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- Herausgeber: Alien Ebooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
The Fourth Nick Carter MEGAPACK® collects 4 novels featuring the intrepid private detective. Here are:
THE CALL OF DEATH
THE TRAITORS OF THE TROPICS
THE BLUE VEIL
THE GREAT DIAMOND SYNDICATE
If you enjoy this ebook, search your favorite bookstore for "Wildside Press Megapack" to see the 400+ other volumes in the series, including science fiction, mysteries, westerns, adventure stories, and much, much more. Only from Wildside Press -- accept no substitutes!
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
THE FOURTH NICK CARTER MEGAPACK®
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
INTRODUCTION
ABOUT THE MEGAPACK® SERIES
THE CALL OF DEATH
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
THE TRAITORS OF THE TROPICS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
THE BLUE VEIL
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
THE GREAT DIAMOND SYNDICATE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
THE FOURTHNICK CARTER MEGAPACK®
NICHOLAS CARTER
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
The Fourth Nick Carter MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2024 by Wildside Press, LLC.
The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a registered trademark of Wildside Press, LLC.
All rights reserved.
*
The Call of Death; or, Nick Carter’s Clever Assistant was originally published in Nick Carter Stories No. 121, January 2, 1915.
The Traitors of the Tropics; or, Nick Carter’s Royal Flush was originally published in Nick Carter Stories No. 138, May 1, 1915.
The Blur Veil originally appeared in Nick Carter Stories No. 158, September 18, 1915.
The Great Diamond Syndicate; or, The Hardest Crew on Record was originally published in 1909.
INTRODUCTION
Nick Carter is a fictional character that began as a dime novel private detective in 1886 and has appeared in a variety of formats over more than a century. He first appeared in the story paper New York Weekly (Vol. 41 No. 46, September 18, 1886) in a 13-week serial, The Old Detective’s Pupil; or, The Mysterious Crime of Madison Square.
The character was conceived by Ormond G. Smith, the son of one of the founders of Street & Smith, and realized by John R. Coryell. The character proved popular enough to headline its own magazine, Nick Carter Weekly. The serialized stories in Nick Carter Weekly were also reprinted as stand-alone titles under the New Magnet Library imprint.
By 1915, Nick Carter Weekly had ceased publication and Street & Smith had replaced it with Detective Story Magazine, which focused on a more varied cast of characters. There was a brief attempt at reviving Carter in 1924–27 in Detective Story Magazine, but it was not successful.
In the 1930s, due to the success of The Shadow and Doc Savage, Street & Smith revived Nick Carter in a pulp magazine (called Nick Carter Detective Magazine) that ran from 1933 to 1936. Since the Doc Savage character had basically been given Nick’s background, Nick Carter was now recast as a hard-boiled detective. Novels featuring Carter continued to appear through the 1950s, by which time there was also a popular radio show, Nick Carter, Master Detective, which aired on the Mutual Broadcasting System network from 1943 to 1955.
The novels collected in this MEGAPACK® originally appeared between 1909 and 1915.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press
wildsidepress.com
ABOUT THE MEGAPACK® SERIES
Over the last decade, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”
The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)
RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?
Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can email the publisher at [email protected]. Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.
TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or contact us through the Wildside Press web site.
THE CALL OF DEATH
or, Nick Carter’s Clever Assistant
CHAPTER 1
A CURIOUS LETTER
“There’s no question in my mind, inspector, as to who did the job,” said Nick Carter.
“You feel sure of it, then?”
“As sure as water runs downhill. I refer, of course, to the mechanical part of the work. I looked it over on the morning following the burglary, every part of the looted vault, and I am as sure of the cracksman’s identity as if I had seen him getting in his work. Only one yegg in the business has the mechanical genius to crack a vault as that was cracked.”
“James Nordeck?”
“Surely. I have seen Nordeck’s work before, and I know it when I see it. It is invariably stamped with his mechanical ingenuity. Jim Nordeck is in a class of his own at that business.”
“Here is his mug, front and profile, chief, also his record. Have a look at them.”
The last came from Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s senior assistant, and the remarks of both were addressed to Inspector Mallory, then head of the detective force identified with the New York police department.
They were discussing the recent burglary of a savings bank up in Westchester County, a crime committed about a week before, in which the remarkably skillful drilling of the vault for the use of explosives, as well as other details of the felonious work, plainly showed it to have been that of professional cracksmen.
As may be inferred from the remarks he had just made, it revealed something more to Nick Carter—the identity of one of the criminals, at least, with certain characteristics of whose skillful work along such infamous lines the detective was already familiar.
Though discovered before having completed their work, the burglars had succeeded in getting away with nearly two hundred thousand dollars in cash, bonds, and negotiable securities; but not until one of their number had been seriously wounded with the revolver of a citizen who had heard and pursued them, as was evidenced by a trail of blood, to the motor car in which they escaped with their plunder.
None of it had since been recovered. Negotiations with the crooks had been undertaken by the bank officials through the newspapers, with a view to recovering part of the stolen funds, and a liberal reward had also been offered for information leading to the discovery and arrest of the thieves. All of these endeavors, however, had proved entirely futile.
The trail of the crooks had, in fact, been hopelessly lost. Nor was there any clew to their identity, aside from the opinion expressed by Nick Carter on the day following the crime, when he had been called upon to inspect the work of the burglars, despite the fact that he had declined to take the case in conjunction with the police and detectives already employed on it.
Nick’s views had been mentioned to Inspector Mallory, and this had occasioned his visit that morning, and the discussion then in progress in the business office of the detective’s Madison Avenue residence, then occupied only by the three persons mentioned.
Inspector Mallory took the card tendered by Chick Carter with the remarks above noted. It had been taken by Chick from a large cabinet of drawers containing the Bertillon signaletic cards of thousands of other crooks, and it contained two photographs and the criminal record of the man then under discussion.
The face that met the inspector’s gaze was not a prepossessing one. It was that of a man of fifty—a hard and sinister face, with a low brow and narrow eyes, a hooked nose, like the beak of a bird of prey, a square jaw, and thin lips, drawn downward at the corners—a more evil and cruel face than one often viewed.
“He looks like a bad egg, indeed, Chick,” said Inspector Mallory, grimly inspecting the two photographs.
“His looks flatter him,” Chick replied. “He’s the worst in the business.”
“His record corroborates you,” said the inspector, while he read the criminal career noted on the card. “He appears to have been extraordinarily lucky, however, in eluding arrest and doing time.”
“Lucky is right,” Nick put in. “He has been peculiarly fortunate in that respect, Mallory, but very unlucky in others.”
“How so, Nick?”
“I happen to know something about the inside history of the rascal,” Nick explained. “I got it from one of his old pals, Darby Moore, who died in Matteawan less than a year ago.”
“I knew him,” Inspector Mallory said.
“Aside from his legitimate trade as a machinist, at which Nordeck is an expert, he has absolutely no head on his shoulders,” Nick proceeded. “He could not frame up and pull off a job of any size, to say nothing of this savings-bank break, if his life depended upon it. He can work to advantage only when guided by a capable leader. Take it from me, Mallory, this Westchester job was directed by such a man, not by Jim Nordeck. There was a much bigger man than he behind the gun.”
“Do you know him, Nick?” questioned Mallory, with sharper scrutiny.
“I do not.”
“Or suspect his identity?”
“No.”
“What do you mean by Nordeck’s having been peculiarly unfortunate?”
“In that he has been repeatedly cheated by his confederates out of most of his share of the plunder,” Nick explained. “He has been an easy mark in that respect ever since his wife died, something like a dozen years ago. She was a shrewd Englishwoman, but thoroughly unscrupulous, who looked after his interests and handled his money. Since her death, however, though he is known to have had a hand in numerous profitable jobs, Nordeck has been hard up most of the time.”
“Through having been victimized by his confederates?”
“Exactly. He now fights shy of trusting them, even.”
“You got all this from Darby Moore?”
“Yes. I had an interview with him on the day he died. I know he told me the truth.”
“This card states that Nordeck has a daughter, who is also a crook.”
“That is correct.”
“Do you know her, or anything about her?”
“I have seen her,” Nick replied. “I saw her less than a month ago, in fact, which is another reason why I feel sure that Nordeck had a hand in this burglary.”
“She sticks to him, eh?”
“That’s what! They never have been separated. I knew the moment I saw her that Jim Nordeck was in these parts, and that something was likely to come off.”
“Why didn’t you track the girl to cover?”
“It was impossible, Mallory, under the circumstances.”
“Why so?”
“She was in an elevated train going north, and I was in another going south,” smiled Nick. “Both trains had stopped at a station, and I saw her through one of the windows. I could not wish myself from one train to another.”
“True,” Inspector Mallory admitted, laughing. “Have you seen the girl since then?”
“No.”
“How old is she?”
“Not much over twenty,” said Nick. “Her name is Nancy Nordeck, though I guess she uses an alias most of the time.”
“Yes, no doubt,” Mallory dryly allowed.
“She looked very seedy, as well as I could judge through the car window,” Nick added. “This savings-bank break may replenish her purse, however, and put Jim Nordeck in funds. If his pals don’t bunco him, he ought to be well heeled for some little time—unless some of your men succeed in rounding up this gang. I infer that there is no immediate prospect of it.”
“No, I am sorry to say,” Inspector Mallory admitted.
“I see that the bank directors have offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for the recovery of the plunder.”
“Yes. They can well afford to pay that for it.”
“And then some,” put in Chick pointedly. “I doubt that any of the gang who did that job will squeal, however, for it smacks of crooks who keep their traps closed under any and all circumstances. If they——”
“Stop a moment!” Nick interposed. “What is wanted, Joseph?”
The office door had been opened by Nick’s manservant, who then paused respectfully on the threshold.
“Detective Vallon is here, sir,” he replied. “He wants to see Inspector Mallory.”
“Vallon here!” exclaimed Mallory surprisedly. “Let him come in, Nick. I’ll see what he wants.”
“Show him in, Joseph,” Nick directed.
He entered a moment later, a plain-clothes man, from police headquarters, with whom both Nick and Chick shook hands cordially, while he was briefly stating his mission.
“I’ve got a special delivery for you, inspector,” said he. “It is marked private and rush, and I reckoned it might be very important. The lieutenant said I’d be likely to find you here, so here I am—and here’s the letter.”
Inspector Mallory took it and glanced at the superscription. It was addressed with a lead pencil, in a somewhat coarse, irregular hand, which, with the misspelling of several words, plainly evinced the writer’s lack of education. Prominent in the lower corners of the envelope were the two words—rush and private.
“Humph!” Mallory grunted, with a puzzled expression. “Mailed this morning in Harlem. I don’t know the hand. Never saw one quite so scrawly. It may be important, nevertheless, Vallon, as you say.”
Chief Mallory broke the seal while speaking, then drew out the inclosed sheet of paper.
A folded bank note slipped from it and fell to the floor.
“By Jove, chief, that’s a good beginning!” said Chick, laughing.
“I believe your story,” Mallory replied, bending to pick up the bank note. “Hello! Fifty bucks, too, and a brand-new bill. I could stand a gift of this kind every day in the year.”
It was, indeed, a crisp, brand-new bank note for fifty dollars.
Nick Carter eyed the inspector more narrowly when he opened and read the letter, noting his gradual change of expression.
“By thunder, here’s a curious case!” Mallory exclaimed, looking up. “It cannot be a hoax, not with fifty simoleons backing up the story. Have a look, Nick. Read it aloud.”
Nick took the letter and read it aloud, as directed, a penciled, illiterate scrawl, as follows:
“MR. INSPECTOR MALLORY: There be a ded man up in number aity to P—— Street, Harlem. I want him planted rite, but I ain’t got no time to tend to it. I know you are ded square when it comes to a show-down, so I send you the coin to foot the bills with, and I ax you to tend to him. Git him a good box with black cloth on the outside of it and silver grips. I would ax you to git a silver plait, to, only I can’t tell you his monaker. I thank you beforehand, knowing you will tend to him. Please have a praer sed for him.”
Nick Carter read this rude scrawl indifferently at first, then glanced at it again more carefully.
Mallory, watching him, detected a sharper gleam deep down in his more serious eyes. He straightened up and inquired abruptly:
“What do you think of it?”
“It’s on the level,” said Nick. “The woman means what she says.”
“Woman?” questioned Mallory quickly. “How do you know a woman wrote it? It isn’t signed.”
“True.”
“And the writing looks like a man’s?”
“True again.”
“Why do you think, then, that a woman wrote it?”
“Sentiment,” said Nick tersely. “It appears between the lines, illiterate though they are. We very seldom find it in men of the class in which the writer of this evidently falls.”
“A fallen class, evidently,” remarked Detective Vallon.
“Possibly,” Nick allowed. “She has a high opinion of you, Mallory, all the same. Very properly too.”
“Thanks!” blurted the chief a bit gruffly.
“You had better go up there and look into the case. Fifty dollars will more than foot the bills. It’s quite remarkable, by the way, where the writer raised that amount, and—let me see the bank note, Mallory.”
“It looks all right,” said the inspector, complying.
“True,” said Nick. “It is not a counterfeit, but evidently is fresh from—— Yes, by Jove, you had better go up there,” he abruptly digressed. “If you think well of it, Mallory, I’ll go with you.”
“I shall be more than pleased,” declared Mallory, with a look of surprise.
“I’ll have my chauffeur bring around the touring car,” added Nick, touching an electric button on his desk. “There will be room for you, Chick, and for Vallon, also, if he cares to go.”
“I’m hooked,” Vallon quickly nodded. “Count me in.”
As the four detectives were descending the steps of Nick’s residence five minutes later, however, at which his touring car then was standing, a rapidly driven limousine approached and swerved to the curbing near by.
Nick paused instinctively, then approached to meet a handsome, fashionably clad young woman, who had hurriedly alighted and drawn nearer.
“You were going away, Mr. Carter, and I am just in time,” she said quietly yet in some excitement. “You must postpone it. I must see you alone immediately—no, no, don’t refuse! I’ll not take no for an answer. I really must see you. It’s a case of life or death.”
“What is the trouble, Miss Farley?” Nick gravely inquired, noting her paleness.
“I cannot tell you here—not here!” she whispered. “Do please give me your time. Money is no object, Mr. Carter, and——”
“Hush!”
Nick turned to the men in the touring car.
“I must cut out the visit to Harlem, inspector,” he said significantly. “Chick will go with you, however, and—— Well, you understand.”
“Certainly, Nick, certainly!” Inspector Mallory assured him. “There is nothing involved in it. Chick will inform you later of all the facts. No apology is necessary.”
“Let her go, Danny,” Chick directed, when Nick turned to rejoin the waiting woman. “No. 82 P—— Street, Harlem. Eat it up lively!”
CHAPTER 2
THE MISSING RECTOR
Nick Carter had more than one reason for complying with the request of the young lady who had arrived at his residence just as he was departing.
Nick was influenced not only by her manifest anxiety and agitation, but also by the fact that her wealthy father, Archibald Farley, who had died about a year before, leaving her something like five millions, had been a personal friend, and had frequently entertained him in his magnificent Westchester mansion.
Nick knew, moreover, that Harriet Farley was a remarkably sensible, level-headed girl, and that she would not thus have appealed to him without very serious occasion. He conducted her into his library, therefore, instead of to his business office, that he might suffer no interruption.
“Take an armchair, Miss Farley,” said he, placing one for her. “Compose yourself, too, for I see that you are quite nervous. What is the trouble?”
“I ought not to have come in here, Mr. Carter, for I want you to go with me,” she replied. “It may be just as well, however, if I first tell you the cause of my anxiety.”
“I think so,” said Nick, taking a chair near her.
She was a very beautiful girl, in the twenties, of light complexion, and with wonderfully blue, expressive eyes. Her features were of a refined and classic cast, evincing culture and strength of character. Her head was finely poised and crowned with an abundance of wavy auburn hair. She was above medium height, with a supple, graceful figure, the attractive lines of which were accentuated by her close-fitting, fashionable garments.
“You must not think my fear is foolish. Mr. Carter, nor my interest in this matter presumptuous,” she said earnestly, replying to the detective’s remark. “I have serious reasons for both, and I shall insist upon your investigating the matter immediately, if I can prevail upon you to do so.”
“Your father and I were very good friends, Miss Farley,” Nick replied. “I would be very glad to be of service to you.”
“I felt sure of it, Mr. Carter, thank you.”
“What is the matter to which you refer?”
“It relates to the disappearance of quite a noted young clergyman, the Reverend Austin Maybrick, rector of St. Lawrence Church, which I attend. I know that he has met with evil of some kind.”
“I know Mr. Maybrick very well by reputation,” said Nick. “He is fast becoming noted for his eloquence, his advanced ideas, and his charitable work among the lowest classes. He has a very wealthy parish, I believe?”
“Yes, very; it includes some of the richest residents of Westchester County.”
“You say that Mr. Maybrick is mysteriously missing?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since nine o’clock last evening.”
“But that is not long,” said Nick significantly. “Surely, Miss Farley——”
“I know what you would say, Mr. Carter, but it would have no weight with me,” she hurriedly interposed. “I am absolutely sure that he is the victim of knavery of some kind.”
“But why are you so sure of it? Have you any definite reasons?”
“Yes, many.”
“Tell me,” said Nick, “what are your reasons, and the circumstances in connection with his disappearance.”
Miss Farley drew up in her chair. A wave of red appeared in her cheeks and dispelled her paleness. She met Nick’s grave scrutiny with outward composure, however, and replied with characteristic frankness:
“I must begin, Mr. Carter, with telling you of my relations with Mr. Maybrick. He has been very kind to me since my father died a year ago, leaving me very wealthy, but deplorably alone in the world. Mr. Maybrick called often during my father’s illness, and his visits have been even more frequent since his death. They have given rise to rumors, Mr. Carter, that Mr. Maybrick and I are in love, and likely to be married.”
“Is there any truth in them?” Nick inquired.
“Yes.”
“Are you engaged to Mr. Maybrick?”
“I am, Mr. Carter, though the engagement has not been announced,” said Harriet. “I have been in mourning for a year, you know, discarding it only a week ago.”
“I understand,” said Nick.
“I have been very careful during my period of mourning that nothing should be said about my engagement, and I know that Mr. Maybrick has not disclosed it by so much as a hint. He is absolutely reliable.”
“No doubt.”
“The truth is suspected, nevertheless, and bitterly resented.”
“Resented by whom?”
“By a woman with whom Mr. Maybrick was on terms of friendly intimacy before falling in love with me,” said Miss Farley, coloring again. “He assures me that their friendship was entirely proper, which I fully believe, but the woman evidently intends to take advantage of it, and make trouble for him. She has threatened him with a lawsuit, to say nothing of other vengeful proceedings, unless he ends his relations with me and consents to marry her.”
“Who informed you of her feelings and intentions?” Nick inquired.
“Mr. Maybrick.”
“How does he regard her threats?”
“He has ignored them, Mr. Carter, and very properly, too,” said Miss Farley. “He knows that she has been stealthily watching him, nevertheless, spying by night near the rectory, though with what design he cannot conjecture.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“For more than a week, evidently, culminating in what occurred last night.”
“What was that?”
“Would to Heaven I could tell you,” Miss Farley fervently exclaimed. “Don’t ask me, Mr. Carter. That is what I want you to find out—and what has become of him.”
“You mean—— Stop a moment!” Nick abruptly digressed. “Who is this jealous woman, who evidently feels that she has been wronged by Mr. Maybrick?”
“Her name is Kate Crandall.”
“A resident in your town?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about her? Is she young and attractive, of good character and habits, or——”
Miss Farley checked him with a gesture.
“I know nothing about her morals,” she replied. “She is quite a handsome woman, about thirty years old. She is not a person of means. She is in business as a public stenographer, and has been frequently employed by the day in that capacity by Mr. Maybrick. She took his sermons in shorthand, and prepared a typewritten copy for him. She has been accustomed to doing that work at the rectory. I do not feel it necessary to look deeper into their relations, Mr. Carter, for I have absolute faith in Mr. Maybrick’s honor and integrity. After what now has occurred, moreover——”
“Let’s drop everything else and come to that,” Nick interposed. “What can you tell me about it? You say that Mr. Maybrick was at home last evening?”
“Yes. He left the rectory about half past eight, as near as Mrs. Soule, his housekeeper, can inform me. She is the only servant employed by Mr. Maybrick, who has no near relatives. He is a man still under thirty, Mr. Carter.”
“Did he leave home alone?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling Mrs. Soule where he was going, or when he would return?”
“Neither,” said Miss Farley. “I will state all of the known circumstances, Mr. Carter, as briefly as possible.”
“Do so,” said Nick.
“On Tuesday evening, night before last, a woman called at the rectory to see Mr. Maybrick,” Miss Farley began. “Mrs. Soule admitted her, but she could not identify her, for the woman was closely veiled. Judging from her figure and carriage, however, she thinks it may have been Kate Crandall, but is not sure of it.”
“Continue,” said Nick. “I follow you.”
“Mr. Maybrick received the woman in his library, closing the door, and she remained with him for nearly an hour,” Miss Farley proceeded. “There would have been nothing strange in that, perhaps, but for what he did the following day, yesterday.”
“What was that?”
“He drew five hundred dollars from the bank in the morning. Mrs. Soule saw the bank notes on his desk while he was at lunch. In the afternoon, Mr. Carter, he borrowed a leather suit case from a man friend living near by. He has one of his own, also, and he put both of them near the front door in the hall. Mrs. Soule saw them there, and asked him if he was going away. He replied that he was, but that he was not going far.”
“Go on,” said Nick.
“When at dinner, about half past six, however, he told Mrs. Soule that she need not leave a light for him, as he might be out unusually late. He said not a word concerning his mission or designs. He left the rectory about half past eight, as I have said, taking both suit cases.”
“Containing some of his garments, I suppose?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Carter, both suit cases were—empty.”
“Empty!” echoed Nick, with more thoughtful gaze. “That indicates that he expected to bring back something in them?”
“Presumably.”
“How do you know they were empty?”
“Mrs. Soule had occasion to move one of them just before Mr. Maybrick departed,” Miss Farley explained. “She knew by its weight that it must be empty. She thought it strange that he had packed nothing in it, and she then lifted the other. That was empty, also, and Mr. Maybrick did not touch them again until he left the house.”
“H’m, I see!” Nick said quietly. “Anything more?”
“Not until this morning,” replied Miss Farley. “Mrs. Soule became anxious about nine o’clock, and she telephoned to me, asking me whether I knew why Mr. Maybrick was absent. I did not, of course, and, upon learning of the circumstances, I at once went to the rectory. I found Mr. Maybrick’s desk open, and I ventured to search for a letter, or something that might explain his absence.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Only something that greatly increased my anxiety.”
“What was that?”
“An empty revolver case in one of the drawers. I knew that he had such a weapon, Mr. Carter, for he has told me so, and I now feel sure that he took the revolver with him last evening. If I am right, it admits of only one interpretation, that he apprehended danger.”
“I agree with you,” said Nick. “Did you find the money mentioned, the five hundred dollars?”
“I did not,” Miss Farley said gravely. “It was not in his desk, nor in his bedroom. I think he took it with him, as well as the revolver, and I cannot but feel that he has met with foul play. He surely would have told Mrs. Soule if he had not intended to return before morning.”
“That does appear quite probable.”
“Oh, I am sure of it, Mr. Carter. It is not at all like Mr. Maybrick to have been negligent in that way.”
“Have you taken any other steps in the matter?” Nick inquired.
“I telephoned to the bank to learn whether Mr. Maybrick had said why he needed so large a sum as five hundred dollars,” said Miss Farley. “The teller could not inform me. Mr. Maybrick presented his check and drew the money, but he had no conversation with the teller.”
“I see.”
“I also communicated with the gentleman from whom he borrowed the suit case. He said that Mr. Maybrick did not inform him why he wanted it, but promised to return it this morning. That further convinces me, Mr. Carter, that he expected to return during the night.”
“I agree with you again,” said Nick. “Did he depart in a conveyance, or on foot?”
“On foot.”
“And you know nothing more of his movements?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“How long ago were you at the rectory?”
“About an hour ago. I came directly here in my limousine.”
“I will call up Mrs. Soule and you may talk with her,” said Nick, turning to the telephone on his library table. “Find out whether Mr. Maybrick has returned since you left the rectory. If not, tell Mrs. Soule that you have conferred with me, and that I will call there in about an hour. Direct her to say and do nothing more until I arrive.”
“I understand,” Miss Farley said, complying eagerly.
“I will take one of my assistants along, also, and get you to take us out there,” Nick added.
“I will gladly do so, Mr. Carter.”
“Very good. You probably know Mr. Maybrick’s number. Talk with Mrs. Soule as I have directed.”
Miss Farley hastened to obey, quickly obtaining only negative information from the anxious housekeeper.
The Reverend Austin Maybrick had not returned.
Nick Carter rang for Joseph and sent for Patsy Garvan, his junior assistant.
Five minutes later, in company with Miss Farley and her chauffeur, they were speeding toward Westchester County and the home of the missing rector.
CHAPTER 3
UNEXPECTED CLUES
It was early afternoon when Nick Carter and Patsy arrived in the aristocratic suburb in which Harriet Farley dwelt, and nearly under the towering walls of St. Lawrence’s Church. Nick directed the chauffeur to stop, however, nearly a hundred yards from the sacred edifice.
“You must drop us here, Miss Farley, and return home,” said he. “I will take your telephone number and talk with you later.”
“Why are you averse to my going with you to the rectory?” she inquired, with a look of surprise.
“Only because publicity is undesirable at present, if it can be prevented. And it may be of advantage to me if my investigations are not suspected,” Nick explained. “If you were seen returning with two men after your visit this morning, curiosity might be aroused and inquiries and comments would follow.”
“Very well, Mr. Carter, in that case,” Miss Farley said. “But you must let me hear from you. I shall feel very anxious.”
“I certainly will,” Nick assured her, while he alighted with Patsy.
The limousine sped away, leaving the two detectives in a broad, beautifully shaded avenue flanked on both sides with handsome dwellings, each occupying spacious and finely kept grounds, evincing the opulence and refinement of the residents.
St. Lawrence’s Church occupied a corner in the near distance. It was a handsome edifice, somewhat back from the avenue, and flanked by a quiet side street, and Nick rightly inferred that the rectory, the home of the Reverend Austin Maybrick and his elderly housekeeper, was situated back of the church, and fronted on the side street.
“We’ll turn back to the corner, Patsy, and go through the side street,” he remarked, after briefly viewing the surroundings. “That will, unless I am much mistaken, bring us to the rectory.”
“I’m with you,” said Patsy tritely. “What do you make of the case, chief? Does it look bad to you?”
“Quite so,” Nick replied. “I did not increase Miss Farley’s anxiety by telling her so, but I think Maybrick is in wrong, if not up against a more desperate game than he can pull out of unaided.”
“It looks so, chief, for fair,” said Patsy, who had been informed of Miss Farley’s disclosures.
“I must find out, if possible, just what his relations with Kate Crandall have been,” said Nick. “Also, just what type of woman she is, and of what she is capable.”
“It’s dollars to doughnuts that she figures in his mysterious absence. Miss Farley evidently is too proud to say just what she thinks of the woman. It’s long odds that she’s a bit fly and fancy, at least.”
“Quite likely,” Nick allowed. “There are some experiences, you know, that women reveal only under desperation’s spur. Until driven to desperation, it is characteristic of their sex to be silent, and bitterly nurse their resentment. When self-restraint ends, however, and desperation takes the ribbons, they go completely over the traces and to any extreme.”
“That’s true, chief,” said Patsy. “Hell, it’s said, has no fury like a woman scorned. I reckon, chief, it was Kate Crandall who called on Maybrick Tuesday evening?”
“That’s an open question,” said Nick. “It is important that we shall find a correct answer to it. The fact that the veiled woman, whoever she was, remained alone with Maybrick in the library for an hour, indicates that they were discussing a serious matter.”
“Sure thing, chief.”
“Evidently, too, their interview led to his withdrawing the five hundred dollars from the bank the following morning. He may for some reason have agreed to pay her that amount. The fact that he departed with two empty suit cases, however, shows that he was expecting to receive something from her, or from persons with whom he evidently had an appointment.
“His carrying a revolver, moreover, which is quite extraordinary for a clergyman, indicates that he anticipated trouble. He may have got in much deeper than he expected.”
“In over his head, chief, I’m thinking,” Patsy dryly vouchsafed.
“That now appears to be about the size of it,” Nick agreed.
They had rounded a corner of the side street while speaking, and then were approaching the rectory. It stood on a plot of ground between the rear of the church and an attractive estate occupied by a handsome wooden dwelling. Both were somewhat back from the street, and an iron picket fence divided the two estates.
As he was approaching the end of this fence where it met the sidewalk, Nick recalled what Harriet Farley had said about Kate Crandall playing the spy near the rectory. He paused to view the adjoining grounds. They would have offered concealment for such a spy, and Nick’s impression proved profitable.
“This way, Patsy, for a moment,” he said quietly.
He saw that there was no path at that point leading to the rear of the house. The close-cut greensward showed faint footprints, nevertheless, and Nick walked into the grounds some twenty yards, carefully inspecting a narrow flower bed that ran parallel to and near the fence for a considerable distance. He found, not exactly what he was seeking, but of the same character.
He discovered several footprints in the dark soil of the flower bed, at a point nearly back of the rectory and some thirty feet from it. Contrary to Nick’s expectations, however, the imprints evidently had been caused by the shoes of—men.
“By Jove, this opens a new field for conjecture,” said he, calling Patsy’s attention to them. “We have heard nothing about male spies in this locality. Only about the Crandall woman.”
“Gee! that’s right, chief, but these are men’s tracks,” said Patsy, eagerly inspecting them.
“Undoubtedly,” said Nick. “There evidently were two of them. Note the two different sizes, also that the depth of the soles is greater than the heels, and that parts of each overlap themselves, all showing plainly enough that the two men were crouching here and evidently watching something, or some one, through the picket fence.”
“Sure thing. There are no prints in any other part of the flower bed.”
“There certainly were two men, Patsy, one of medium build, the other quite a large man, judging from the size of their shoes,” Nick went on. “Through this shrubbery in the rectory yard they could see only the rear and one side of the house, including the end of the veranda and the conservatory.”
“I get you, chief,” said Patsy. “Whomever they were watching must have been in that locality.”
“There is nothing specially distinctive in these imprints, however, aside from suggesting the size of the men,” Nick added. “We’ll keep them in mind, nevertheless, while looking farther.”
“Looking where, chief?”
“In the rectory grounds,” said Nick. “If watching a person in the house, they would have selected a nearer point. It’s a safe wager, then, that they were watching some one—outside of the rectory.”
“Gee! that’s right, too,” said Patsy, quick to see the point. “Let’s have a look.”
“We’ll go out and enter through the gate. We may slip a cog if we try to scale these iron pickets.”
“I believe you. They’re as sharp as a trooper’s lance.”
Nick led the way to the street and to the gate entering the rectory grounds. The housekeeper had not put in an appearance, and they proceeded around the veranda to that side of the dwelling visible from the adjoining estate. Carefully inspecting the ground in the meantime, Nick soon discovered evidence confirming his suspicions. He found as before, in fact, more evidence that he was expecting.
In some yielding earth between one side of the conservatory and the bend of the library window, a space of about eight feet, were numerous footprints obviously caused by the shoes of two women who had recently been there.
The impressions were very unlike each other. One was that of a slender shoe with a small, long heel that had sunk deep into the soft soil.
The other was larger and broader, with spreading soles and wide heels, generally known as common-sense heels.
Crouching to carefully inspect all of these impressions, Nick made other discoveries, from which he drew several important deductions.
“By Jove, this is still more curious,” he remarked, after a moment.
“What’s that, chief?” questioned Patsy, bending nearer.
“Two women have recently been here, instead of only one. The location of some of the tracks indicate that they came to spy through the library window and play the eavesdropper. It must have been in the evening, therefore, for they would have been seen in daylight.”
“Surely.”
“Here are several bruised blades of grass broken off by them and trodden into the soil,” Nick added, picking up a couple of them. “They are too dry and wilted for it to have occurred as recently as last evening, yet they are fresh and green enough to show that it could not have been much longer ago. We can safely say night before last.”
“The evening when the veiled woman visited Maybrick.”
“Exactly.”
“Gee! you must be right, chief, though it’s fine figuring.”
“Here’s another curious point, Patsy.”
“Namely?”
“The two women, if their shoes have any significance, were of a decidedly opposite class,” said Nick. “One wore a narrow, high-heeled shoe, denoting a woman of fashion and means. The heels of the other were broad, both badly worn, and there was a patch on one of the soles. The patch has left its mark in some of these imprints, and the run-down condition of both heels appears in the indentations left by them.”
“I see,” said Patsy. “It’s as plain as twice two.”
“This woman must be of an opposite class, then, from the other. She wears patched shoes, with the heels half gone, indicating that she cannot afford new ones.”
“That’s a sane-and-safe deduction, chief, surely.”
“Here is evidence warranting still another.”
“How so?”
“Note that all the imprints of the high-heeled shoes overlap and partly obliterate those of the cheaper ones,” Nick pointed out. “Plainly, then, the wearer of the former was here later than the other. They were not here together, moreover, or their tracks would not be so intermingled.”
“I see the point, chief.”
“As near as I now can size it up, the poorer-clad woman, if her garments corresponded with her shoes, arrived here before the other, and she may have been the veiled woman who talked with Maybrick. The other may have seen her, or suspected that she was in the library with Maybrick, and she may have come here to watch them and overhear what passed between them.”
“And the two men beyond the picket fence may have been watching both.”
“I think so.”
“Gee whiz!” Patsy said perplexedly. “All this increases the mix-up, chief, for fair.”
“Decidedly,” Nick agreed.
“Why were two men and two women here? Can one of them have been the Crandall woman?”
“I’m going to find out a little later,” said Nick, a bit grimly. “We first will have a talk with Mrs. Soule, however, and see what we can discover in the house. Miss Farley, though a bright and brainy girl, may have overlooked something.”
Nick led the way to the rectory door and rang the bell. He was admitted by Mrs. Soule, to whom he introduced Patsy and himself, and whom he found to be an elderly, gracious woman of sixty, burdened with anxiety concerning the missing rector and eager to do all in her power to aid the detectives.
But she could add nothing to what she already had told Harriet Farley, as imparted to Nick, nor give the latter the slightest clew to the mystery. She could describe the rector’s veiled visitor only as a woman of about Kate Crandall’s height and figure, and had not observed whether she was well or rather poorly clad. She stated that the woman had merely asked whether Mr. Maybrick was at home and would see a lady for a short time, and that the rector had received her in his library.
“Are you sure that she spoke of herself as a lady?” Nick inquired. “She did not say woman, did she?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Soule insisted. “I am positive that lady is the word she used.”
It was significant only in that Nick aimed to definitely learn, if possible, which of the two women suspected of having been spying outside bad had an interview with Maybrick, if either of the two.
A search in the rector’s desk, moreover, brought to light nothing explaining his absence, other than, the revolver case mentioned by Miss Farley.
A crayon portrait on an easel, however, showed Maybrick to be a splendidly built, striking type of man, with a strong, smoothly shaved face, a classic cast of features, and obviously a man of sterling character and extraordinary mental vigor.
Nick lingered only to direct Mrs. Soule to do nothing about the matter, but to answer inquiries by stating that Mr. Maybrick was away for a few days, and the two detectives then departed.
There was a look of increasing determination on Nick’s strong, clean-cut face, however, when they walked away and rounded a corner of St. Lawrence’s Church.
“I’m going to find that woman, Patsy, or lose a leg in the attempt,” he said bluntly.
“I’m with you, chief,” Patsy quickly declared.
“We’ll begin with getting Kate Crandall’s measure,” Nick added. “Miss Farley told me that she has an office in the business section. I will pay her a visit and see how she lines up.”
“Am I to go with you?”
“You are to remain outside,” said Nick. “I may decide not to expose my hand, which would be to our disadvantage if she really is responsible for Maybrick’s absence.”
“That’s right, too.”
“It may be necessary to shadow her, moreover, so you had better stick round outside and await my instructions. There will be something doing, I think, after I have interviewed this woman.”
CHAPTER 4
NICK CARTER’S RUSE
Two o’clock found Nick Carter at the door of an office on the second floor of the local bank building. He was reading the tenant’s sign on a polished brass plate: “Kate Crandall. Public Stenographer.”
Nick listened briefly, hearing nothing from within, and he then opened the door and entered.
The office was attractively furnished. A costly Persian rug covered the floor. Against one of the walls stood an expensive roll-top desk. On a stand near by were two typewriters. On a table in the middle of the office, covered with books and magazines, was a huge cut-glass jar, literally overflowing with magnificent roses.
Nick instantly noticed these costly furnishings, which were much too expensive for one who works for a living, and he drew a correct conclusion—that Kate Crandall had wealthy admirers, and that she had no scruples over accepting valuable tokens of their affection.
She was seated in an armchair near one of the lace-draped windows, absorbed in a magazine story when the detective entered.
She was a pronounced brunette, strikingly handsome, with regular features, a rich velvety complexion, languorous dark eyes, and full red lips, a face evincing a sensuous nature and a fiery temper. Her fine figure was a bit showily clad. Several costly diamonds adorned her shapely hands. One high-heeled French shoe and a bit of silk hosiery protruded from below her stylish blue skirt.
“Fly and fancy is right,” thought Nick, recalling Patsy’s prediction.
Looking up when he entered, Kate Crandall received him with a smile and laid aside her magazine.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, greeting him agreeably. “Take a seat.”
“You are Miss Crandall?” returned Nick inquiringly.
“Yes, sir,” said Kate, bowing.
“My name is Henderson,” said Nick, taking a chair. “Do I find you busy just now?”
“No, indeed, not at present. What can I do for you?”
“Not very much just now, Miss Crandall, but considerable later, providing your terms are satisfactory and my work agreeable to you,” Nick said suavely.
“I work entirely on a space basis.”
“That will suit me.”
“What is the character of the work, Mr. Henderson?”
“I am a writer of photo dramas for a leading New York moving-picture concern,” Nick glibly informed her. “I have a long contract with the firm and require the help of a competent stenographer to prepare my scenarios. The work is not difficult and will pay you well.”
“I will undertake it,” said Kate, nodding her finely poised head. “I can discontinue it if found distasteful.”
“Certainly.”
“When will you want me to begin?”
“Probably on Monday, when I will show you how I wish the work done and discuss other details with you.”
“That will be agreeable to me, Mr. Henderson,” said Kate unsuspiciously.
Nick had detected, up to that time, nothing beyond the points mentioned, but he had hit upon a ruse for evoking a self-betrayal from the woman, as may be inferred from his artful pretensions.
“I will see you here Monday morning, then,” said he, apparently about to go. But he immediately added, as if hit with an idea: “Before leaving, by the way, I will employ you to write a letter for me to my firm, whom I wish to inform of my intentions. Will you take it in shorthand, or——”
“I will typewrite it from your dictation?” Miss Crandall interposed, taking a seat at one of the typewriters and deftly adjusting a sheet of blank paper. “Shall I date it from here, Mr. Henderson?”
“If you please,” said Nick.
Click—click—click—click!
Miss Crandall’s tapering fingers moved swiftly over the keys. Nick saw at a glance that she was an expert. He moved his chair near the end of the table, to a position enabling him to watch her face.
“All ready, Mr. Henderson.”
She glanced at him and smiled a bit oddly.
Nick began to dictate:
“Klein & Coster, Eccles Building, New York.”
Click—click—click—clickerty—click!
“Dear sirs.”
Click—click—clickerty—click—click!
Nick continued, amid continuing clicking:
“I have today made arrangements with a competent stenographer and will set to work upon the series of dramas we were discussing yesterday. You may expect a scenario of the first one early next week. I think you will prefer for a starter the sensational detective drama I mentioned to you, featuring the peerless American sleuth, Nick Carter. The story of the drama relates to the mysterious disappearance of a parish priest, who, in spite of his religious vows, falls desperately in love with a very wealthy and beautiful girl, who——”
The clicking suddenly stopped.
Kate Crandall’s deft hands had gone wrong. She had struck several wrong keys. She reached for an eraser, saying quickly:
“One moment, please.”
Nick saw that she was turning pale. Her arching dark brows had knit perceptibly.
“Certainty,” he said, suavely.
Kate erased the misprinted letters and readjusted the traveler. She then gazed steadily at the detective for a moment, as if fain to read his mind, and she then said tersely:
“Continue.”
Nick went on without a change of countenance, quite as if there had been no interruption.
“The wealthy and beautiful girl, deeply in love with the parish priest, permits him to renounce his vows and pledges her hand to him in marriage.”
Click—click—clickerty—click!
The shapely, swiftly moving hands of the stenographer were unsteady, were trembling visibly.
“It appears, however, that another woman suspects the intentions of the parish priest, a woman involved with him in a way ultimately revealed in the drama, and she subjects him to a secret espionage, which leads to a crime——”
The clicking stopped short again.
A crimson flood imbued Kate Crandall’s cheeks for a moment, then faded quickly, leaving her ghastly pale. She steadied herself with an effort. She reached up and removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter, tearing it quickly and tossing it into a wastebasket.
“Excuse me!” she said curtly, her dark eyes turning upon Nick with a fiery glance. “I have decided, Mr. Henderson, that I will not take your work. Do not call here again, sir. Good day.”
She arose while speaking, then turned quickly and gazed from the window.
“Dear me!” Nick exclaimed, with affected astonishment. “Why so, Miss Crandall? What is the meaning of this sudden change of mind?”
“I do not care to make any explanation,” she said sharply. “Attribute it to a whim, to caprice, or anything else that suits you.”
“But you must have a reason, some cause for——”
“The work would be distasteful,” snapped Kate, wheeling sharply around and facing him. “I shall not discuss the matter. That settles it.”
“On the contrary, Miss Crandall, it does nothing of the kind,” Nick now said, quite sternly. “This matter will be settled only when it is settled right. I know, without your informing me, the cause of the attitude you now have taken.”
“And I know without your informing me, sir, that you are not what you pretend you are,” Kate angrily retorted. “You are here with covert designs. I have nothing more to say to you. Leave my office.”
“Not until you have told me what you know about the disappearance of the Reverend Austin Maybrick,” Nick sternly rejoined.
“Disappearance of Mr. Maybrick?”
“That’s what I said.”
“He has disappeared, then?”
“You know that he has and that——”
The woman interrupted him with a derisive laugh.
“I know nothing of the kind,” she said curtly. “I neither know nor care anything about it. I——”
“You know, at least, what occurred in the rectory last evening,” Nick sharply interrupted. “You were spying outside of the library window at the time. You know——?”
“See here, Mr. Whatever-your-name-may-be!” Kate cut in defiantly. “Anything that I know I shall keep to myself. You are a detective—that’s what you are. But I’ll put you wise to one thing right off the reel. You haven’t got anything on me, nor can you get anything. You cannot persuade, frighten, nor intimidate me. I will tell you nothing, absolutely nothing, and you may go to thunder. Get out of my office, now, or I will call a policeman and have you ejected. That’s all. I’m done with you.”
Nick came to a quick decision. He saw plainly that the woman meant what she said and could not be turned then and there. He abruptly changed his course.
“Very well,” he replied. “It will not be necessary to call a policeman.”
Nick turned with the last and departed. He had directed Patsy to wait in a doorway on the opposite side of the street, in case he might want to signal him from Kate Crandall’s window.
Nick reasoned that she might watch from the window, and see him if he rejoined his waiting assistant.
He wrote a few lines in his notebook while descending the stairs, then tore out the leaf and folded it. As he walked briskly up the street a moment later, he caught Patsy’s eye and dropped the wad of paper on the sidewalk.
“Gee! there’s something doing,” thought Patsy. “He don’t want to be seen again with me. He has dropped me written instructions.”
Sauntering across the street, Patsy picked up the paper and read what Nick had written:
“Kate Crandall knows, but will not speak. Shadow her constantly until otherwise directed. Be governed by circumstances. I’m off for home. Phone me there of any discoveries.”
CHAPTER 5
PATSY TURNS CROOK
Patsy Garvan needed no instructions beyond those contained in Nick Carter’s note, nor additional information as to the position Kate Crandall had taken. It was plain enough to Patsy, and he shaped his course accordingly.
Knowing that the woman might incidentally have seen him from her window, and that she would recall him suspiciously if they met later, Patsy entered the corridor of a near building and put on a disguise with which he was provided. It by no means improved him, however, for it gave him a decidedly tough and hangdog appearance.
“It’s good enough for the work to be done,” he tersely soliloquized, not anticipating how effectively it was to serve him.
Returning to the street, Patsy found a concealment from which he could stealthily watch the door of the bank building, prepared to await the departure of Kate Crandall or size up any visitor she might receive. His vigil was not rewarded until five o’clock, when Kate came out and walked quickly up the street.
“Gee! she’s a peach, all right,” thought Patsy sententiously, who until then had had merely a glimpse at her through her office window. “She evidently has quit work for the day and is heading for home.”
