a hundred, at
least, that Bart Bailey already is out to nail her. I’ll take that one
chance, having nothing else to do.”
All this was clever work on the part of the Carters, and it bore not
unexpected fruit.
Chick had been waiting less than half an hour when he saw a slender man
in a dark suit coming down the avenue, whose movements immediately
warranted suspicion. For he quickly crossed the avenue before arriving
at the boarding house, then halted on the opposite side and gazed
intently at the second-floor windows.
“By Jove, I’m in right,” thought Chick, after watching him for several
moments. “That’s my man, as sure as there’s juice in a lemon. He
expected to find the girl at home, but sees that her room is not
lighted. He’ll lie low and wait for her, taking a chance that she’ll
return alone, unless I’m much mistaken.”
Chick was not mistaken.
Bart Bailey, for the detective had rightly identified him, suddenly
recrossed the avenue, and, having glanced sharply around, he slunk into
a basement doorway under the rise of stone steps leading up to the front
door of the boarding house.
“Does he intend to enter, or will he wait for the girl?” Chick asked
himself. “I’ll remain here until she comes, at all events. If he does
not then show up, I’ll cross over and enter with her. I’ll give the rat
no chance to harm her, let come what may.”
Chick’s uncertainty was not of long duration.
The man under the steps, if still there, continued to lie low.
Twenty minutes passed, and the watching detective then saw two girls
stop at a house nearly a block away. He could see them quite distinctly,
the avenue in that locality then being deserted. They parted after a few
moments, one entering the house, the other hurrying north. Half a minute
brought her nearly to the boarding-house steps--from under which darted
a sinister figure that immediately blocked her way.
Chick heard the half-subdued cry of alarm that broke from her, as well
as what followed.
“Bart!” she cried, shrinking. “You here!”
“You bet I’m here!” The reply came with a wolfish snarl. “So you’d have
let ’em get me, would you?”
“Get you! What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You’d have given me to the guns. You know--and I
know.”
“Bart----”
“Dry up! Would you blat my name from the housetops? I believe you would
do that, you infernal jade.”
The girl shrank from the miscreant’s uplifted hand, from the fierce,
threatening look in his fiery eyes.
“Don’t speak to me like that,” she cried, striving to pass him and reach
the steps. “Don’t you dare to strike me. I’ll scream for help. I’ll----”
“You open your mouth to scream, hang you, and I’ll close it forever,”
Bailey fiercely interrupted. “You’d have given me to the guns. You’d
have sent me up----”
“Let me pass!”
“And I’ll send you to the devil for it. I’ll teach you to----”
The miscreant got no farther with his vicious threats.
Chick had seen him reach into his pocket. He had caught the glint of
light from a partly drawn blade. He already was nearly across the
street, unobserved by either, and he now whipped out his revolver and
uttered a shout, though scarce twenty feet from the couple, bent only
upon causing Bart Bailey to take to his heels.
“Cut that out!” he shouted. “Let the girl alone, or----”
“Who in thunder are you?”
The ruffian swung round with an oath, interrupting, and Chick bounded
nearer, with his revolver suddenly leveled.
“You leg it, you rascal!” he cried, while a scream broke from the
frightened girl. “Leg it, or----”
But Bart Bailey already was legging it. He had turned the instant he saw
the weapon, and was darting like a frightened fox up the avenue,
crossing it diagonally at the top of his speed, and making for the
nearest corner.
Chick sped after him, but purposely let the rascal increase his lead,
bent upon finally trailing him without being suspected.
Bailey rounded the corner some twenty yards in advance of the detective,
and continued his frantic flight.
Chick turned the corner a moment later. He saw the rascal was not
looking back. He darted into the nearest doorway, then crouched on the
stone steps and cautiously peered out.
Bart Bailey was crossing the street, still at the top of his speed, and
heading for Third Avenue. Suddenly he glanced back over his shoulder and
discovered that he no longer was pursued. He slowed down, and finally
stopped, gazing back and listening, and then he appeared convinced that
his pursuer had stopped before turning the corner. As if to give vent to
his feelings, he fiercely shook his fist in the direction from which he
had come, and then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Chick watched him until he rounded the corner of Third Avenue. He paused
only to be sure the fellow did not look back, and then he began a
record-breaking sprint in pursuit of the scamp. He arrived at the corner
just in time to see Bailey entering an opposite saloon.
“There, by Jove, that does settle it,” he said to himself. “I certainly
have fooled him. He does not suspect me of being a detective, or he
would have continued his flight. He probably reasons that I came out of
one of the opposite dwellings and turned back to look after the girl. It
should be soft walking, now, to trail the rascal to cover.”
Chick had prepared himself for the work he had in view. He made a quick
change of disguise, then crossed the avenue and looked into the saloon.
Bart Bailey was gulping down a glass of whisky, after which he left the
saloon by a side door, then made for the nearest elevated station.
Chick followed him, mounting the stairway on the opposite corner from
that taken by his quarry.
When the train arrived at Thirty-fourth Street, Bailey left the train,
trailed by Chick. The young rogue ran down the stairs and jumped aboard
a crosstown car. Chick had followed his quarry, and both dismounted at
the Pennsylvania Station, where Bailey got a suit case from the parcel
room, and then hastened to board an outbound train, entering the smoking
car and taking one of the front seats.
Chick followed him and took one in the middle of the car.
“He must have a return ticket to some point, not having bought one,” he
said to himself. “This may confirm another of Nick’s suspicions, that
the stolen merchandise is being shipped to another city, and that Bailey
still is in league with the gang in some capacity. I’ll soon find out
where he’s going, since it’s up to me to go with him.”
Chick conferred quietly with the conductor half an hour later, when the
fast express was speeding south, confiding his identity and stating what
he wanted to learn. Later, when the conductor came through the train to
punch the tickets, he paused briefly and whispered to the detective:
“He has a return ticket to Philadelphia. The date shows that it was
purchased day before yesterday.”
Chick thanked him and now paid his fare.
“It’s Philadelphia for mine, also,” he remarked, smiling significantly.
“I was all at sea as to where I was going. I’m glad to find out.”
The conductor laughed quietly, and moved on through the train.
It was long after midnight when Chick shadowed Bailey from the
Pennsylvania Station, in Philadelphia, to a second-class hotel in Arch
Street, where his quarry evidently already was quartered, for he stopped
only for a key and several letters, which the clerk took from a
pigeonhole and gave him, and he then went up to his room.
Chick entered a moment later and registered under a fictitious name.
“Was that Tom Denny who came in just ahead of me?” he inquired
carelessly.
“No.” The clerk shook his head. “That was Arthur Finley. I don’t know
Tom Denny.”
“He’s a traveling salesman with whom I’m acquainted. I thought I
recognized him.”
“You were mistaken. Mr. Finley has been living here for several months.
He’s a buyer for Rudolph Meyer, who runs a general fancy-goods store in
Broad Street.”
Chick turned away and went up with a hallboy to the room assigned him.
“Buyer for Rudolph Meyer, eh?” he said to himself, with a feeling of
grim satisfaction. “I’ll wager that all of the goods with which he
supplies Rudolph Meyer come indirectly from the store of Mantell &
Goulard. I’ll look into that in the morning, and then have a
long-distance talk with Nick. His suspicions have hit the nail on the
head, all right, and to-morrow should see something doing.”