A BOLT FROM HEAVEN.
When Nick Carter left the doctor’s house he was buried in thought. The
events of the day had occurred so quickly that he had hardly had time to
figure out in his mind the best thing to do next.
In the first place, what did it mean that Weeden should turn up in the
company of Billy Young, the burglar?
What was their object in killing Tom Sweet? Was it possible that they
had been seen going somewhere that would have betrayed them?
The visit to the morgue, and the killing of the driver of the ambulance,
showed that they knew that he was on the case; also it was evident that
they feared that when he took up the case that he would be able to
discover the guilty ones.
The great detective, as he walked along, pondered over the various
aspects of the strange case. The murders had all been committed by using
strange pieces of steel dipped in poison of some kind. As the detective
revolved the case in his mind three important questions presented
themselves: Who had imported the poison? How had the pieces of steel
been driven into the bodies of the murdered men? What object actuated
the murderers?
A visit to the scene of the crimes would perhaps throw some light on the
matter.
“I will visit the spot to-morrow,” thought Nick; “a search of the woods
in the daytime might show something that would give me a clew on which
to work.
“I will be better prepared when I go there to-morrow,” said Nick, to
himself. “I will get a hold of that beggar if he is anywhere around, and
I will see if he knows anything about the murders. It may be that he is
the man that has committed the crimes.
“I am sure of one thing, and that is that he is a fraud, pure and
simple. Another thing that I must do is to get a hold of the crook,
Billy Young, and see what he knows about the killing of my man
yesterday.”
If Nick Carter had seen the machine that went by the doctor’s house,
while he was inside, he would not have been so sure of reaching the spot
in the woods where the murders were committed.
The men who had been sent by Jack Weeden were in the machine.
Of course Nick did not know this.
He drove on, thinking of the things that he had to do.
The vehicle swayed from side to side as it rattled over the
cobblestones; this did not worry Nick, as his thoughts were too much
taken up by other things.
He had reached the park, when the car gave a sudden lurch and toppled
over on its side.
It was smashed to pieces.
That Nick was not killed seemed to him to be a miracle.
He alighted in a ditch, which had been partly filled by the rain. Almost
suffocated, he crawled out of the ditch, only to find himself grasped by
several brawny hands.
The truth flashed upon him. The smashing of his car had been
deliberately planned.
While he was struggling with his captors he thought to himself: “This is
some more work of Jack Weeden.”
He struggled for a few minutes with a semblance of resistance; he did
not want to display too much strength before he had time to reflect.
His captors thought that his fall had taken his strength, and very
slightly loosened their hold on him.
This was exactly what Nick had wanted them to do.
With a sudden wrench he tore himself free, and gave the man nearest to
him a smashing blow in the face that sent him to the ground.
It was a good beginning.
He rained blow after blow on those nearest him, until he had cleared a
circle.
Then, for the first time, did the would-be assassins give vent to their
feelings. They raved and cursed as they saw him fell one after another
of their comrades.
“Kill him!” yelled a voice.
“Shoot the detective!” screamed another.
“Stab him to the heart!”
“Hit him on the head with a club!”
A shot whizzed by Nick’s head; it was too close for comfort.
He suddenly remembered that he had taken a revolver from the body of the
man that the inspector had killed that afternoon; he would use it.
Had his fall into the ditch ruined it?
Nick concluded that he would see.
His assailants were rushing toward him again; by the light of the
lantern he could see that they were armed; he must do something to save
his life.
Taking aim as well as he could in the uncertain light, he aimed at the
man who was nearest him.
He fired.
The man who received the shot gave a scream and fell to the ground, shot
through the heart.
Nick fired another shot; another yell gave evidence that this one had
also hit the mark.
Nick had forgotten the man that he had sent to the ground with a smash
when he was first attacked.
The fellow had revived and was creeping up on Nick, when, suddenly,
there was a blinding flash, and the outlaw dropped to the ground a
charred and shapeless mass.
It was the work of Providence.
Once more had right triumphed.