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- Herausgeber: Wildside Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The Third Nick Carter MEGAPACK® assembles 5 more classic mystery novels by the famous detective. Included this time are:
OUT OF DEATH’S SHADOW
A WOMAN AT BAY
WITH LINKS OF STEEL
CAPTAIN SPARKLE, PIRATE
THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S EVIDENCE
If you enjoy this installment in the MEGAPACK® series, search your favorite ebook store for "Wildside Press MEGAPACK" to see the 400+ additional entries in the series, covering not just mysteries, but science fiction, adventure, westerns, romance...and much, much more!
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Seitenzahl: 1263
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Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
OUT OF DEATH’S SHADOW
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
A WOMAN AT BAY
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
WITH LINKS OF STEEL
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CAPTAIN SPARKLE, PIRATE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S EVIDENCE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
The Third Nick Carter MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2021 by Wildside Press.
All rights reserved.
Published by Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
* * * *
The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC.
All rights reserved.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
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 1902 and 1907.
Enjoy!
—John Betancourt
Publisher, Wildside Press LLC
wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com
ABOUT THE SERIES
Over the last few years, 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].
OUT OF DEATH’S SHADOW
or, A Case Without a Precedent
Originally published in 1905.
CHAPTER I
A MAN WITHOUT A SECRET
On the shady veranda of an old-fashioned Southern house, on the outskirts of St. Louis, two men in the prime of life were enjoying their cigars one fine morning.
One, the younger, with a fair, full face and honest, gray eyes, after a long period of silence, said:
“Tomorrow will decide her fate, Nick. You have worked up a strong case against her, but I am afraid of the jury.”
“The jury is all right. We have seen to that, John. Conviction is certain. It has been an easy case for me.”
The woman to whose trial reference had been made had killed her husband, but the deed had not been witnessed, and it was due to Nick Carter’s efforts that a complete case for the prosecution had been made out.
“Murder is a secret of such awful weight,” said Nick, “that there are few men, to say nothing of women, who are able successfully to carry it.”
“It will out some time or other, eh?”
“In the majority of cases, yes. Of course, there are instances where the crime of taking human life has remained an unsolved and seemingly insoluble mystery, but such instances have, in my opinion, resulted either through a chain of accidents, impossible to foresee, or through the negligence or inefficiency of the officers of the law, whose duty it was to use all possible skill and diligence in arriving at the facts. In this woman’s case we have, I think, exercised all necessary skill and diligence. Tomorrow the end will come, and the next day I shall be on my way to New York.”
“You have been here but a week, Nick, and yet I feel as if I had known you a lifetime. When you introduced yourself as an old friend of my mother, I knew in a moment that I had myself found a friend, and one after my own heart.”
The young fellow’s earnestness and feeling warmed the cockles of the great detective’s heart. He liked John Dashwood and he took no pains to conceal the fact. A portly, well-groomed man of sixty, with a self-satisfied smile on his keen, smoothly shaven face, who had come out of the house and approached unperceived, now broke in with the remark:
“I’ll bet it’s a secret you are discussing.”
“What makes you think so?” asked John Dashwood quickly.
“The expression of your face. There is certainly something about the position of your lips, your eyes are slightly narrowed, your head is bowed in a suspicious manner, your—”
“Might we not have been exchanging simple confidences?” put in Nick, with a smile.
“Possibly. But confidences are secrets, you know.”
The speaker leaned against the railing in front of the two friends and regarded them benignly.
“We were not discussing secrets,” said Dashwood, as he threw back his head, though his manner was pleasant enough.
“No? Then you should have been, for all of us have our secrets.”
Dashwood shook his head. “You must except me, Mr. Leonard,” he said.
“What? A man without a secret? Come, now, Dashwood, you must be joking. I don’t assume, of course, that any secret you may have hidden in your breast is of a shady nature, but to say that your mind is an open book, that during your twenty-six years of life—twenty-six or twenty-seven, which is it?”
“Twenty-six.”
“That during your twenty-six years of life you have never had any experience which, for honorable reasons, you have thought best to keep to yourself, or have never been the recipient of another’s secret, equally honorable, but not proper for publication, is to stamp you as an exceptional man.”
Dashwood laughed.
“I am an exceptional man, then, for really I haven’t any secrets. But as for Mr. Carter, here,” turning and nodding in his friend’s direction, “he is nothing less than a walking mystery. He has to be, you know, for he is a detective.”
Mr. Leonard looked keenly at Nick Carter.
“How is it?” he asked, in a bantering tone. “Are you as Dashwood says, or is he mistaken, and are you to be placed with him in the category of unfledged innocents? Come now, out with the truth. Are you a man with a corroding secret, or are you not?”
“There are some matters of no concern to the general public,” replied Nick, rather coldly, “which I have found advisable to keep to myself. But”—with a smile—“they are honest ones, I assure you.”
“Would your enemies think so if they knew them?” queried Leonard provokingly.
“My enemies give me little concern.”
“Neither do mine, for I have none,” said John Dashwood proudly.
Gabriel Leonard lifted his eyebrows. Then he spoke rather cynically. “You are both to be congratulated. Dashwood, especially. A man without a secret and with not an enemy in the world! Your condition, I suppose, must be attributed to the very lucky circumstances that have hitherto surrounded your existence.”
Dashwood nodded. “I have been lucky, I know, and the greatest piece of luck that ever came in my way, Mr. Leonard, was when I made your daughter my wife.”
As he spoke, pride and satisfaction, strong and deep, were expressed in his honest countenance.
“Letty ought to have heard that pretty speech,” said Leonard lightly, though in his heart he was vastly pleased with his son-in-law’s appreciation of the treasure he had won.
Nick accompanied his friend up-town that morning and left him at a large building on Market Street, a few blocks from the Union Depot, with the understanding that they should dine together in the afternoon. John Dashwood was the manager of a manufacturing company of which Gabriel Leonard was the president. His parents were dead and he lived with his father-in-law, who was a widower.
The friends took dinner in an Olive Street restaurant. Dashwood’s brow was clouded throughout the meal.
“What’s the matter, John?” Nick asked. “Anything wrong in the office?”
“I hope not; but a good bit of money has come in lately, and the books do not show what they ought to show.”
“Did you find any pronounced irregularities?”
“I have found something that excites my suspicions, but I can’t make sure that there has been crooked work until I have gone over the books thoroughly and compared vouchers, and so forth. I shall work at them tonight, for I know I sha’n’t sleep a wink until I have matters straightened out. It’s lucky Letty is away on a visit to Chicago, or she would be terribly worried over the muddle.”
Nick looked grave.
“John,” he said earnestly, “there may be more in this than you have any idea of. What do you say? May I come round tonight and give you the benefit of my experience?”
“Yes. I shall be glad to have you. Come at, say, nine o’clock.”
“All right.”
It was six o’clock when they parted. At nine Nick went up the elevator to the floor upon which was located the office of the manufacturing company. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. He waited a moment and knocked again. Still no answer. By means of the keyhole he saw that there was no light in the office. Dashwood, then, was not there. Something must have happened, something out of the ordinary, to cause this punctiliously honorable young man to slight an appointment with a friend. The detective instantly attributed Dashwood’s absence to an alarming discovery made while examining the books and accounts of the firm. Perhaps he had gone home. In a saloon below, next door to the entrance, was a phone. Nick used it to call up Gabriel Leonard’s residence. The housekeeper answered. Neither Mr. Dashwood nor Mr. Leonard was at home. Didn’t know where either might be found. Had Mr. Carter gone out to the fair-grounds?
Nick left the phone troubled in mind. Leonard’s absence from home was indication that business of pressing importance had demanded his attention, for his rule, so the detective had been informed by Dashwood, was to remain at home every evening. He cared nothing for theaters or social divertisements, belonged to no club or secret order. The business of each day over, he betook himself to his suburban residence, there to find comfort and rest in his pipe and newspapers.
Nick went up to the counter and engaged in conversation with the barkeeper.
“How’s business this evening?”
“Rotten. Everybody is at the fair.”
“Gives you opportunity to get a breath of fresh air as compensation, though.”
“Yes, that’s so. I stood at the door from eight until eight-forty-five without a break.”
“Studying the people who passed?”
“In a way.”
“All sorts and conditions in town during the fair. Good chance for a novelist to make copy.”
“That’s right. Now, I saw something tonight that might give one of these fiction fellows a cue. A fact here and there is all they want. Imagination does the rest.”
“What did you see, if it is a fair question?”
“I saw a woman act in two scenes.”
“Monologue?”
“No, she had company, but she was the star. Great woman that. I know her name, but I’ve never spoken to her. Wish I did know her. I’d ask her what her little play tonight might mean.”
“Say,” said Nick, with an eagerness that was not assumed, but which was purposely allowed vent, “you are exciting my curiosity. What was her play? But first let’s smoke, unless you prefer liquid refreshment.”
“No, a cigar suits me.”
After each man had lighted his weed, the barkeeper began his story:
“I had been at the door not more than five minutes when my lady comes up and starts for the elevator. Her lips were shut tight, and she looked as if she had it in for some one and was going to call for a settlement. She was gone about three minutes, and then reappeared, in company with Luke Filbon, the bookkeeper and cashier of the manufacturing company. Filbon, who is a young geezer with not enough sense to last him overnight, appeared to be dippy with fright. They did not see me, for I was standing off the sidewalk, and so I got the full benefit of the scene without putting up a bean. The way that woman’s tongue lashed young Filbon was a caution to sinners. ‘You shouldn’t have waited so long,’ she said. ‘You should have taken it out when you left the office this afternoon. You are a poor, weak, pitiful fool. I want nothing more to do with you. If I had not more spunk than you have I’d cut my throat. Go. You’ve ruined everything. You have destroyed my chance, and you have destroyed your own. You’re fit for nothing but to wear stripes. Get out of my sight.’
“‘I’ll go home, get my revolver, and blow out my brains, that’s what I’ll do,’ Filbon said. ‘I thought you loved me, but it was the money you wanted, not me.’
“‘I wanted both, you fool,’ she retorted. ‘But go. I don’t care to talk further with you. I have no use for such timid cattle.’
“‘You will be sorry when you read the papers tomorrow morning,’ he said, and then away he went, leaving her standing on the sidewalk just outside the entrance to the elevator. For a few minutes she stood there. Then I heard her say: ‘It’s risky, but it has got to be done, for that old fool may, after all, fail to come to time.’ Bad habit that, talking to oneself, but I reckon she was so worked up that she didn’t realize what she was saying. I don’t know, of course, what she had made up her mind to do, and maybe she had no chance to carry it out, for just at that moment the elevator descended—it seemed the cage was at one of the upper floors all this time—and John Dashwood came out. The woman spoke to him first. I heard her plainly. ‘You had better look after Luke Filbon,’ she said, ‘for he’s liable to make a fool of himself tonight.’
“‘Where is he?’ Dashwood asked sharply.
“‘Gone home,’ she said.
“Dashwood thanked her, and then went down the street aways and took a car, the car that goes to Broadway. The woman watched him get on the car, and then hurried around the corner.”
The barkeeper paused.
“Is that all?” Nick asked.
“Not quite. Ten minutes passed, and a Laclede Avenue car stops at the corner and off gets Gabriel Leonard. He comes to the elevator entrance and goes up in the cage. Five minutes goes by, and down he comes, muttering something about there being the devil to pay. Off he goes on a car bound for Broadway. Gone to see Filbon.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I am a deducer,” answered the barkeeper, with a knowing air. “Luke Filbon lives on one of the little streets west of Broadway, near the southern limits of the city. The Broadway car lands within a couple of blocks of his home. That’s where Dashwood went tonight, and it’s ten to one that Leonard followed him.”
There was a city directory in the saloon, and when Nick had found Filbon’s address, he said quickly: “Your story has interested me. I think I will go out there myself. I know both Dashwood and Leonard, and I am curious to learn what is at the bottom of tonight’s business. Now, as to the woman. You said you know her name. What is it?”
“Madam Ree. She is a palmist, who has recently opened a joint on Chestnut Street.”
Madam Ree! Nick drew a deep breath. Madam Ree was the assumed name of Cora Reesey, who, as the accomplice of James Dorrant, had figured so conspicuously in a San Francisco case which, a short while before, had occupied the attention and had exhibited the wonderful skill of the great detective.1
This woman, handsome, fascinating, unscrupulous, with wits sharpened by the contest with Nick Carter, whose bitter enemy she had announced herself to be, because she had been thwarted in her attempt to win a fortune in diamonds, was now in St. Louis and mixed up in a mysterious affair in which Nick’s friend, John Dashwood, was in some way connected. What did it all mean?
1 See “In the Lap of Danger; or, The Bait That Failed to
Lure,” Magnet Library, 458.
CHAPTER II
THE FATE OF THE TRANSGRESSOR
At the time of Nick Carter’s meeting with Cora Reesey she was but a novice in crime, but the detective was convinced by a study of her character that she needed only experience to make her a dangerous foe. Foiled in her scheme to enrich herself at the expense of Roland Garrett, a fortunate member of San Francisco’s society, she had turned upon Nick Carter, the author of her defeat, and had venomously announced her intention to get even. Perhaps it had been her plan to try conclusions with the great detective in the city of New York, his headquarters, and, perhaps, the stay in St. Louis was meant to be but temporary and for the purpose of putting her in funds.
After arranging a disguise which completely concealed his identity, Nick boarded a car bound for Broadway, transferred to that long thoroughfare which runs parallel with and through the river district, and near the hour of eleven found himself in front of the door of Luke Filbon’s house. It was a small, one-story, brick structure, located but a short distance from the river and near a large grain-elevator. The house was in darkness, and all was silent within. Nick pressed the button by the side of the door, and soon was heard a weak, querulous voice from within.
“Who’s there?”
“Some one to see Mr. Filbon on important business. Is he at home?”
“No, and he won’t come tonight, I’m thinking. He said he had work to do at the office that would likely keep him until after midnight. I am his mother. I suppose you know.”
“I took it for granted that you were. Has any one been here to see him this evening?”
“Yes. John Dashwood was here about an hour ago.”
“No one else?”
“No. What’s the matter? Luke isn’t in any trouble, is he?”
There was maternal anxiety in the tone of the voice. Nick believed that evasion would be charity.
“I hope not,” he said. “Good night,” and he walked quickly away from the door before further and probably embarrassing questions could be asked.
The patrolman on the beat was found. He had seen two men go from Broadway toward the Filbon house between nine and ten o’clock. They were not together, but were fifteen minutes apart. He had not been near enough to observe them closely, but was satisfied from their build—they were both large men—that neither was Filbon, who was small and thin.
Perplexed and dissatisfied, the detective went to the river end of the street. There was a rotten wharf extending toward the big grain-elevator. It was short, and for a portion of its length the planking had been torn out.
The night was clear, with a half-moon, and Nick picked his way about the wharf, in the hope that he might find a clue to the night’s mysterious proceedings. There was a possibility that Luke Filbon, determined on suicide, had given up the idea of going home to secure the revolver—to take which action he would have to tell a story that would deceive his mother, and that would be no easy task—and instead had thrown himself into the Mississippi.
Nick, with his bull’s-eye, investigated the water space under the wharf without much hope of making a discovery. If death by drowning had been Filbon’s purpose, he would, in all probability, have jumped from the edge of the wharf into the river, and the swift current would have carried him far down-stream.
The water, muddy and but slightly disturbed, carried nothing upon its surface that was out of the ordinary. Nick moved to a point where he could get an outlook on the short section of bank beyond the water. He was rewarded by the sight of a human figure huddled up on the sloping bank of the levee a few feet from the water’s edge. The figure was that of a man, with head bowed, elbows on knees, and face in hands. As the light of the bull’s-eye was flashed upon him the man lifted his head with a start, but made no effort to arise. Nick believed that a way to get under the wharf would be found at the street abutment. Hastening over the planks, he soon discovered an opening, and quickly descended. The man was still there. He had not moved. Walking over to him, the detective saw a small, thin man of about twenty-five, with a haggard face and bloodshot eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked, in a surly tone. “I am minding my own business here.”
“I want your confidence,” said Nick kindly. “I am not your enemy. I may prove to be the best friend you ever had.”
The young man gazed stupidly at the detective, then lowered his head and said, in a voice broken with emotion: “No; I have no friends.”
“That remains to be seen, Mr. Luke Filbon.”
“My God! Do you know me?”
There was the ring of abject despair in the utterance.
“Yes, I know you now, if I did not know you before.”
For a few moments there was silence. Then Nick asked: “What do you fear?”
“If I ever see daylight, I fear the anger and vengeance of one man.”
“Gabriel Leonard?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“By putting two and two together.”
“Who are you?”
There was both fear and curiosity in the expression of Filbon’s face.
“I am a friend of John Dashwood, and he is one man among a thousand. That ought to satisfy you.”
Filbon groaned.
“Yes, yes,” he huskily replied. “I can guess who you are. You are Nick Carter, and that means—”
“It means,” was the detective’s quick interruption, “that you must tell the truth and that you need not fear me. I have talked with your mother, and I pity her son. Come, confide in me, for I believe you have been hounded into your present position.”
“I—I can’t tell you.”
Great drops of perspiration showed themselves on Filbon’s brow. Nick lighted a cigar.
“Let me help you a little,” he said easily. “You have been led into crime by a woman, and you are afraid that if you betray her your life will be attempted. Am I right?”
“You are not far wrong,” said the young man wearily.
“Now, if you can aid me in tightening the cords about this woman, will not that furnish protection for yourself? For how can you be harmed if the person you fear is in prison?”
Filbon shook his head, and then compressed his lips. He was now sorry that he had admitted anything, and he cursed his want of backbone. And he thought, bitterly: “If I hadn’t been a mean, spiritless wretch, I would never have got into this mess.”
Nick knew the nature he had to deal with. He said quietly: “Listen to me a moment, and maybe you will find it advisable to change your mind. You are the bookkeeper and cashier of the manufacturing company of which Gabriel Leonard is president and John Dashwood is manager. You have been stealing from the company. The crime would never have been committed but for the evil prompting of a wicked woman, who, protesting love for you, would have cast you aside the moment she received the money she urged you to steal. Tonight John Dashwood surprised your guilty secret. You had hidden the stolen money in the office, and you went there to get it, in pursuance of this woman’s order. You did not get it, or, if you did, it was taken from you. Dashwood allowed you to go. His heart overflows with charity and—and I presume he knows your mother. As you left the elevator you saw the woman. You told her that the scheme had failed. She reproached you, cast you off. You then announced your intention to go home, get a revolver, and blow out your brains. What induced you to reconsider that determination?”
Luke Filbon had listened to this clear exposition of his case in sheer amazement. “No need to keep silent longer,” he said, in a husky voice. “I’ll tell you all.”
But he did not at once begin his story.
For some time he sat without speaking, his eyes on the water. What thoughts passed through his mind the detective never guessed until his account with Filbon had been closed.
“This woman,” he began, in a steady voice, “came to St. Louis a short time ago. I met her on the evening following her arrival here. It was at a Parisian beauty show, which has since been interdicted by the police. She was the star of the outfit, and my admiration seemed to please her. We had opportunity for a quiet confab, and she invited me to call upon her next day. I was fool enough to do so; and before I had been with her an hour she knew all about my affairs. I have never associated much with women of her class, and she exercised her powers of fascination so well that the next visit I promised to do all she wished me to do. I was infatuated, and when she painted in glowing colors a life abroad without work, a life that should be one long round of pleasure, I stood ready to furnish the means if such a thing were possible. She said we would require twenty thousand dollars, and proposed that I should steal that amount from the company. I could not see my way to the performance of such a thing. I told her that, though I was the cashier, there was never more than a few thousands in the safe on any one day, and that every afternoon, before the banks closed, the money in the safe was banked.
“She had thought of that, she said, and could suggest a way out of the difficulty. I could every day hold out something, say a few hundred dollars, as a rule, and more when the receipts should be unusually large, and cover up the shortage by falsifying the books. In this way the twenty thousand dollars could be withdrawn within thirty days. The plan seemed feasible, for I was fully trusted by Dashwood, and before the expiration of thirty days I had drawn out of the safe and secreted in the office twenty thousand dollars in bank-notes.”
“Of course, you did not take the numbers?”
“But I did. There was no reason for it. Force of habit, I suppose, made me put them down.”
“Did you keep the list?”
“Yes, and I have it with me. But it is of no importance, as you must see before I have finished my story. Yesterday afternoon I saw Madam Ree—that’s her name, and she took up the palmist business when the beauty show shut up shop—and told her the twenty thousand would be ready tonight. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was never more gracious. All the details of our contemplated trip to Europe were gone over, and when I left her she promised to meet me across the street from the office at seven-thirty o’clock tonight.
“At seven-fifteen I went to the office, and was surprised to see John Dashwood there, and at work on the books. This was suspicious, and I was all of a tremble lest he should discover one or more of my false entries. His first words told me that the game was up.
“‘Sit down,’ he said sternly. ‘I shall have something to say to you before long.’
“I waited in an agony of dread for nearly half an hour. Then Dashwood turned and faced me. ‘You have been taking the firm’s money, Filbon,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘Why have you done so? And what has become of it?’ I was so taken aback, so overwhelmed by the gravity of my position, that I could only stammer a few inarticulate words.
“‘Come,’ he said, ‘where is the money?’
“In an instant my brain cleared up.
“I knew what I must do.
“I would give him the money, then go home, get my pistol, and blow out my brains. Taking the notes from their hiding-place, I handed them to Dashwood, without a word.
“‘Very well,’ he said kindly. ‘Now, go home, get a good sleep, and come around in the morning and we’ll talk over this matter.’
“So saying, he turned his back on me, opened the safe, put the notes in a box, and then relocked the safe. Before he looked up again I was gone. Down-stairs I met Madam Ree. She had become impatient over my delay, and was beside herself with rage. When I told her what had happened she lost all control of herself. While she upbraided me, the scales fell from my eyes. I saw that I had been tricked, that the woman cared nothing for me, had been using me as a tool to enrich herself. I left her resolved to end my life. I went down the street, intending to take the first car for Broadway that came along. But the thought of showing my telltale face to any of the passengers so distressed me that I gave up the idea of riding and determined to walk the distance. I went down to Washington Street and from Washington Street to Seventh, and so on out to my home. But I did not enter the house. I knew I could not meet my mother’s eye”—here great sobs shook his frame—“I knew I could not invent a story that would be likely to allay her suspicions. No, if I wished to die, I must try some other way. I came down here to think over the matter. That’s all.”
“Did you see any one on the wharf or in its vicinity as you came down?”
“No.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I had been here about half an hour before you came.”
Nick regarded the young man thoughtfully. “You have made a serious mistake,” he said slowly, but not unkindly, “but there’s hope for you. Your nature is not a vicious one. I can’t give you positive assurance, but my opinion is that you will not be prosecuted for what you have done.”
“You don’t know Gabriel Leonard,” was the reply, given in a hopeless tone. “He is hard, hard as nails. I know him. And there is my mother. Even if I escape prosecution, I must lose my place. She will discover the truth. I could not lie to her.”
“You should have thought of your mother before,” said the detective coldly.
“I know it, I know it, and I’m lost, lost! Go away. Leave me to myself for a minute. Let me consider. Oh, my poor brain!”
The spectacle of Filbon’s anguish was not a pleasant one, and Nick moved a few paces away. But he kept his eyes on Filbon, who, rocking his body and sobbing violently, seemed to be in the lowest depths of despair. Suddenly, with a wild laugh, he straightened up. “I have settled it,” he almost shouted. “It’s all right now.”
Nick rushed forward, seized him by the arm, and let the lantern’s light fall full upon his face. What he saw filled him with dismay.
“What have you done?” he demanded harshly.
“Got the stuff at a drug-store coming down here,” was the answer, given with chattering teeth. “Fooled you, didn’t I? Ha! ha!”—the laugh quickly ceased, the face grew ashen, the form stiffened, there was a sharp rattle in the throat, and Nick, dropping his bull’s-eye, caught the body as it was falling forward. Luke Filbon, weak instrument of a woman’s wicked cupidity, was dead.
A small phial on the ground by the side of the body told the story of the fatal agency. It had contained prussic acid, one of the deadliest and quickest-acting poisons known to the pharmacopœia. It had been procured that evening at a Broadway drug-store, for the label was there, and there were the death’s head and cross-bones below the word “Poison.” By what representations had he obtained the poison? A visit to the drug-store would furnish the explanation.
The detective was about to leave the spot, when a sudden thought caused him to stay his steps. In Filbon’s pocket was the list of bank-notes which he had stolen and replaced. The peculiar happenings of the night contained mysterious suggestions. The list, apparently without value, might become useful. No harm in obtaining possession of it. It was found and placed in Nick’s pocketbook. Now the detective hurried away to find a patrolman, state what had been discovered, and have the nearest police-station notified.
When this duty had been performed, Nick went to the drug-store where the prussic acid had been purchased. He had left the phial where he had found it, for it bore evidence that would, at the coroner’s inquest, in connection with an analysis of the contents of the dead man’s stomach, absolutely determine the cause of death.
It was an all-night drug-store, and the one clerk readily gave the information desired. He had known Filbon as a customer for many years, and the poison had been sold upon the representation that it was to be used for the asthma, with which Filbon’s mother was afflicted. “Diluted with water, it is often used by asthmatics,” said the clerk, “as it gives quick relief.” When informed that the poison had been used for quite a different purpose, the clerk was horrified.
Nick Carter could do no more that night. He sought his room in Jefferson Avenue, but was an early riser. At nine o’clock next morning he called at the office of the manufacturing company. It was closed. He went away, returning at ten o’clock. In response to his knock, the door was opened by Gabriel Leonard. His face was pale, and there were dark circles about his eyes. He did not greet the detective with his usual heartiness.
“Where is Dashwood?” was Nick’s first question.
“I don’t know,” was the answer, in a half-angry manner.
“Didn’t Dashwood go home last night?”
“No. I haven’t seen him since early yesterday afternoon.”
Leonard passed a trembling hand over his forehead, met Nick’s frowning gaze for an instant, and then his eyes sought the floor.
CHAPTER III
MYSTERY WITHIN MYSTERY
Nick Carter, while a visitor at the house of Gabriel Leonard, had a fair opportunity for studying the man. The result did not leave a favorable impression. Leonard’s cynicism, his occasional exhibition of a plastic conscience, his at times brutal way of putting things, repelled friendship. Still he might be like many business men engaged in large enterprises, case-hardened in respect of the nicer notions of morality, and yet possessed of no really vicious instincts. But Nick, in looking at Leonard now, was not certain whether his former deductions had not been too favorable. The manufacturer was uneasy in mind, had shifted his gaze as if he were afraid to look an honest man squarely in the face. What did this strange absence of John Dashwood mean? And had Leonard any connection with it?
Nick closed the door, and deliberately took a seat. Leonard, still at ease, paced the floor.
“I suppose you made an unfortunate discovery last night,” said Nick tentatively.
“I”—giving the detective one sharp glance and then letting his eyes fall again—“I made a discovery, certainly. But how did you learn of it?”
“From Luke Filbon, whose death, by suicide, is the feature of the local news in this morning’s papers.”
“You saw him before he died?” asked Leonard eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps he told you where he had secreted the stolen money?”
The detective stared at the manufacturer.
“Am I to infer,” he said, rather sharply, “that you did not find the money in the safe, where it had been placed by John Dashwood?”
“The money was not in the safe,” said Leonard.
Tone and manner indicated that he was speaking the truth. This was an astonishing statement. A terrible suspicion entered the mind of the detective.
“No money in the safe,” he said, looking fixedly at the manufacturer, who had pulled himself together and had his head raised almost defiantly, “and how do you account for its absence?”
“Ask me something easy.”
“Was the safe locked when you came in this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And was the safe locked when you visited the office last night?”
Leonard started violently.
“How do you know I was here last night?” he asked, in a voice which shook slightly, in spite of his efforts at control.
“I know, and that’s enough. As you were here, in your own office, as you had a right to be, why should you try to conceal that fact?”
“I haven’t been trying to conceal it.” His manner was now offensive. “I would ask you to moderate your tone a little. What right have you to pry into my personal affairs? I admit your friendship for John Dashwood, but it must not carry you to the length of insulting me.”
Nick smiled inwardly. He was succeeding in drawing Leonard out. When the manufacturer’s period of agitation should have passed, when affairs in some measure should have settled into a normal condition and he should again become the cool, self-contained man of business, the effort to obtain information might prove difficult.
“I spoke as a detective,” replied Nick smoothly, “and with no intention of insulting you. This is a grave matter. Luke Filbon is dead. John Dashwood has disappeared. I shall not leave St. Louis until the mystery of last night’s work has been cleared up. I expect to have your assistance. Of course, you will give it?”
“Of course, of course,” returned Leonard, in a mollified tone, though his uneasiness had not disappeared.
“Then please answer such questions as I shall put to you. To begin, did you open the safe when you were here last night?”
“No, I did not,” said Leonard, quickly and positively.
“But, of course, you discovered that the money—twenty thousand dollars—had been stolen?”
“Not the amount—I did not know the amount—the books were open on the desk—some entries were marked—and a few minutes’ inspection showed me that I had been robbed.”
“What did you do when you made the discovery, Mr. Leonard?” asked Nick quietly.
“I started for Filbon’s house.”
“Did you go there?”
“No. I passed the house, saw no light, and, having in mind the nervous condition of Mrs. Filbon—she is old and frail—I determined to let the matter go over until today.”
“Did you return home by car?”
“No. I was excited over the discovery, and I wanted to quiet my nerves. I walked home.”
“It was a long walk for you.”
“It was.”
“Your place is near Forest Park, southwest of the Filbon place. Why did you go east, toward the river, instead of west, toward the King’s Highway, which would have taken you near your home?”
“What do you mean?” Leonard’s surprise was genuine.
But was not fear mingled with the surprise? Nick’s penetrating gaze tried to answer the question.
“I have been informed that a man of your build passed Filbon’s house last night going not toward Broadway, but away from it.”
Such had been the account given by the patrolman.
Leonard appeared relieved by the statement. “The man may have resembled me in build,” he said. “Probably there are thousands in this city who do, but, all the same, I was not the man.”
“How do you account for Dashwood’s absence?” said Nick, after a pause.
Leonard did not answer for a moment. He stroked his chin and frowned. When he spoke it was with a curious hesitancy.
“I hate to say it,” he said, with a furtive glance at the detective’s face, “but I can account for it only in one way. Dashwood has taken the money and made off with it.”
“It’s not so,” said Nick, with a warmth that caused Leonard’s cheeks to flush. “He is no thief. You—you cannot mean this, Mr. Leonard.”
“Better men than he have fallen from grace,” was the dogged response. “He might have been speculating and—”
“Not another word,” interrupted Nick. “I won’t hear it.”
Leonard shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“Friendship is a fine thing,” he said, with a half-sneer. “It knows no medium. It’s all or nothing. Well,” with a patronizing smile that made Nick grit his teeth, “I can’t blame you for sticking up for John. He is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, and if he has taken a wrong step I shall be deeply grieved.”
A police officer entered before another word could be said. He had a summons for Leonard to appear at the coroner’s inquest in the matter of Luke Filbon’s death. “One o’clock,” said the manufacturer, glancing at the paper. “I will have time to go home and get an early lunch. I will see you again, Mr. Carter.”
Nick took the suggestion that he should leave, but once on the sidewalk he hastened to the nearest telegraph-station and wired Chick, his brave and shrewd assistant, to come at once. This done, the detective went to the apartments of Madame Ree, on Chestnut Street. The sign had been taken down and the rooms were closed. From the janitress Nick learned that Madame Ree had left St. Louis, giving no hint as to her destination.
“When did she leave?”
“Last night. She gave up her rooms about eight o’clock.”
“Who hauled her luggage? Do you know?”
“She didn’t have any luggage.”
“What? Didn’t she sleep in this building?”
“No.”
“Where did she lodge?”
“I don’t know.”
“While she was here did she have many visitors?”
“No. Business was poor. That’s why she gave it up, I guess.”
“Do you know Gabriel Leonard, the manufacturer?”
“Can’t say as I do. I have been in the city but a few months.”
Nick described Leonard, and asked if such a man had ever visited Madame Ree. The janitress’ face brightened.
“Yes. A man of that look and build was here several times.”
“Did Madame Ree ever speak to you about him?”
“Yes. I was going by her reception-room the other day, when he came out. His face was as long as the moral law. As he went down the stairs, Madame Ree turned to me and winked. ‘That’s an old fool,’ she said contemptuously, ‘and I’ve got him on a string. He’s going to make me rich.’ I tried to pump her, but she wouldn’t say anything more.”
“What did she say when she left yesterday?”
“Not very much. She said she was tired of St. Louis and that she was about to leave it for good. The next morning would see her on the way to another city.”
“Was she in good spirits?”
“Indeed she was. She was as happy as a lark.”
The janitress permitted Nick to see the rooms which Madame Ree had vacated, but there was nothing to denote that she had ever occupied them.
In a brown study, Nick left the place and walked from Chestnut Street to Market. Presently his eye brightened and his lips tightened. Ideas, at first confused, were taking definite shape. There was a riddle to solve, and his acute brain had evolved what might prove to be a start toward the solution. With a determined mien, he ascended the elevator of the factory building and was soon before the door of the office.
The corridor was clear, there was no one about. With his picklock he opened the door, passed in, shut the door, and then proceeded to take a close survey of the office. Between the two front windows was a large roller-top desk. Against one of the narrow sides of the room was the safe. Opposite, against the other narrow side, was a small desk, used by Dashwood. By the side of the safe was a door opening into the president’s private apartment. It was partly open, and Nick went in. Nothing there except a desk, a closet, and a few chairs. After a thorough inspection, the detective returned to the main office. Here the clean floor and the absence of dust denoted that the janitor had performed his usual work that morning. There was a waste-basket for each desk. The one by the small desk was empty; the other, by the large desk, contained a few torn scraps of paper. Nick took them up one by one, saw that they were all from envelopes and printed circulars and catchpenny advertisements, and threw them back into the basket.
The great detective now took a position near the door and fronting the large desk, and tried to put himself in the place of Gabriel Leonard, at the time of his visit to the office the night before, a visit which had resulted in the discovery of Filbon’s dishonesty.
“He came up for an important purpose,” ran the detective’s thought, “for he sticks so close at home evenings that nothing short of important business could have called him out. Was it a suspicion of Filbon’s crookedness? Or was it a purely personal matter having no relation to the books of the company? Impossible, at this moment, to say, unless—unless the remarks of Madame Ree, overheard by the saloon man down-stairs, had reference to Gabriel Leonard. She said: ‘It’s risky, but it has got to be done, for that old fool may after all fail to come.’
“She then started for the elevator to do that which she had declared had got to be done.
“What was that?
“Evidently to assault, perhaps kill John Dashwood and secure the twenty thousand dollars, which he had forced Luke Filbon to give up. The sudden appearance of Dashwood, coming down the elevator, prevented the carrying out of this murderous scheme. Dashwood took a car; she did not do so. Where she went, what she did, are matters which may be considered later on. What is requisite now to know is: Are she and Leonard the possessors of some secret; is Leonard in her power, and did she mean Leonard when she said ‘the old fool may after all fail to come to time’?
“The story told by the janitress shows that she and Leonard are acquainted, and it shows also that she has some hold on the manufacturer. Her words spoken to the janitress imply as much, the demeanor of Leonard, when he left her room a few days ago, supports the implication. Therefore, in attempting to probe the mystery of last night’s doings, I must consider Madame Ree. She is mixed up in this strange affair, as well as Gabriel Leonard and John Dashwood, but as she has probably left the city in accordance with her announcement, there is not much chance of obtaining any information through her agency.
“If Gabriel Leonard came up here last night,” Nick’s reflections ran on, “having no suspicion that he had been robbed by Filbon, and for the purpose of acting in accordance with some arrangement made with Madame Ree, it probably had relation to a matter of money. He may have wanted to obtain the money in the safe, money received after banking-hours. Perhaps the sum may have been a respectable one. He says the books were open upon the desk—and that means that the desk was open, showing that Dashwood had left in a hurry—and that from certain marked entries he discovered that Filbon had been robbing him. In that respect he may have spoken the truth. I am inclined to think he did. But he says further that he did not open the safe. He may not have done so, he may have found something which put the idea of opening the safe out of his head. Leonard was terribly upset this morning. There was something weighty on his mind, the nature of which he did not see fit to reveal to me. I obtained only a part of his story. The suppressed part holds a secret that may prove to be of terrible significance. If John Dashwood does not turn up today, the work upon which I have entered must include a rigid investigation of the case of Mr. Leonard.
“Now for his movements last night. He came here to get something, money, let me say. He saw the open desk and the books upon it. Did he see anything else? He says he did not learn from the marked entries how much money Filbon had stolen, yet he did not exhibit either surprise or concern when I told him that the amount was twenty thousand dollars. Now, twenty thousand dollars is not a small amount of money. Leonard is not so well off, in a pecuniary sense, as to be able to consider twenty thousand a bagatelle. His unconcern, not assumed, for I was watching him closely, is evidence to me that he knew the amount Filbon had filched. And if he knew it the knowledge must have come to him when he visited the office last night. How did he learn it? Not from going over the books, for he did not remain, according to the barkeeper’s story, more than five minutes in the office. When he came down he was greatly agitated, and the barkeeper heard him mutter something about there being the devil to pay. What must I infer from this remark, from his state of mind?
“One thing, and one thing only: He had learned, without opening the safe, that Filbon had returned the money, and that John Dashwood had gone off with it. And why did Dashwood take the money with him? I can imagine a good reason, but first I must endeavor to discover what it was that gave Leonard his information. A note from Dashwood, of course, and that note was on the desk, probably lying upon one of the books. What became of it? Did Leonard tear it up, or did he put it in his pocket? The fact that he has lied to me shows that he wishes to conceal his knowledge of the note’s contents. What would be the action of a man, agitated, confused, beset by troubles, some of which I think I can divine, others of which I can only guess at, upon reading the note which John Dashwood, under last night’s conditions, would write?
“Common sense would not prevail, for common sense would suggest the pocketing of the note and its destruction, if destruction should be deemed necessary, afterward, and in a spot where the fragments would not be found. My judgment is that he tore it into bits here in this room. But the bits did not go into the waste-basket, for I have examined it. They were not likely thrown on the floor. Where could they have been thrown?”
Nick’s eyes were glued on the large roller-top desk. The open floor space in the middle had not a speck upon it. The back showed the wall-paper and baseboard. The drawer sides of the desk concealed the wall back of them. Nick stepped to the desk and rolled it away from the wall. If the janitor had done his full duty that morning he would find nothing. But the janitor had been amiss, for, partly on the rim of the baseboard and partly on the floor, on one side back of one of the sets of drawers, were torn bits of paper.
The detective quickly gathered the bits, placed them in his pocketbook, and then left the office. Before attempting to make a sequential arrangement of the bits, upon which writing had been observed, Nick went to the office of the chief of police in the Four Courts, on Clark Avenue. He had not given his name to the patrolman on the night before, when announcing his discovery of the suicide of Luke Filbon, but had simply said that he was a friend of the chief and would report to that official in the morning. The patrolman was a new hand, and the quiet, authoritative manner of the great detective had its effect. Besides, he was excited over the announcement Nick had made, and was off for the nearest signal-box as soon as Nick had finished his statement.
When the detective entered the office he found the chief in earnest conversation with the chief of detectives, and he was heartily greeted by each of them. In a few words Nick stated that, while looking for John Dashwood, he had come upon Luke Filbon, just before the taking of the dose of poison.
“Now,” he said, “I do not wish to appear as a witness at the inquest, for reasons which any detective officer will appreciate. My presence in St. Louis is known to but few people. I do not wish to announce the fact to the whole city. Leonard will give the reason for the suicide, the bottle of poison and the autopsy report will show the cause of the death. My evidence would be simply cumulative.”
“Leonard has been here,” said the chief, “and has told us about the robbery. We can get along without you, Nick.”
“Thank you, chief. And—did Leonard say anything about Dashwood?”
“He said he was missing, but he hoped he would show up before night. We were discussing the Dashwood matter when you came in. I don’t like the looks of things. Dashwood is a sober, honest, clear-headed man of business. He would never leave town without notifying somebody, Leonard or Mrs. Dashwood.”
“Mrs. Dashwood is out of town.”
“Leonard, then. And, as he did not notify Leonard, I believe there has been foul play.”
Nick was of the same opinion, but for hours he had hoped that something—preferably the appearance of Dashwood himself—might cause him to change it.
“Dashwood is my friend—I shall speak of him as alive, for I will not believe him dead until I see his dead body—and I shall remain here until the mystery of his disappearance has been solved.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” said the chief, with pronounced satisfaction. “Take the case, and we will assist you.”
A long consultation followed. When it was over Nick went to his room and proceeded without loss of time to put together the pieces of paper he had picked up in Leonard’s office. The work was laborious, but it was at last completed. The paper was, as Nick had surmised, a note from Dashwood, written the evening before, and it told a story which stamped Gabriel Leonard as a liar. This is what the note said:
“Dear Mr. Leonard:
“This evening I discovered that Luke Filbon, by falsifying the books, was enabled to steal twenty thousand dollars from the company. Filbon came in just as I had finished my examination of the books, and not only confessed, but restored the money, which he had secreted in his desk. Before he left, I allowed him to go on his promise to return in the morning for an understanding—I placed the money, all in notes, in the safe, but immediately afterward withdrew them, fearing that Filbon might return and repossess them. I might have changed the combination of the safe, but that would have taken time, and my nerves are not in good condition. Besides, I want to see Filbon again as soon as possible. I don’t think I did right in letting him go. Of course, you will see me in the morning, but in the possible event that I may be kept up all night, and, therefore, not reach home, and to make sure that you may understand matters when you come to the office, I have written this note.
“John Dashwood.”
There was a cloud on Nick’s brow when he had finished reading what Dashwood had written. He now feared the worst.
“Why did Gabriel Leonard keep silent regarding this note?” he said to himself. “And why did he give a false account of his movements after he left the office? Because, in his breast, he holds a guilty secret. I am satisfied that it was Leonard whom the patrolman saw going from Filbon’s house toward the river fifteen minutes after another man had gone in that same direction. Supposing that other man to have been John Dashwood, they might have met on the wharf, or near it. What happened when they did meet? If the river knows, the river may hold the secret forever. I must make another trip to that wharf. Last night was not a good time for an exhaustive investigation.”
After lunch Nick took a car, rode out Broadway, alighted at the street on which Mrs. Filbon lived, and walked down to the wharf. There were a few people near the approaches. They were discussing the suicide, and one of them dropped a remark which caused Nick to stop in his walk.
“Strange that his boat should have been stolen on the night of his death, isn’t it?”
“Looks queer, for a fact,” said another man. “The verdict will be suicide, of course, but I’m leery on that theory. Maybe the man that stole the boat poisoned Filbon first, gave him the stuff in a drink of whisky, and then planted the bottle by Filbon’s side.”
