It was late before Nick parted from the inspector of the Brooklyn headquarters.
They had gone over the question of “Mystery 47” thoroughly.
Shortly before Nick left the inspector, a man was brought into the room.
It was Meloy.
He was put in a cell next to that occupied by the wife murderer, and an officer was placed in the cell next to him, so that he could hear if Meloy tried to say anything to the other prisoner.
After Meloy had been locked in the cell, Nick said to the inspector:
“I want to interview that wife murderer. He knows that things are in pretty bad shape for him, and I may be able to get him to tell us something that will shed some light on these murders.”
“What makes you think that you will be able to get anything out of him?” asked the inspector.
“In the first place, he is locked up on a charge that cannot be bailed, and in the second, he will try and get on the good side of the keepers, so that he will be able to get more liberty around the jail, and the last reason is that I shall tell him how some of his companions have turned against him, and that the leader of the gang, Jack Weeden, wanted to take his life.”
“What under the sun could have been the object ofthe man in wanting to have one of his own gang killed?”
“He may have learned too much of the workings of those high in the council of the gang, and they saw an excellent chance to get rid of him without putting their own lives in jeopardy. They are a desperate and cunning lot.”
Nick took leave of the inspector, and started down toward the ferry.
He had almost reached his destination when he noticed that two men were passing on the other side of the street.
The men were Wright and the doctor.
They turned and saw Nick, and the next minute they had disappeared into an alleyway, and were lost to sight.
As Nick had not eaten since early in the morning, he concluded that the best thing he could do would be to go over to New York and get a big porterhouse steak at the Cosmopolitan Hotel.
As Nick passed into the ferry house, he was followed by five rough-looking men. Three of them carried pails and the other two had pickaxes.
“I think I will go out and smoke a cigar. I have not had one to-day, and a smoke will do me good,” Nick said to himself.
Nick had been smoking for several minutes, when he heard the tread of stealthy footsteps behind him.
As he turned to look, to see who was coming, he was seized by several hands, that held him as in a vise.
Nick was lifted high in the air.
“Throw the confounded detective into the river!” hissed a voice.
“Over with him! Some one may come!” said another.
At this minute, two figures sprang out of the darkness and struck two of the men that were holding Nick in the air. The men struck fell to the deck like logs, and before the other two could defend themselves they had likewise been sent to the deck.
“I saved your bacon that time, Nick Carter, although you don’t deserve it,” said a familiar voice in his ear.
Nick turned, and looked into the face of a man whom he had had under arrest that afternoon.
It was Harry Block, the farmer, and with him was his Cousin Sallie.
“Where did you come from?” asked Nick.
“Oh! we just dropped in, and, seeing an old friend was in trouble, we thought that we would give him a helping hand,” laughed the farmer.
“I can assure you that I appreciate your help,” said Nick earnestly.
“Mr. Carter, ever since you threw my cousin, he has done nothing but talk about your style of rastlin’,” spoke up Sallie.
“How did you know my name?” asked Nick, when the woman had finished.
“Oh, we can’t tell you that just now, but perhaps we will some time.”
“You men are standing there talking like two old women at a sewing circle; why don’t you watch the men that tried to throw you off the boat?”
Both Nick and the farmer turned like a flash, to see what had become of the assailants.
They had disappeared.
“Let’s search the boat for them, and if we find them, you can be assured that we will help you take them to the station house, as we believe in law and order; don’t we, Sallie?” said the farmer.
“If you do, why did you give me the slip this afternoon?” asked Nick.
“You threatened to have us locked up, and so when I thought that the police had quieted the mob, I went back to the wagon, and Sallie and I drove off, so that you would not take us to the lockup.”
“I am very glad that you have concluded to tell Nick Carter the truth,” said the woman, in a tone that was familiar to Nick.
“I think that I know you now,” said Nick, as he made a grab for Sallie’s head.
He pulled a wig from what he supposed was the head of a woman, only to find that the person was Patsy, Nick Carter’s assistant, whom Nick thought was enjoying a vacation.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” said Nick. “Can’t you take a rest, as I told you to do, or must you work all the time? It looks as if you are a born hunter of criminals.”
The farmer was none other than Chick.
“Since you two are determined to work, I suppose that I will have to put you on the case, and I will give you some instructions after you have gone home and had some sleep,” said Nick, as he bade them good night.
After Nick had said good night to Chick and Patsy, he set out to trace the men that had assaulted him on the ferryboat.
About two blocks from the entrance to the ferry, Nick saw a lumber wagon, which was covered with a sheet of tarpaulin, moving slowly up the street.
It took him but a few seconds to reach it, and as he did, he grasped one of the horses by the bridle and ordered the driver to stop his team.
The driver made a cut at Nick with his whip, and yelled that he would brain him if he did not let go of the horse.
“I think that you will stop until I have seen what your wagon contains,” said the detective.
“Who are you, that you should hold up my wagon?” demanded the driver angrily.
“I am an officer,” replied Nick.
“If you are an officer, then it is all right,” replied the driver. “I thought that you were one of the robbers that has been making things hot for the people around Astoria, and I did not want to take any chances.”
“What have you got in your wagon?”
“Oh, I have just got a load of boards that I am going to take up to Harlem.”
“I think that I had better look in the wagon, and see that valuable load that you are so careful not to lose.”
“I’ll be blowed if you do!” replied the man, making another slash at Nick with his whip.
Nick’s revolver was out in an instant, and he told the fellow that if he did not climb down off the seat that he would fill him full of lead.
The driver got down and stood to one side, while Nick made the examination of the load.
It was as the driver had said, and Nick was about to let the man go, when his trained eye caught sight of a piece of blue jean that had caught on a nail, evidently as the owner of the garment had been getting out of the wagon.
“Hello! What is this?” he said to himself. “It looks to me as if the wagon had been used to conceal the men when they had left me on the ferryboat. I guess that it would be a good plan to take this fellow to headquarters, where I can ask him a few questions.”
“What is your name?” asked Nick of the man.
“My name is John McDowell,” he answered.
“Now that I get a better look at your face, I think that you are Pat Dean, alias Pete Deck,” responded Nick.
“No, it ain’t.”
“Well, we can very easily tell when we reach police headquarters.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to arrest me?” asked the driver.
“That is about the size of it,” replied Nick.
“Well, I won’t go. You have no warrant for my arrest, and I defy you to take me to any station house.”
“I am going to take you to headquarters—alive, ifpossible; but I am going to take you there,” said Nick quietly.
The fellow saw that he had to deal with a man that would not stand any nonsense, and he got up on the box and drove as he was told.
As the wagon turned into Center Street, the man suddenly threw his arm around and tried to knock Nick off of the wagon.
Nick had been expecting something of the sort, and before the fellow knew it he had the handcuffs on him.
“A very neat trick, my good man,” said Nick; “but, you see that I was prepared for something of that kind, and I kept my eye on you.”
A moment later, and they were at the desk of the acting inspector.
The latter looked up and said:
“Why, here is my old friend Pete Deck!”
“I tell you that my name is John McDowell, and my name ain’t Deck.”
“We don’t often make mistakes here, and if I remember correctly, your number under the old system was 423.”
The man had kept pretty cool up to this time, but as soon as the acting inspector called his number, he commenced to rave and swear, and tried to dash his handcuffs in Nick’s face.
One of the officers on duty grabbed him, and he quieted down.
“I guess that the jig is up, as you seem to have me marked, so go ahead with what you are going to do,” he snarled.
“The inspector is going to give you a chance to save yourself from Sing Sing if you will be square, but if you are not, you are going up the river for a long time,” said Nick.
The fellow’s belligerent spirit once more came to the surface, and he screamed:
“You have no right to send me there for simply driving a wagon!”
“You hid the men that attacked the officer, here,” said the inspector, pointing to Nick.
“What of it if I did? You can’t send me up for that!”
“No; but I can have you sent up on this old indictment, that perhaps you had forgotten,” said Nick, with a bland smile.
“You will have to tell me what the charge is before I will tell you anything.”
“The indictment charges you with burglary and attempted murder, and if you will remember you never stood trial for it,” the detective said.
“I had forgotten all about it, and would not have been around with that gang from Astoria if I hadn’t.”
“Then you are, or have been, associated with that gang, have you?” asked Nick.
“I have done some work for them, but I have kept out of such things as would lead me to the penitentiary.”
“From whom did you get your orders? Was it from Jack Weeden?”
“No, I never saw Weeden. I got my orders through a man that perhaps you never saw. His name is Hall.”
“It seems to me that I have heard that name before,” commented Nick. “He is the leader of a gang that has been making the trouble over in Astoria, I believe?”
“Well, he has been given credit for having done some things over there that perhaps are not exactly on the level, but he is not the man that you are after, I am sure.”
“Who is the man that you think that we are after?” asked the inspector.
“Oh, I think that you are after the fellow that may be one man, and then again he may be another man. You know that you can’t always tell who a man is by looking at him once; he may be a business man, or a common scoundrel. I have known of people that looked like one man, and the next instant they were identified as somebody else.”
“What are you driving at?” asked Nick.
“Oh, you need not try to fool me. I know what you want me to say.”
“Well, what do we want you to say?”
“You want to know if the blind beggar that hangs around the woods near the shop that is run by Jack Weeden is really a beggar or somebody else.”
“Supposing that we do, who is the man?”
“He might be just a blind beggar, and then he might be——”
Just as Pete Deck was going to finish his sentence, the door was opened, and two policemen dragging between them a struggling prisoner entered the room.
“Billy Young! The very man that we want; this is good fortune, indeed!” cried the inspector.
“Great heavens! Young, how did you come to be brought here?” exclaimed Pete Deck. “I thought that you were over in Astoria.”
“Shut up, you fool!” growled Young.
“That was a good give-away,” laughed Nick.
“If you say another word, I will brain you when I get out of here!” screamed Young, as he turned on Deck.
“All right, Billy; I will not make any more slips. I will keep my trap shut.”
“Now, inspector, that you have got me here, I would like you to tell me what you have me here for? I have not done anything, and it is a shame to deprive a man of his liberty when he is being on the level,” said Young.
“The reason that you were brought here is that you are charged with the murder of Tom Sweet, a detective in the employ of Nick Carter.”
“I didn’t happen to kill him; on the square, inspector, I did not do the work.”
“Then you admit that he was killed, do you?” asked the inspector.
“I don’t admit anything,” stammered Young. He saw that he had made a fatal slip, and he concluded that he would not talk any more.
“It is no use for you to try and question me any further. You might just as well take me to one of your rooms and put me there until you want me, as I don’t intend to give up anything.”
As the officers who had been holding Young by the arm opened the door to lead him away, he gave a wrench and threw them to one side.
Like a flash, he was down the steps and away.
Officers and detectives that had been standing near the door started to chase him. When he turned the corner, the officers were but a few yards behind him. As they turned the corner, they were surprised to see that the street was empty. Not a trace of the man could be found.
They returned to the building, and an alarm was sent out.
In vain did they try to get Deck to talk. Once that he had seen his pal Young he had somewhat recovered his courage, and he positively refused to answer any questions that were put to him.
After they had tried to get him to tell about the gang for an hour, Nick gave it up in disgust.
“Inspector, I feel hungry, and think that I will get a bite to eat before I turn in for the night,” said Nick, as he left headquarters.
“There is no doubt in my mind that Deck knows all about that gang, but when he saw Young, he was either frightened stiff or his feeling was that of the average tough who wants to appear game in the eyes of his fellows,” muttered Nick, as he walked up the street to a restaurant near his home.
The restaurant was one that served a good dinner at a moderate figure, and there one met the different celebrities of the day—lawyers, brokers, newspaper men, actors, and the light-fingered gentry all rubbed elbows in this strictly bohemian resort.
As Nick passed through the barroom his attention was attracted to a table at which were seated four men.
The features of one of the men were familiar to Nick, but the hair did not appear to be in keeping with the rest of the man’s make-up.
“I will watch those men when I go out and see whothey are. I don’t like their looks,” said Nick to himself as he took his seat.
Nick had hardly begun his supper, when a young man strolled in and took a seat at Nick’s table.
He was a young newspaper man on one of the great dailies, and was a warm friend of Nick’s. The young fellow had been all over the world, and whenever Nick and he got together they sat down and exchanged reminiscences.
They lingered over their coffee and cigars, and when the young newspaper man said good night to Nick it was long past midnight.
Nick took his departure shortly after.
The four men, who had been drinking wine all the time that Nick and his friend had been talking, got up and left the place as soon as the detective went out the door.
Glancing up and down the street, they saw Nick going toward his home. They followed, skulking in and out of doorways.
The young journalist, who had forgotten his cane, was returning to the restaurant, when he saw the suspicious actions of the men. He dodged back into a doorway until he saw that they were really following Nick.
As Nick reached the corner, he saw two patrolmen that he knew. He spoke to them for a minute, and then turned the corner to go to the house where he lived.
The reporter, who was acquainted with the officers, ran over and hastily explained the situation to them.
They at once went around the square, where theycould head off the men when they got near Nick’s house.
Nick Carter, walking along the street busily engaged in thinking over the events of the day, did not for an instant suspect that he was being followed.
Nick stopped to relight his cigar, when the four rascals jumped upon him.
Nick barely had time to turn and avoid a blow that had been aimed at him by the man that he had noticed in the café.
The man, with an oath, started to strike again, when the sharp crack of a pistol rang out in the night air.
The man fell to the sidewalk, with a scream of agony.
The policemen rushed up and attacked the remaining three men with their nightsticks.
Two of the men took to their heels, and made their escape; the other man was captured, and made a prisoner by the officers, while the reporter turned in a call for the ambulance, that the injured man might be removed to the hospital.
Nick bent over the wounded man. He noticed that the hair which he wore was false. Pulling it off, he saw that the man that had tried to kill him was the very man that he had been looking for.
It was Billy Young.
The other fellow that had been captured was also wanted. He was Hall, the leader of the gang of outlaws that had attacked Nick in front of the repair shop kept by Jack Weeden.
When the ambulance arrived, the surgeon in chargesaw the man who had been shot was mortally wounded, and could not live over five minutes.
Nick knelt down by the side of the man, who had now recovered consciousness.
Young looked up and smiled.
“I guess that you hold the winning hand, Nick Carter,” he said. “I tried my best to do you, and would have succeeded if that fool reporter had not been so good with his gun play. You have won a good fight, and I give you credit.”
“Young, you are dying! Why don’t you tell me what you know about Jack Weeden and that gang? It may help to atone for the crimes that you have committed in this world,” said Nick quietly.
“I never yet have squealed, and I don’t intend to begin now,” was the answer of the dying man. “I would tell you if I ever told anybody, as you are the gamest and squarest man in the business, but I can’t die a squealer. I—I——”
With a gasp, his head rolled to one side, and the man who had helped to kill Tom Sweet was dead.
The policemen took their prisoner to the station house, where he was held on the charge of attempted murder.
The body of Billy Young was removed to the morgue.
When the detective and the reporter were left alone, Nick said to the latter:
“I almost regret that you fired that shot, old man.”
“Why?” asked the other.
“Because, Billy Young alive might have proved of great service to me in clearing up this case. Of course, I know you did it for the best.”
“Maybe I can help you on this case, Nick.”
“You might, but I cannot accept your help just at the present time.”
“Oh, I see,” said the reporter; “you do not want any of the papers to get to work on the case until you are ready for the grand finale.”
“Correct you are,” laughingly replied Nick.
“I hope that you will give me the first show at it, so that I can get a scoop.”
“You may rest assured, my friend, that you will be the first one who will get the news when I have solved the triple identity, or Mystery 47. You will, of course, make a story out of what happened to-night?”
“Well, you just read to-morrow morning’s paper, and you will see a cracking good account of what has transpired to-night. Good night.”
“Good night,” responded Nick.
As Nick went up the stairs of his house, he felt that he had earned a good night’s rest. He went tobed, and slept for about three hours in a restless sort of way.
Suddenly he awoke, with a feeling of uneasiness and apprehension. He glanced at the clock on his dresser. It was nearly four o’clock, and in a short time would be daylight. He turned over, and tried to sleep again, but his restlessness only increased.
“This certainly is strange,” muttered Nick. “I never felt this way before; it must be indigestion. I will get up and take a little drink of brandy; that may help me.”
On a table near the bed was a small pocket flask filled with brandy. He swallowed a small drink, and got back into bed. It was impossible for him to sleep, however, as the feeling of uneasiness which had attacked him before returned, even more strongly than ever.
Nick jumped out of bed, and, going to the window, looked out into the back yard. Suddenly his gaze penetrated the shadow of an old cherry tree. He detected a movement in the shadow. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw the figures of three men. They were gazing intently at his window.
At first he thought they were burglars. A closer examination disclosed the fact that two of the men were his late assailants, who, when Billy Young had been shot, had made their escape.
The third man bore a strong resemblance to Wright, the Brooklyn crockery dealer, as also did he to Jack Weeden, the Astoria automobile repairer. Besides the revolvers that the men carried, each was armed with a long, murderous-looking knife.
“It is very evident,” murmured Nick, “that I am too hot on the trail of the Astoria horror, and that gang intends to murder me, if they possibly can. I will give them a warm reception if they try to get into my room.”
Nick stole silently to the bed. He lifted one of the pillows. There lay two automatic revolvers, each one fully loaded. Then he crept back to the window, and in the shadow of the curtain watched the men.
It was evidently their intention to enter his room and murder him while he slept.
Nick could hear what the men said.
The following is a part of what he heard:
“And so Billy’s done for,” said the man who resembled Weeden.
“Yes,” was the reply of one of his companions. “He was shot by a cursed newspaper man.”
“Well, I will see to it that he don’t write any more interesting stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will kill him!” hissed the man.
“He killed Billy Young, and I will kill him. ‘Blood for blood’ is my motto.”
“Well, what about that fellow up there?” said the second thug, pointing to Nick’s window.
“We will settle him right away. He has been the cause of Billy Young’s death, Hall and Meloy’s arrest, and a few other things that I shall tell you of later.”
“Well, then, we had better do it now, because it will be daylight pretty soon.”
“The lightest man can climb up the trellis and finishhim in the room, while the others wait down here, ready to give him a hand if necessary.”
“I would like to go up and fix him,” said the more slender of Weeden’s companions. “I owe him one, and want to pay it as soon as I can.”
“What has he done to you?” asked the other man.
“Nothing”—sullenly—“but he was the means of sending my brother up for twenty years. The poor boy went to that prison, and the treatment that he received was so harsh that he died in less than three years. It broke my mother’s heart, and it wasn’t long before she followed. You can understand now why I want to be the one to end the life of that cursed detective, Nick Carter.”
The man started toward the trellis.
“I am off,” he said, clambering up the trelliswork and taking hold of the vines.
“And you will get as warm a reception as you ever had in your life!” muttered Nick.
He intended to let the would-be assassin enter his room, and then thrash him within an inch of his life. Nick went to his closet and picked up a heavy oaken walking stick.
The man was coming up the trelliswork slowly.
Suddenly there was a crashing sound, a yell and a volley of oaths. The trelliswork and vines had given way underneath the man’s weight, and he went crashing down into the yard.
An old gentleman who lived next door had seen the men in the yard, and when the man fell he thrust an old musket out of his window and fired point-blank at the man.
The gun had evidently not been fired since the Civil War. It knocked the old gentleman senseless by the force of its recoil and alarmed the whole neighborhood.
The men at once scaled the fence and got away. The old gentleman suffered from a lame shoulder for weeks.
At nine o’clock next morning Nick Carter was at Center Street police headquarters. After the men had been routed the night before, Nick had returned to his bed, and had had several hours of good sleep.
He took a cold plunge and a brisk rubdown with a Turkish towel. When he appeared at the office of the inspector, that official was more than astonished to see him.
He had hardly supposed that Nick would be up and ready for work so early after the hard work he had done the day before.
“Have you read the papers this morning?” the inspector asked, a moment later.
“No, I have not,” responded the detective. “What is in them?”
“It is an account which makes you a great hero.”
“Oh, I guess it’s a young fellow’s story of a little scrimmage I had near my house last night. I hope he said nothing about the case I have been working on.”
“No, he has not printed a word about it.”
“Well, then, when I clear the Astoria mystery I shall take good care that he has the story first.”
“By the way,” asked the inspector, “do you know that a man named Hall was brought here this morning?”
“No, I did not, but I am very glad to hear it. He was one of the men who tried to kill me last night.
“I must see both Hall and Meloy,” continued Nick.
“Do you think that Meloy will talk?”
“The chances are that he will, now that Billy Young is dead. He feared him more than he did a dozen policemen.”
“I think, then, that I will go down to the cells and see these men.”
“Very well; I’ll go down with you,” said the inspector.
A couple of minutes later, and they were in Meloy’s cell.
The prisoner had had a good breakfast, and was inclined to be funny. They cut him short and came down to business.
“Meloy,” said Nick, “you appear to be in a much better frame of mind than you were last night?”
“I am,” the man replied. “I’ve had a good night’s sleep and an excellent breakfast, and what more does a man want?”
“Liberty,” laconically replied Nick.
“Yes, liberty’s a good thing, but if a fellow hasn’t got money and grub, liberty don’t amount to much.”
“You can have both liberty and money if you answer certain questions truthfully.”
“What questions are they—the same as you asked me last night?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose I refuse to answer them?”
“Then you will be deprived of your liberty and brought up on the old indictment.”
“And get twenty years, hey?”
“More likely you’ll get thirty or thirty-five,” Nick answered coldly.
“What is the additional time for?” he asked, in a surprised tone.
“We have some other counts to try you on.”
“Well, I think you are a pretty square cop, and if you give me your word I feel sure that you will keep it. Now, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to tell the truth.”
“Well, where am I to begin?”
“Where you left off last night. Let me tell you first that Billy Young is dead,” added the detective.
“Well, what of it? That is no news to me. I have heard it before.”
“Is that so? From whom did you hear it?”
“One of the doormen told me, as he thought that it was a brilliant piece of news. I didn’t take much stock in it until I heard him tell another man, and then I felt sure that it was not a ‘plant’ on your part to get me to talk.”
“I will show that I am in earnest when I tell you that he is dead. I will do what will convince you, I think; I will send for Hall, the leader of your gang, and have him tell you about how he was killed.”
An officer was sent to fetch Hall from his cell.
He was handcuffed, and looked rather forlorn as he stood in front of Meloy’s cell.
“How did you get in here?” asked the latter.
“I suppose that it was in the same way that you got in.”
“Is it true that Young is dead?”
“Yes; he was shot by a newspaper man, who wasa friend of Nick Carter’s, and he clubbed me with his stick until I am black and blue all over.”
“Well, I am glad that he was killed, as there was not a man in the gang that did not fear him. Hall, do you know that you and I are in a bad hole? I am good for thirty years, at least, and I think that they will send you up for a good, long term. I am going to talk to the inspector and Mr. Carter, and tell them what I know.”
“Then you are going to squeal?”
“Yes; because they will let up on me, and, besides, Weeden does not care for any of us. All he wants to do is to pose as a man of respectability one minute and the next he wants to go around looking like somebody else. I tell you that I am tired of the whole business. I have not had anything to do with the Astoria horror, but I am going to tell them all I know about the crimes.”
“I will talk to you about the terms before you begin, so that there will be no misunderstanding about the matter,” said the inspector.
“Well, inspector,” said Hall, “what we want is to walk out of this place free men.”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” said the inspector, amazed at the cheek of the fellow. “But I shall keep my word. Now, tell us about the murders.”
“The members of the gang were entirely ignorant of the way that they were committed, that is, with one exception; that was Billy Young. He knew everything that was either going on or that was to ‘come off.’”
“What you say may be true,” said the inspector, “butYoung is dead, and so all power of corroborating what you say is gone.”
“Yes, and if it were not for the fact that he is dead you would not be listening to what you are being told now. There isn’t a man in the gang—and there are some very brave fellows among them—that would have the nerve to tell you anything about the workings of the gang if Billy Young was alive.”
“You are not afraid of Jack Weeden, then?”
“No; I would meet him anywhere or any place.”
“Will what you are going to tell me implicate Jack Weeden?”
“It will. He is really the mysterious assassin.”
“Who is the old blind beggar that hangs around the road near where the murders were committed?”
“That is Jack Weeden, the man that keeps the automobile repair shop; the two people are one and the same.”
“I was right,” said Nick. “Now, let me ask you another question. Who is this man Wright, the man that keeps a crockery store?”
The two criminals looked at Nick for a moment, and then laughed.
“I guess that you know who he is, Mr. Carter. You tried to arrest him that day the riots were going on in the street. He laughed about his narrow escape that day.”
“Well, what was his reason that day to try and have one of his own gang lynched?”
“He was sore on the fellow, as he thought that he was trying to spy on his business, and he saw a good chance to finish the fellow without its being traced tohim, so he concluded that he would get him out of the way in that manner. He first sent a note to the woman, asking her to meet him, and addressed the letter to her in endearing terms, and then, before she had time to receive it, he sent word to the husband that his wife was receiving letters from different men. The husband, of course, found the letter, and accused his wife of being untrue to him, and he, in his jealous rage, shot her, which was exactly what Weeden wanted him to do. I tell you, of all the devilish men on earth, he is the very worst.”
“How did you come to discover that the man Weeden was Benny the Bum?”
“I followed the tramp one night, and saw him steal into the shop. He went into the rear part of the shop and took off the false beard that he wore, also the wig of matted hair that hung over his shoulders. He kept saying to himself: ‘I am the king of murderers! I am the king! I love to see their ghastly faces as they look up at me.’
“Then he went over into the corner and set down the long staff or walking stick that he carried, and unscrewed the ferrule, and out dropped a small tube of compressed air.
“He went to a closet and took out another one and inserted it into the end of his staff.”
Later in the day, Nick and several of the men from headquarters went out to the place where Jack Weeden and his gang held forth. They surrounded the shop, and Nick opened the door to enter, when swish! something whizzed past his side and embedded itself in the woodwork of the door.
Whipping out his revolver, he dashed into the center of the room. There stood Jack Weeden, alias Wright, the crockery man, and on the floor lay the clothes of Benny the Bum.
Here was the secret of the triple identity. The case that had so long been known to the police as “Mystery 47” was at last solved.
With his eyes starting from their sockets, the man now looking more like a wild beast than a human being, turned to Nick and said:
“I have tried my best to beat you. I find that I have lost, but you will never take me alive, as I have poisoned myself with the ring that I have on my finger. I will tell you in the minute that I have to live all about the different murders that I have committed. I do this because I like a brave man, and you have beaten our whole gang, and I respect you for it.”
“Thank you,” said Nick quietly. “Go on.”
“I have always hated the human race, and when I was a young boy I killed a man in defense of a dog that I owned; the blood from the man’s wound got on my hands, and I experienced a feeling of joy that would only return when I saw a corpse at my feet. I had lots of money, so I surrounded myself with as trusty a lot of villains as you might find in a month’s journey, and proceeded to kill people for the satisfaction that it gave me. Sometimes I would let the men rob the bodies after I had struck them down with the air gun which is concealed in the staff, so that it would look as if the motive for the murder was robbery.”
“How did you send the men to death with the air gun? Was it with the small steel projectiles that were found in the bodies of the men that you killed?”
“Yes,” said Weeden, who was now almost ready to gasp his last. “Yes, it was the small needles that I shot into them, the same kind that I shot at you a minute ago. They were all tipped with a poison that I got while I was in India a few years ago. I—I——”
A gasp—a stiffening of the body, and the man who had the triple identity was dead.
The mystery of the Astoria horrors was no longer a secret.
Nick Carter had solved the hardest case that had ever come to the attention of the police, “Mystery 47.”
THE END.
“A Titled Counterfeiter” will be the title of the next volume, No. 931, ofThe New Magnet Library. As the name indicates, the story has to do with the most troublesome type of criminal with which the government has to deal. How Nicholas Carter rounds up this daring gang of crooks makes a narrative that you will find most entertaining.
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