CHAPTER IV.
Half an hour later Ike was standing on the corner agreed upon when he saw a country gawk approach. The latter stepped up to our hero and asked for a certain street. Ike was thrown off for an instant, but ere he answered he fell to the truth and said:
“Bully, old man; you’re good. It’s a great scheme.”
Murray had assumed the guise of a country gawk and he was amazed at the lad’s wonderful quickness in going under his disguise. He arranged a few signals with Ike, and then the two separated. Ike went down to the vicinity of Fellman’s office. He had changed his own disguise before visiting the detective. He hung around for over an hour and then saw Fellman come forth. The banker carried a small traveling satchel and Ike muttered:
“Just as I expected; he is on his way for his house down on Long Island, and we will have young Burlein back in New York inside twenty-four hours.”
Our hero fell to the trail of Fellman. The man went to Roosevelt street ferry and took the Hunter’s Point boat for Long Island City. As Ike followed on the boat, the country gawk ran against him and Ike passed the signal, and a little later all hands were on the train for Smithtown.
Probably few people outside of Long Islanders are aware that on Long Island there are spots as wild as in any other part of the country, as far as isolation is concerned. Indeed wild deer still roam in some of these recesses despite the fact that some parts of the island are so densely inhabited.
At Smithtown Fellman alighted and there was a buckboard waiting for him. The man had found means of communication or had expected to go down ere he got the strange intimation in the restaurant.
It was evening when the train arrived and Murray said to Ike:
“Boy, I know Long Island pretty well.”
“That’s lucky.”
“Are you tough?”
“Well, I am not tender.”
“Then we can follow that buckboard afoot.”
“Good enough.”
The man Fellman was driven off at a pretty lively gait, but Ike and the detective kept along pretty well until they got beyond the hard roads of the village, when the detective said:
“Now we can take it easy. We can follow more leisurely—no trouble to follow the trail.”
There had been a shower and a wagon track through the deep sand could be easily identified, and besides a horse could not be driven at such a rattling gait as when on the hard road.
The detective and Ike were soon in the woods and dense brush, and it was a pretty hard walk through the sand, and occasionally the detective would ask:
“Are you tired, lad?”
“No,” Ike would answer.
Thus they plodded along for about three hours, having little difficulty in holding the track. Occasionally thedetective would draw his flashlight and examine the track, and then they would push on.
It was just before midnight when they came to a place where a house stood alone on a side lane, and the chances were there was not another house within a mile in either direction. The detective remarked:
“That man could have ridden in the cars to a nearer station.”
“It is possible he had a motive,” said Ike.
“Yes, I reckon he did, and now we can sit down and rest, for there is the house down on Long Island that you alluded to when working your ventriloquism.”
The two sat down on a fallen tree and the detective said:
“If your calculations prove correct, young fellow, your fortune is made.”
“My calculations will all prove correct.”
“I believe they will. You certainly did calculate well as to the movements of Fellman, and you have done so well I’d like to know your idea of his scheme.”
“I have an idea.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Burlein is an open-hearted, trustful young man, to begin with.”
“From what you say I think you are right.”
“Now, then, my idea is this: Possibly Fellman has speculated with Burlein’s money or with the money of the special partner, and he has gotten up this scheme to cover his own guilt and put all the opprobrium on young Burlein. That is one idea.”
“That is one idea?”
“Yes.”
“You have another?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hear all your ideas, my lad.”
“It is possible that Fellman loves the same girl, andwants to blast Burlein’s character, and win her and her fortune. That is my idea number two.”
“Now what is your third idea?”
Ike meditated a moment and then said:
“A bowler’s third ball is generally the surest.”
“Well?”
“I rather think my third idea is the one that will prove correct. I’ve studied Fellman pretty well. He is not a man to squander money. I believe he has put up a game to rob Burlein and the special partner, and if it hadn’t been for a lucky accident he would have succeeded.”
“Ike, I think your third ball is the sure one.”
“You believe it is a scheme of robbery?”
“Yes.”
“How could he work it?”
“Oh, he could hold poor Burlein a prisoner for years, and in time kill him.”
“Then we are just in time to bust the game.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“He may attempt to remove Burlein.”
“All right, we will be on to all his movements. And now you are pretty well rested?”
“I am.”
“You are a bold lad.”
“Well, I am always ready to take chances in a good cause.”
“Do you think you could get into that house?”
“Easy.”
“Are you willing to try it?”
“Sure.”
“I’d go myself, but I believe you can work that end of it better than I can.”
The two moved down toward the old house. Under the shed was the buckboard, so they were assured that Fellman, no matter what his game, had at least put up there for thenight. They were standing quite close to the fence surrounding the house when Murray said:
“See there!”
A dark object was seen stealing toward them.
“It’s a Siberian,” said Ike.
“Hang the beast,” muttered Murray; “we will have to betray ourselves in knocking him over.”
“Don’t you believe it; just leave him to me.”
“Will you tackle that beast?”
“Will I? You just watch me, and don’t you have any fear. I’ve got a good way for serving out doggies, big and little.”
“But I cannot let you face that fellow.”
The dog had approached very leisurely, and he was an immense fellow as he loomed up in the darkness.
“I’ll fix him,” whispered Ike quickly. “You stand back.”
The dog came quite near and then suddenly, with a growl and a snappish bark, leaped forward, and the next instant Ike had him by the neck and turned him over on his back. The great beast lay silent and helpless.
“Got a cord?” asked Ike.
The detective was amazed, but produced a strong cord and Ike deliberately tied the great hound as a butcher ties a calf for market. He had also bitted him so he could not make any noise, and then rising and facing the detective inquired:
“Well, how’s that?”
“Are you a human being?” demanded the officer.
“I am pretty human,” answered Ike.
“How did you do that?”
“Oh, that’s my way of serving out ugly doggies.”
“Tell me how you did it.”
“I’ll tell you, but I won’t show you. My master was the greatest electrician that ever attempted to chain down lightning. He made a machine for me—the only one inthe world. I can close my hands on anything living and give them a shock that paralyzes them. I just paralyzed the dog; that’s all.”
“Could you paralyze a man?”
“I reckon so.”
Ike suddenly seized the detective by the two wrists and the officer writhed and squirmed, and would have fallen helpless on the sand had Ike not let up on him.
“Ike,” he exclaimed when released, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars for that contrivance.”
“Thank you, captain, but it is not for sale. I’ve got out of too many bad scrapes with that little machine, and I feared I had lost it when I was taken aboard the schooner; but they didn’t search me, and I am all right.”
“Can I get one like it?”
“Not unless I break my promise. So your chances are very slim, captain.”
“I reckon with that machine it’s safe to let you go in the house.”
“I reckon it is.”
“What will I do while you’re gone if another dog starts up?”
“Shoot, captain, shoot; that is all you can do. And now for a go inside that house.”
Murray at Ike’s suggestion went around to the rear and took up a position on the roof of a shed where he could lie low and watch the house, and then our hero made his attempt to enter. He encountered little difficulty. He managed to get on the roof of one of the outbuildings. He had seen a light in one of the rooms and knew that some one was moving in the old house. He got in through an attic window and moved cautiously toward the stairs leading to the floors below. He got down one flight and arrived opposite the room in which he had seen a light, and in which, as he stole forward, he heard voices. Hepeeped into the room and made a very startling discovery. There were two men in the room. One was Fellman and the other the banker’s exact counterpart. In fact, on the instant Ike decided that number two was a twin brother.
The two men were sitting opposite each other and were talking in a calm and easy manner. He heard Fellman say:
“So your people have no suspicion?”
“None whatever.”
“They may find out you have a prisoner.”
“I think not.”
“But suppose they should?”
“I will say it is an insane relative I am taking care of.”
“That might do, but the story will get out.”
“Well, suppose it does. We can move him; but it will be a long time before any one will find out I have a prisoner here.”
“Where have you got him concealed?”
“Suppose I don’t tell you?”
“As you please.”
“It is better that even you should not know. You may talk in your sleep.”
“One question: suppose detectives should come out here?”
“Let ’em come.”
“Are you certain they cannot pipe your prison?”
“I am dead certain. They could more easily find his body were he in a secret grave.”
“Herman, I have reason to believe that I am suspected.”
“I thought when I saw you last that you said it was impossible for you to be suspected, and that if I kept my prisoner close it was not possible that you ever could be suspected.”
“Well, that is what I thought, but since something strange has occurred.”
“What?”
Fellman told Herman what had occurred, and the latter laughed and said:
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“You have no fear. There are two ways to account for what occurred. In the first place you are nervous. It may be a freak of your own imagination.”
“Impossible! I am not a fool.”
“Then some man who thinks he is smart suspects, but he has no evidence. No, you have nothing to fear, and were they on your track they can never prove anything.”
“Suppose they should trail down to this place? Remember, the question came: ‘Have you a place down on Long Island?’”
“All right; let them come down here. It will do them no good; indeed, it will relieve you of all further suspicion. I’d advise you to invite them down here. I defy the devil himself to find my prisoner.”
“How is he?”
“He takes it hard; between you and me, he will not stand it long.”
“What do you mean?”
“He will not stand it.”
“He will die?”
“He will.”
“And I will be a murderer.”
“Nonsense! You only made him a prisoner. He was putting up a job on you and you defended yourself, that is all. How about the money?”
“That end of it is all right.”
“How much do you receive?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“I think I’ve a right to know. It’s an even divide, you know.”
Fellman fixed a queer look on his double, and his co-conspirator.
“Do you mean treachery?” he asked.
“No; nor do I mean to be the fool of any man.”
“I see now.”
“What do you see?”
“I know why you will not let me know where your prisoner is concealed.”
“You make a mistake. I withhold the place of his concealment as a matter of precaution only.”
Ike overheard every word that was spoken. Indeed he thought he had overheard enough. He did not think it was worth while to take any more chances at that time, and he made his way out of the house and returned to where the detective lay on the shed-roof. The two walked off in the woods and Ike said:
“I had this thing all down correct. My third ball was the true one.”
Ike related all that he had overheard—related it all word for word, and when he had concluded the detective said:
“Well, lad, you have done a marvelous bit of detective work. I can hardly realize that it is not all a romance, and I am an old hand at the business.”
“What shall we do?”
“We will go very slow.”
“But do not forget what Herman said about the young man’s dying.”
“Yes.”
“I am thinking of that.”
“Can we unearth his place of concealment?”
“Can we? Well, if we don’t we are a pair of ninnies, that’s all. I am thinking how we had better proceed.”
“I can tell you.”
“Go it.”
“Let’s find the young man and release him at once.”
“No, no; that will not do. I have a big rôle for you to play.”
“I’ll play it well if I can, and next time I’ll play my third ball first.”
“That will be a good scheme.”
“I shall return to New York in the morning, Ike.”
“All right, sir.”
“I will leave you here to watch Herman.”
“All right, sir.”
“You may get on to the young man’s prison place.”
“I may.”
“In the meantime I will arrange for a great close in on Fellman. But there is one party I must see. We want points.”
“I’ll attend to my end of it here. I’ll watch Mr. Herman.”
The detective could not return until morning, and they did not wish to remain in the vicinity of the house, so they went off into the woods and found a shooting station on the grounds of one of the great gun clubs, when Murray exclaimed:
“By ginger, lad, I am acquainted with half the members of that gun club, if we can only find their clubhouse. Let’s try; we can get a good bed and a breakfast in the morning.”
It was just a little after midnight when our hero and the detective started to find the gun clubhouse, and they were proceeding along talking in low tones and were in a dense growth of brush and wood on the verge of a lake, when suddenly both were brought to a stand, and paralyzed for a moment by hearing a succession of unearthly yells.
“Great Scott!” cried the detective, “some one is getting murdered.” And he ran forward in the direction whence the piercing screams had come. A little way on he came to an opening where he halted and Ike joined him.
“Look there, lad.”
Ike did look, and just before them across an open space of about a hundred yards was an old farmhouse, as it appeared under the moonlight, for the clouds had rolled away and the moon had come forth. On the porch of the house sat four men, and as Ike and the detective appeared there arose a wild chorus of laughter.
“It’s the clubhouse,” said Detective Murray.
“And one of the men gave the yells,” said Ike.
“Yes, the rascals have been drinking wine, and have been shouting in their wild inebriety.”
Ike stood a moment considering, and finally said in a pensive tone:
“I could give all those fellows thehorrors.”
“You could?”
“I could.”
“How?”
“Well, I know how.”
“It might do ’em good.”
“You know them?”
“Yes, I recognize the voice of one of them.”
“Would you like me to do him some good?”
“I hardly know what to say.”
“You can have some great fun to-night, captain, if you want it.”
“I can?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your plan?”
“You go over there and join your friend. I won’t go, but I’ll provide a great treat for you.”
Murray as a rule was a very serious sort of man, but he had been a witness to a little of Ike’s marvelous powers, and he did think it might be very amusing. But he said:
“It may be risky, Ike.”
“How?”
“Those fellows always have their guns at hand. If anything unusual should show up, they might take a notion to shoot.”
“They will never shoot me. They will all think they are ‘called for.’ What’s your friend’s name?”
“His name is Atwood.”
“Is he a married man?”
“Yes.”
“What is his first name?”
“Tom.”
“You are sure of your man?”
“Oh, yes.”
“All right; go over and join them and prepare yourself for the treat of your life. And your friend will get the greatest scare of his life.”
“Don’t press it too hard, Ike.”
“No, but I’ll learn him a trick, you bet.”
Murray started across the opening and had proceeded about fifty yards when the men on the porch espied him and one of them cried:
“Hello, there’s a game thief, as sure as you are born.”
Up jumped the man and a moment later he reappeared with his gun; but the steward ran out and caught the gun away from him, and the detective, who had kept right on, got near enough to call out:
“Hello, there!”
The men were up to mischief, and one of them exclaimed:
“Say, Atwood, there is your wife on the other end of the telephone.”
The detective advanced and the four men approached him, peering at him under the moonlight, and as he drew nearer he called out:
“Hello, Atwood, old man! How are you?”
Atwood stared a moment and then asked:
“Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“No, but come and have a glass of wine all the same. I know you are a friend of mine.”
“Sure.”
The detective stepped on the piazza and Atwood grasped him and dragged him into the house under the gaslight, and then exclaimed, as he cordially shook the detective’s hand:
“Why, Murray, you rascal! where on earth did you come from? Here, have a glass of wine.”
The party were all pretty well under the influence of wine, but none of them were too far over, only full of wine and fun. Murray was not a drinking man as a rule, but after his long walk he thought he would take one glass, and he did so, and ate several sandwiches, as there were quite a number on a plate.
“Well, old man, where did you come from?”
“Oh, I had business a little way over, and started to walk to the depot, but lost my way.”
“Well, you will stay here to-night.”
“You bet I will.”
“We’ve got a good bed for you, old man.”
Atwood had introduced the detective all round, and the men adjourned to the porch again and were all sitting there enjoying their cigars when suddenly a scream was heard—a scream resembling a female in great distress.
The men all started and after a moment inquired:
“What’s that? Did you hear it?”
They all heard it except Murray, who coolly asked:
“What is the matter, gentlemen?”
“What is the matter?” repeated Atwood; “why, didn’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“A woman’s scream.”
The detective laughed and said:
“Tom, I guess you’ve got ’em.”
“Got what?”
“Got ’em bad, old man.”
“Didn’t you hear it?”
“I reckon you were the only man who heard anything, Tom.”
The others of the party began to laugh. They wanted to make out they didn’t hear, and at any rate they were prepared to make it merry for Atwood. All hands protested they had not heard anything, and finally Atwood said:
“You are all deaf and dumb with wine. Hang it, it was a wild cat I heard as plain as though I had stepped on its tail.”
“I guess you did, Atty, old boy,” said Murray.
The men resumed their seats and were talking over the scream Tom Atwood had heard, when suddenly there came a voice, as though some one stood in the doorway of the cottage, and the voice appeared like a groan. All the men heard the groans and they appeared a little bit dazed, and one of them said:
“By ginger, gentlemen, it looks to me as though the ghosts had come back.”
“Is the house haunted?” asked Murray.
“Is it? Well, I’ll tell you. This house was built in old colonial times. Several people were murdered in this house by the Indians and it is said that during the revolutionary war a crew from a pirate schooner made a raid here and killed a beautiful young lady. You can see now where a tomahawk stuck, and also the hole where a bullet lodged. In fact, before we made our alterations here there were bullet marks to be seen all over the house.”
“Has it ever been reported to be haunted?”
“Yes; and no one would live here, and we bought the place cheap.”
“It would appear that the stories about its being haunted are confirmed.”
Even while the men were talking the groans were heard again, and one of the party said:
“Hang it, I don’t want to sleep in that house to-night. I’ll sling a hammock out here under the trees.”
Atwood spoke up and said:
“I’ll sleep in the house, you bet. I ain’t going to take the chances of pneumonia because I fear a few walking apparitions.”
Tom Atwood appeared to be very brave and Murray said:
“It is a ghost, Tom.”
“I don’t care, I like ghosts.”
“And you are going to sleep in the house?”
“Yes, I am.”
One of the party suggested:
“Suppose we all sleep out here and let Tom sleep in the house all alone by himself.”
“All right,” came the unanimous response.
Murray said:
“Oh, Tom is only pretending. He daren’t sleep in the house alone.”
“I’ll bet you fifty I dare.”
Murray was startled at this instant when a voice sounded close to his ear saying, “Take the bet.”
“What will you do?” asked the detective.
“I’ll bet fifty I dare sleep in the house all alone.”
We will here state that the steward of the club and his little family occupied a little rear house. The main building was reserved exclusively for the club members.
“You’ll bet fifty you sleep in the house alone?”
“Yes, I will.”
“I’ll take you, Atwood,” said the detective.
“And I’ll take you for fifty,” called another of the party, and still another offered to take the bet.
Atwood accepted every bet, and in the meantime no more sounds had been heard. But the moment the bets were all arranged again there came a renewal of the groans.
“That’s a ghost, sure,” said one.
“Yes, but as it is the ghost of a pretty woman Tom is glad to sleep alone in the house. He always had an eye for beauty and he thinks he’ll catch a glimpse of the ghost.”
“No, but I’ll catch a hundred and fifty dollars of you fellows’ money,” said Tom.
“You’re dead sure of that, eh?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll press the bet,” said the detective, “and make it a hundred you don’t sleep in the house from two a.m. until daylight.”
“I’ll take it.”
The men sat there discussing the remarkable sounds. Tom Atwood, as it was afterward learned, had been informed that when the wind came from a certain direction pretty strange sounds were often heard. He did not tell the latter fact to his companions, but let them talk and wonder what it all meant, and congratulated himself upon his easy winning of two hundred dollars, and he said:
“I did not know you fellows were so superstitious.”
“Oh, you are awful brave.”
“I am willing to take a few more bets.”
“I’ll bet you a basket,” said Murray.
“I’ll take it, old man. You appear to think I am afraid of ghosts.”
“You haven’t slept in the house yet, whether you are afraid of ghosts or not.”
“I will.”
“Oh, yes, you will lay around out here until near daylight.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go to bed.”
“All right, I’ll go.” But at that instant there came a scream. It appeared to come from some one standing right in the doorway of the cottage. The door was in the center of the house, and the men were seated on either side of it.
“Go in and go to bed,” said Murray.
Tom, however, was a little shaky. There was something fearfully human in the sound of that voice, although very uncanny.
“Go in, Tom,” urged Murray, and the man made a step toward the door, when a voice demanded:
“Tom! Tom Atwood! is that you, and is this the wayyou come down to the club for rest?”
Tom Atwood’s hair almost stood on end. He recoiled and glared, and Murray called out:
“Hello! That’s the voice of a ghost from New York. You lose the bets, Tom. You’re working a fraud on us. You didn’t mean to sleep alone in that house, you rascal.”
The other men called out:
“Well, this is a nice scheme, old man. You didn’t tell us Mrs. Atwood was coming down.”
Tom made no answer, but just stood, not like one gazing upon an apparition, but like a man confronted by a more frightful reality, and we will explain.
Tom Atwood was at home a professed temperance man, and when he went down to the club he generally made up for his total abstinence during his sojourn at home. His wife, as was well known, was a hater of strong drink, and Tom pretended to strictly conform to her prejudices, and he stood there paralyzed, believing his wife had suspected him and had paid a secret visit to the club to find him out. Indeed, instead of playing a fraud on his fellow members he suspected they were putting up a little job on him, and that they were all aware of the presence of his wife in the house, and after he thought he knew why they had all beenso liberal in “setting ’em up” until he got full as a tick.
“Go in, Tom,” said Murray.
When the detective spoke to him the man decided that he could solve the mystery. He could not only account for the presence of his wife, but the presence of the detective down at the club was accounted for, and with an oath he said:
“Murray, I’ll get square with you.”
“Come in here, Tom,” called a voice.
“Follow the ghost,” cried all the men, who lost all their terror and began to think the whole thing was a huge joke.
“Come in, Tom,” said the voice.
Tom looked around helplessly at his companions and then entered the house, saying:
“All right, Mary, I’m coming.”
He did go in the house, and the men followed to peep at him and hear him get a good tongue lashing; but in a few moments Atwood came back to the stoop looking like a ghost himself. The sweat was pouring down his face as he said in a distressed tone:
“Gentlemen, this is no joke. On my honor, no one is in that house. What does it all mean?”
“Oh, your wife is playing hide and seek on you,” said one.
“She is dodging you, old man; she’s here.”
Atwood walked over to Murray and said:
“Murray, you are my friend.”
“I am.”
“You will tell me the truth?”
“I will.”
“Did my wife come down here with you?”
“No.”
“Do you know that she is here?”
“I know nothing about it.”
“You will swear to that?”
“I will.”
Atwood’s face assumed the hue of death. A bright light shone out from the hall of the cottage. The man stood right before the opening and his features were fully revealed. He presented a pitiable sight, for he was a good fellow and very fond of his wife, and a weird suspicion had penetrated his mind.
Again he addressed Murray saying:
“You would not deceive me?”
“On my honor I wouldn’t, Tom.”
“And my wife did not come down here with you?”
“She did not.”
“And you do not know that she is really here?”
“I do not.”
“Boys, I am going to New York,” said Atwood. “Going if I walk every step of the way.”
At that moment there came a voice again. It sounded right from the doorway as before, and it called another of the men by name.
We will here state that Ike, the wonder, had learned the names of all the men, and he made up his mind to let up on Tom Atwood and work one or two of the others, and when the name of number two was called the man leaped to his feet. He was a violent fellow when aroused. His gun was standing near and he cried out:
“I’ll shoot that ghost, living or dead.”
The whole party made up their minds that a trick was being played. The man, Bill, ran into the house and looked all around, but came out without having found any one.
“Say, fellows,” he said, “this has gone far enough. Let’s sift it to the bottom.”
All hands agreed, and it was arranged that one man should stand at the front door, another at the rear, andthat three others should go through the house from room to room, guns in hand, and solve the mystery.
The plan was put in execution. One man went to a closet, opened the door and fell back glaring in horror, for he was met by a scream right in his ears which came from the closet. In the meantime one of the other men had opened the wine-room door and he too encountered a soul-thrilling scream. He ran shouting away, and the third man also had an experience which caused him to rush out to the balcony.
The mystery had not been solved. It was deeper than ever, and the men were all greatly excited when Murray asked coolly:
“What is the matter with you fellows?”
“Don’t you hear the voice?” asked one.
“No, I hear no voice.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I hear no ghostly voice such as you fellows are all jabbering about.”
“It’s strange.”
“No, it isn’t strange. You’ve all got ’em. What kind of whiskey do you keep here anyhow? Here you are going on like a lot of madmen. Take my advice, go in and take a big glass of Appollinaris, and take a little nervine. I tell you, boys, you’ve all got ’em, and you’ve got ’em bad, too.”
The men did go in and drink Vichy, and the steward, who had been summoned, produced some valerian and they all took big doses and calmed down. The voice was not heard again, and it became the mystery of their lives. Indeed they all believed they “had ’em.” They were told it had been a temporary epidemic of snake seeing, and the evidence to each was so strong they were mystified, and inclined to believe it. It was not until weeks afterward that Murray undeceived them, and then he disclosed thetruth to Tom Atwood, who was so deeply affected he became melancholy over it.
Murray determined to go to bed after the men had quieted down, and he let Ike in at the window of his room and put him to bed. At an early hour the lad was out and around, and at the breakfast he appeared as a lad who brought a message to the detective. The latter invited him to breakfast and then disclosed the fact that Ike was at work on a clew for him, and secured the privilege of bed and lodgment for the boy during such time as he remained there. He also bid Ike not to attempt any more pranks for the time being.
Later Murray went to New York. On the same train was the man Fellman, and Murray had a chance to study his man all the way down on the train.
Upon the arrival of the officer in New York he went direct to the office of the gentleman, Mr. Smith, who was a special partner in the banking business, and who was the father of the beautiful girl whom it is known young Burlein was affianced to.
The detective was shown into the merchant’s private office, and after seating himself said:
“I have come here, sir, on very important business.”
“Your name, sir.”
The detective passed over his card, and as it happened Mr. Smith had heard of the officer and consequently was prepared to listen to him.
“I wish to ask you a few questions, sir, and I trust you will answer me freely and truly, and when I am through questioning you I have some very startling intelligence to impart.”
“I will answer you, sir, as far as I can.”
“What amount have you, as a special partner, invested in the firm of Fellman & Co.”
“A quarter of a million.”
“What do you know about Fellman?”
“Very little. I invested in the concern because young Burlein had been in my employ from boyhood, previous to his going into Wall street.”
“Then you must have known him pretty well.”
“I did.”
“How much money did he have of his own?”
“About fifty thousand dollars.”
“How much money did Fellman have in the business?”
“He had very little save his great experience as a banker. He was to have put money in, but for some reason he could not dispose of his securities, and I think he had but little cash in the concern.”
“What is the present condition of the business?”
“Every dollar is lost.”
“How?”
“We have every reason to believe by outside speculations on the part of poor Alfred.”
“And is there any indebtedness?”
“No, I am the greatest loser.”
“And what do you suppose tempted young Burlein?”
“I do not know. I believed him the soul of honor, and he was a very cautious young man. It was the surprise of my life. He was to have married my daughter.”
“Have you made an investigation of the affairs?”
“No, I have pocketed my loss, as the saying goes.”
“And you have accepted the statement of Fellman?”
“Yes, sir, as Alfred has run away or destroyed himself, I am compelled to accept his statement.”
“Did it ever strike you, sir, that Fellman might be a villain?”
“I know but little about him.”
“And yet you did know young Burlein?”
“I thought I did.”
“You never saw anything in his conduct that wouldlead you to suspect that he could have acted as it appears he has done?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“I can.”
“Fellman is a villain. Young Burlein is an honest man, and his victim. Not one penny was ever lost or squandered by the junior partner.”
Mr. Smith started and gazed at the officer with a look of pleasant amazement upon his face. His look of pleasure deepened as the detective proceeded and unfolded his wonderful discoveries and told the story of Nimble Ike.
When the narrative was completed Mr. Smith had his points. He expressed his delight, and further said:
“When this matter is all concluded I will take care of this little fellow, Isaac.”
The detective’s interview with the great capitalist lasted several hours, and when it was concluded the detective started for the country.
On the same day that Murray visited the capitalist the latter, in company with his lawyer, called upon Fellman. They found the man walking up and down his office with an expression of great satisfaction upon his face; but there followed a look of consternation when the special partner announced the object of his visit, and the rogue Fellman received the first intimation that his cunning scheme of robbery was not going to prove such an easy and successful venture as he supposed.
While the events which we have described were transpiring in New York, Ike was working his end of it down at the house on Long Island. The boy discovered a cunning and ingenuity that were really marvelous. He had telegraphed a certain request to the detective and then continued his “piping” for facts.
That evening Detective Murray arrived. He met Ikenear the clubhouse and the lad discovered that his friend had brought a magnificent hound with him.
“I got your telegram, Ike,” said the officer.
“I see.”
“I have brought one of the best hounds ever raised in this country—an animal trained to trailing human beings.”
“We will have use for him. This man, Herman Fellman, is a daring and cunning man, and I have made a most startling discovery. He intends to murder his prisoner in cold blood. I’ve been close on his track. He is a man who talks to himself, and I overheard him muttering, and from what he said I am sure he intends to do away with young Burlein, and I believe he intends to do it to-night.”
“We can get into the house and watch him.”
“No need. He has several children, besides his wife. They are all trained in villainy. We will never discover anything by watching him, simply because the man would evade us, do away with his victim and then defy us. We could get the proof against him and hang him, but hanging that fellow would not bring Burlein back to life.”
“Ike,” said Murray, “you are a born detective.”
“I may become one. I’ve been thinking the matter over pretty seriously.”
“You can go in with me, lad.”
“We will talk that matter over later. What we want to do now is to release Burlein.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yes, I have a plan, and it is to go about it in the most direct manner.”
“What do you propose?”
“I propose to take possession of that house and then go to work at our leisure. I am certain Burlein is concealed somewhere within a hundred yards of that old ramshackle building. You and I can find out the secret with the aid of your dog there.”
“Suppose we fail?”
“We can’t fail, or in other words we won’t fail; but one thing is certain. We must find Burlein alive before midnight or it will be a search for a dead man, for I tell you that scoundrel has decided to murder him—yes, murder him to-night.”
“And you propose we take possession of the house?”
“I do; and we will make prisoners of every one in the building. Then we will set the dog to work and with his aid we will find that secret prison, or to-morrow it will be a grave.”
“At what hour shall we start in?”
“We will go down there at nine o’clock. We will go as tramps. We will ask shelter. We will be refused, then we can provoke him into a row, and quicker than lightning close in on every member of the family.”
Murray meditated for a long time and then said:
“I reckon your scheme is a good one.”
We will here explain that Murray had disclosed to Atwood the mystery of the strange noises. The effect upon the man had been so marked the officer thought it best to relieve his mind, and after dinner our hero amused the two or three men present from the city by giving them some very remarkable exhibitions of his skill as a magician and a ventriloquist, and all hands pronounced him the wonder of the age.
At a little after eight o’clock Murray and our hero started for the farmhouse and in due time arrived there. The man Herman was sitting on the piazza. He was a powerful fellow—a great ignorant lout, but undoubtedly, as the detective concluded, physically as strong as a horse, and a man just ignorant enough in a violent passion to kill a man. If there was a born murderer in appearance the fellow Herman was the man.
Murray and Ike approached the house. The hound hadbeen left under a hedge and as the two apparent tramps drew near Herman warned them off; but the pretended “cheese eaters” would not obey, but walked straight up to the porch.
“What do you rascals want?” demanded Herman.
“We are tired and hungry; we want food and lodging.”
“You can’t get it here.”
“Will you turn us away?”
“Yes, I will.”
“All right, we will sit down on your stoop awhile and rest, and you will sell us a glass of milk.”
“I will sell you nothing, and you cannot sit down on my stoop. Be off with you.”
Murray sat down and Ike followed suit. The owner of the cottage rose to his feet, his face red with rage and his eyes blazing:
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, we heard you.”
“Go off.”
“We are comfortable here.”
The man, who as stated was a powerful fellow, made a spring at Murray, when quick as lightning the old timer dealt him a blow with a billy that brought him to his knees. He shouted murder, but the next instant the darbies were on him, and then he wilted and became quiet, and in less time than it takes to tell it the rest of the family were secured and dragged into the house.
Murray uttered a whistle and the hound came bounding forward. The well-trained animal had waited for his signal with the seeming intelligence of a human being.
The detective let the dog smell a hat which he had brought with him and gave the command:
“Go find.”
We could fill a book with accounts of extraordinary displays of sagacity by dogs, and the detective had an animalas intelligent as any beast ever started on a scent. The great brute scented around for a few moments and then scratched at a door leading down to the cellar, and once below he scented and scented, searching here and there, and for a long time appeared to be at fault; and the detective remarked to Ike, who stood by with a mask lantern in his hand:
“He’s lost the trail, Ike.”
“No, sir, he is only doubtful, that’s all. He is on the trail, just a little perplexed. He’ll get there; you give him time.”
“You talk as though you knew the dog.”
“No, but I’ve been watching him. I know their habits, and I tell you he’s just bothered a little, but you trust a hound like him to untangle. He’ll get there, you can bet.”
A little time and it appeared as though Ike had measured the dog just right, for the animal went round and round, his nose almost rubbing against the stone wall lining the cellar, and every time he came to a certain spot he would stop and scent more particularly and then go around again, and then Ike said:
“Mr. Murray, the dog has accomplished all that instinct can do. Human intelligence must go to his aid now.”
“I don’t understand you, Ike.”
“I’ll show you. Call off the dog.”
Murray called off the hound and Ike went to the spot where the animal had made his stop. He flashed his light on the wall and only the ordinary surface that can be seen in any stone wall was apparently presented, and Ike said:
“I am bothered as well as the dog.”
“I fear we’ll be compelled to torture that fellow upstairs into a confession.”
“He will never confess, you could kill him first. I know his breed.”
Ike took a stick of wood and knocked on the wall and listened carefully, and suddenly he bent his head down and listened more acutely. Finally he picked up a spade lying near by and commenced to pick at the mortar until at length he ejaculated:
“It’s all right, we’ve got it.”
He worked away and soon had a stone removed and a passage—a very small passage—was disclosed. There was not room for a man to pass through, but a child could.
“You stay here,” said Ike. “I’ll crawl.”
“Look out, lad; let me test the air. You do not know what you are doing.”
The detective drew a candle from his pocket, lit it and thrust it in the opening. Ike watched, and after a moment said:
“It’s all right,” and commenced to crawl in.
The detective drew his pistol and stood guard at the opening, and he was compelled to hold his hound by main force, for the animal sought to crawl in after Ike, and the latter fact established to a certainty that the prisoner was not far off.
Ike crawled along and finally came to an opening. He thrust his lamp forward, and a sight met his gaze that for an instant almost paralyzed him. There before him, stretched upon a clammy bottom in a mess of straw, lay the body of a man, and Ike decided that it was upon a dead body he was gazing and cold chills ran through his heart as he muttered:
“The scoundrels have murdered him and hidden his body here.”
Even as the lad spoke, however, the apparently dead man moved and Ike called out:
“Is that you, Alfred Burlein?”
A pale-faced man—so pale that he looked like a moving corpse—half rose and glanced toward the spot whence thevoice came. Ike flashed the light in his face and recognized young Burlein, and called out:
“It’s all right. I am here.”
“Who?” demanded the poor prisoner in a feeble voice.
“The little fraud who tried to knock you out of another tenner.”
Even as our hero uttered the words he mentally added: “I said I’d get those words back on him.”
Ike got into the place and soon released young Burlein, who had been bound and strapped to a stake driven far down in the soil.
Burlein attempted to ask questions, but Ike said:
“No time to explain now. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
The lad made an examination of the surroundings and finally reached the conclusion that it was an old cistern, an old ice house, or possibly an old vault. Evidently it had been closed from without and Herman had made the entrance through which Ike had come.
“How did he get you in here?” asked Ike. “He never carried you through that entrance.”
“No, he let me down from the top and then closed the entrance over.”
“Oh, I see. Well, that is the way we will get you out.”
Our hero left his lantern with Burlein and crawled back and reported. Then he with Murray’s aid located the side of the wall, fixed the distance with the two outer corners, and then went out again. They located the point above where the opening terminated in the cellar, and then paced the distance, and soon dug down to the trap cover. Finding a ladder they descended and a little later Burlein was raised to the open air. His strength quickly returned and he was able to walk with the detective and our hero over to the clubhouse. On the way he explained that the little food he had received had been brought to him by a child who had crawled through the same opening by which Ike had crept.
Explanations followed all round and Burlein could not find words to express his gratitude to our little hero, who was reluctant to listen to the words of praise and thanks that were showered upon him.
The following morning the detective took the town constable with him and went over to the farmhouse and carefully examined with Ike the ingenious methods the man Herman had adopted to hide the two entrances to the old vault, and even Murray admitted that if it had not been for Ike’s persistent confidence he would have been baffled.
The man Herman was placed under guard, the constable and the gamekeeper from the club standing guard, and on the very first train Murray, our hero and Burlein started for New York.
Burlein went direct to his rooms, all hands agreeing to meet at Mr. Smith’s office at eleven o’clock. At the time named all hands were there. Murray had gone earlier and had explained the startling discoveries to the merchant. At eleven o’clock, as stated, the parties all met in the banker’s office and were stowed away in a little inner room, and a little later Fellman arrived with his counsel, all shysters well known around New York.
After a little preliminary talk Mr. Smith said:
“Mr. Fellman, I am not wholly satisfied with your statement.”
The shysters spoke for Fellman and in an independent tone said:
“That is for your own discomfort, sir. We are not responsible for the acts of the scoundrel who not only swindled you but my innocent and confiding client, Mr. Fellman.”
“No, I am not satisfied,” said Mr. Smith, “and I wish a gentleman in whom I have much confidence to exchange a few words with you.”
A moment later Murray entered the office and addressing the lawyer who was acting for Fellman said:
“How far, sir, are you implicated in this fraud?”
“How dare you?” fumed the lawyer.
Murray showed his badge.
“Oh, I see!” ejaculated the lawyer with a sneer. “You wish to scare us, eh? You mean to bulldoze us—blackmail us.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, sir, I repudiate the insinuations of fraud in behalf of my client.”
“You do?”
“I do, sir.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
Murray gave a signal and Alfred Burlein entered the room. If a ghost had stalked in the effect could not have been more striking. Fellman and his lawyer both looked like ghosts.
Murray again addressed Fellman’s lawyer.
“You are his counsel?”
“Well, he called me in, but I did not understand.”
“Oh, I see, you are prepared to desert a sinking ship. That’s all right, you can clear decks first, though. And now here is a proposition: Fellman is to confess, make restitution and leave the country with his brother in forty-eight hours or take the consequences of several of the most daring crimes. What will he do?”
The lawyer looked at his client and the latter asked:
“Am I to be permitted to go?”
“Yes, simply because I believe it better to have scoundrels like you and yours out of the country—better than to have you in jail, for you might come forth and commit greater crimes.”
“We accept your offer,” said the lawyer, after a few moments’ conference with his trembling client.
The settlement was made, and within forty-eight hours Fellman, with his brother Herman and the latter’s family, sailed away from New York forever.
Ike was well rewarded and Mr. Smith offered to take him into his business and make a merchant of him, but our hero answered:
“No, sir; I thank you, but I am going to become a detective.”
Ike returned to Mrs. Pell. He had made money and he provided a nice little home, and his prospects were brilliant under an arrangement he made with Detective Murray, to whom he had demonstrated not only his remarkable skill as a ventriloquist but also his more than wonderful keenness in detective work.
Our story is complete. But in the near future we propose in a new story to relate the wonderful adventures of Nimble Ike as a detective, wherein, as Detective Murray’s aid, he performed detective feats in which he utilized his wonderful gift and his extraordinary intelligence.
THE END.