A SHREWD GUESS.
The detective had revealed his identity, and the chauffeur was quite
willing to tell all he knew.
He had driven his temporary employer and the woman in nurse’s garb to
the Yellow Anchor line pier, near the Battery. Grantley--or Thomas
Worthington, as he had called himself in this connection--had
volunteered the information that his companion was his niece, who had
been sent for suddenly to take care of some one who was to sail on the
_Laurentian_ at five o’clock in the morning.
Both of the occupants of the car had alighted at the pier, and the man
had told the chauffeur not to wait, the explanation being that he might
be detained on board for some time.
The pier was a long one, and the chauffeur could not, of course, say
whether the pair had actually gone on board the vessel or not. He had
obeyed orders and driven away at once.
Neither the man nor the woman had carried any baggage. The chauffeur had
gathered that the person who was ill was a relative of both of them, and
that the nurse’s rather bewildered manner was due to her anxiety and the
suddenness of the call.
That was all Nick could learn from him, and an immediate visit to the
Yellow Anchor line pier was imperative.
There it was learned that a man and woman answering the description
given had been noticed in the crowd of people who had come to bid
good-by to relatives and friends. One man was sure he had seen them
enter a taxi which had just dropped its passengers. When interrogated
further, he gave it as his impression that the taxi was a red-and-black
machine. He naturally did not notice its number, and no one else could
be found who had seen even that much.
A wireless inquiry brought a prompt reply from the _Laurentian_, to the
effect that no couple of that description were on board, or had been
seen on the vessel the night before.
It was clear that Grantley had made a false trail, for the purpose of
throwing off his pursuers. It had been a characteristic move, and no
more than Nick had expected.
The detective turned his attention to the taxi clew. Red and black were
the distinctive colors of the Flanders-Jackson Taxicab Company’s
machines. Consequently, the main garage of that concern was next
visited.
Luckily, the man at the pier had been right. One of the company’s taxis
had been at the Yellow Anchor line pier the previous night, and had
picked up a couple of new passengers there, after having been dismissed
by those who had originally engaged it.
Nick obtained the name and address of the chauffeur, who was off duty
until night. He was not at home when the detective called, but, after a
vexatious delay, he was eventually located.
A tip loosened his tongue.
“I remember them well, sir,” he declared. “The man looked like a
doctor, I thought, and, if I’m not mistaken, the woman had on a nurse’s
uniform under her long coat. I couldn’t see her face, though, on
account of the heavy veil she wore. She acted queer--sick or something.
The fellow told me, when they got in, to drive them to the
Wentworth-Belding, but when I got up to Fourteenth Street he said to
take them to the Metropolitan Building. I did, and they got out. That’s
all I know about it. I drove them to the Madison Square side, and they
had gone into the building before I started away, but that’s the last I
saw of them.”
“Well, we’ve traced them one step farther, Chick,” Nick remarked to his
first assistant as they left, “but we haven’t tracked them down, by a
long shot. Grantley doubtless went through the Metropolitan Building to
Fourth Avenue. There he either took the subway, hailed another taxi,
or--hold on, though! Maybe there’s something in that! I wonder----”
“Now, what?” Chick asked eagerly.
“You remember Doctor Chester, one of the six young physicians, who was
mixed up with Grantley in that vivisection case?”
“Of course I do,” his assistant answered. “He has taken another name and
given up his profession--on the surface at least. He’s living on East
Twenty-sixth Street----”
“Exactly--a very few blocks from the Metropolitan Building!” interrupted
his chief.
“You mean----”
“I have a ‘hunch,’ as Patsy would call it that Grantley has taken Helga
Lund to Chester’s house. Chester had rented one of those old-fashioned,
run-down bricks across from the armory. It’s liable to be demolished
almost any day, to make way for a new skyscraper, and he doubtless gets
it for a song. He can do what he pleases there, and I wouldn’t be
surprised to find that Grantley had been paying the rent in anticipation
of something of this sort. They undoubtedly think that we lost sight of
Chester long ago.”
“By George, I’ll wager you’re right, chief!” exclaimed Chick. “The fact
that we’ve traced Grantley to the Metropolitan Building certainly looks
significant, in view of Chester’s house being so near to it. It’s only
about five minutes’ walk, and a man with Grantley’s resourcefulness
could easily have made enough changes in his appearance and that of Miss
Lund, while in the Metropolitan Building, to have made it impossible for
the two who entered Chester’s house to be identified with those who had
left the Wentworth-Belding an hour or so before.”
“That’s the way it strikes me,” agreed the detective. “And, if the
scoundrel took her there last night, they are doubtless there now. I
think we’re sufficiently justified in forcing our way into the house and
searching it, and that without delay. We don’t know enough to take the
police into our confidence as yet; therefore, the raid will have to be
purely on our own responsibility. We must put our theory to the test at
once, however, without giving Grantley any more time to harm the
actress. Heaven knows he’s had enough opportunity to do so already!”
“Right! We can’t wait for darkness or reënforcements. It will have to
be a daylight job, put through just as we are. If we find ourselves on
the wrong scent, Chester will be in a position to make it hot for us--or
would be, if he had any standing--but we’ll have to risk that.”
“Well, if Chester--or Schofield, as he is calling himself now--is
tending to his new business as a commercial chemist, he ought to be away
at this hour. That remains to be seen, however. I imagine, at any rate,
that we can handle any situation that is likely to arise. If time were
not so precious, it would be better to have some of the other boys along
with us, but we don’t know what may be happening at this very moment.
Come on. We can plan our campaign on the way.”
A couple of tall loft buildings had already replaced part of the old row
of houses on the north side of Twenty-sixth Street, beginning at Fourth
Avenue. Nick and his assistant entered the second of these and took the
elevator to one of the upper floors, from the eastern corridor of which
they could obtain a view of the house occupied by young Doctor Chester,
together with its approaches, back and front.
The house consisted of a high basement--occupied by a little hand
laundry--and three upper stories, the main floor being reached by a
flight of iron steps at the front.
Obviously, there was no exit from the body of the house at the rear.
There was only a basement door opening into the tiny back yard, and that
was connected with the laundry.
The detective decided, as a result of their general knowledge of such
houses, not to bother with the back at all. Their plan was to march
boldly up the front stairs, outside, fit a skeleton key to the lock, and
enter the hall.
They argued that, owing to the fact that the basement was sublet, any
crooked work that might be going on would be likely to be confined to
the second or third floor to prevent suspicion on the part of those
connected with the laundry.
Therefore, they hoped to find the first floor deserted. If that were the
case, it was improbable that their entrance would be discovered
prematurely.
There was, doubtless, a flight of steps at the rear of the house,
leading down to the laundry from the first floor; but they were
practically certain that these rear stairs did not ascend above the main
floor. If they did not, there was no way of retreat for the occupants of
the upper part of the house, except by the front stairs, and, as the
detective meant to climb them, it seemed reasonable to suppose that
Grantley, Chester & Company could easily be trapped.
Nick and Chick returned to the street and made their way, without the
slightest attempt at concealment, toward the suspected house.
They met no one whose recognition was likely to be embarrassing, and saw
no faces at the upper windows as they climbed the outer steps.
They had already seen to it that their automatics were handy, and now
Nick produced a bunch of skeleton keys and began fitting them, one after
another.
The fifth one worked. They stepped into the hall as if they belonged
there--taking care to make no noise, however--and gently closed the
doors behind them.
The adventure was well under way, and, technically speaking, they were
already housebreakers.