CHAPTER XXI.THE CARD CLEW.
Jack Redmond’s death promised to give the police of New York another job, but no one suspected that he was Carter’s spy.
The woman who had seen the strange man go up to Redmond’s room had given her information to the detective alone, and Nick kept it to himself.
He did not doubt that the crook had been put out of the way because he was on the right trail in the matter of spying, and as he—Carter—had set Jack to keep track of Claude Lamont, he resolved to turn his own attention to that young man.
Then, the disappearance of Margie from the Trocadero, whither she had gone to meet a person discovered to be the millionaire’s son, was an additional incentive for the detective, and he went from Lamont’s mansion to a certain part of the city where he expected to find the heir.
Through it all he did not lose sight of the fact that he was Mother Flintstone’s avenger.
That he kept in mind all the time, and with all his foresight he went back to the original trail.
It was some time after the exciting interview we have just recorded as taking place in the palatial home of the retired money king that the figure of Carter might have been seen to enter one of the fashionable clubrooms of the city.
No one would have known him without an introduction, and no one did.
Attired like a person well-to-do, with sleek garments and a glossy beard over his smooth face, the detective sat down in the smoking room.
The room was most brilliantly lit up and expensively furnished, but the detective who had trailed men in every walk of life was not astonished.
He drew a cigar from his pocket and puffed leisurely away, all the time taking a good survey of the place.
A number of rich young men lounged about the room, filling the plush chairs, while on the floor above could be heard the noise of the billiard balls.
Presently a young man entered the smoking room and took a seat nearly opposite the detective.
It was Claude Lamont.
Perry Lamont’s son showed signs of high living, for his face was florid and his nerves a little unstrung. He was faultlessly attired, for he had the best tailor money could procure, and the detective watched him furtively while he appeared to enjoy his Havana.
Claude Lamont seemed to have a good deal of time on his hands, and so did Carter.
All at once a messenger boy entered the smoking room and looked around.
Spying Claude, he hastened to him and handed him a letter.
“Ha!” thought the watchful detective. “He is not forgotten to-night, and now we’ll see if it is an important message.”
Claude tipped the boy and opened the letter. He started a little as his eye fell upon the page and quickly glanced up as if to see if he were watched.
Then he settled down to a quiet perusal of the message,during which time Carter got a good look at the workings of his countenance.
“Hang it all. It comes just when I don’t want to be bothered with the matter,” growled Claude, as he rammed the message hurriedly into his pocket and then went toward the cloakroom.
Carter watched him through the open door and saw the letter drop from his pocket as he put on his overcoat.
Lamont walked out without noticing his loss, and the moment he vanished, the letter was in the detective’s hands.
In another second Nick vanished, too, and as he came out upon the steps in front of the club he spied Lamont flitting around the nearest corner.
“Let him go. The quarry will not be missed just yet,” smiled the detective, and then he went into a near café and in one of the private stalls opened the letter.
“Didn’t want this matter to come up just now,” he laughed, as he glanced down the page. “Well, I should think not.”
It did not take the man of many trails long to master the lost missive, and when he finished he read what follows:
“Mr. Claude Lamont: I send you this for the last time. I will not be put off another day, and you must take the consequences, if you have the hardihood to do it. You know what I know, and if you do not come down I will unseal my lips. You fly high, like a bird with golden plumage, but I’ll clip your feathers and bring you to prison if you don’t pay attention to this letter. When my lips are unsealed there’ll be the biggestsensation New York has ever had, and you know it. Don’t put me off another day. You know what this means. I’m master of the field, and I can wreck your every hope and blight your fashionable life.“Imogene.”
“Mr. Claude Lamont: I send you this for the last time. I will not be put off another day, and you must take the consequences, if you have the hardihood to do it. You know what I know, and if you do not come down I will unseal my lips. You fly high, like a bird with golden plumage, but I’ll clip your feathers and bring you to prison if you don’t pay attention to this letter. When my lips are unsealed there’ll be the biggestsensation New York has ever had, and you know it. Don’t put me off another day. You know what this means. I’m master of the field, and I can wreck your every hope and blight your fashionable life.
“Imogene.”
Twice did the detective read this over, and every word seemed to engrave itself upon his mind.
Quietly he folded the letter and smiled.
Who was “Imogene”?
Looking for her would be like hunting for a needle in the gutters of Gotham.
That she was a desperate woman the letter told him, and he did not wonder that it paled Claude Lamont’s cheeks.
Perhaps if he had followed the young man he might have been guided by him to Imogene’s home, but he had to be content for the present with the letter.
Nick, with the letter reposing in an inner pocket, came out of the café and for a moment stood under the lights that revealed the sidewalk.
“I’ll find the boy now,” he said. “Billy may have discovered something since I last saw him.”
Ten minutes later he entered a little room on Mulberry Street and aroused a boy who was sleeping on a rude couch.
It was not far from Mother Flintstone’s late hovel, and Billy looked astonished to see the detective in the den.
“Been dreamin’ erbout you, Mr. Carter,” cried the boy, as he rubbed his eyes.
“Well, I’ll listen to the dream, Billy.”
“No, it wasn’t any good, but all the time I saw yourface in it. You know the man who dragged me from Mother Flintstone’s?”
“Yes.”
“I ran afoul of him to-night.”
“Where, Billy?”
“Back in the old place, but this time he didn’t get to handle me.”
“No?”
“See here. He lost this in the house. It fell from his pocket when he pulled his handkerchief out,” and Billy handed the detective a card.
“Did you follow him after he left the old house?” he asked the boy.
“No. I just let him go, for I wanted to see what was on this card, for you, Mr. Carter.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
The name on the card stood out in bold relief to Nick’s gaze, and he saw there one he might have seen before.
“You don’t know this George Richmond, do you, Billy?” he asked, looking down at the boy on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t.”
“George Richmond is a well-known man in certain quarters, but of late he hasn’t shown up often.”
“Is he crooked, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes, in a manner. How did he look to-night, Billy?”
“He wore a brown beard and was well dressed.”
“Did he limp a little?”
“Bless me if he didn’t, but I wouldn’t have thought of that if you hadn’t mentioned it.”
The detective seemed satisfied.
“What did he seem to want in Mother Flintstone’s old quarters?”
“I hardly know. He sounded several of the walls, as if looking for a secret door, but he didn’t appear to find one.”
“Anything else?”
“He went over the floor like a fox, with his nose close to the boards.”
“Was that all?”
“No, he even sounded the ceiling.”
“Quite particular,” smiled the detective.
“Wasn’t he, though? I never saw anything just like that. He didn’t let an inch of space escape him.”
“Did he seem excited?”
“Not a bit of it. He was as cool as a cucumber, and not for a minute did he get off his base. He seemed disappointed, though, that’s all—as if he expected to find some hidden wealth and didn’t, you see.”
“Maybe he overlooked it, Billy.”
“I don’t think there was any to overlook,” said the boy. “But, really, there’s no telling what that man was huntin’, but he wasn’t thar for any good you can bet your neck, Mr. Carter.”
“I’ll agree with you on that score, boy,” and the detective put the card in his pocket. “George Richmond never goes out after small game. That’s his record.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with the murder of Mother Flintstone?” eagerly questioned the boy.
“Time will tell,” was the detective’s reply. “Do you think he had, Billy?”
“I do, I do,” cried the boy. “Bless me if I kin getthe idea out o’ my head. That man either killed Mother Flintstone or he knows who did.”
To this the detective made no reply, and he told the boy to go back to bed.
“Have you struck any clew yet, Mr. Carter?” asked Billy.
“A little one. There, go to bed and let me go to work again.”
“I will, but keep an eye on the man I saw to-night in Mother Flintstone’s house. He needs watchin’ day and night. Good night, Mr. Carter.”
Five minutes later the famous detective was far from Billy’s uncouth abode, and in an entirely different part of the city.
He stopped at last, and looked up at a tall building that seemed to cleave the darkened sky far overhead.
The brief inspection seemed to satisfy him, for he entered the main hallway and began to climb the uncarpeted stair.
He reached the third floor before he encountered any one, and there he was suddenly brought to a halt by a voice that rang down the ghostly corridor.
“Another step on your life! I have you at my mercy and I never fail to bring down my man. Stand where you are, for another step means a bullet in your brain!”