“My Dear Carter: You solve the problem tardily. You arrive a little too late. There will be nothing for you in attempting to run down the writer. He is in a class of his own—and much your superior. Take a tip from me, therefore, and drop this matter. Don’t dig deeper into it, or you’ll surely tread on a rattlesnake. A word to the wise should be sufficient, or this warning fromGerald Vaughn.”
“My Dear Carter: You solve the problem tardily. You arrive a little too late. There will be nothing for you in attempting to run down the writer. He is in a class of his own—and much your superior. Take a tip from me, therefore, and drop this matter. Don’t dig deeper into it, or you’ll surely tread on a rattlesnake. A word to the wise should be sufficient, or this warning from
Gerald Vaughn.”
Nick Carter’s face underwent a quick change. He had made a discovery which Gerald Vaughn had not for a moment anticipated. He recognized the writing, or felt reasonably sure that he did.
It was identical with the fine, clean-cut hand exhibited by Detective Conroy that morning—the writing of Mortimer Deland.[Pg 21]
Nick Carter knew that he had found one important clew, at least, in the threatening communication which had been left there by Gerald Vaughn, as the latter had been known while occupying the Colonel Barker residence.
The very audacity of it, moreover, was additional evidence of the true identity of the writer. For it corresponded with many a previous display of effrontery which had, in connection with his extraordinary crimes, made the name of Mortimer Deland notorious.
Nick turned and displayed the letter when Chick and Patsy entered.
“Do you recognize the hand?” he inquired.
“By Jove, it looks like that which Conroy showed us,” Chick said quickly. “I can almost swear to it.”
“I think so, too.”
“We can clinch it easily enough, chief,” put in Patsy. “I still have the tracery I made. We came away in such a hurry, chief, that I did not put it in your desk.”
“Let me see it,” said Nick. “I will compare them.”
It took him only a moment to satisfy himself that he was right. There were peculiarities in the fine, feminine hand that left him no shadow of a doubt.
“It is dead open and shut,” he declared. “Vaughn is none other than Mortimer Deland. The bizarre character of this crime, moreover, is directly in line with his work abroad.”
“That’s true, chief, for fair,” said Patsy. “Who else would have thought of using a casket, florist’s boxes, and an undertaker’s wagon for getting away with a big lot of plunder? The job——”
“Spells Mortimer Deland, Patsy, in capital letters,” Nick interrupted. “His alleged sister undoubtedly is Fannie Coyle, the English female crook Conroy mentioned.”
“Gee! that’s right, too.”
“The housekeeper said to have died is another confederate,” Nick added. “She probably is an American woman, however, since such an assistant would have been required by comparative strangers here.”
“The undertaker and his assistant, also, must be in league with them,” Chick argued.
“Yes, undoubtedly,” Nick agreed. “Otherwise, the two men would have detected and exposed the fraud. They would have known whether the casket contained a corpse and the pasteboard boxes a quantity of flowers, or whether they were packed with other articles. They could not have been so egregiously deceived, even though they did not open them, and were employed only to take them to a railway station.”
“Surely not, Nick, if they have brains,” Chick declared. “That’s the point I had in mind.”
“I shall not be surprised if we find the casket still in the house, and that only the outside box was used for removing the plunder. It would contain more and could be more easily packed.”
“Let’s find out,” said Chick. “The casket was on a bier in the parlor last evening.”
He led the way while speaking, and again Nick’s prediction proved to be correct. The casket was found standing on end behind the parlor door. The standards on which it had rested the previous evening were back of a sofa. The entire robbery was, as Nick had said, of a bizarre character and originality of conception that alone[Pg 22]proclaimed the identity of the knave who had designed and directed it.
“There appears to be nothing for us, now, but to get after the rascals,” said Chick, a bit impatiently. “They have a start of more than an hour. We may be able to trace them, nevertheless, if we get a move on and——”
“We shall be more likely to meet with success, Chick, if we make haste slowly,” Nick interposed. “There is no telling where they have gone. It is perfectly safe to assume, nevertheless, that they did not go to a railway station, as stated. They will not let others handle those boxes, nor attempt to transport them in any other conveyance than the wagon with which they are provided.”
“But it’s an undertaker’s wagon, Nick, and we ought to be able to trace it,” Chick argued, more forcibly.
“There are a hundred such wagons on the move this morning, Chick, and it would be impossible to trace this particular one,” Nick insisted. “There would be nothing in that.”
“You may be right.”
“I know I am right. We must take advantage of the difficulties involving the rascals themselves, instead of going up against those they have put in our way.”
“You mean?”
“No undertaker is engaged in this robbery,” Nick said confidently. “Deland and his confederates have contrived in some way to obtain a casket, the florist’s boxes, and an undertaker’s team. We must find out where they came from, if possible, and try to discover the identity of Deland’s male confederates.”
“The supposed undertaker and his assistant?”
“Exactly. They probably are local crooks, also the woman who posed as the housekeeper. If we can identify one of them, even, we shall have picked up a thread that may lead us to the entire gang.”
“There is something in that,” Chick admitted.
“The trunks containing the belongings of the three crooks who have been living here must have been taken away several days ago, or by night, perhaps,” Nick went on. “Deland would not have deferred their removal until this morning.”
“Surely not.”
“It is barely possible, of course, that the hackman who was here this morning was in league with them, but I do not think it probable. We must hunt him up, therefore, and find out where he took Deland and Fannie Coyle this morning.”
“You appear to have no doubt of their identity, Nick?”
“Not the slightest.”
“Gee! it looks like a cinch, chief, for fair,” put in Patsy.
“Bear in mind, too, that we have one unsuspected advantage over this rascal,” Nick added.
“What is that?”
“He doesn’t even dream, of course, that we are informed of his identity. He undoubtedly has been living here in disguise. He will discard it, now, and take another alias, confident that no one will recognize him, or even think of Mortimer Deland as the perpetrator of this robbery.”
“That’s more than likely, Nick, and we ought to derive some advantage from it.”
“I think we shall, Chick, having seen the photograph Conroy brought round. Feeling thus confident, moreover,[Pg 23]Deland is daring enough to go straight to a first-class hotel with Fannie Coyle, posing in entirely new characters. It will be well to inspect some of the hotel registers in search of his writing.”
“There are possibilities in all that, Nick,” Chick readily admitted.
“Bear in mind, too, the difficulties involved in disposing of the plunder from an undertaker’s wagon,” said Nick. “Where would the rascals take it? Not to a private residence, for the wagon would attract the attention of the neighbors and give rise to inquiries that might result in speedy exposure. If taken to an isolated house, the wagon would be seen going there and investigations might follow. The rascals would not take those chances.”
“I agree with you,” Chick nodded.
“Nor would they trust their load to any railway company, nor to transportation by others.”
“Surely not.”
“How, then, would they dispose of it? Where would they naturally take it?”
“That’s the question, Nick.”
“Gee! it’s some question, too.”
“They might, of course, drive to some point out of the city, where they could transfer it undetected to an ordinary wagon, in which it could be quickly taken to some place of concealment. Or it might be hidden in some woodland section and afterward removed.”
“There really seems to be no other safe way of disposing of it,” said Chick.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Nick advised. “Deland is crafty and ingenious. He may have hit upon an entirely different method, one so novel and original that it does not occur to us.”
“Possibly.”
“Be that as it may, Chick, we will take up the trail as we find it,” Nick said abruptly. “I will return to Strickland’s apartments and give him a few instructions, then I’ll be off for a talk with the agent in charge of this house. He may impart something worth knowing.”
“It’s worth trying, at least.”
“You get next to a telephone and a directory, in the meantime, and call up all of the local undertakers. Find out whether one of them has an extra wagon and has rented it, or——”
“I understand,” Chick cut in with a nod.
“Learn what you can from him, in that case, and be governed accordingly.”
“Trust me for that.”
“While we are thus engaged, Patsy, you get after the cabmen and the local express drivers. Find out, if possible, who took away——”
“The crooks’ trunks,” put in Patsy. “I’ve got you, chief, hands down. You don’t need to tell me what to do in a case of this kind.”
“Very good,” said Nick. “Telephone to the house any discovery you may make, providing circumstances prevent you from returning. Otherwise, we’ll meet there, as usual. That’s all—except to dig in, tooth and nail, to trace these rascals.”
It then was nine o’clock.
Precisely two hours had passed since the departure of Mortimer Deland and Fannie Coyle—and the undertaker’s wagon filled with the stolen treasures.[Pg 24]
While Nick Carter returned to the Strickland flat to impart such information and instructions as would serve his purpose, Chick Carter parted from Patsy on the corner of Fifth Avenue, then hastened home to use the telephone and directory.
Instead of calling up the local undertakers, however, Chick decided that he first would ascertain from police headquarters whether the theft of such extraordinary articles as a casket and an undertaker’s team had been reported to the police. He had no great hope of hitting the trail so quickly—but he was agreeably disappointed.
“Yes, Chick, sure!” was the reply by a sergeant who responded, and to whom the detective had mentioned his name. “Both were stolen three days ago from Michael Hanlon, a Harlem undertaker.”
“I have seen nothing published about it,” said Chick.
“The facts have been suppressed pending an investigation.”
“Do you know any of the details?”
“No, nothing more. I will get them for you.”
“I will not trouble you. I will look them up for myself.”
“Do you know anything about the case?”
“No more than you,” Chick replied evasively.
He then hung up the receiver and started for Harlem to interview Michael Hanlon, and in search for more definite evidence.
Very little could be found, however, nor could Hanlon impart much information. He stated that the casket had been stolen from a storeroom in the basement of his establishment, and the wagon from a stable back of the building, both occupying a lot adjoining his residence.
The stable opened upon a side street, however, and the wagon evidently had been drawn out and taken away with a horse belonging to the thieves, his own not having been removed from its stall.
“If it had been, Mr. Carter, I should have heard the rascals,” Hanlon declared, after imparting the foregoing facts. “I would have heard the hoofs on the floor.”
“That probably is the only reason why the crooks brought a horse of their own and drew out the wagon quietly,” said Chick.
“Most likely.”
“The police could find no clew to their identity, eh?”
“No, sir. The rascals got away clean enough, sir, and I am out the casket and the wagon, I’m thinking,” Hanlon grumbled bitterly.
Chick then had nothing to offer him in the way of encouragement, having found no evidence worthy of note, and he returned to the nearest elevated station, alighting from the train half an hour later at Forty-second Street.
It then was after one o’clock, too late for lunch at home. Chick decided to take it in one of the excellent hotels in that locality. As he was about to enter the café, however, one of Nick’s earlier suggestions occurred to him.
“There might be something in it,” he muttered. “I’ll go up to the office, instead, and have a look at the register.”
He did so—and verified the sagacity of the famous detective.
Almost the first entry that met Chick’s gaze, inscribed[Pg 25]in the same fine, clean-cut hand of which he had seen specimens that day, was that of:
“Charles F. Brooks and wife, Washington, D. C.”
“Great guns!” thought Chick, surprised in spite of himself. “Have I really cornered the rats so quickly? If that isn’t Deland’s hand, or that of Gerald Vaughn, at least, I’ll eat my hat.”
Instead of plunging over the traces, however, Chick turned to the clerk and remarked:
“I see that Mr. and Mrs. Brooks are here, from Washington.”
“Yes, they arrived this morning,” said the clerk, smiling.
“Are they frequent visitors?”
“Well, quite so.”
“Not strangers, then?”
“Oh, no; they are here each month, and sometimes more frequently.”
Chick took a blank card from a tray and wrote a fictitious name on it, adding that of a leading newspaper.
“Send this up to their suite, please,” he requested. “They may like to be mentioned in the society notes.”
“Yes, certainly,” nodded the clerk. “Front! To 710.”
“If they are mentioned in the society notes I anticipate, however, I’ll wager they will not like it,” Chick mentally added.
The bell hop in blue and brass returned in a very few minutes.
“You are to come up, sir,” he announced. “This way, sir.”
Chick followed him to the elevator.
“They certainly apprehend nothing,” he reasoned. “They may, as Nick inferred, feel entirely safe from suspicion, or absolutely sure that their identity and connection with the robbery cannot be established. I’ll wager, however, that I can take the wind out of their sails. If they don’t weaken when they see me, or betray some sign of recognition—well, their nerve will surpass that of a wooden Indian. I’m dead sure I’m not mistaken. There is no mistaking that writing. They must be the suspected couple, in spite of the clerk’s statements about them, or I’m no judge of——”
Chick had arrived at the door of the suite and his train of thought ended.
The page knocked on the door, then bowed and hurried away.
A voice within called agreeably:
“Come in!”
Chick opened the door and was met in the entrance hall by an erect, slender man in a plaid suit. His face was as fair and smooth as that of a girl. His skin was peculiarly clear and pale, though his complexion was dark and his eyes remarkably brilliant.
Chick had staggered for a moment. The face was like that of Gerald Vaughn, yet not like it. The flowing, black mustache was gone, and there was no sign of it, nor of a beard, through this man’s clear, white skin.
It was, too, like the photographed face of Mortimer Deland, but that was so small as to preclude positive identification.
What most amazed Chick, however, was the fact that he was received without the slightest sign of recognition, without the least betrayal of perturbation, despite that his visit could not possibly have been anticipated.
For all this, nevertheless, Chick instantly came to one positive conclusion—a correct one.[Pg 26]
“He’s my man!” flashed through his mind. “This is Gerald Vaughn—and Mortimer Deland. I’ll stake my life on it.”
While Chick was thus taking his measure, Deland was approaching from an attractively furnished parlor, bowing and smiling.
“Walk in, Mr. Alden,” said he, glancing at the card he still retained in his slender, white hand. “Walk in and have a chair. Let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Brooks.”
Chick again was staggered—even more staggered than before.
The woman who arose to greet him was tall and fair. She was fashionably clad. Her eyes were blue. Her hair was a deep-auburn hue. Her smile was captivating. Her teeth were like pearls.
She bore not the slightest resemblance to Clarissa Vaughn.
She was not even remotely suggestive of the black-veiled figure that had left the Barker residence that morning in company with Gerald Vaughn.
Chick steadied himself. He realized on the instant that he was up against a man, or couple, fully as crafty, daring, and farsighted as the letter left for Nick had implied. He realized, too, in view of their absolute unconcern, that he had perhaps gone a step too far, and that they might be prepared to foil the best work he could do at that time.
For the recovery of the stolen Strickland treasures was of even greater importance to him, in so far as the outcome of the case was concerned, than the positive identification and arrest of Mortimer Deland and his companion.
That this woman was Fannie Coyle, however, Chick felt reasonably sure—and again he was right.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Alden, I’m sure,” said the woman, smiling graciously and extending her hand.
“Thank you,” said Chick, bowing.
“Have a chair,” Deland repeated. “Your card states that you are a newspaper man, a reporter. Why, may I ask, have you favored us with a call? Am I to be subjected to an interview?”
“Would you object to it?” Chick inquired tentatively.
Deland laughed slightly and displayed his teeth.
“Not at all,” he replied. “I would, in fact, rather like it. It would be amusing to see my name in print. I’ll be glad to give you any information I possess, on whatever subject I can enlighten you.”
“That is very kind, Mr. Vaughn, I’m sure,” said Chick, steadily eying him.
“Vaughn?” queried Deland, with brows lifted.
Fannie Coyle laughed audibly.
“Pardon. I got my names mixed,” Chick said dryly, observing that he had evoked no sign of apprehensions. “I’m looking into a case of robbery committed in Fifth Avenue last night, of which a man named Gerald Vaughn is suspected.”
“Ah, I see,” Deland exclaimed pleasantly. “That is why you happened to call me by that name.”
“Exactly.”
“The mistake is quite pardonable, Charles, I’m sure,” remarked the woman.
“Yes, indeed,” Deland bowed agreeably. “We know, of[Pg 27]course, that Mr. Alden has not called to interview us about a robbery.”
“I should think not. That would be absurd.”
“I leave it to you, Mr. Alden.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Brooks, that is the only reason why I have called,” said Chick.
“Ah, is it possible?” questioned Deland, with unruffled suavity. “Well, that does surprise me. What information do you expect from me?”
“Any that you can give me.”
“But I cannot give you any,” insisted Deland, with a ripple of laughter. “I know nothing about the case, nor the person you have mentioned. What led you to infer that I do?”
Chick abruptly decided on another tack.
“Only because Vaughn is known to be a resident of Washington,” said he. “Observing on the hotel register that you dwell in that city, I thought you might possibly know of him, or have heard of him. If you do not——”
“Let me assure you at once, Mr. Alden, on that point,” Deland put in smiling. “I never heard of him.”
“Nor I, Charles, I’m sure,” observed the woman.
“Lest you may entertain any erroneous suspicions, Mr. Alden, let me call up the proprietor of the hotel,” Deland added, rising to go to the telephone. “He knows me very well. He will vouch for me. He will assure you that I am entirely veracious and——”
“Pardon!” Chick checked him with a gesture, rising to go. “Do nothing of the kind. Your word alone, Mr. Brooks, is quite sufficient. I had not the slightest idea that you know anything about the robbery. I thought merely that you might know Vaughn, or have heard of him.”
“I do not, Mr. Alden, I assure you.”
“I now am convinced of it, and am sorry I troubled you.”
“No trouble whatever,” said Deland, extending his hand. “I am, on the contrary, very pleased we met you. Such episodes really amuse me. I hope to meet you again, Mr. Alden.”
“We shall meet again, all right,” Chick said grimly to himself after departing. “We shall meet again, Mr. Deland, and I’ll then fit bracelets on your slender, white wrists. Bluff me, eh? Give me the laugh, will you? I’ll cram all that down your throat a little later. At the same time, by Jove, I give you credit for more nerve and audacity than any rascal I have recently met. But I’ll get you, all right, at the proper time.”
Chick had only one reason for not arresting Deland then and there. The attitude of the rascal, together with the assurance he had displayed, convinced Chick that the stolen property had been disposed of in some locality felt to be perfectly safe, and that its recovery might be perverted by the immediate arrest of this couple.
“I’ll wait a while and watch them,” he said to himself, while returning to the elevator. “I know that I have given them a fright, despite the coolness of both, and they surely will make some move that will put me in right.”
Apprehending that it might be made immediately, Chick found concealment under the rise of stairs, from which he could see the door of suite 10.
He waited and watched for more than an hour, but no one left or visited the suite, and he then returned to the hotel office and talked with the proprietor.
The latter confirmed the statements already made by the[Pg 28]clerk, that the couple had been occasional guests of the house during several months, and were supposed to be reputable Washington people. Beyond that, however, he knew nothing about them.
“Deland is crafty,” thought Chick, after the interview. “He wanted to establish some place to which he could flee, if necessary, divested of the disguise he has been wearing in the character of Gerald Vaughn, and where his pretensions would be backed up in a measure by the hotel proprietor. That has been his object in coming here occasionally with Fannie Coyle.
“But what has become of the dark woman I saw last night? It was she who left the Barker residence with Deland this morning. By Jove, I have it. Fannie Coyle was the housekeeper. She has been stopping here since her pretended death. I’ll have the entire gang, too, before I quit this trail.”
Chick continued to wait and watch. Twice he telephoned home to communicate with Nick or Patsy, but neither of them had returned, and he decided to continue playing a lone hand.
That afternoon waned and early evening came, and Chick could see from the street that the windows of suite 710 were brightly lighted. He felt reasonably sure that neither of its occupants had departed.
Returning to the hotel office about seven o’clock, he heard the ringing of the telephone bell, and then the voice of the clerk addressing a hallboy, just approaching from a side corridor.
“It’s 710,” called the clerk. “A taxi is wanted.”
“Mullen is at the side door, sir,” replied the hallboy.
“Good enough! Tell him to wait there.”
“All right, sir.”
Chick Carter had pricked up his ears, and his eyes were glowing more brightly.
“A taxi, eh?” he muttered, heading for the side door. “By the rats, in 710, eh? By Jove, here’s my chance. It’s Mullen for mine.”
Patsy Garvan, following the instructions Nick Carter had given him, did not ring a bull’s-eye until four o’clock that afternoon. He then rounded up the hackman he had been seeking.
Patsy recognized his face and discovered him standing beside his carriage in front of a hotel in Forty-fourth Street.
“You’re the very man I want,” said he, confronting him. “Have a look at this.”
Patsy displayed the detective badge under the lap of his vest. Sharply watching the hackman’s ruddy face, however, he saw at a glance that his hearer felt no alarm, or consternation, as would have been the case if he was guilty of anything wrong. His countenance took on a look of mild surprise, nevertheless, and he surprised Patsy, also, by saying, with a sort of gruff heartiness:
“You don’t need to show me that, Garvan.”
“Ah, you know me, then?” said Patsy.
“Sure. There are mighty few dicks I don’t know by sight. None in your class, Garvan, as far as that goes.”
“Thanks,” smiled Patsy. “What’s your name?”
“Pat Mulligan.”
“A namesake of mine, eh?[Pg 29]”
“I reckon so,” grinned Mulligan. “What d’ye want? I know you have not started a spiel with me for nothing.”
“This is between us, mind you.”
“That goes.”
“You took a couple from a house in Fifth Avenue at seven o’clock this morning.”
“Sure. Where the stiff was being taken away.”
“That’s the place. What do you know about the couple?”
“Nothing,” said Mulligan, but a curious gleam lighted his eyes. “I went there on a telephone order.”
“Where did you take them?”
“Grand Central Terminal. They had no luggage, so I did not go in with them. That was the last I saw of them.”
“Did you see the undertaker’s wagon again?”
“Not after it left the house,” said Mulligan. “I supposed it was heading for the station baggage room. I know nothing more about it.”
“I believe you, Mulligan,” said Patsy. “You know something, nevertheless, that you have not told me. I can read that in your eyes.”
“You’ve got keen ones, Garvan, all right,” Mulligan said, with a laugh. “’Tain’t much.”
“Come across. What is it?”
“I’ve seen a woman coming out of that house who don’t stand ace high. She pretends to be all right, but between you and me, Garvan, she’s as clever and crooked a jade as you’ll find from Harlem to the Battery. Harlem—that’s where she hangs out when at home.”
“What is her name?” questioned Patsy, with increasing interest.
“Nell Margate.”
“Any relation to Jim Margate, of Harlem?”
“She’s his sister.”
“H’m, is that so?” thought Patsy, who not only knew Jim Margate personally, but also knew him to be a decidedly bad character. “Margate’s sister, eh? If you knew Nell Margate to be in that house, Mulligan, why didn’t you tip some one to the fact?”
“A dick?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I?” said Mulligan, with a deprecatory shake of his head. “It was no funeral of mine. How could I know why she was there?”
“A crook is always out for crooked work.”
“But I’m not hired to catch them, Garvan, like you,” said Mulligan. “Many a crook has paid me good money. It isn’t up to me to stool-pigeon for the police. I’ve got to shut my eyes and keep my trap closed, or I might get mine for not doing it. I wouldn’t have mentioned this, only I know I might get in wrong from not telling you, since you’ve questioned me about it.”
“Is there anything more you can tell me?” asked Patsy.
“Divil a thing. You’ve got all I can hand you.”
“When did you see Nell Margate leaving the Barker residence?”
“Something like a week ago.”
“Describe her.”
“She’s a well-built, dark girl, about twenty-five years old,” Mulligan responded. “She’s a good looker, Garvan, and makes the most of it. Being clever, too, she gets by with many a stunt. I happen to know all this, Garvan, because Jim Margate’s place isn’t far from my own.[Pg 30]”
“In one of the outskirts, isn’t it?”
“Yes, pretty well out. The old man used to run it for a road house. There’s been nothing doing since he died—that is, nothing on the surface,” Mulligan pointedly added.
Patsy knew what he meant—that Margate’s place was the resort of crooks. He slipped Mulligan a bank note, remarking:
“Forget it—also what we have said.”
“Bet you!”
“So long.”
Patsy stepped into the hotel and tried to telephone to Nick, but Joseph told him that he had not returned; also that Chick, though he had telephoned an hour before, had left no message.
“Nothing doing,” thought Patsy, returning to the street. “I’ll keep going, then, on my own hook. Nell Margate, eh? She was the woman Chick saw last night. Mulligan’s description fits her to the letter.”
“I guess it’s up to me, by Jove, to have a look at Jim Margate’s place. It’s no crazy bet that Deland and Nell Margate are there, if not the whole knavish bunch. I’ll soon find out.”
Patsy already was acting upon these resolutions.
Nearly an hour later, or soon after five o’clock, found him stealing cautiously along a sparsely settled road within half a mile of the Harlem River, his-features carefully disguised, and his movements those of one having no definite destination in view.
Presently, nevertheless, after crossing a number of vacant lots piled with refuse, and rubbish, Patsy picked his way through the trees and underbrush still covering a belt of land in that section, and finally brought up back of an old stable and dwelling fronting on another road, from which both were somewhat shut in by a few remaining trees. The surroundings were uninviting, however, and the place somewhat isolated.
Having shaped a course that precluded observation from the windows of the old wooden house, Patsy crawled under a fence back of the stable, and succeeded in finding concealment in an old shed near by, from which he could see the back door and windows of the dwelling.
It appeared to be deserted. Most of the faded curtains were drawn down. The door of the near stable was closed, moreover, denoting that it was unoccupied. The yard in front of it and the ill-kept grounds surrounding the house looked desolate and dismal in the waning light of the cloudy November day.
“Gee! it don’t look much like business,” muttered Patsy, after a cautious survey of the place. “I’ve blundered, perhaps, in coming out here. The rascals may have sought shelter somewhere else. They may have other headquarters, where—no, by gracious! those are recent hoofprints in front of the stable. The dirt turned over by the horse’s shoes is hardly dry. But there are no very recent wheel tracks, judging from—by Jove, I think I had better have a look in the stable. I’ll never have a better chance.”
Patsy invariably acted promptly upon a definite impulse. Stealing from the shed, he found an open space under the rear of the stable, half filled with straw and refuse, above which was a trapdoor through the floor. Crawling up amid the festoons of cobwebs, he raised it cautiously and found himself directly under a large wagon.
“There’s no one here,” he murmured, after listening. “That’s a cinch. I’ll go a step farther.”
Drawing himself up through the opening, he dropped[Pg 31]the trapdoor and crept from under the wagon. He then discovered in the dim light that it was—an undertaker’s wagon.
“Gee whiz! I’ve struck oil, all right,” he said to himself, with a thrill of satisfaction. “If the plunder is here—no, by gracious, it’s gone!”
Patsy had opened the rear door and found that the wagon was empty.
Further inspection revealed that the brass name plate on each side had been skillfully altered with a coat of gilding, and that it bore a name obviously fictitious.
“By Jove, I’ve got a sure line on the gang, at least,” thought Patsy, after these investigations. “Under the mask of death, so to put it, they have succeeded in turning this knavish trick. But where is the plunder? That’s the question. I’d better sneak out and telephone to the chief, I guess, and then return and watch this place. I can direct him to it and——”
Patsy’s train of thought ended abruptly.
So suddenly as to preclude any extensive move, the heavy tread of men’s feet sounded on the wooden run in front of the stable, and a key was thrust into the padlock of the door.
Patsy knew that a successful retreat through the trapdoor was utterly impossible. He sought the nearest place of concealment—a corner back of a grain chest that stood under the overhang of a rear haymow. He no sooner had dropped out of sight, than the broad, sliding door was opened wide enough to admit three men.
Looking cautiously over the grain chest, Patsy immediately recognized two of them.
“Jim Margate and a well-known running mate of his, Bob Pitman, a pair of desperate blacklegs.”
The third man was Mortimer Deland.
He was laughing in a cold, mirthless way, while he followed the two more roughly clad men into the stable, saying at the same time:
“Oh, I easily gave him the slip by sneaking down the servants’ stairway. Fannie and Nell will make a quick get-away later. Leave that to Fan. They’ll show up here during the evening. Fan will slip out from under his guns, all right.”
“Do you think he knew you?” Margate asked, while all three seated themselves on some empty boxes near the partly open door.
“Know me! Sure he knew me,” said Deland, still laughing icily. “I suspected what was coming when he sent up his card. The phony name did not blind me, not much!”
“By Jove, either Nick or Chick has seen and interviewed this rascal,” thought Patsy, easily hearing all that was said. “This must be Deland himself, who has been posing as Gerald Vaughn.”
“I sent Nell into the next room, which connects with Fan’s suite, and then told the bell hop to send him up.”
“Was he in disguise?”
“No, nothing doing,” grinned Deland, with teeth gleaming. “He wasn’t dead sure of us, you know, and he hoped we’d weaken when we saw him. He don’t know us, Jim.”
“You don’t suppose he knew me when we lugged out the stuff this morning, do you?” questioned Margate apprehensively.
“Or me, Mort?” put in Pitman.[Pg 32]
“The undertaker and his assistant,” thought Patsy. “That was nearly a cinch before.”
“Knew you!” exclaimed Deland derisively. “That’s rot! How could he have known either of you through the disguise I loaned you? No, no, you’re away, all right.”
“That listens good to me,” said Pitman. “But these Carters are infernally sharp dicks. They’ve got eyes like needles.”
“They’d better watch out, then, lest they lose them,” Deland said, more seriously, and his voice and countenance evinced a devilish streak in his nature. “I left Nick Carter a word of warning to that effect this morning. If he presses me too closely, hang him, he shall feel my teeth. He don’t dream who I really am and of what I am capable.”
“Any gink capable of the roof stunt you did last night can do anything,” said Margate, with an approving scowl. “You’re the real thing, Deland, and then some, or you couldn’t have framed up such a job as this and pulled it off.”
“Child’s play, Jim,” said Deland coldly. “A kid’s stunt. Has Ruff gone after the wagon?”
“Sure. He’ll come with it after dark.”
“We must transfer the stuff as early as possible.”
“Why early? It strikes me late would be better.”
“Wagons are not out late where we are going,” said Deland. “Some guy might take it into his head to watch us. No, no, Jim, the earlier the better after darkness gathers. There’s no danger of our being seen in the road back of the last bedroom. It’s going and coming that’s risky, so the earlier the better.”
“That’s true, mebbe,” Margate allowed. “I’m not so sure the hiding place is safe at that. If the newspapers——”
“There’s nothing in the newspapers,” Deland interrupted. “I’ve made sure of that. Besides, Ruff has had an eye on the place most of the day. He’d have reported any investigations.”
“Sure, as far as that goes.”
“It’s as safe as a Wall Street bank vault,” Deland confidently added. “Who would think of looking there for it? It beats taking the risk of coming straight here this morning, for all we afterward took a chance with the big, black wagon.”
“Mebbe so,” Margate again allowed. “We’re banking on your judgment.”
“I never went wrong in my life,” said Deland. “Look me up across the water. You’ll find that no blooming inspector ever put darbies on me.”
“An American detective will do so,” thought Patsy. “I’ll bet my pile on that.”
“It will be a good night for the job.” Deland added, gazing out at the sky. “Cloudy and dark. What more can we ask? We’ll wait here till Ruff returns with the wagon.”
“That won’t be long,” said Pitman. “It will be dark in half an hour.’
“Gee whiz! there’s no get-away for me,” thought Patsy, wondering where the rascals were going, though their mission was obvious. “I could not steal out unheard if I had the feet of a fly. I’ll stick close to these rats, therefore, and let come what may. If they undertake to shift their plunder—well, there’ll be something doing, all right. Let me get my lamps on it, and I’ll hold up the whole bunch single-handed.[Pg 33]”
What more Patsy Garvan heard was along much the same lines as that which he already had heard, but none of it gave him any clew to the contemplated destination of Deland and his confederates.
Dusk began to gather within half an hour, and darkness quickly followed. Margate lighted a small lantern, so hooding it with an empty box that its rays could not be seen from outside, but in its feeble glow the three crooks continued to sit and discuss their knavery. Their faces and figures looked grim and threatening in the dim light cast upon them.
Presently, still crouching behind the grain chest, Patsy heard the thud of hoofs and the grinding of wheels in the gravel, and Margate arose at the same time, saying quickly:
“Here comes Ruff with the wagon. I told you he’d show up promptly.”
“Good enough,” cried Deland. “We’ll lose no time in getting away.”
“I must go to the house for my cap,” growled Margate.
“Go ahead. That won’t take long, Jim?”
“Wait till I douse this glim. There would be something doing, all right, if this dead wagon were seen here?”
“It has been seen, you rascal, and I can see your finish,” thought Patsy, with grim satisfaction.
He had heard the arrival of the wagon, drawn up near the front of the stable. He heard Ruff greeting Deland and Pitman, when they hastened out. He saw Margate extinguish the light, then stride out and close the door, followed by the sharp click of the padlock.
Patsy stole out from behind the grain chest in the inky darkness, then crawled under Hanlon’s huge black wagon and found the iron ring in the trapdoor.
“It’s the same old way for mine,” he muttered, while he noiselessly opened the trap. “I’ll not let these rats give me the slip. I’ll find out where they are going and where they take their plunder, at least, if I get no chance to hold them up. I’ll get them sooner or later, by thunder, if it takes a leg.”
Indulging in these cogitations, Patsy dropped quietly through the opening, and, without waiting to close it, he crept out through the open space under the stable, and to a point between it and the old shed near by.
He then could see the wagon some ten feet away and headed toward the street. It was a large covered one, and it stood nearly opposite the space between the two buildings. The driver had not left his seat.
Pitman and Mortimer Deland already had climbed in and were seating themselves on two boxes under the leather top, that occupied by Ruff being too small for all four.
Patsy could hear them talking, and he now saw Jim Margate returning from the house.
“Gee! they may give me a long chase,” he said to himself, crouching low in the darkness. “If they drive fast, I may have some difficulty in keeping up with them, or——”
He broke off abruptly, crouching lower and peering intently through the darkness.
“By Jove, the running gear of the wagon is braced[Pg 34]from the end of each axletree to the center pole,” he added to himself. “The braces form a sort of platform under the floor of the wagon. There is room enough for me to lie on them, if I can contrive to get there. The springs will not give much under the light load to be carried. It will beat walking, by Jove, and remove the risk of losing sight of the rascals. I’ll do it, by gracious, unless——”
Patsy did not stop to consider the alternative.
He saw Margate climbing into the wagon, while Ruff gathered up the reins. It was the only opportunity he would have, and well Patsy knew it, and he did not hesitate for an instant.
He darted out in the darkness and crawled quickly between the rear wheels. The voices of the four men drowned the faint sounds he could not avoid causing. Dropping flat on his back under the middle of the wagon and parallel with it, Patsy reached up and grasped the center pole with both hands, then quickly twined his legs around it.
“Get up!” growled Ruff; and the wagon started.
As quick as a flash, knowing that any jar of the wagon would be attributed to running over a rock, Patsy swung himself over the pole and wormed himself upon the braces front and rear.
He then found that he had ample room, and that he would not probably be seen by persons passed on their way, but the position was a trying one, taxing nerves and muscles to maintain it.
“I’ll stick, by thunder, let come what may,” he said to himself, gritting his teeth while the wagon jolted out of the driveway and into the rough road. “I’ll not be shaken down while I have fingers to cling with.”
It proved to be as rough a ride, nevertheless, as Patsy Garvan had ever experienced. He had to give his entire attention to retaining his position. He at no time could tell just where he was, or whither he was going. He knew only that he brought up in a lonely, somewhat wooded section, after a last mile over the roughest kind of a road, and the wagon then came to a sudden stop.
“There’s no show of stealing out,” thought Patsy, with every nerve and muscle strained and aching. “I must take a chance the rascals will not see me.”
The four men already were climbing down from the wagon, Ruff and Jim Margate in advance. The latter scarce had alighted on the ground, when Patsy heard him ask, with a fierce growl:
“What the devil’s that?”
“What?” snapped Deland, joining him.
“That white thing under the wagon. It looks like a handkerchief.”
A handkerchief it was, as a matter of fact, jolted from Patsy’s pocket just at that fatal moment when the wagon stopped, and fallen to the ground to betray him.
“Gee! it’s all off, and I’m caught, dead sure,” flashed through his mind. “I can’t even pull a gun.”
Deland had crouched quickly to get the handkerchief, and his gaze fell upon Patsy. His eyes took on a quick, fiery glow. With invariable coolness, nevertheless, he whipped out a revolver and said sharply:
“Not only a handkerchief, Jim, but also its owner.”
“What d’ye mean?” Margate snarled.
“See for yourself,” snapped Deland. “Don’t stir till I give you permission, you spying whelp, or there’ll be holes made in you.[Pg 35]”
“Oh, I’m not going to stir,” Patsy said coolly, thoroughly disgusted with the unfortunate turn of affairs. “I’m not dead sure that I can stir, as far as that goes.”
“You’ll be dead if you do, take my word for it. Drop down on the ground.”
Patsy obeyed, falling with a thud when he let go of his support. He could not have clung on much longer.
“Get him by the legs, Jim, and pull him out,” Deland commanded. “Watch that he don’t reach for a gun.”
“If he does, blast him, I’ll break his head,” Margate snarled, while he and Pitman seized Patsy’s heels and dragged him from under the wagon.
“Bring a piece of rope, Ruff,” said Deland, with revolver ready. “Stand him on his feet, Jim. Do you know him?”
Patsy saw that resistance would be nothing less than madness. He suffered the two ruffians to yank him to his feet, and when they did so his disguise was jostled out of place.
Margate saw it and jerked it from his face.
“Perdition!” He recoiled with a gasp. “It’s young Garvan, one of Nick Carter’s push.”
Deland came nearer, till the muzzle of his revolver touched Patsy’s breast. He did not appear to be in the least disturbed by the discovery, not more than when Chick intruded upon him that morning. His nerves were, apparently, as stiff as steel.
“Oh, is that so?” he inquired icily. “Are you sure of it, Jim?”
“I ought to be, hang him.”
“We’ll do better than hang him,” said Deland, with an ominous gleam in his cold eyes. “Garvan, eh? What sent you out here?”
“I came to see what you rascals were after,” said Patsy curtly.
“Did you?” sneered Deland. “Well, you shall not be disappointed. You shall see all that we do—until we depart.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“But after then—you will see nothing!” Deland added, with a merciless smile.
Patsy did not deign to reply.
He glanced sharply around, however, and saw that they were close to the rear part of an extensive cemetery. A fence of wooden palings divided it from, the rough, lonely back road. The white stones and monuments, also several large tombs built into the side of a hill, could be seen through the semidarkness.
“Get his weapons and bind his arms securely,” Deland commanded coldly. “If he has any handcuffs, fasten them on him, also. He shall watch us to his heart’s content—until we leave him.”
“Leave him where?” growled Margate.
“Wait and see.”
Patsy still was a bit puzzled, but he submitted in grim silence to the work of the three ruffians, who disarmed and then securely bound him.
“Now, Margate, a gag,” said Deland. “Make sure that you fix it so securely that he cannot remove it. He shall occupy cold quarters to-night—and hereafter!”
Patsy saw plainly that he was in the hands of a man who had in him all the makings of a devil.
Margate took a gag from his pocket and fastened it in Patsy’s mouth.
“Now, gentlemen, we are ready,” said Deland. “Bring[Pg 36]him with us. Let him see what he may. It’s a pleasure to gratify him. Murderers are well fed and wined, even, if wanted, before their execution. Bring him along.”
He turned with the last and tore off several palings, already loosened, from the high fence.
Forced on by the other three ruffians, Patsy was conducted to the door of one of the tombs, some twenty yards from where the wagon had been left.
Deland took a key from his pocket and unlocked the iron door, which Pitman and Ruff quickly removed and stood against a near bank.
“Look!” said Deland. “Here is what we came after.”
He shot the beam of an electric lamp into the tomb.
Patsy looked and saw—the long, wooden case and the florist’s boxes seen in the undertaker’s wagon that morning.
He could not speak, but he glared at the smiling miscreant near by, and Deland laughed audibly.
“A safe concealment, Garvan,” he remarked. “Even your famous Nick Carter will never think of this. Nor will you ever inform him. For, after removing the plunder for which we had labored—I shall leave you here!”
Patsy felt a chill run down his spine, and a cold perspiration broke out all over him.
“You will not be found,” Deland added, with merciless deliberation. “There may be no occasion to reopen this tomb for years. Nor can you escape, or make yourself heard, for we shall bind your feet and leave you in the box now containing part of our booty. Move lively, mates! The sooner we are away, now, the better.”
“Gee! here’s a fine outlook,” thought Patsy, steadying his nerves. “This miscreant means what he said. Nor will either of these rascals oppose him. Great guns! it looks tough, for fair!”
The three ruffians, Deland watching, already were transferring the pasteboard boxes to the wagon, a task that occupied them only a few minutes.
The cover then was removed from the undertaker’s box, which stood on the floor of the tomb.
Patsy could only stand and gaze.
When he returned with his companions for the last time, Margate brought a screw driver from the wagon.
“Off with the cover, Jim,” said Deland coldly. “Save the screws so that we may fasten it on again—with this meddlesome feller under it. I will teach him to interfere with my business, already sufficiently hazardous. Make haste. Put the stuff out here on the ground. We four then can take it to the wagon, after locking the tomb door.”
The knaves were at work while he was speaking.
Patsy saw small but costly old paintings, boxes of gems and jade, the priceless Strad violin, then in its case—these and many other treasures Patsy saw brought out and laid upon the ground.
There was no delay over what followed, no argument about it, no sign of mercy in the eyes of either of his captors.
Patsy was rudely thrown to the ground and his legs securely bound.
Half a minute later he was lying in the box from which the treasures had been taken.
He heard the cover replaced, the massive key turned in the grating lock.
Three minutes later the wagon moved away with the four knaves and its load of treasures.[Pg 37]
Only Patsy Garvan remained.
Entombed alive!
Alone with the dead!
It fell to the lot of Nick Carter, as frequently occurred, to be a sort of connecting link between his two assistants, so uniting the result of their work as to form the complete and unbreakable chain that helplessly shackled the outlaws they were seeking.
It was after six o’clock when Nick, returning to his Madison Avenue residence, learned that neither of them had arrived, nor any definite message been received concerning their movements.
“Both men have picked up a trail worth following, and are so engaged, or they would have sent in a report of some kind,” Nick reasoned, taking the swivel chair at his desk. “They must have accomplished more than I, in that case, since I was banking quite heavily on what I could learn from Archer, the real-estate agent, concerning his relations with Deland. It was bad luck, indeed, that he was out of town on this particular day. I’ll try his residence. He may have returned by this time.”
Nick had been trying in vain, in fact, to get in communication with Mr. John Archer, who had had charge of the Barker residence during its owner’s absence. He now found, with much satisfaction, that he had met with success.
The servant who answered his telephone call informed him that Mr. Archer had arrived home and would talk with him in a moment. Scarce more than that had elapsed when Nick heard the agent’s voice over the wire.
He at once informed him of what had occurred in the Barker residence, and he then began to question him. He soon found, however, that Archer could add but little to what already had been learned; that he had permitted Deland to occupy the house because of a letter containing those instructions from its owner, brought to him by Deland, and that he had not communicated with Colonel Barker in regard to it, believing the letter to be genuine and Deland entirely trustworthy.
“Did you recognize Colonel Barker’s writing, or is the letter typewritten?” Nick inquired.
“It is typewritten on paper bearing a cut of the Berlin hotel in which Colonel Barker is living,” was the reply.
“Did you recognize the signature?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Carter.”
“It is a forgery, nevertheless.”
“That seems almost incredible,” Archer protested. “I am very familiar with Colonel Barker’s signature. I have had charge, of both of his places at times during many years.”
“Has he two places?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the other?”
“It’s the old homestead, out Fordham way,” said Archer. “Colonel Barker grew up there and still spends part of each summer on the old place. It is outside of the town and somewhat isolated. Nearly all of his family are entombed in the old cemetery in that section.”
“Has Deland, or Vaughn, ever been out there?” Nick inquired.[Pg 38]
“I think not, though we have talked of the place. There is nothing more I can tell you.”
“I wish to see that forged letter,” said Nick. “I will call at your Broadway office to-morrow morning.”
“Very well.”
“I then will go with you to the Barker residence.”
Nick’s face wore a frown when he hung up the receiver. He was thinking, not of what he had just heard, but of the stolen Strickland treasures.
“The rascals may have taken them to that old homestead,” he muttered, gazing intently at his desk. “Still, there would have been that same danger that the undertaker’s wagon would be seen. The only really consistent place to which they could have driven it is a graveyard. But that, on the other hand, in view of its contents, seems utterly absurd and——”
Nick stopped short. His eyes suddenly lighted. He was hit with an idea that had not occurred to him before.
“Entombed out there!” he muttered. “A tomb! By Jove, that may call the turn.”
Nick seized the telephone again and got the Fordham telephone exchange. He learned after a few inquiries just where the old Barker place was located, and that the sexton of the cemetery mentioned was one Jason Dexter.
“He has a telephone in his house,” said the operator. “I will connect you with him.”
“Do so, please,” Nick directed, then waited until he heard the sexton’s voice.
“Hello!”
“Is that you, Mr. Dexter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Mr. Vaughn talking—Gerald Vaughn,” said Nick, proceeding in a roundabout way to get the information he wanted.
“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Dexter returned. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing whatever. I merely want to thank you again for having opened the Barker tomb for me this morning, and for your kind attentions.”
“Well, well, that is quite needless, Mr. Vaughn, I assure you. My duties require no less of me.”
“I wanted to thank you again, nevertheless, and I feel very grateful. Good night, sir.”
Nick did not wait for an answer. He hung up the receiver, shouted to Joseph, the butler, and then hastened to don a woolen cap and a thick reefer, into the pockets of which he thrust three revolvers.
“Have Danny here with the touring car as soon as possible,” he commanded, when Joseph appeared at the office door.
The touring car, with Danny Maloney at the wheel, was at the curbing outside five minutes later.
Thirty minutes later it stood in front of the small wooden dwelling in which Jason Dexter resided, a few hundred yards from the old rural cemetery of which he had charge. One of the front rooms was lighted, denoting that the sexton still was at home.
“Put out the headlights, Danny,” Nick directed, while he sprang from the car. “There is no danger of a collision in this lonely section. The rascals might see our lights in front of this house, however, if they were to arrive to transfer their hidden booty. We’ll take a back road, which I happen to know flanks the farther side of the cemetery.[Pg 39]”
“Out they go, chief,” returned Danny, the glare of the lamps on the lonely road suddenly vanishing.
Nick entered the front yard of the house and rang the bell. It was answered by the sexton himself, a somewhat bowed, gray man well into the sixties.
It goes without saying, of course, that he was more than surprised when Nick entered and introduced himself, telling him what had occurred and what he suspected.
It then appeared that Deland had called on the sexton two days before, stating that he was a relative of Colonel Barker and then was occupying his Fifth Avenue residence. He further stated that his aunt had died suddenly that morning, and that he wanted to place her remains in the Barker tomb for a few days, until arrangements could be made to take her body to Virginia, her native State, for burial.
“You suspected nothing wrong, I infer,” said Nick.
“Certainly not, Mr. Carter. Mr. Vaughn appeared to be a perfect gentleman,” Dexter assured him, with rather rustic simplicity. “I consented, of course, supposing he had a family right to use the tomb. I told him Colonel Barker had a duplicate key, but he said he did not know where to find it. Colonel Barker is abroad, you know.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“I then told Mr. Vaughn that I would open the tomb for him with my key when he came with the body. He said that was just what he wanted, and I did so quite early this morning. I do remember, now, that he would not permit me to aid the undertaker and his assistant in handling the casket and boxes of flowers, all of which were put in the tomb.”
“You now know why, of course,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “You would have detected that the boxes did not contain flowers. Let me see your key to the tomb.”
The sexton hastened to get it, and Nick examined it with his lens.
“Just as I suspected,” he exclaimed, almost immediately. “An impression was taken of this key while you were at the tomb. It was taken in putty, or some ingredient containing oil. There are traces of it on one side of the key.”
“Well, well, this is most amazing.”
“Get your hat, Mr. Dexter, and show me where the tomb is located,” Nick said abruptly. “I have an assistant outside. The crooks undoubtedly will come to-night to remove their plunder. We can catch them in the act, and—well, that will be their finish.”
It did not take them long, all three, to arrive at the door of the Barker tomb, nor long for the sexton to unlock and remove the iron door.
Nick shot the beam of his search lamp into its gruesome depths.
“Great Scott!” cried Danny impulsively. “The treasures are gone, chief.”
“Not all of them,” said Nick, mystified for a moment. “Here is the box which must have contained some of them. Unless empty, it——”
Danny uttered a shriek, and Nick recoiled involuntarily.
A groan from within the box had fallen with startling effect on the ears of all. Then came a fierce kicking against the top of it.
“By gracious!” cried Nick, quick to guess the truth. “The rascals have been and gone. But they have entombed either Chick or Patsy.[Pg 40]”
He sprang into the tomb, shouting quickly and thumping on the long box:
“Keep cool! We’ll have you out in half a minute.”
It was done in less time, in fact. For Nick found that he could thrust his fingers under one corner of the cover, and, with the strength of a giant, he tore it off in an instant.
Patsy Garvan sat up in the box, in the glare of Nick’s searchlight, with his face wearing a look of relief that words could not possibly describe.
“By Heaven!” Nick muttered. “Those curs shall pay dearly for this.”
“Gee! that was some glad sound, chief, when I heard your voice,” said Patsy, after he had been liberated and the tomb relocked. “The rascals got me—but now we’ll get them.”
“Tell me what occurred,” said Nick.
Patsy informed him with half a dozen breaths, adding quickly:
“They have been gone less than ten minutes. They are returning to Margate’s place. We can reach there by the other road and without being seen long they arrive.”
“Come on, then,” said Nick. “That’s the proper move.”
Their run to the Margate place was made in twelve minutes. The car, with lights extinguished, was concealed in a near, vacant lot. Returning to the front of the old house to watch for the wagon, the three detectives scarce had concealed themselves under a low wall, when a taxicab put in an appearance and stopped in front of the house.
“Some of the gang, Patsy,” Nick murmured. “Follow me and we’ll take them in at once.”
He strode out just as the chauffeur sprang down from his seat to aid two women to alight.
“Stop a moment, chauffeur,” said Nick, reaching for his revolver. “Who are your passengers and where did you——”
The chauffeur burst out laughing.
“Thundering guns!” he cried, removing his disguise. “Is it you, Nick?”
The chauffeur was Chick Carter, in the coat, hat, and goggles of Mullen, with whom Chick had easily planned the subterfuge before the coming down of the two much-wanted women in suite 710.
Five minutes later, Nell Margate and Fannie Coyle were in irons and locked in a closet in the house, pending the arrival of the male members of the gang.
When that occurred, some twenty minutes later, and the four crooks alighted from the wagon containing the stolen treasures, four detectives stepped into the driveway and confronted each, with a revolver ready, if needed.