CHAPTER XI.ACTING A PART.
Carter secured a disguise from the costumer.
When he came out he looked like a typical tough.
Nick had some plan in his mind. He was sure that he was on the right trail, and that, such being the case, it would not be long before he would have forged every link in the chain of evidence.
While he was confident of success, still he did not know for a certainty who had committed the dastardly crime at the Red Dragon Inn, or what the real motive was.
He had suspicions, and he had collected strong circumstantial evidence.
But he wanted something more than this, and he was prepared to take any risk to obtain it. On his way downtown he stopped at a telephone station and called up Patsy, whose whereabouts he knew.
“Meet me downtown at my den within two hours,” he said.
At last he reached Lem Samson’s saloon, and entered.
A bartender was on duty.
Samson was not in the place.
Only a few hangers-on were lolling about.
Carter staggered up to the bar, and, calling for a drink, he cast his eyes about the room.
No one seemed to be paying any particular attention to him.
Nearly all of the men had records, and were known to the police.
The detective poured the liquor into a cuspidor when the bartender’s back was turned. It was vile stuff, and he would not have drunk it unless he had been forced to do so by dire expediency.
After placing the glass back on the bar he walked into the back room and sat down. He picked up a copy of a sporting weekly and pretended to be deeply interested in examining the text and pictures.
But while he seemed to be reading, his eyes were wandering about the room, and every person who entered the barroom he scrutinized closely.
He was waiting for some one.
Was that some one Brockey?
Half an hour passed.
Carter had not stirred out of his chair.
The side door opened.
A man entered.
The man was Brockey Gann.
The detective saw him.
Still he did not move.
No change took place in his countenance.
Not a muscle moved.
Brockey looked around the back room.
His eyes fell on Carter, whose eyes were bent on the paper.
Brockey started, bent forward, and a change took place in the expression of his evil face. He uttered an ugly oath and stepped up to Carter, exclaiming:
“Why, Mugsey Donovan, when did you get out?”
Carter looked up, smiled inanely—a weak, silly, maudlin grin!—and replied:
“How are you, Brockey? Wot’s dot youse said? Sit down an’ have a ball wid me?”
“I asked you when you got out?”
“Six weeks ago. Wot cher goin’ ter have? Name yer pisen?”
“I’ll take some of the rosy.”
“I’ve been on de tramp. I just dropped in here tinkin’ I’d run up agin’ youse.”
“Oh!”
The bartender brought the liquor, and the two men were silent.
It will be well to explain that Mugsey Donovan was an old pal of Brockey’s, whom Carter had arrested and sent to prison for highway robbery.
The rascal was still in Sing Sing.
It will be seen that the detective’s disguise must have been perfect to have deceived Brockey as it did.
The scoundrel actually believed that he was talking to his old pal.
“How is it you got out so soon?” Brockey asked, after he had swallowed his liquor.
“Dey reduced me sentence,” the detective rejoined.
“How was that?”
“I saved one o’ de keepers’ life.”
“Go way!”
“I ain’t jollyin’ you.”
“How did you do it?”
“An insane mug tried to escape from his cell. De keeper catched him an’ den he made an attempt to kill de keeper. I seed it an’ knocked ter mug out, see? Den de jailer petitioned de guvnor ter lea’ me out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dat’s what I wanted to see youse about.”
“I’m not into anything.”
“Youse are not?” asked Nick dubiously.
“What do you mean by looking at me in that way?”
“Brockey, dis isn’t a safe place ter talk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lea’ go some place where we kin talk wid safety.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Brockey, don’ youse try ter gi’ an’ old pal like me any sich a bluff as dat!”
“Mugsey——”
“Brockey, I’m on to yer game.”
“You are on to my game?”
“Sure.”
“Come——”
“Le’s go some place where we kin talk wid safety.” Brockey looked intently at the detective.
“I can’t see what’s in your nut,” he ejaculated.
“Do youse want to talk over private matters here?” Carter asked, and Brockey drawled:
“No-o.”
“Den le’s go down ter some quiet joint.”
“I’ll be hanged!”
“Brockey, I knows wot game youse is working?”
“I am working no game. I’m on my uppers.”
“Don’t try ter gi’ me eny game like dat, now, ’cause I’m on to de hull layout.”
“You——”
“Wait.”
“I——”
“Brockey Gann, I tort youse’s never’d go back on an old pal in dis way.”
“I’m not going back on you, Mugsey.”
“Youse is when youse refuse to let me in on de game, so dat I kin git some o’ de graft.”
“You talk in riddles.”
“I seed one t’ing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got to speak more plain.”
“You will.”
“Den here goes—don’t youse blame me if eny one hears it an’ youse git into a trap. Las’ winter youse was paid to——”
“Wait, Mugsey.”
Brockey bent forward.
A strange expression was in his eyes.
“I’m waitin’, Brockey,” Carter said, and he returned the rascal’s searching gaze.
“Where were you last night?” Brockey asked.
Carter laughed.
“Youse is comin’ to yer milk now, Brockey,” he remarked.
“Were you in this place last night?”
“Wot’s de use o’ talking here? It ain’t safe, Brockey. Le’ me gi’ you a tip. Nick Carter may turn up here eny moment, an’ youse an’ me might not be able to git on to him, see?”
Brockey uttered an oath. His face turned pale. He glanced over his shoulder and his eyes wandered about the room.
“Ain’t my advice sensible?” the detective asked.
“I guess it is,” Brockey replied.
“Den le’s git out o’ here.”
“All right. But I’ll be hanged if I can understand what——”
“I’ll explain everything, Brockey.”
“Where’ll we go?”
“Ter a quiet crib dat I knows about.”
“Is it far?”
“No.”
The two men arose from the table and hurried out of the saloon.
Carter was playing a dangerous game.
Would he be able to carry it through successfully to the end?
At any moment he was liable to make a slip and Brockey would then be able to penetrate his disguise.
So far he had deceived the rascal.
As they left the saloon the detective breathed easier. He had succeeded in getting Brockey away from his friends.
That was a great point gained.
They turned into Macdougal Street.
“Where are you goin’?” Brockey asked, after they had reached Fourth Street.
“Not far,” Carter replied. “I’ve got a room around here in Fo’rt’ Street.”
“When did you hire it?”
“Ter-day.”
“Oh!”
“Here it is.”
The detective led the way into a private house.
Brockey’s suspicions were not aroused.
If he had been aware that he was being led into a trap like a lamb to slaughter he would have then and there made a desperate fight.
Carter had rented a room in this house for years, and he had used it frequently. He opened the door of the room with a key.
The house was as quiet as a graveyard.
“This is a quiet joint,” Brockey said, as he followed the detective into the room and gazed around.
There was nothing about the place to indicate for what purpose it had been used by the detective. It was nothing more, to all outward appearances, than a plainly furnished bedroom.
“Take a seat, Brockey,” said Carter blandly, and at the same time he turned the key in the lock, took it out, and put it into his pocket.
“I wish you had some liquor about here,” Brockey remarked, as he sank down into a chair.
“I kin accommodate youse.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
Carter opened a bureau drawer, took out a bottle and glasses and placed them on the table.
Brockey poured out a glassful of the liquor and drank it.
A few minutes after it was down a look of surprise spread over his face.
“Gosh!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get that, Mugsey?”
“Ain’t it rich?” Carter asked, with a smile.
“It’s more than rich.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I swiped it off a drunk.”
“I thought you didn’t pay for it.”
“Le’ us talk bizness now.”
Brockey’s countenance changed. He leaned back in his chair, looked at the detective, and made no reply.
Carter was silent for a time, and then said:
“Brockey, as I said down in Samson’s joint, I be on ter your game.”
“And I’d like to know how you got on to it,” Brockey growled.
“I’ll tell youse after a while.”
“Go ahead.”
“Youse is mixed up in de Red Dragon Inn murder!”
“My Gawd!”
Brockey bounded out of his chair as if he had received a shock of electricity. His face was the color of ashes. He stood still and gasped at Carter.
“Youse needn’t t’row a fit,” the detective ejaculated. “Dere ain’t no fly cop around here to hear me an’ pinch youse.”
“I’m a fool,” Brockey exclaimed as he wiped the cold perspiration from his brow and sat down in his chair again.
“Rest easy, me covey.”
“But, Mugsey, you puzzle me.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
Carter laughed.
“Fire ahead,” Brockey said.
“Two rich blokes hired you to put Carter out o’ de way.
“Un o’ dem’s named Darwin an’ de oder Rich——”
“I——”
“Wait.”
“I——”
“Es I said—dey hired youse, an’ las’ night youse broke into old Wright’s room at de Cosmopolitan Hotel an’ youse got sold.”
“Mugsey——”
“Gi’ me a chance to git through.”
“I will.”
“Now, I knows all dese tings, an’ I know how much youse got—an’ want a slice o’ de dough, see?”
“And if I don’t agree to give up?”
“Den I’ll go to yer friend, Carter.”
“You wouldn’t do that?”
“Jess youse try ter t’row me down an’ youse’ll see wot I’ll do.”
“Mugsey——”
“Brockey, youse’ve got to come ter time.”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Youse kin gamble on dat.”
“If I give up you’ll have to help me.”
“All right.”
“I’ll introduce you to Rich and Darwin.”
“Tell me de full lay.”
“Tell me how you got onto what you know.”
“I piped youse.”
“When?”
“Las’ nite.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes.”
“Humph!”
“Doan git so disgusted.”
“I’m not.”
“Tell me de hull lay.”
“I will.”
Brockey became silent.
Carter’s eyes sparkled as he watched his companion.
His heart was beating rapidly, but outwardly he appeared composed.
Patiently he waited for Brockey to commence to speak.
“Would the rascal speak the truth?” he asked himself.
Brockey was liable to tell a false story.
“I know more dan youse t’ink, Brockey,” Carter remarked. “So if youse go ter givin’ me any fairy tales I’ll be down on youse wid all me force.”
“I’m going to tell you all about the lay,” Brockey replied, as he aroused himself out of his reverie.
“Den fire ahead.”
“Don’t get impatient.”
“I’m not.”
“Have you got anything to smoke?”
“Cert.”
“Then set it out.”
Carter placed some cigars on the table.
Brockey picked up one, lit it, and commenced to smoke.
With a sigh, he settled himself back in the chair.
Another silence followed, and it was nearly five minutes before he commenced to talk.