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 theLaurentianat 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’s 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 theLaurentian, 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. Thefellow 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 has 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 werenot 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.
The house in which Nick and Chick found themselves had been a good one, but it was now badly in need of repair.
The main hall was comparatively wide for so narrow a building, and a heavy balustrade fenced off the stairs on one side.
The detectives paused just inside the door and listened intently. The doors on the first floor were all closed and the rooms behind them appeared to be untenanted. At any rate, all was still on that floor. Subdued noises of various sorts floated down to them from above, however, seemingly from the third floor.
They looked at each other significantly. Evidently, their theory had been correct—to some extent, at least.
They approached each of the doors in turn, but could hear nothing. Under the stairway they found the expected door leading down to the basement, but, as it was locked, and there was no key, they paid no further attention to it.
Instead, they started to mount the front stairs to the second floor. The stairway was old and rather creaky, but the detectives knew how to step in order to make the least noise. Consequently, they gained the next landing without being discovered.
Here they repeated the tactics they had used below, with a like result. The sound of voices and footfalls were louder now, but they all came from the third floor. The second seemed to be as quiet as the first.
The doors on the second floor, like those on the first, were all closed, but Nick ascertained that at least one of them was unlocked.
That fact might be of great advantage in preventing discovery, in case any one should start down unexpectedly from the third floor, for the halls and stairs offered no place of concealment.
The detectives noiselessly removed their shoes before attempting the last flight, and placed them inside the unlocked room, which they noiselessly closed again.
They were now ready for the final reconnaissance.
By placing the balls of their stockinged feet on the edges of the steps, they succeeded in mounting to the third floor without making any more noise than that produced by the contact of their clothing.
A slight pause at the top served to satisfy them that the noises all proceeded from one room at the front of the house. They were already close to the door of this room, and they listened breathlessly.
Words were plainly audible now, punctuated at frequent intervals by loud bursts of laughter.
It sounded like a merrymaking of some kind. What was going on behind that closed door? Had they made a mistake in entering the house and wasted precious time in following a will-o’-the-wisp, when Helga Lund might be even then in the greatest danger?
Nick and his assistants feared so, and their hearts sank heavily.
But no. The next words they heard reassured, but, at the same time, startled them. The voice was unmistakably Grantley’s.
“That’s enough of pantomime,” it said, with a peculiar note of cruel, triumphant command. “Now give us your confession from ‘The Daughters of Men’—give it, but remember that you are not a great actress, that you are so bad that you would be hooted from the cheapest stage. Remember that you are ugly and dressed in rags, that you are awkward and ungainly in your movements, that your voice is like a file. Remember it not only now, but always. You will never be able to act. Your acting is a nightmare, and you are a fright—when you aren’t a joke. But show us what you can do in that confession scene.”
Nick and Chick grew tense as they listened to thoseunbelievable words, and to the heartless chuckles and whisperings with which they were received. Apparently there were several men in the “audience”—probably Chester and some of Grantley’s other former accomplices.
The meaning was plain—all too plain.
The proud, beautiful Helga Lund was once more under hypnotic influence, and Grantley, with devilish ingenuity, was impressing suggestions upon her poor, tortured brain, suggestions which were designed to rob her of her great ability, not only for the moment, but, unless their baneful effect could be removed, for all the rest of her life.
She, who had earned the plaudits of royalty in most of the countries of Europe, was being made a show of for the amusement of a handful of ruthless scoffers.
It made the detectives’ blood boil in their veins and their hands clench until their knuckles were white, but they managed somehow to keep from betraying themselves.
The employment of hypnotism in such a way was plainly within the scope of the new law against unwarranted operations or experiments on human beings, without their consent; but it was necessary to secure as much evidence as possible before interfering.
To that end Nick Carter took out of a pocket case a curious little instrument, which he was in the habit of calling his “keyhole periscope.”
It consisted of a small black tube, about the length and diameter of a lead pencil. There was an eyepiece at one end. At the other a semicircular lens bulged out.
It was designed to serve the same purpose as the periscope of a submarine torpedo boat—that is, to give a view on all sides of a given area at once. The exposed convex lens, when thrust through a keyhole or other small aperture, received images of objects from every angle in the room beyond, and magnified them, in just the same way as the similarly constructed periscope of a submarine projects above the level of the water and gives those in the submerged vessel below a view of all objects on the surface, within a wide radius.
Nick had noted that there was no key in the lock of the door. Taking advantage of that fact, he crept silently forward, inserted the wonderful little instrument in the round upper portion of the hole, and, stooping, applied his eye to the eyepiece.
He could not resist an involuntary start as he caught his first glimpse of the extraordinary scene within.
The whole interior of the room was revealed to him. Around the walls were seated three young men of professional appearance. Nick recognized them all. They were Doctor Chester, Doctor Willard, and Doctor Graves, three of Grantley’s former satellites.
They were leaning forward or throwing themselves back in different attitudes of cruel enjoyment and derision, while Grantley stood at one side, his hawklike face thrust out, his keen, pitiless eyes fixed malignantly on the figure in the center of the room.
Nick’s heart went out in pity toward that pathetic figure, although he could hardly believe his eyes.
It was that of Helga Lund, but so changed as to be almost unrecognizable.
Her splendid golden hair hung in a matted, disordered snarl about her face, which was pale and smudged with grime. She was clothed in the cheapest of calico wrappers, hideously colored, soiled and torn, beneath which showed her bare, dust-stained feet.
She had thrown herself upon her knees, as the part required; her outstretched hands were intertwined beseechingly, and her wonderful eyes were raised to Grantley’s face. In them was the hurt, fearful look of a faithful but abused dog in the presence of a cruel master.
Her tattered sleeves revealed numerous bruises on her perfectly formed arms.
The part of the play which Grantley had ordered her to render was that in which the heroine pleaded with her angry lover for his forgiveness of some past act of hers, which she had bitterly repented.
She was reciting the powerful lines now. They had always held her great audiences breathless, but how different was this pitiable travesty!
It would have been hard enough at best for her to make them ring true when delivered before such unsympathetic listeners and in such an incongruous garb, but she was not at her best. On the contrary, her performance was infinitely worse than any one would have supposed possible.
She had unconsciously adopted every one of the hypnotist’s brutal suggestions.
There was not a vestige of her famous grace in any of her movements. The most ungainly slattern could not have been more awkward.
Her words were spoken parrotlike, as if learned by rote, without the slightest understanding of their meaning. For the most part, they succeeded one another without any attempt at emphasis, and when emphasis was used, it was invariably in the wrong place.
It was her voice itself, however, which gave Nick and Chick their greatest shock.
The Lund, as she was generally called in Europe, had always been celebrated for her remarkably musical voice; but this sorry-looking creature’s voice was alternately shrill and harsh. It pierced and rasped and set the teeth on edge, just as the sound of a file does.
Nothing could have given a more sickening sense of Grantley’s power over the actress than this astounding transformation, this slavish adherence to the conditions of abject failure which he had imposed upon her.
It seemed incredible, and yet, there it was, plainly revealed to sight and hearing alike.
A subtler or more uncanny revenge has probably never been conceived by the mind of man. The public breakdown which Grantley had so mercilessly caused had only been the beginning of his scheme of vengeance.
He doubtless meant to hypnotize his victim again and again, and each time to impose his will upon her gradually weakening mind, until she had become a mere wreck of her former self, and incapable of ever again taking her former place in the ranks of genius.
There was nothing impossible about it. On the contrary, the result was a foregone conclusion if Grantley were left free to continue as he had begun.
The very emotional susceptibility which had made Helga Lund a great actress had also made her an easy victim of hypnotic suggestion, and if the process went on long enough, she would permanently lose everything that had made her successful.
Outright murder would have been innocent by comparison with such infernal ingenuity of torture. It seemed to Nick as if he were watching the destruction of a splendid priceless work of art.
He had seen enough.
He withdrew the little periscope from the keyhole and straightened up. One hand went to his pocket and came out with an automatic. Chick followed his example.
They were outnumbered two to one, but that did not deter them.
Helga must be rescued at once, and her tormentors caught red-handed.
What was to be done, though?
To burst into the room and seek to overpower the four doctors then and there, in Helga’s presence, would place the actress in additional danger.
Nick was convinced, however, that that risk would have to be run. He had seen evidences that more than one of the men were tiring of the cruel sport, and it might now come to an end at any moment.
He swiftly considered two or three possible plans for drawing the four away from their victim, but rejected them all. They would only increase the danger of a slip of some sort, and he was bent upon capturing the four, as well as releasing the actress.
Furthermore, he did not believe that even Grantley would dare to harm Helga further in his presence, even if the fortunes of war should give the surgeon a momentary opportunity.
He, accordingly, motioned to his assistant to follow close behind him, and laid his left hand on the knob.
He turned it noiselessly, and was greatly relieved to find that the door yielded. Their advent would be a complete surprise, therefore, and would find the four totally unprepared.
Nick paused a moment, then flung the door back violently and strode into the room.
Grantley was the ringleader, the most dangerous of the lot at any time, and the fact that he was an escaped convict would render his resistance more than ordinarily desperate. The periscope had told Nick where the fugitive stood, and thus the detective was enabled to cover him at once with the unwavering muzzle of the automatic.
“Hands up, Grantley! Hands up, everybody!” cried Nick, stepping a little to one side to allow Chick to enter.
His assistant took immediate advantage of the opening and stepped to his chief’s side, with leveled weapon. Chick’s automatic was pointed at Doctor Chester, however. After Grantley, the man whose house had been invaded, was naturally the one who was likely to put up the hardest fight.
The guilty four were spellbound with astonishment and fear for a moment, then the three younger ones jumped to their feet like so many jacks-in-the-box. Grantley had already been standing when the detectives broke in.
“Did you hear me, gentlemen?” Nick demanded, crooking his finger a little more closely about the trigger. “I said ‘Hands up!’ and it won’t be healthy for any of you to ignore the invitation. One—two—three!”
Before the last word passed his lips, however, four pairs of hands were in the air. Doctor Willard’s had gone up first, and Grantley’s last.
“Thank you so much!” the detective remarked, with mock politeness. Now, if you will oblige me a little further, by lining up against that right wall, I shall be still moregrateful to you. Kindly place yourselves about two feet apart, not less. I want you, Number Sixty Thousand One Thirteen”—Grantley winced at his prison number—“at this end of the line, next to me, with Chester, alias Schofield, next; Graves next to him, and Willard last. You see, I haven’t forgotten any of my old friends.”
This disposition of the trapped quartet was designed to serve two purposes. In the first place, it would remove them from proximity to Helga Lund, who, crouched in the middle of the floor, was watching the detectives with bewildered, uncomprehending eyes. In the second place, it would enable Chick to handcuff them one by one, while Nick stood ready to fire, at an instant’s notice, on any one who made a false move.
It looked, for the time being, as if the capture would be altogether too easy to have any spice in it, but the detectives did not make the mistake of underrating their adversaries—Grantley, especially.
To be sure, they were probably unarmed, and had been taken at such a disadvantage that they would hardly have had an opportunity to draw weapons, even if they had worn them. Still, any one of a number of things might happen.
The four doctors had been caught “with the goods,” as the police saying is, and they might be expected to take desperate chances as soon as they had had time to collect their scattered wits and to realize the seriousness of their plight.
Nick Carter had shown his usual generalship in the orders he had given so crisply.
Grantley himself, the most to be feared of the lot, was to be placed nearest to the detective, where Nick could watch him most narrowly. That was not all, however. The detective meant that Chick should handcuff Grantley first, and thus put the leader out of mischief at the earliest opportunity.
After him, Chester was to be disposed of, and the two that would then remain were comparatively harmless in themselves.
Grantley doubtless saw through Nick’s tactics from the beginning, and if the detective could have caught the gleam behind the wily surgeon’s half-closed lids, he would have known that Grantley thought he saw an opportunity to circumvent those tactics.
With reasonable promptness, hands still in the air, Grantley started to obey the detective’s order. He moved slowly, grudgingly, his face distorted with rage and hate.
Chester started to follow the older man toward the wall, but Chick halted him.
“Hold up, there, Schofield-Chester!” the young detective ordered. “One at a time, if you don’t mind!”
He wished to prevent the confusion that would result from the simultaneous movement of the four scoundrels.
Chester paused with a snarl, and Grantley went on alone. He was making for the corner nearest to Nick, who still stood close to the door. In doing so, he was obliged to pass in front of the detective.
It had been no part of Nick’s plan to have the fugitive take to that corner, and he suddenly realized that the criminal was crossing a little too close to him for safety.
“Here, keep to the left a little——” he began sharply, when Grantley was about four feet away.
But before he could complete his sentence, the escaped convict ducked and threw his body sidewise, the longarms were already above his head and he left them where they were. Their abnormal length helped to bridge the distance between him and Nick as he flung himself at the detective.
Nick guessed the nature of the move, as if by instinct, and when he fired, which he did immediately, it was with depressed muzzle. He had allowed, in other words, for the swift descent of Grantley’s body.
In spite of that, however, the bullet merely plowed a furrow across the criminal’s shoulder and back, as he dropped. It did not disable him in the least, and, before Nick could fire again. Grantley’s peculiar dive ended with a vicious impact against his legs, and clawlike hands gripped him about the knees in an effort to pull him down.
The convict’s daring act broke the spell which had held his companions. Without waiting to see whether Grantley’s move was to prove successful or not, the three of them threw themselves bodily upon Chick, while the latter’s attention was diverted for a moment by his chief’s peril.
Doctor Chester, who had been looking for something of the sort from Grantley, was the first to pounce upon Nick’s assistant. He gripped Chick’s right wrist and began to twist it in an attempt to loosen the hold on the weapon.
“Help Grantley, Willard,” he directed, at the same time, between his clenched teeth. “Graves and I can handle this fellow, I guess.”
Willard started for Nick, while Graves shifted his attack, and, edging around behind Chick, seized him by the shoulders. At the same moment he placed one knee in the small of the young detective’s back.
There could be only one result.
Chick was bent painfully back until his spine felt as if it was about to crack in two; then, in his efforts to relieve the strain, he lost his footing and went down, with Chester on top of him, and still clinging doggedly to his wrists.
A few feet away Nick was being hard pressed by two other rascals.
The pendulum of chance had swung the other way, and things looked very dubious for the detectives—and for what was left of Helga Lund!
Chick had thrown himself to one side to ease the pressure on his back. Accordingly, he struck the floor on his left side.
Chester and Graves dropped heavily upon him before he had more than touched the boards, the former at his feet, the latter on his shoulders.
Their bony knees crushed him down, and Graves used his weight to try to pull Chick over on his back.
Nick’s assistant had twisted his left wrist out of Chester’s grasp as he fell, but the renegade physician had clung for dear life to the hand which held the automatic.
Chick allowed himself to be pulled over on his back—for a very good reason. His free arm had been under him as he lay on his side, and he wanted an opportunity to use it.
Graves grabbed at it at once, but Chick stretched it—all but the upper arm—out of his antagonist’s reach.Graves would have to lean far over Chick in order to reach the latter’s left wrist, and, in so doing, he would expose himself not a little. Or else he would be obliged to edge around on his knees, behind Chick’s head.
He chose to try the latter maneuver, but Chick feinted with his left arm. Graves dodged, and Chick’s hand darted in behind the other’s guard, grasping Graves firmly by the hair.
Almost at the same instant the young detective jerked his right foot loose and gave the startled Chester a tremendous kick in the stomach.
The master of the house gave a grunt and doubled up, like a jackknife. His grip on Chick’s right wrist relaxed simultaneously, and its owner tore it away.
Chester had involuntarily lurched forward, and the act had brought his head well within the reach of Chick’s right hand, which was now once more at liberty.
While Nick’s assistant held the struggling Graves at arm’s length by the hair, with one hand, he brought down the butt of the automatic, with all the strength he could bring to bear, on Chester’s lowered poll.
He had juggled the weapon in a twinkling, so that it was clubbed when it descended. The blow was surprisingly effective, considering the circumstances.
Chester groaned and toppled forward, over Chick’s legs.
The detective’s assistant was ready to follow up his advantage at once. He wriggled about until he was facing Graves, and then he began pulling that individual toward him by the hair.
Tears of pain were in Graves’ eyes, and he struck out blindly in a desperate effort to break Chick’s relentless hold. The attempt was a failure, however. Despite all of Graves’ struggles, he was irresistibly drawn nearer and nearer. The fact that he wore his hair rather long helped Chick to maintain his grip.
Presently the young physician’s head was near enough to allow Chick to strike it with his clubbed weapon. He drew the latter back for the blow, but his enemy, seeing what was coming, suddenly changed his tactics.
Instead of trying to pull away any more, he ducked and threw himself into Chick’s arms.
The revolver butt naturally missed its mark and, for a time, they fought at too close quarters to permit such a blow to be tried again.
Graves had seized Chick around the body as he closed in, and he drew himself close, burying his head on Chick’s chest. Chick still maintained his hold of his opponent’s hair, however, and now retaliated by rolling over on Graves, working his feet from under the unconscious Chester as he did so.
Graves snuggled as close as he could to avoid the dreaded blow, but Chick, now being on top, was able to hold Graves’ head on the floor by main force, while he arched his own powerful back and began to tear his body from his antagonist’s straining arms.
Graves was game; there was no doubt about that. The pulling of his hair must have been torture to him, but he did not relinquish his hold about Chick’s waist.
His eyes were closed, his face drawn and twisted with pain, but he clung obstinately, and without a whimper.
Slowly but surely, nevertheless, Chick raised himself, and the space between their laboring breasts widened. Graves’ hold was being loosened bit by bit, but it had not broken.
As a matter of fact, Chick did not wait for it tobreak. It was not necessary, for one thing; and for another, he realized that it would be a kindness to Graves to end the painful struggle as soon as possible.
Accordingly, as soon as he had raised himself enough to deliver a reasonable effective blow with the clubbed automatic, he struck downward, with carefully controlled aim and strength.
The butt of the little weapon landed in the middle of the physician’s forehead. A gasp followed, and the tugging arms fell away.
Chick had floored his two opponents.
He got quickly to his feet and looked to see if Nick needed him. Chester and Graves ought to be handcuffed before they had time to revive, but that could wait a little if necessary.
It was well that Chick finished his business just when he did, for Nick was in trouble.
Doctor Grantley was not an athlete, and his long, lanky build gave little promise of success against Nick Carter’s trained muscles and varied experience in physical encounters of all sorts.
On the other hand, the convict was possessed of amazing wiriness and endurance, and, although he was not cut out for a fighting man, his keen, quick mind made up for most of his bodily deficiencies.
His original attack, for instance, was an example of unconventional but startlingly successful strategy. On the surface, it would have seemed that such a man, without weapons, had precious little chance of gaining any advantage over Nick Carter, armed as the latter was, and a good four feet away.
But Grantley followed up his impetuous dive in a most surprising way. His long arms closed about Nick’s legs, but, instead of endeavoring to pull the detective down in the ordinary way, Grantley unexpectedly plucked his legs apart with all his strength.
The detective’s balance instantly became a very uncertain quantity, for the surgeon’s abnormally long, gorilla-like arms tore his legs apart and pushed them to right and left with astonishing ease.
Nick felt like an involuntary Colossus of Rhodes as he was forced to straddle farther and farther. He threw one hand behind him to brace himself against the wall, reversed his automatic and leaned forward, bent upon knocking the enterprising Grantley in the head.
The fugitive had other plans, however. Just as Nick bent forward, Grantley suddenly thrust his head and shoulders between the detective’s outstretched limbs, and heaved upward and backward.
The detective was lifted from his feet and pitched forward, head downward. His discomfiture was a decided shock to him, but he neither lost his presence of mind nor his grip on his weapon.
Had he struck on his head and shoulders, as Grantley evidently intended he should, the result might have been exceedingly disastrous. The detective would almost certainly have been plunged into unconsciousness, and his neck might easily have been broken.
Nick saw his danger in a flash, though, drew his head and shoulders sharply inward and downward, and at the same time grasped one of Grantley’s thighs with his left hand.
The result would have been ludicrous under almost any other circumstances. The detective’s lowered head went, in turn, between Grantley’s legs, and their intertwinedbodies formed a wheel, such as trained athletes sometimes contrive.
This countermove of Nick’s was as much of a surprise to the surgeon as the latter’s curious mode of attack had been to the detective.
They rolled over and over a couple of times, until Nick, finding himself momentarily on top, brought them to a stop. So awkward were their positions that neither was able to strike an effective blow at the other.
Nick had the upper hand temporarily, however, and proceeded to wrench himself loose. He had been busily engaged in this when Willard had rushed to Grantley’s assistance.
That put still another face on the situation at once.
The newcomer saw his opportunity and snatched up a chair as he rushed toward the tangled combatants.
Nick heard him coming, but did not have time to extricate himself from Grantley’s dogged grasp.
He raised his weapon, though, and was about to fire at Willard, when he saw that the latter was directly between him and Helga Lund. Under the circumstances, the detective did not dare to fire for fear of hitting the actress.
He kept Grantley down as best he could with his left hand, and waited for Willard with his right hand still extended, holding the automatic.
He might have an opportunity to fire, but, if not, he could at least partially ward off the expected blow from the chair.
Just as Willard paused and swung the chair aloft, Grantley managed partially to dislodge the detective, with the result that Nick was obliged to lower his right arm quickly. Otherwise he would undoubtedly have lost his balance completely, and the surgeon-convict would have had the upper hand in another second or two.
This involuntary lowering of Nick’s guard served the purpose that Grantley had intended. Willard’s cumbersome weapon descended with uninterrupted force on the detective’s shoulders and the back of his head.
Nick lowered the latter instinctively, and thus saved himself the worst of the blow. Nevertheless, the impact of the chair was stunning in its force.
The detective felt his senses reeling, but he somehow managed to retain them and to grasp the chair, which he blindly wrenched from Willard’s grasp.
As he did so, however, Grantley succeeded in throwing him off and scrambling to his feet. Nick followed his example almost simultaneously, dropped his revolver into his pocket—for fear it would fall into the hands of one of his enemies—and, grasping the heavy chair with both hands, whirled it about his head.
His two antagonists dodged it hurriedly, thus clearing a space about him. Their blood was up, however—especially Grantley’s—and they felt sure that the detective had by no means recovered from the blow.
“Catch the chair, Willard!” cried Grantley.
The younger physician obeyed instantly, grasping the round of the chair with both hands, and thus preventing Nick from using it to any advantage.
The detective shoved it forward into the pit of Willard’s stomach, but the newcomer managed to retain his hold.He guessed that Grantley merely meant him to keep Nick busy in front, in order to allow of a rear attack; and such was the case.
While the detective was occupied with Willard, Grantley stole behind him and plunged his hand into Nick’s pocket, in search of the automatic.
The detective was obliged to let go of the chair and clamp his hand on Grantley’s wrist. He was still feeling very groggy as a result of the punishment he had recently received, and a thrill of apprehension went through him.
Grantley’s hand was already deep in his pocket, grasping the butt of the weapon; and there was nothing about the wrist hold to prevent the criminal from turning the muzzle of the automatic toward his side and pulling the trigger.
Incidentally, Nick foresaw that he could not hope to hold the chair with one hand. Willard would twist it away and turn it upon him.
He was right. That was precisely what Willard did. Nick let go just in time to escape a sprained, if not broken wrist, and dodged back.
In order to keep his hand in Nick’s pocket, Grantley was then obliged to circle about, between the detective and Willard. That saved Nick from the latter for the moment, and, simultaneously, the detective shifted his hold from Grantley’s wrist to his hand, pressing his thumb in under the latter in such a way that it prevented the hammer of the automatic from descending.
He was just in time, for Grantley pulled the trigger almost at the same moment. Thanks to Nick’s foresight, however, the weapon did not go off.
Grantley cursed under his breath, but he had not emptied his bag of tricks. He suddenly drove his head and shoulders in between Nick’s right arm and side, and threw his own left arm around, with a back-hand movement, in front of the detective’s body.
The move threw the detective backward, over Grantley’s knee, which was ready for him. At the same time, the criminal, whose right hand had remained on the weapon in Nick’s pocket, began to draw the automatic out and to the rear.
In other words, he was forcing the detective in one direction with the left arm and working the revolver in the other with his right. It was manifestly impossible for Nick to stand the two opposing pressures for long.
Either he must break the hold of Grantley’s left arm, which pressed across his chest like an iron band, or else he must let go of the weapon.
The former seemed out of the question in that position; and to relinquish his hold on the revolver meant a shot in the side, which, with Grantley’s knowledge of anatomy, would almost certainly prove fatal.
Backward went Nick’s straining right arm, inward turned the hard muzzle of the weapon. Grantley was twisting the automatic now, hoping to loosen the detective’s grasp all the quicker.
Something was due in a few moments, and it promised to be a tragedy for the detective.
Then, to cap the climax, Willard circled about the two combatants, like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey, and, seeing Nick’s head protruding from under Grantley’s left arm, hauled off and let drive with the chair.
The surgeon received part of the blow, but Nick’s head stopped enough of it to end the strange tussle.
The detective crumpled up, but Grantley held him from the floor and wrested the weapon from the nerveless fingers. He withdrew it from Nick’s pocket and put it to the detective’s left breast, determined to end it all, without fail.
It was at that supreme moment that Chick charged up and took a hand.
Nick’s assistant reached Willard first. The latter’s back was toward him, and he was just in the act of drawing back the chair. Chick’s clubbed weapon descended on his head without warning, and Willard pitched forward on his face.
It was not until then that Chick saw the automatic at his chief’s breast. There was no time to reach Grantley—not a second to waste.
The young detective did what Nick and his men seldom allowed themselves to do—he turned his automatic around again and shot to kill.
Nick’s own life depended upon it, and there was nothing, else to do.
The bullet struck Grantley full between the eyes, and the escaped convict dropped without a sound.
The battle was over and won.
* * * * * * *
Doctor Hiram A. Grantley—so called—master surgeon and monster of crime, would never return to Sing Sing to serve out his unexpired term; but neither would he trouble the world, or Helga Lund, again.
If the truth were known, it would doubtless be found that Warden Kennedy heaved a sigh of profound relief when he heard of Grantley’s death. It left no room for anxiety over the possibility of another hypnotic escape.
Doctors Chester, Willard, and Graves were speedily brought to trial, and they were convicted of aiding and abetting the deceased Grantley in an illegal experiment in hypnotism on the person of the great Swedish actress.
As for Helga Lund, she was a nervous wreck for nearly a year, but gradually, under the care of the best European physicians, she recovered her health and her confidence in herself.
She has now returned to the stage, and Nick Carter, who has seen her recently in Paris, declares that she is more wonderful than ever.
He wishes he could have spared her that last humiliating ordeal, but she is wise enough to know that, but for him and Chick, the man she had despised would have made his dreadful vengeance complete.
THE END.
“The Call of Death; or, Nick Carter’s Clever Assistant,” is the title of the story that you will find in the next issue of this weekly, No. 121, out January 2d. This story is the first of three, that will deal with a most remarkable criminal and his associates in crime.
The palms are said to be the plants possessing the largest leaves. The Quaja palm of the Amazons has leaves approaching fifty feet in length by sixteen feet in breadth. The leaves of some palms in Ceylon are more than eighteen feet long, and nearly as wide, and are used by the natives for making tents. The cocoa palm has leaves nearly thirtyfeet long. In other families than the palms, the parasol magnolia of Ceylon forms leaves large enough to shelter fifteen or twenty persons. One of the leaves, taken to England, as a specimen, measured nearly thirty-five feet. The largest leaves grown in temperate climates are those of the exotic Victoria regia, which sometimes reach about seven feet in diameter.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 113 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
The rattle of the window shade and the tramping of a number of feet on the stairs brought Barry to himself with a start just as the unknown put his finger to his lips and stepped noiselessly back into the shadow.
“Face round, but stand where you are,” breathed the unknown.
Lawrence obeyed instinctively, and the next instant the hall door opened to admit several men. The first was well on in years, with a tall, splendid figure and a noble, distinguished face. He seemed in the grip of some great, though partially suppressed, emotion; and, as he caught sight of Barry, he sprang hastily toward him, both hands outstretched.
“Oscar!” he cried, in a deep, vibrating voice which held a distinctly foreign intonation. “My dear boy! I——”
The words died in a queer gurgling sound. One of the men by the door cried out sharply; another drew his breath through his teeth with an odd, whistling noise. Then silence—tense, vibrating silence—fell upon the room as out of the shadows appeared the other man and moved noiselessly forward to Barry’s side.
He did not speak or stir after he had taken up his position there. The two men, so absolutely, unbelievably alike, stood shoulder to shoulder, motionless as statues, while the seconds ticked away and those who witnessed the amazing spectacle stared and stared with dazed faces, unable to credit the evidence of their senses.
Once only did Barry’s gaze waver from the stunned countenance of the older man to the other end of the room, where Shirley Rives stood bending far over the table, her face absolutely white, and her wide, dark eyes staring at him as if she were looking at a ghost.
At last a laugh, clear, hearty, and full of mirth, came from the man at his side, and broke the spell.
“Rather good, don’t you think, uncle?” the newcomer chuckled, stepping forward a little.
“Gott in Himmel!” breathed the older man. “You are——”
“Of course. Don’t you know me? I never supposed that you would be deceived.”
With a swift motion, the other caught his hands and drew him over to the light.
“Let me look at you!” he exclaimed, speaking German in his agitation. “I cannot tell! I do not know! I feel as if the whole world had been turned topsy-turvy.”
For a long minute he gazed searchingly into the youngman’s face, while the others moved unconsciously closer to the two, Barry quite as dazed and bewildered as any of them. Suddenly he threw back his gray head and flung one arm impulsively around the young fellow’s shoulder.
“YouareOscar!” he exclaimed. “I know it!”
For a second he was silent. Then he turned swiftly toward the group of men who had entered with him, and singled out one with his flashing eyes.
“What does this mean, Baron Hager?” he demanded imperiously. “How dare you play such a trick upon me? It is infamous!”
It was the man with the beard who stepped forward; and Barry saw that he was trembling in every limb, while beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“Your highness!” he gasped. “I—I—— It is not a trick. I—have never seen—this man before.”
“Never seen him! Nonsense! I’m not a child. How did he get here? What is he doing in this house? Who is he?”
Hager stared helplessly at Lawrence, and then his bewildered eyes wandered dazedly to the smiling double. His emotion was so great, however, that he did not speak, and it was Brennen who answered.
“I can tell you that,” he said shortly. “He’s the man we’ve been trailing all over New York, thinking he was your nephew. He’s the man we decoyed here to-night for you to meet. If he ain’t the right one, we’re a lot of suckers, that’s all.”
“He’s my second half, uncle,” interposed the young man, smiling. “It isn’t everybody who can have such a good one, you know.”
“Is that the truth, Oscar?” demanded the older man. “Has he been passing himself off for you all this time?”
“Exactly, and he did it wonderfully well, too. I owe him an everlasting debt——”
The sentence was never finished. As he stood there, unable to make head or tail of what was being said, Barry had a horrible conviction that somehow his curiosity was never going to be gratified. He had come as close as this several times before to learning the name of the man he so resembled, and he was determined to take no more chances.
“My dear fellow,” he burst out, unable longer to contain himself, “if you owe me anything at all, for Heaven’s sake pay me now by telling me who on earth you are.”
“You mean to say you do not know!” exclaimed the older man incredulously. “Why, such a thing is preposterous.”
The laughter vanished suddenly from the nephew’s face, and, stepping swiftly forward, he caught Barry’s hand in a firm grip.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Lawrence,” he said contritely. “I’ve been fearfully discourteous. Please forgive me, and do not think me ungrateful for what you have done. I am Prince Oscar, of Ostrau, and this is my uncle, the Grand Duke Frederick.”
In the brief silence which followed there came to Barry’s ears the sound of a quick gasp, followed by a strangled sob, from the girl at the table. And in that second, as he stood holding his own hand, as it were, and gazing into his own eyes, he realized with a rush of joy that this waswhat had troubled Shirley. They had told her that he was the crown prince of an Old World kingdom, and it was small wonder she had been dismayed.
“I am more than happy at meeting your highness at last,” he went on the next instant, gazing into the pleasant face of the young foreigner. Then his lips twitched and curved into an involuntary smile. “It seems as if I had known you all my life instead of a scant ten minutes.”
The prince laughed delightedly. From the very beginning he had apparently enjoyed the situation to the full, and there was a total lack of royal dignity and stiffness about him which was refreshing.
“It’s the greatest lark I ever had,” he chuckled. “Haven’t you begun to see the fun of it yet, uncle?”
The grand duke sighed. “Are you never going to be serious?” he asked sadly. “Do you mean to go through life taking everything as a jest, content to remain an irresponsible boy always?”
The prince straightened suddenly, and there came into his handsome face an expression which was very far from boyish. His jaw squared, and he pressed his lips firmly together as he stood regarding his uncle out of clear, level, uncompromising eyes.
“It isn’t any use, uncle,” he said abruptly. “My mind is made up, and nothing you can say will induce me to change.”
The grand duke’s lips parted as if he meant to speak, but closed swiftly again, and he darted a significant glance at the man with the beard.
“Be so good as to leave us, baron,” he said curtly.
Baron Hager gave a start and turned hastily toward the door, followed closely by his two compatriots and the American detectives. Brennen brought up the rear, moving with evident reluctance, as if there were numberless points about the affair he was pining to have cleared up.
“By the way, Mr. Brennen,” Lawrence called after him, struck by a sudden thought, “whatever you’ve done to my two friends, I’d be obliged if you would undo it at once.”
The detective nodded sourly and closed the door behind him. As he disappeared, Barry realized that it would be more graceful for him also to leave the room; but, when he made a move to do so, the crown prince caught him by the arm.
“Please stay,” he said quietly. “Mr. Lawrence is my friend, uncle. Whatever you say before him will go no farther.”
“As you will,” returned the grand duke indifferently. He hesitated an instant, his eyes fixed pleadingly upon his nephew’s face. “Oscar,” he went on swiftly, “your father, the king, has sent me to beg of you to come home to your family, your people, your country. He wants you. He needs you. You cannot realize the nature of the step you have taken. You acted hastily—heedlessly. For the honor of the throne, Oscar, I beg of you—I beseech you—to give up your harebrained scheme and resume again the place in life to which you were born.”
There was no gleam of mirth in the face of the crown prince now. It was firm and serious and a little white; his eyes were fixed unfalteringly on his uncle’s face.
“And what of my wife?” he asked quietly.
A flicker of pain flashed into the grand duke’s face and was gone.
“There are ways——” he began hesitatingly.
“Ways!” broke in the prince swiftly. “What ways?You mean a morganatic marriage, I suppose. You know that is impossible, even if I would consider it. She is an American girl.”
Lawrence, standing a little behind the duke, listening with an interest he made no attempt to conceal, noticed how the faint, foreign intonation—it could hardly be called an accent—in the young man’s voice was intensified in a moment of excitement.
The grand duke did not answer at once, and, when finally he spoke, there was a hopeless undercurrent in his voice which showed clearly that he had little hope of his argument meeting with success.
“Under the laws of Ostrau,” he said in a low tone, “a woman without royal or noble blood cannot marry into the reigning family. She, therefore, has no standing as your wife. In Ostrau the bond does not exist, and you would be free to marry your father’s choice, Princess Olga, of Gratz.”
The young man’s lips curled and his eyes narrowed. “Never!” he exclaimed impulsively. “She’s ten years too old and a thousand times impossible. Luckily,” he went on more composedly, “we’re in America, not Ostrau, and I propose to stay here. I’m beastly sorry, uncle, for your sake. We’ve always been great pals, and ever since I was a kid I’ve loved you more than my august father. I’d do anything else for you gladly, but this is impossible. I’ll renounce my rights to the succession for myself and my heirs forever. Let Maurice be crown prince, can’t you? He’ll make a lot better king than I ever could. All I want is to be let alone; to be free to live my own life and be happy in my own way. Ostrau stifles me with its foolish, cramping etiquette and narrow bigotry. It’s ruined your life, and I’ll take precious good care——”
He broke off abruptly as the grand duke groaned and covered his face with one hand.
“Forgive me, uncle!” the prince begged. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I forgot myself. But you understand,” he went on softly, “because you, too, have suffered.”
The older man did not answer at once, and Lawrence, feeling as if he had no right to listen, moved slowly backward till he touched the table. Then he turned suddenly and looked down quizzically into Shirley’s eyes.
“You—understand?” he whispered gently.
She nodded swiftly. “What must you think of me?” she murmured a little unsteadily. “I didn’t believe it at first, but they swore it—was true; and, somehow, things—fitted in, and—and—— Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?”
One hand stole across the table, and the strong brown fingers closed over the tiny gloved ones.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t?” he questioned softly, gazing into her wonderful eyes with an expression in his own which swiftly brought her long lashes sweeping down on crimsoning cheek.
“Well?” he queried as she made no answer.
“I—I hoped,” she faltered.
It was the voice of the grand duke, weary, sorrowful, but full of an unmistakable resignation, which broke the silence.
“I cannot blame you, Oscar,” he was saying quietly. “I have clung to the old traditions because there seemed noother way—perhaps I lacked the courage to do what you have done—and my life turned to dust and ashes. I love you too well ever to wish to see that happen to you. Have you any—plans?”
“Heaps of them, uncle,” the prince answered jauntily. “I’m going to become an American citizen. I think I’ll buy a big place in the South and turn farmer. I’ve money enough.”
The two at the table saw the old man wince slightly, but in an instant he had recovered his composure.
“What a thoroughbred he is!” Barry whispered admiringly. He had apparently forgotten to release Shirley’s hand, but she seemed too absorbed to notice the lapse.
“There will be no difficulty on that score,” the duke remarked. “Your estates belong to you personally, and their sale should net a million or more.”
Suddenly he gave a start and arose swiftly to his feet.
“I beg your pardon, Oscar,” he ejaculated, in chagrin. “My preoccupation has made me forget entirely my desire to meet your—wife. This lady——”
He glanced at Shirley with a courtly inclination, just in time to see her snatch her hand from Barry’s grasp and spring to her feet with blazing cheeks. The prince saw it, too, and his eyes twinkled.
“I have not the honor,” he said quietly. “My wife is just recovering from an illness which has been the cause of most of these complications. Mr. Lawrence, will you be so good as to present us?”
With swiftly recovered composure, Shirley acknowledged the introduction with a naïve dignity; and, when they had all seated themselves again, the prince begged for a recital of Barry’s adventures.
“Extraordinary and most diverting,” he said when the tale had been told. “Perhaps a little more amusing in retrospect. My dear Mr. Lawrence, I feel more than ever indebted to you for what you have done. When I started the ball rolling last Monday morning I had no conception of the strenuous experiences I was bringing upon you. You see, I had left Ostrau secretly with only Watkins, my American secretary, who has been with me for years, but I was almost certain of being followed. I hoped, however, that we should succeed in losing ourselves somewhere in the South or West before our trail was picked up. I should explain, perhaps, that my wife and I were married in Paris, where she was spending the winter. She was Miss Isabel Patterson, of Baltimore. We sailed under assumed names; or, rather, under a name I used in England during our exile——”
“I beg your pardon,” Lawrence put in, “but was it Nordstrom?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“I met a friend of yours who had known you at Cambridge. He was an Englishman named Brandon.”
“John Brandon!” exclaimed the prince. “Of course! We were great friends during my university days, but I haven’t seen him in years. You see, Mr. Lawrence, our family was exiled from Ostrau until the timely revolution three years ago which restored my father to power. I was brought up in England, and, as we were very poor, indeed, I went through Rugby and Cambridge under the name of Nordstrom, which is one of our family names. It would have been absurd for a poverty-stricken individual to be strutting about as a prince. What times we had!” he sighed. “I think they were the happiest days of my life—until now. But I am digressing. Unfortunatelyfor our plans, my wife was taken ill just as we were on the point of leaving New York. I knew that the pursuit would be keen, and, unless attention was diverted from us to another quarter, we would be hunted out no matter how carefully we hid ourselves in New York. Considering my wife’s health, I was most anxious to avoid anything of that sort until she was recovered.
“I was at my wit’s end,” he continued, “and could think of nothing until one day, while waiting with Watkins in the Pennsylvania Station for a physician from Philadelphia, whom I knew well, and who had promised to come on, I suddenly caught sight of you. I was simply stumped, of course; then, like a flash, I realized that here was the way out, which I had hitherto been searching for in vain. It took but a moment for me to outline a plan to Watkins, arrange my bill case, and place the ring in it. You see, that had been given me by the Rajah of Sind when I toured India two years ago, and I had scarcely had it off my finger since then. If an added mark of identification were needed, that would amply suffice.
“The plan worked to a charm. When Hager, my father’s chief of police, arrived, he was completely taken in. He kept on your trail day and night, and my purpose was accomplished. We had taken rooms in what I considered the most out-of-the-way locality in New York. When I went out it was always after dark and wearing a semidisguise. In spite of every care, however, fate seemed to be against me, and caused Hager to choose this very house for the culmination of his little drama. My rooms are just back of this. Through the door I heard all that passed; and, when I found that my uncle was expected, I realized that the better way would be to end everything at once and be free from further persecution. I can only close, Mr. Lawrence, by offering my most sincere apologies for the annoyance to which you have been subjected.”
“There is not the slightest need of that, your highness,” Barry returned hastily. “I am more grateful to you than I can say, for without your aid I should probably have missed—the greatest happiness of my life.”
“You are good to say that,” the prince said simply. “I am very happy.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lawrence asked, as they arose.
The crown prince looked slightly puzzled. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“This,” explained Lawrence, drawing the emerald ring from his finger and holding it out. “It belongs to you, you know.”
“Not at all. That is yours. It is part of the bargain, and I am sure you have earned it.”
“But it’s worth a king’s ransom,” Barry protested. “I really can’t take it. You have given me more than enough without that. Besides, it is much too rare a jewel for me to be wearing.”
The prince darted a mischievous glance at Shirley Rives.
“Perhaps there is some one else who might be willing to relieve you of its care,” he murmured, his fine eyes twinkling.
There was no mistaking his meaning, and the girl dropped her lids, while a rush of color crimsoned her lovely face. The next instant, however, she lifted them again and looked bravely into Barry’s questioning eyes.
“Perhaps—some day,” she murmured.
THE END.