CHAPTER XIX.THE KNOCK-OUT DROPS.
The man of many trails read the inscription on the wall more than once before he turned away.
It meant him.
There was not the least doubt of this, and for some time the detective stood rooted to the spot, as it were, and looked at what appeared to be a record of doom.
At last he went over to the dead man in the chair, and, lifting the body, he knew what had terminated Jack Redmond’s career.
The hands of some fiend had strangled him, and Nick seemed to inspect the marks on the throat for the time that had elapsed since the tragedy.
Slowly and with deliberation the detective quitted the scene of crime and went down the steps.
At the bottom he nearly ran against a woman with a black shawl pulled over her head in such a manner as to conceal her features. She tried to escape the detective, but the detective’s hand shot out and drew her toward him.
With the other hand he removed the shawl and looked into a wan face seamed with want and dissipation.
“You know Jack?” he said.
“Heavens! Jack! Yes.”
“Will you go up and see him?”
She fell back, but the hand stayed her.
“He did it, then?” she cried.
“You saw some one, then?”
“Yes; but for Heaven’s sake don’t mix me up in anything like murder.”
Carter watched the nervous twitching of the woman’s lips and waited for her to calm herself.
“When was he here?” he asked.
“Last night.”
“What was he like?”
“He was rather tall, and had a step as stealthy as a tiger’s.”
“You saw him come?”
“Yes.”
“And go?”
“I did.”
“How long was the man upstairs?”
“Not over twenty minutes.”
“Did you suspect a crime?”
“I did; but I hadn’t the nerve to go up after he went away. I only guessed his mission.”
Nick at last released the creature, who had in the meantime called herself Gutter Nan for identification, and went away.
“It’s the second crime,” was all the remark he made to himself.
The detective sent word to police headquarters, and as the crime, like the murder of Mother Flintstone, came too late for the morning papers, the afternoon journals got it.
No one knew among the reporters that Jack Redmond had been Carter’s spy.
None was told who was meant by “the master” in the sentence on the wall; they only guessed at that, and some queer guesses they made, too.
Carter found Margie Marne that same day, and the girl’s first question was about his trail.
“I’ve got a strange letter here,” said the girl, handing the detective a note she had just received.
The detective drew it from the envelope and read as follows:
“Miss Marne: If you want to hear of something to your advantage please come to the Trocadero to-day at two and enter the first stall on the right. Come alone, for this is business of importance, and greatly concerns you.“Business.”
“Miss Marne: If you want to hear of something to your advantage please come to the Trocadero to-day at two and enter the first stall on the right. Come alone, for this is business of importance, and greatly concerns you.
“Business.”
After reading the message the detective looked up and found the eyes of the girl riveted upon his face.
“Well?” he asked.
“Shall I go?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do anything you tell me to,” was the reply, and a faint smile flitted across the girl’s face.
“Have you fears, Margie?”
“Yes. I fear all the time ever since the death of Mother Flintstone.”
“Who, think you, is ‘Business’?”
“An enemy.”
“Then, why go to the Trocadero?”
“Because you say so.”
Carter promised the girl that he would not be far off at the hour mentioned in the letter, and Margie agreed to be on hand. He did not see fit to tell her about Jack Redmond’s death, as it might unnerve her, and, bidding her good-by, he left the house.
It was near two that afternoon when a man, who would not have been taken for Nick, entered the Trocaderoon the Bowery, and seating himself at a table called for a drink.
The place was not very well filled at the time, and while he sipped his wine the detective looked around the place.
Presently he saw a man enter and go straight to the stall designated by the letter to Margie, and the door was closed behind him.
Now Carter began to wait for the girl, and ten minutes later she came in.
Glancing up and down the place as if looking for him Carter saw her enter the same stall and heard a slight ejaculation when she found it occupied.
Just then the detective moved his seat to a table nearer the stall and indulged again.
After drinking a third glass a strange feeling of drowsiness seemed to take possession of him, and he tried to shake it off.
In vain, however, did he battle against the feeling, it only grew stronger, till at last he became aware that he was sinking into unconsciousness.
His last recollection was of trying to rise and then sinking down upon the chair, while everything became black about him.
When the detective came to, a singular feeling racked his head and he felt dizzy.
With some effort he managed to stagger to his feet and then he went to the suspected stall.
The door now stood slightly ajar, and he pushed it open, but the place was empty.
Where was Margie, and what had taken place in that secluded spot where perhaps more than one crime had been committed?
After looking at the table and taking in the whole stall the detective shut the door and started toward the walk.
He knew the fame of the Trocadero.
More than once a trail had led him across its precincts, and on several occasions he had picked up important clews under its roof.
But now he himself was the victim of trickery, the dupe of crime, for he doubted not that the drinks had been drugged by some infamous hand and for a purpose.
Behind the bar stood the man who had carried the drinks to him, a little man with one of the worst faces, and the detective thought he looked at him with wonderment as if surprised that he—Carter—had escaped death.
Fixing his eyes upon this man he leaned over the bar and said:
“What became of the girl?”
The little wretch only grinned and turned away to wait on a new customer.
But he was not to get rid of the champion detective so easily, for the hand of Carter darted over the counter and fastened on him like the talons of a vulture.
In Nick’s grip the man was a babe, and as the hand seemed to sink to his bones he emitted a whimper that sounded like a whine and looked blankly into the detective’s face.
“I—I never saw the girl,” he cried.
“No lies, sir. I want the truth. Who told you to drug me?”
“No one. I—I drug nobody. I’m honest.”
“So is Satan,” hissed the detective, and just then the little wretch appealed to the owner of the establishment for protection.
“No interference, Number Six,” said the detective, with a look at the broad-shouldered owner of the Trocadero, and the man thus designated winced.
“Tell the gentleman the truth, Caddy,” he said to the little man; but that person was still stubborn.
“Caddy” hoped to be released without being forced to tell the truth, but the detective had no idea of doing this.
He actually pulled Caddy over the counter, to the amusement of the few people in the place at the time, and, putting his ear close to the barkeeper’s, he said:
“The truth or Sing Sing. Take your choice!”
This seemed to have a wonderful effect at once.
The detective escorted Caddy down the sawdusted aisle and pushed him into the first stall.
“Where did they go?” he asked.
Caddy was very meek now, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
“They went out the back entrance,” he said.
“Both of them?”
“Yes.”
“How was the girl?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she seem to go willingly with the man?”
“I don’t think she did.”
“Was there a cab in the alley out there?”
“Yes.”
For a moment Carter looked daggers at the little scoundrel, his indignation fast rising, but he kept his temper as he said:
“You were that man’s agent. You fixed my drinks at his suggestion or command.”
“He paid me for it.”
“But how did he designate me?”
“He told me to fix the gentleman at a certain table—that’s all I know.”
“Look here! You’ve played a cool hand for a great villain, and if anything happens to the girl I’ll hold you, in part, responsible. Who was the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know,” cried Carter, and again his hand fell upon Caddy’s shoulder. “You didn’t do all this for a total stranger. They don’t do such things in the Trocadero. You know that man! Now who was he?”
The little man could not avoid the sharp eyes of the best detective in New York, and he felt the hand on his shoulder grow more viselike as the question was put.
“Tell me. That or Sing Sing!” said Carter.
“He’s a rich bloke’s son,” answered Caddy.
“That’s not enough. Who is he? You know!”
“They call him Claude Lamont.”