THE NEW YORK DETECTIVE.
The ten or fifteen minutes that elapsed before the train passed the
station at Dalton, were occupied by the assemblage at the depot in
talking about the murder and the prisoner.
Carlos felt himself the object of scrutiny and remark. He bore the
ordeal as best he could, averting his eyes from the staring, chattering
crowd.
There was one stranger present――a man rather below the medium size,
with a black mustache, and wearing a light-colored business suit. In
appearance he was gentlemanly and unobtrusive. Yet, notwithstanding his
rather retiring manner, he managed to get into conversation with the
officer who had Carlos in charge. After some introductory remarks he
said:
“I am a little in your line myself.”
“Is that so? How?” asked the officer.
“I am connected with the New York detective service,” and he lifted
the lapel of his vest, thus disclosing a glistening police shield
underneath.
“Ah! Are you working up a case here?”
“Oh, no! I wouldn’t let my occupation be known if I was. I am off duty,
and thought I would run up and take the country air for a few days.”
“Yes? Well, you’ll find Dalton a very pleasant stopping-place.”
“So I should judge. You people here have ♦managed this case very well.”
“The murder of Colonel Conrad, you mean?”
“Yes. There is not a doubt that the prisoner is guilty. Excuse me, my
dear fellow”――to Carlos――“for speaking so plainly, but I can see it in
your eye. Can’t you?”――to the officer.
“Yes, indeed! I said so all along.”
Officer George Johnson was flattered at the idea of holding converse
with one so high up in the business as to have reached the station of
a New York detective. He began to swell with gratified vanity.
“It seems to me I’ve seen the prisoner before. You know we detectives
get to be pretty familiar with faces of most of the rascals in the
country?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Mr. Johnson.
“I beg your pardon,” said Carlos. “You cannot be very familiar with my
face. I have been in the country only a short time――――”
“You keep your mouth still,” commanded the officer.
“Oh, let him talk,” said the detective, pleasantly. “It’s amusing to
hear the stories these fellows will make up. But you know we take them
for what they are worth.”
“Certainly,” assented Mr. Johnson, with a wise look.
“Let’s go and take something before the train comes along,” said the
detective. “Just one glass, you know, for good-fellowship.”
“I’m not particular,” said the officer.
“Will you join us, gentlemen,” said the detective, turning to four or
five of the bystanders.
They were willing enough, and all entered a room adjoining the depot,
and stepped up to a bar.
Glasses and bottles were set on the counter.
The detective filled a glass, looked at the liquor critically, and said,
suddenly:
“Isn’t this whisky?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the barkeeper.
“I ordered gin. Perhaps you will take this, Mr. Johnson, if you wish
whisky?”
“Yes, my drink is whisky always. Certainly I’ll take it,” replied the
officer.
He seemed to think it an honor to oblige the detective, who pushed the
glass toward him and filled another for himself.
“By the way,” said the detective, before Mr. Johnson had emptied his
glass, “if your prisoner is the man I think he is, he had a scar, left
by a pistol-shot, on his left wrist. Would you mind my examining it,
just for curiosity?”
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Johnson. “Go ahead.”
While Officer Johnson was finishing his whisky the detective approached
close to Carlos, and taking hold of his hand, rolled up the sleeve of
his coat. While thus engaged he whispered to him quickly and softly:
“As soon as you are seated in the car pretend to be tired out, and make
believe to go to sleep.”
Then he said, aloud, to Carlos’ custodian:
“I may be mistaken; I don’t seem to find the scar. No, this can’t be
the man, but there is certainly a wonderful resemblance!”
Carlos was simply paralyzed with astonishment. Was this New York
detective a friend in disguise? A flood of wondering mental questions
was cut short by the whistle of the approaching train.
Hurry and bustle quickly ensued. Officer Johnson and the detective
shook hands and bade each other good-by, and then, the cars having come
to a halt, Carlos was conducted on board. It was an express train, and
scarcely were he and the officer seated, still handcuffed together,
before it was again in motion.
They were in the only ordinary passenger-coach on the train, it
consisting mainly of drawing-room and sleeping cars, and being designed
chiefly for the accommodation of through travelers. It stopped only
once between Dalton and Hillsdale――the places were thirty-five miles
apart――and that was at a small watering-station.
There were only five other passengers in the coach――a woman with a babe,
an old man asleep, with his hat over his eyes, and two drunken fellows
who were too stupid to attend to anything but each other’s gibberish.
Carlos obeyed the strange advice of the detective. He yawned, stretched,
and sighed, and then, laying his head against the back of the seat,
appeared to fall asleep. Meanwhile he put his hand in his coat pocket,
and endeavored to ascertain, by feeling, what had been placed there.
There was a small bag, made of oil-silk or some similar material,
inclosing some soft substance. There was a pair of iron or
steel-cutting nippers, apparently of considerable strength. There was
attached to the bag a slip of paper.
Carlos breathed heavily and regularly, but kept close watch of officer
George Johnson. That gentleman seemed to be uneasy. One moment he would
bow his head as if drowsy, and the next he would suddenly straighten up
and look at his prisoner. Then he would subside into indolence again,
again to rouse himself and make sure of the safety of Carlos.
“Beats the duse how sleepy I am!” he once muttered to himself.
Still Carlos feigned deep slumber.
At last Officer Johnson took a careful survey of him, examined the
handcuffs cautiously, and then peered intently into his face.
Finally, either from a sense of safety, or in consequence of an
uncontrollable drowsiness, he leaned his head against the casement of
the car window, and went into a sound sleep.
Now was Carlos’ opportunity. With as little movement of his arm as
possible, he tore the slip of paper from the bag, drew it from his
pocket, and read as follows:
“In the bag is a sponge soaked in chloroform. When the officer
goes to sleep, hold it to his mouth and nose. Then take the
steel cutting-nippers and free yourself. Do all this when you
hear the first long whistle, which will show that the train is
near the watering-station. You can get off there and escape. If
this plan fails, we will try another. But if you don’t get away,
you will be convicted and hung, sure.
Your cousin,
L.”
“Here is deliverance!” was Carlos’ first thought.
Yet he was puzzled greatly. Although the note was signed “Your Cousin
L,” the handwriting bore no resemblance to that of Leonard. And he was
at a loss to conceive how Leonard, if he was a prisoner, could concoct
this plan and supply him with the materials for carrying it out.
While inwardly debating, another thought struck him.
Would not an attempt to escape, whether it succeeded or failed,
be regarded as an evidence of guilt? If he met the trial quietly
and fearlessly, would it not go far toward convincing people of his
innocence? But then he thought of the wide-spread sentiment against
him, of the strong array of evidence, and of the dreary confinement in
jail that must ensue before the trial.
Suddenly, while conflicting arguments were flitting through his brain,
the engine pealed forth its whistle.
Now or never!
With sudden impulse he tore the oil-silk bag open. The odor of
chloroform arose. Looking quickly around the car, and seeing that no
observant eye was upon him, he applied the sponge to his companion’s
face.
The officer gave a little convulsive twitch, but Carlos held the
sponge tighter, and he was immediately quiet, and quickly lapsed into
unconsciousness.
Then Carlos seized the nippers, and, with their powerful, sharp jaws,
severed the chain that held his wrist to that of the officer.
He was free!
He walked quickly to one end of the car, and as he passed him,
exchanged hats with the man who was asleep.
The speed of the train had by this time slackened, so that as soon as
he reached the platform of the car he jumped to the ground.
The train passed slowly along, and halted at the water-tower, some
twenty rods distant.
Now came a brief period of suspense. Would his flight be discovered
before the train started again? The chances were against such discovery,
for no passengers were likely to get on or off. He concealed himself
behind a clump of bushes and waited.
Soon the whistle sounded the signal for starting. The engine began
to puff, and the red lights on the rear car to recede. There was no
disturbance, no alarm.
Faster and faster went the train, until it rounded a curve, and Carlos
was left solitary and alone.
The handcuff was still on his wrist, with the short fragment of chain
dangling to it. To possess himself of some implement by which to rid
himself of this incumbrance was the next desirable step.
After reflecting a moment, he made his way cautiously toward the
water-tower. On coming within a few yards of it, he stopped suddenly
and fell flat on the ground. A man emerged from the door of the
structure. It was the keeper.
He walked across the track, and then down by its side a short distance,
coming to an old freight-car, which he entered. It was his dwelling.
Resuming his cautious walk, Carlos soon reached the tower. He
pushed the door open and stepped within. Lighting a match, he looked
searchingly around.
Yes, there was what he sought――a box of tools. Fumbling among them,
he succeeded in finding a file. Taking possession of it, he stepped
outside again, and around to the rear of the structure.
The file was a large, clumsy instrument, but by dint of twenty minutes’
industrious work, he freed himself of the handcuff. He cast it into a
ditch by the side of the track, and then replaced the file where he had
found it.
This done, he again walked to a safe distance from the water-tower. He
stood alone in the night air, divested of the most dangerous mark of
recognition.
What next?