Snarled Identities E-Book

Nicholas Carter

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Nicholas Carter, and his first assistant, Chickering Carter, had risen early that morning, but not for the usual reason. It was a very unusual occasion in the great detective’s household, for he and Chick were actually going away for two weeks’ vacation in the Adirondacks.
The train that was to carry the two to the Great North Woods was scheduled to leave shortly after eight o’clock, and many preparations had been deferred until that morning. Now, however, everything was practically ready, their trunk was packed, locked, and strapped, their suit cases were nearly filled, and they had time for a bite of breakfast and a glance at the morning papers, which had thus far been neglected.

Leseprobe

SNARLED IDENTITIES

OR,

A DESPERATE TANGLE

BY

NICHOLAS CARTER

1916

© 2021 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383831846

Table of Contents

SNARLED IDENTITIES

CHAPTER I. STARTLING NEWS.

CHAPTER II. “GREEN-EYE” GORDON.

CHAPTER III. NOT SO DEAD, AFTER ALL.

CHAPTER IV. THE DETECTIVE’S “HALFWAY HOUSE.”

CHAPTER V. IN NICK’S SHOES.

CHAPTER VI. AN INTERRUPTION.

CHAPTER VII. THE RASCAL’S FIRST CLIENT.

CHAPTER VIII. THE ABSCONDING TREASURER.

CHAPTER IX. CHANCE PLAYS INTO GORDON’S HANDS.

CHAPTER X. THE IMPOSTOR’S CLEVERNESS.

CHAPTER XI. CRAY GETS HIS ORDERS.

CHAPTER XII. GREEN EYE DOES SOME THINKING.

CHAPTER XIII. THE POLICE DOG ACTS STRANGELY.

CHAPTER XIV. CRAY CALLS ON MRS. SIMPSON.

CHAPTER XV. SOME INTERESTING INFORMATION.

CHAPTER XVI. THE TIRE PRINTS.

CHAPTER XVII. CRAY WIRES FOR “CARTER.”

CHAPTER XVIII. GORDON TACKLES NICK’S SAFE.

CHAPTER XIX. AN UNTIMELY KNOCK.

CHAPTER XX. THE BLACKMAILER’S SUPREME HAUL.

CHAPTER XXI. THE MASQUERADER JOINS CRAY.

CHAPTER XXII. PLANS FOR THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE WATCHERS MAKE THEMSELVES SCARCE.

CHAPTER XXIV. REWARDED AT LAST.

CHAPTER XXV. THOSE EXTRA-HEAVY SUIT CASES.

CHAPTER XXVI. NOT ON THE PROGRAM.

CHAPTER XXVII. GORDON MAKES HIS GET-AWAY.

CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT THE DOG BARKED AT.

CHAPTER XXIX. “THE GREENISH EYES!”

CHAPTER XXX. MRS. SIMPSON LEARNS THE TRUTH.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE MILLIONAIRE PLAYS SLEUTH.

CHAPTER XXXII. SIMPSON IS FOUND.

CHAPTER XXXIII. SUSPICION FALLS ON NICK.

CHAPTER XXXIV. GRISWOLD IN COMMAND.

CHAPTER XXXV. A TRAP IS SET FOR NICK.

CHAPTER XXXVI. AT CROSS PURPOSES.

CHAPTER XXXVII. GRISWOLD STILL DOUBTFUL.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. NICK DISCOVERS HIS LOSS.

CHAPTER XXXIX. CRAY’S LIPS ARE UNSEALED.

CHAPTER XL. NICK OUTLINES HIS CAMPAIGN.

CHAPTER XLI. WAITING FOR A NIBBLE.

CHAPTER XLII. THE FIRST VICTIM.

CHAPTER XLIII. AN ASTOUNDING RUSE.

CHAPTER XLIV. NICK’S SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED.

CHAPTER XLV. COMPARING NOTES.

CHAPTER XLVI. GORDON’S LETTERS REACH THEIR MARK.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE BLACKMAILER ADVISES HIS VICTIM.

CHAPTER XLVIII. UP AGAINST IT.

SNARLED IDENTITIES.

CHAPTER I.STARTLING NEWS.

Nicholas Carter, and his first assistant, Chickering Carter, had risen early that morning, but not for the usual reason. It was a very unusual occasion in the great detective’s household, for he and Chick were actually going away for two weeks’ vacation in the Adirondacks.

The train that was to carry the two to the Great North Woods was scheduled to leave shortly after eight o’clock, and many preparations had been deferred until that morning. Now, however, everything was practically ready, their trunk was packed, locked, and strapped, their suit cases were nearly filled, and they had time for a bite of breakfast and a glance at the morning papers, which had thus far been neglected.

Nick seemed to be the only one who was interested in the news. In fact, his assistant made a wry face when he saw his chief reaching for one of the papers.

“Can’t you forget that sort of thing?” he asked, in an injured tone. “I was hoping you would until we got well started, at least.”

“What’s the trouble?” Nick asked, in a bewildered tone. “Oh, I see what you are driving at! You are afraid I’ll see something interesting in the line of crimes and mysteries, and decide at the last minute to stay at home? Is that the idea?”

His assistant nodded gloomily. “Correct,” he answered. “I never know which way you are going to jump, or at what moment. When I’m trying to get you off for a holiday, especially, I feel the greatest responsibility. You have such a way of changing your mind, and, if you don’t, somebody usually bobs up with a case that you find irresistible. You’ve been working your head off for months, and you are run down; you know you are.” Chick grinned. “You are not exactly at the breaking point yet,” he went on, “but you are just a little stale, and that won’t do, you know. Any day something may break that will require your keenest brain work, and your last ounce of strength and agility. Of course, things will turn up; of course, you’ll have all sorts of calls every day, and if you allow yourself to read the papers, you’ll run across plenty of things that will prove fascinating to you. Can’t you cut yourself loose, though—absolutely?”

“I’ve done harder things than that, grandmother,” Nick answered, “but I really don’t see the necessity for that sort of total abstinence. If you think I’m going to cut out all newspapers for two weeks, you’re very much mistaken. I’ve promised to go, though, and I’m going—unless, of course, something turns up that is altogether too big to neglect.”

He opened the paper, whereupon Chick gave an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

“What is to be is to be, I suppose,” the younger detective murmured; “or, in more up-to-date form, she goes as she lays.”

It may be inferred, therefore, that he was far from surprised, when his chief gave a startled exclamation a few moments later.

“Well,” Chick asked pessimistically, “what have you struck now? We are not going away, I suppose?”

“Of course we are, you idiot!” Nick answered excitedly. “You’ll agree with me, though, I’m sure, that it would have been a calamity if we had missed this. It looks as if we had had our last tussle with ‘Green-eye’ Gordon.”

Chick’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Has Gordon died in prison?”

Nick nodded soberly. “He was burned to death last night in a fire that destroyed one wing of Clinton Prison,” he replied, his eye hastily running over the rest of the article.

Presently the paper was passed to Chick. This, in part, was what the latter read.

CHAPTER II.“GREEN-EYE” GORDON.

“Shortly after ten o’clock last night fire was discovered in the laundry at Clinton Prison. The blaze spread with surprising rapidity, and as the laundry was in the basement of one of the main wings of three tiers of cells above it, the lives of many of the convicts were soon seen to be in danger.

“Under the circumstances, it is surprising that more lives were not lost, but the best information obtainable at the present time is that three of the inmates were fatally burned—including the clever and infamous Green-eye Gordon—that many were injured or temporarily overcome, and that one took advantage of the excitement to escape.

“As soon as it was seen that the fire was beyond control, so far as the prison’s fire-fighting facilities were concerned, and that there was danger of asphyxiation from the dense smoke, the cells of each tier in the threatened wing were unlocked simultaneously, and there was a general exodus of frightened prisoners. The scene defies description, for the delay in opening the cells had given the trapped men an opportunity to work themselves up into a frenzy, and, as a result, the guards were powerless to handle them.

“A general jail delivery might have followed if the convicts had realized their power, but fear had driven everything else out of their minds for the time being, and in consequence, only one man, Convict No. 9,371, made his escape. He is known to the world beyond the gray walls as “Shang” Libby, a yegg, who had made his headquarters at Buffalo. Libby must have followed one of the guards when the latter left the inclosure for help, and having waited until the door of freedom had been opened, he quietly struck the guard down and passed through. He was one of those who had hastily dressed himself in the prison uniform and unless he can manage to get other clothing there is no doubt that he will soon be rounded up.”

Then followed a long account of the fire, and references to those who had been killed or seriously injured. The article ended with the following:

“The death of Ernest Gordon, widely known as Green-eye Gordon, was the most ignominious one, and hardly in keeping with this notorious criminal’s career. There was nothing spectacular about it. Gordon might have been expected to play a conspicuous part at such a time—to rally the prisoners for a concerted attempt at escape, for instance—but he does not seem to have distinguished himself in any such way. Indeed, it would appear that his daring and initiative left him at the last, for there seems no very good reason for his death, when most of his fellow prisoners escaped.

“Of course, some accident must have happened to him, for he was found trodden to death by the others in their bestial rush. His face disfigured beyond recognition.

“Gordon hailed from New York, and those who know have long classed him as one of the cleverest and most dangerous criminals this country has ever produced. He came of a good family, and was well educated, but early showed a tendency to criminal pursuits. Apparently he reformed, however, and for several years was employed by one of the great detective agencies.

“In this capacity he showed himself to be very able and daring, so much so that he advanced rapidly, and long enjoyed the utmost confidence of his employers. In the end, however, it was learned that he had been using his position for his own ends, and had really never given up his career of crime. He must have known that a storm was brewing, for, as usual, he managed to get away a few jumps ahead.

“After that, thanks to the invaluable experience he had gained as a detective, he turned his attention to much more ambitious and lucrative pursuits, soon becoming one of the most troublesome thorns in the side of the police of this city and elsewhere. Gordon always was versatile, and handled many kinds of crime with remarkable success. Toward the last, however, he developed something approaching a specialty in the shape of blackmail on a large scale. He seemed to have an uncanny facility for learning the secrets of the wealthy and prominent, and using them for purposes of blackmail.

“Crimes of this sort are not easy to establish in a legal way, or to punish, for the victims seldom raise an outcry. Nevertheless, that lifelong foe of crime and criminals, Nicholas Carter, took up the trail, and finally brought Gordon to bay. The capture and trial of two years ago are doubtless fresh in the minds of many newspaper readers.

“Gordon acquired his nickname of Green Eye from the fact that he had a pair of peculiar, rather nondescript gray eyes, which were said to emit a green light when the man was angry or excited. In addition, his eyes showed an inclination to cross at such times, although perfectly normal at all others. In fact, it is claimed that these distinguishing characteristics more than once served to identify the clever rogue, whose remarkable histrionic ability and skill at make-up would otherwise have enabled him to defy detection.”

Of course, neither of the detectives read all of this. They did not need to, for they knew a great deal more about Ernest Gordon than any one else could have told them.

Chick followed his chief’s example in glancing through the article and getting the main points that were new to him. Then he looked up with an odd expression.

“Well, it certainly sounds final enough,” he remarked. “I find it hard to believe, though, that Green Eye is dead, and that he died in such a way.”

“It is somewhat difficult to credit it,” Nick agreed. “That’s the way things frequently happen, though. Fate isn’t always dramatic in its methods according to our theatrical standards. No, it seems safe enough to believe that Ernest Gordon won’t give us any more trouble, and I find a certain amount of relief in the thought. I’m willing to confess now that there were times when I doubted my ability to bring him to account. In other words, I felt myself nearer defeat at his hands than I had ever done in any other case.”

The detective pulled out his watch, glanced at it, and threw his napkin aside. “We must hustle if we are going to catch that train,” he announced.

Five minutes later he and Chick were whirled away to the station. Their well-earned vacation had begun, but they were far from carefree.

The thought of Ernest Gordon persisted in haunting their minds, and somehow it seemed to dull the edge of their anticipations.

CHAPTER III.NOT SO DEAD, AFTER ALL.

Two days later a striking-looking, conspicuously well-groomed man presented himself at Nick Carter’s door.

He did not give his name, which is not to be wondered at under the circumstances, for the caller was Green-eye Gordon—not his ghost, but the man himself, substantial flesh and blood, escaped convict, and first-class criminal.

For once Chick’s intuitions had been keener than his chief’s. The younger detective had been inclined to question the validity of Gordon’s death in the absence of any more conclusive testimony than that given in the first accounts of the fire. Nick, however, had been in a mood to discourage such skepticism—perhaps because of that relief to which he had confessed.

The fact was that it was Green Eye who had escaped, and not the yegg from Buffalo. Gordon had stumbled over the latter’s body during that mad rush for safety. The yegg was by no means dead at the time, but had been overcome by the smoke, and, without a moment’s hesitation, Gordon had determined to profit by the encounter.

He had no definite plan, but it was characteristic of him that whereas the others were interested only in escaping the flames, he was looking for the opportunity to escape from the prison itself, and was prepared to profit by every promising circumstance.

It occurred to him at once that an exchange of coats would be to his advantage, and he proceeded at once to make the exchange, stripping off the unconscious man’s coat, and putting his own halfway on in place of it.

The reason for this may be easily guessed. The gray coats—for stripes are no longer in vogue in New York State—bore each man’s prison number, and, therefore, by such a simple exchange, identities could be shifted temporarily.

Gordon’s number was 39,470, and, of course, it was known to all the keepers and prisoners as standing for the identity of the formidable Green Eye. The other man’s number, on the other hand, had no particular significance, for the yegg was an ordinary criminal, of comparatively little intelligence, who had not made himself conspicuous in any way, either in or out of the prison.

Consequently, if there should prove to be later on any reason to believe that Libby was missing, his absence would not be likely to cause any great commotion, for it would be taken for granted that his capture was only a question of time.

Gordon had reasoned shrewdly, as usual, and had thus, by his own promptness and resourcefulness, put himself in the way of the luck that subsequently favored him.

He had feigned an injury, and had thrown himself down in the prison courtyard, after taking care to stagger close to the main gates, and a shadow of the projecting section of the wall. There he was ignored, for the flames in the burning wing were mounting higher and higher, and all the men were not yet out of it.

It was some minutes before Green Eye’s chance had come, but it did come, as he had felt sure it would. One of the guards rushed past him and approached a small door at one side of the big, double gates. Evidently the man had been sent on some important errand, which would take him outside the prison walls.

The keeper looked behind him with a wary eye to make sure that he was not followed. He had fears of a general break for liberty, but apparently no one was paying any attention to him.

Therefore he excitedly inserted a key in the lock, and, after some fumbling, opened the door. It was then that Gordon had pounced upon him.

One blow had been enough. It caught the unfortunate guard behind the ear and sent him hurtling through the opening. In a moment the convict had followed.

Gordon dashed across the road before the vanguard of the crowd from the town had reached the spot, and, dodging through the extensive lumber yard, made his way to the outskirts of Dannemora, his goal being a certain tumble-down, abandoned house.

There he found what he sought—a moisture-proof box of considerable size, containing a complete outfit of clothing, an automatic of the latest model, and no less than five hundred dollars in gold.

We have hinted that Ernest Gordon was no ordinary criminal, and the truth of that has doubtless begun to shine through this narrative. Here, at any rate, is striking evidence of it.

Green Eye had always preferred to work alone, as many of the most successful criminals have done. He had friends, however, and one of these had carried out his directions. The gates of Clinton Prison had not even closed behind Gordon, when the latter had begun to plan for a possible escape, and the planting of this box played an important part in the arrangement.

During his many months in the prison, Green Eye had not succeeded in liberating himself, but now that the fire had enabled him to escape, the box was waiting for him, thanks to his unusual foresight.

Thus it was that he had completely eluded pursuit. The authorities were looking for a commonplace, unimaginative yegg, who went by the name of Shang Libby, and who might be expected to retain some, at least, of his prison garments. It is little wonder, therefore, that they failed to capture the polished and superdaring Gordon, who lost no time in starting for New York City in a sleeping car.

The fugitive’s first thought when he reached the metropolis was one of revenge. He had no idea of killing Nick Carter for the part the latter had played in his downfall, for murder had never been in his line. There are many other kinds of revenge, however, and Gordon was determined to avail himself of one or more of them.

He wished to humiliate Nick to the utmost, if possible, and, incidentally, to do so in such a way that his success would line his pockets with gold.

He had a plan, when he presented himself at Nick’s door, but it was lacking in many details, for these he had decided to leave to the inspiration of the moment. In any case, however, he meant to palm himself off as a would-be client, and, having thus gained the detective’s confidence, to proceed with the rest of the scheme, or some modification of it.

“Is Mr. Carter in?” he asked anxiously, when the butler opened the door.

“No, sir,” the servant replied, noting with approval the visitor’s apparent prosperity and air of importance. “Mr. Carter is out of town at present.”

“Is it possible? For how long?”

“He went away day before yesterday, and expected to be absent for two weeks.”

“How unfortunate! I have a case of the utmost importance—the sort of thing no one else can handle,” the caller said, with the semblance of profound disappointment. “One of his assistants might help me to some extent, however, or bring the matter to Mr. Carter’s attention by telegraph.”

Again the butler shook his head regretfully. He was being very indiscreet, but he did not suspect it for a moment, owing to the impression the stranger made upon him.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, too, sir,” he answered. “There is no one at home who could attend to you. It’s the first time it has happened in years.”

The stranger seemed greatly distressed.

“This is terrible!” he cried. “I don’t know what I shall do if I can’t get hold of Mr. Carter. I would be very sorry to break up his vacation, but I’m sure if he knew the circumstances, he would not hesitate for a moment. Some very prominent people are involved, and, unless something is done speedily, there will be nothing short of a national scandal. Surely, you will give me Mr. Carter’s address, will you not?”

The butler hesitated—and fell.

CHAPTER IV.THE DETECTIVE’S “HALFWAY HOUSE.”

Chick had been in favor of cutting off all communication with the detective’s residence in New York. It was not because he himself felt any great need of a holiday, but rather because he had an exaggerated notion that his chief was badly in need of a change.

Nick, however, had vetoed this suggestion, and left things largely to his butler’s discretion. The butler had been in his service for years, and had shown himself by no means a fool.

“If anything big develops,” Nick had told him, “do not hesitate to telegraph for me, or have me called on the long distance—if there isn’t time to write. I don’t want to miss an important case.”

The butler remembered these words now—and forgot that he did not even know the caller’s name. Carried away by the man’s air of authority, he blurted out the desired information.

“Mr. Carter is staying at the Buck’s Head Inn, Little Saranac Lake, sir,” he said.

“Many thanks! That’s all I need. I’m sure Mr. Carter will respond at once when he hears what’s in the wind,” Gordon declared importantly, and having made a note of the address, thanked the butler again, and returned to the waiting taxi.

Green Eye had seen a great light as a result of the butler’s incautious revelations, and all his previous plans had been discarded. In their place a new one was growing—a plan that promised to set a record for daring, and to bring the detective nearer to professional shipwreck than he had been in all of his career.

The new plan did not involve an interview with Nick. On the contrary, it was built upon the fact that the detective was hundreds of miles away, buried in the woods.

Therefore, as may be guessed, Green Eye did not make use of the address the butler had given him. He was quite satisfied to have created the impression that he intended to communicate with Nick at once, and that the latter might return in the course of a day or two.

The following morning an individual climbed the stairs leading to one of Nick’s “halfway houses,” that particular one being on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.

Nick Carter maintained a number of these places in different parts of the city, and in each of them he kept several complete changes of clothing and a supply of wigs, false mustaches, beards, make-up articles, and the like.

Their mission is perfectly obvious. Under ordinary circumstances, it was safe enough for the detective and his assistants to disguise themselves at home, and to return to their headquarters at their pleasure. When they were handling an unusually delicate case, however, or dealing with exceptionally clever lawbreakers, they found it necessary to take further precautions, and these so-called halfway houses then came in handy.

In other words, the secret bases of supplies—each of which had two exits—made it possible for them to leave and return to their headquarters openly, and without disguise, although the intervening hours might be devoted to the most relentless shadowing, carried on under all sorts of guises.

The man who climbed the stairs at the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street place, therefore, might easily have been Nick in the act of returning from some such expedition. He did not look in the least like the great detective, but that proved nothing, and his actions went far to indicate that he was Nick or one of the latter’s assistants.

He boldly approached the door of the room, the location of which did not seem to give him the slightest trouble, despite the fact that there was nothing on the door to guide him. He seemed to have some little difficulty in getting the door open, to be sure; but, after working at the lock for two or three minutes, he gained entrance.

Many criminals would have given a great deal to know the location of one of those rooms, but Nick did not dream that one rascal had long since discovered the halfway house in Harlem.

The man who had gained entrance by picking the lock was Green-eye Gordon, of course.

He had learned of the place shortly before Nick had caught him, two years or more back, and had been more or less uncertain as to the present use of the room. The detective might have given it up in the interval, for all he knew, but he had resolved to put his knowledge to the test, and now he was rewarded, for a glance about the place showed him that it was still employed by the detective.

Rows of clothing hung in orderly array on hooks along the walls. At one side there was a long mirror, which enabled one to view oneself from head to feet, and between the windows, at the rear, was a dressing table, which looked as if it might belong to some musical-comedy star, so cluttered was it with make-up materials of all sorts.

It was nearly an hour later when Ernest Gordon let himself out, locked the door behind him—after some further effort—and sauntered downstairs.

Another complete transformation had taken place in his appearance. He was no longer the hunted criminal who had escaped from Clinton Prison, no longer the dressy individual who had presented himself at the detective’s, the day before, and least of all did he look like the man who had ascended those stairs some fifty minutes previously.

Now, to all intents and purposes, he was Nick Carter himself.

Not only was he wearing one of the excellent suits the detective kept for his more respectable disguises, but in build, walk, features, and even expression, he was as much like Nick Carter as one pea is like another.

His astounding plan had ripened into action.

CHAPTER V.IN NICK’S SHOES.

The butler happened to be out ordering supplies when the detective’s front bell rang, and, as Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, was near the door, she answered it.

On the tip of her tongue she had the answer which she had already given to several inquiries—that the detective was out of town. Therefore, her amazement may be imagined when she found—as she supposed—that it was Nick himself who was outside.

“For goodness’ sake, sir!” she ejaculated, starting in surprise. “What in the world are you doing back so soon?”

The masquerader smiled one of Nick’s characteristically genial smiles.

“I was called back, I’m sorry to say,” he answered, his voice taking on the detective’s familiar tones. “Joseph furnished my address yesterday, I believe, and the man he gave it to wired me to come back. The case was so important that I felt I had to. I hope to return, though, in a few days, and, as I have everything here, of course, I didn’t bring any baggage.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the housekeeper. “I feared it would be just like this, but I hoped you would stay this time. Didn’t Mr. Chickering come back with you?”

“No, I left him at Little Saranac, but shall send for him if I need him.”

As they had been speaking, the housekeeper had instinctively stepped aside, and Gordon had passed her. Now he started up the stairs, in the direction of the study.

“You’ll have some lunch ready at the usual time?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“Of course, sir,” was the reply; and that was all that was said.

If the new arrival had been Nick himself, he would have smilingly apologized to Mrs. Peters for having broken in so unexpectedly upon her well-earned relaxation, but Green Eye was altogether too selfish to think of such things.

Thus far he had played his part very well, but there were many pitfalls in his path, and there was no knowing at what moment he might fall into one of them. His eyes were not Nick’s eyes, and his disposition was not Nick’s disposition—far from it, in fact.

At any moment his innate harshness and tyranny might assert themselves.

Moreover, his habits were unlike those of the detective. He smoked much more, for one thing, and he drank. Nick, to be sure, had consumed many a glass of beer and wine—for effect and under protest—but he had no real liking for anything of the sort, and no one had had a better opportunity than he to note the evil effects of drink.

Naturally, Gordon had resolved to deny himself whenever he was under the eye of those who were familiar with Nick’s habits, but it remained to be seen whether he would succeed in keeping to that resolution.

Already he had forgotten one little thing which might have caused him embarrassment, and might still do so, for that matter. He had meant to offer some plausible explanation of his failure to let himself in with a latchkey, but he had forgotten all about it at the time, and now it might seem strange if he brought up the subject.