Toying with fate E-Book

Nicholas Carter

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

“Move on, old man, and go home!”
It was the stern voice of one of New York’s finest policemen that uttered these words.
“Home! I wonder where it is?” muttered the old man to whom the policeman had spoken, and a shudder ran through his frame, as he slowly moved down the street.
As he reached the corner near old St. John’s Church, on Varick Street, he paused, rubbed his eyes and gazed dreamily around him.
For some time before the policeman had addressed him he had been standing inside the church, looking through the railings into the churchyard.
His form was bent by decrepitude and sorrow, and his hair was as white as the flaky snow that clung to the steeple of the old church, the bells of which had just sounded the knell of the dying year.

Leseprobe

TOYING WITH FATE;OR, Nick Carter’s Narrow Shave

BYNICHOLAS CARTER

Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures, which are published exclusively in the New Magnet Library, conceded to be among the best detective tales ever written.

1903

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834854

TOYING WITH FATE; OR, Nick Carter’s Narrow Shave

CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERIOUS OLD MAN.

CHAPTER II. SEARCHING FOR CLEWS.

CHAPTER III. THE IDENTIFICATION.

CHAPTER IV. A PECULIAR INTERVIEW.

CHAPTER V. AN IMPORTANT PACKAGE.

CHAPTER VI. THE THREAT.

CHAPTER VII. EAVESDROPPING.

CHAPTER VIII. A WOMAN SCORNED.

CHAPTER IX. MORE EVIDENCE.

CHAPTER X. LENA’S STORY.

CHAPTER XI. ACTING A PART.

CHAPTER XII. CAUGHT IN A TRAP.

CHAPTER XIII. BLACKMAIL.

CHAPTER XIV. TIGHTENING THE COILS.

CHAPTER XV. MURDER IN HELL’S KITCHEN.

CHAPTER XVI. THE MILLIONAIRE’S GUEST.

CHAPTER XVII. BACK TO THE RED SPOT.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE FATE OF A SPY.

CHAPTER XIX. THE KNOCK-OUT DROPS.

CHAPTER XX. AN INCORRUPTIBLE DETECTIVE.

CHAPTER XXI. THE CARD CLEW.

CHAPTER XXII. THE BIRD IN THE DEATH TRAP.

CHAPTER XXIII. CARTER AND HIS QUARRY.

CHAPTER XXIV. STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS.

CHAPTER XXV. A TERRIBLE COMPACT.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE DARK JAILERESS AGAIN.

CHAPTER XXVII. FOUND IN THE TIDE.

CHAPTER XXVIII. A FAIR FOE.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE BACK TRAIL.

CHAPTER XXX. THE MASTER DETECTIVE’S LITTLE GAME.

CHAPTER XXXI. IN MOTHER FLINTSTONE’S DEN AGAIN.

CHAPTER XXXII. MULBERRY BILLY’S “FIND.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE COST OF A SECRET.

CHAPTER XXXIV. BETWEEN THE WALLS OF DOOM.

CHAPTER XXXV. A COMPLETE KNOCK-OUT.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PARRICIDE.

CHAPTER XXXVII. CARTER’S ESCAPE.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. JUSTICE’S ROUND-UP.

TOYING WITH FATE.

CHAPTER I.THE MYSTERIOUS OLD MAN.

“Move on, old man, and go home!”

It was the stern voice of one of New York’s finest policemen that uttered these words.

“Home! I wonder where it is?” muttered the old man to whom the policeman had spoken, and a shudder ran through his frame, as he slowly moved down the street.

As he reached the corner near old St. John’s Church, on Varick Street, he paused, rubbed his eyes and gazed dreamily around him.

For some time before the policeman had addressed him he had been standing inside the church, looking through the railings into the churchyard.

His form was bent by decrepitude and sorrow, and his hair was as white as the flaky snow that clung to the steeple of the old church, the bells of which had just sounded the knell of the dying year.

The old man only halted on the corner for a minute, and then, crossing Beach Street, he shuffled along until he reached the center of the block, where he came to a standstill in front of an old-fashioned house, which was unoccupied.

Then, as if a faintness had come over him, he grasped the rusty iron railing to prevent himself falling to the ground, and he closed his eyes, as though the sight of the snow-covered houses was too much for him.

The policeman had followed him at a distance, and was watching him from where he was standing on the corner.

“Poor devil!” muttered the guardian of the peace, as he swung his nightstick back and forth. “I wonder who he is! He seems weak! Perhaps at one time he amounted to something. God save me from ever coming to his condition. I wonder why he stands so long in front of that old empty house, which has been closed for twenty years, to my knowledge! I’ll watch him a while, but I won’t molest him, poor devil!”

As the policeman concluded his soliloquy the old man straightened up and walked up to the door of the house, the old knocker on which he caught hold of and gave it a rap.

But suddenly, as if struck by some painful recollection, his hand fell to his side and he staggered back to the middle of the sidewalk.

“Strange,” the policeman ejaculated, noting this action. “Perhaps he lived there at one time.”

The old man looked up at the house, at which he gazed long and intently.

Then, suddenly arousing himself, he ambled back to the corner, stopping near the policeman. He looked confusedly around him, from the left to the right, and the policeman gazed at him closely, but spoke not a word. On his part, he did not seem to see the man in uniform. He stood bewildered, appearing not to know which way to turn.

“Why don’t you go home, old man?” the policeman asked, this time in a softened tone of voice.

“Home!” the old fellow ejaculated—his voice was like a wail, a heartbroken sob. “Home! where is it?”

“The Lord bless you, man, how can I tell you, if you can’t tell yourself?”

“Twenty years ago—twenty years behind darkened walls—and this——” He muttered the words in such a forlorn tone that the policeman stared at him.

“Your brain is turned, old gentleman.”

The old man laughed and looked up into his questioner’s face with a quizzical expression.

“My brain is clear, my friend,” he replied, in a clear, harsh tone. “I have come from a prison—the world is strangely altered since I was in it before.”

“In it before? Why, what do you mean? I suppose you will try and persuade me that you have been dead and have risen from the grave.”

“Figuratively speaking, I have—I have been dead to the world—in prison at Sing Sing. Mark me well—Sing Sing Prison—for twenty years—to-day I was released. See me now. I am old, decrepit, hardly able to walk. Once I stood erect, my hair was as black as the raven’s wing, and now—look at me, a wreck without home or friends. Wife, children, all gone! I have never seen nor heard of them since the day I was taken out of yonder house a prisoner, by the unjust, hard, and cruel decree of a so-called court of justice. Twenty years! A prisoner, buried alive, as it were.”

“You had committed a crime?”

“No. I was innocent, but powerful conspirators plotted against me—the evidence was perjured—and I—I—was entombed.”

“You say you lived in yonder house twenty years ago?”

“Yes, and no man carried his head higher than I did. I was rich—but bah! what is the use of rehearsing those things to a stranger! Hardened as you are by association with crime, you would not believe my story. You would think that I was romancing. Things have sadly changed in this neighborhood.”

“You may bet they have.”

“Once all these houses were occupied by rich people, but to-day they are the abodes of the poor and the outcast.”

“What is your name?”

“My name! It matters not. Good night.”

“Well, well, keep your secret, old man. God bless you, and may this new year bring you happiness.”

“Happiness! I shall never know that again. Good night, again.”

He moved off slowly, and the policeman watched him until he turned the corner into West Broadway, when he proceeded to patrol his beat.

As the policeman moved away, a dark form came out of a near-by doorway and hurried around the corner.

The man was tall, he wore a long ulster with the collar turned up around his neck, and a slouch hat was pulled down over his eyes. He followed closely in the old man’s trail.

The old man halted several times, and as he did so his form seemed to lose its decrepitude. As the light from the street lamps shone upon his face it could be seen that his eyes glared like two living coals; he threw his hand aloft, and so fierce and startling was the action that the man who was following him halted and shrank back for an instant, as if he had been struck.

“Vengeance!” the old man hissed, and then he started on again.

The street was deserted, save by the old man and the man who was following him.

The former walked on, looking up at the tall warehouses and store buildings, muttering to himself.

More than once he put his hand up to his head and gazed about in a bewildered manner.

His limbs shook under him, for a long time had passed since they had been used to such exertion.

The fresh air came so strangely upon him that he panted for breath.

Suddenly he halted in front of an old-fashioned three-story brick building near Chambers Street. A beacon-shaped red lamp was burning over the doorway, and upon the front pane of glass was painted:

THE RED DRAGON INN. Established by William Sill—1776.

It was an old landmark in the neighborhood, and it had always been a hostelry. In revolutionary times it was a post roadhouse, and was famous as the headquarters of many of the British officers. During later days it became the resort, at the noonday hour, of many of New York’s most staid and solid merchants, whose places of business were in the vicinity.

At this time the ground floor was occupied by a man who ran a saloon and restaurant, and who rented out the upstairs rooms to transient lodgers. No improvements had been made about the place, and it stood just as it did when it was conducted by its original owner.

As the old man paused in front of the inn the sound of voices and the clinking of glasses came from within. He walked up to the door and opened it. Then he stepped into the saloon, staggered up to the bar and, in a low tone, ordered a glass of toddy, which was supplied to him.

A number of men were seated at the tables, drinking, and none of them paid any attention to the newcomer, who drank his toddy while standing and leaning against the bar.

The old man placed his empty glass back upon the counter, and facing the bartender, said:

“I want a room for the night.”

“There is only one empty,” the bartender replied. “It is in the attic.”

“That will answer my purpose.”

“It will cost you one dollar.”

The old man drew a purse out of his pocket, took out the amount, and handed it to the bartender, who asked:

“Do you want to retire now?”

“I do,” the old man answered.

“I will show you the way up.”

“It won’t be necessary. I am familiar with every room in the house. Many a time I have stopped here in other days. If you will tell me which room I am to occupy, I will go up to it.”

“The second room in the back part of the attic on the left of the stairway is the one. You will find a lamp on a table in the hall on the second floor.”

“All right.”

The old man left the room, while the bartender gazed after him with curiosity. He climbed the stairway and reached the second floor, where he found the lamp, and then proceeded upstairs to the attic room.

An hour after he retired, the house was silent, all the midnight revelers having gone home, and the bartender having closed up the saloon.

New Year’s Day dawned bright and clear.

The proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn opened the barroom, and at nine o’clock the bartender came downstairs.

For a time the two men stood talking.

There were no customers in the place.

At last the bartender asked the proprietor if he had seen anything of the strange old man who had come in after midnight.

The proprietor said that the old man had not appeared.

“Did he request you to call him?” he inquired.

“No,” the bartender answered. “Shall I go up and ask him if he wants breakfast?”

“Yes.”

The bartender ascended to the attic.

The door of the room which the old man had been assigned to stood ajar.

The man knocked, but there was no answer. He pounded again and shouted. Still no answer. Finally the man pushed the door open. A terrible sight met his gaze. Stretched out upon the bed he beheld the old man, with his throat cut from ear to ear. His hands were folded across his breast, and he was covered by the coverlet of the bed. Evidently there had been no struggle.

The bartender uttered a cry of alarm, but he did not enter the room.

As soon as he recovered from his surprise he dashed off downstairs, crying “Murder!” at the top of his voice.

Instantly the house was aroused, and in a short time a great crowd congregated in the street in front of the door.

CHAPTER II.SEARCHING FOR CLEWS.

Early on New Year’s morning Nicholas Carter, the famous detective, arrived in Jersey City on a train from Chicago, where he had been investigating a diamond case, which he had closed up successfully.

Danny, his chauffeur, met him at the station, with his powerful touring car; and in a few minutes they were crossing the Hudson River on the downtown ferry over to Chambers Street.

They had just landed and were beginning to get headway along that thoroughfare, when their attention was attracted by a loud commotion in the street.

Leaning over, Carter beheld the crowd congregating in front of the Red Dragon Inn, which was almost opposite. He heard the cries of murder.

Instantly the veteran’s energies were aroused. He forgot all about his not having had breakfast, and springing out, he pushed his way through the crowd and entered the barroom of the Red Dragon Inn.

There he found the proprietor pacing up and down in a state of nervous excitement.

A policeman was also there, and to him Nick applied for information.

“I can’t make head nor tail of it,” the policeman replied to Carter’s inquiry. “I’ve sent word to the police station, Mr. Carter, and I am expecting the captain every minute.”

“Have you been upstairs?”

“No, sir. I thought it best to wait until the captain arrived.”

“Where is the bartender?”

“Standing over there,” and the policeman pointed to the man, who was leaning against the bar.

Carter stepped up to the bartender and asked:

“What is your name?”

“George Terry,” the bartender answered.

“How long have you been employed here?”

“Three years.”

“I believe you discovered the murder?”

“I did, sir.”

“At what time?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you know the man?”

“No, sir, he is a stranger to me.”

“What is his name?”

“I forgot to ask him.”

“Don’t you keep a register?”

“No, sir.”

“What time did the man arrive?”

“Shortly after midnight.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell me all about your conversation with him.”

“As I said, he came in here shortly after midnight. He seemed weak and exhausted as he slipped up to the bar. He requested me to make him a hot toddy, which I did.

“After he had finished his drink he asked me if I could let him have a room for the night, and I told him that the attic room was vacant and he could have that. He paid the price out of a well-filled purse.

“I offered to conduct him up to the room, Mr. Carter, but he said it would not be necessary, because he was familiar with the house, he having stopped here on various occasions twenty years ago. He left the room, and that was the last I saw of him until I discovered his murdered body, when I went up to the attic to call him and opened the door of the room he occupied.”

“You heard him say he had stopped here on various occasions twenty years ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the proprietor’s name?”

“Henry Lancaster.”

“How long has he conducted this place?”

“Ten years.”

“Do you know the name of the man from whom he purchased it?”

“I do not.”

“Has any one been upstairs to the murdered man’s room since you made the discovery?”

“No one has been near it. Everything is undisturbed. I did not enter.”

“I will speak to the proprietor.”

Carter approached Mr. Lancaster, who was a middle-aged man of affable manners.

“The bartender informs me that you have conducted this place for about ten years,” the detective said, as he came up to Mr. Lancaster.

“I have owned it for nearly eleven years,” Mr. Lancaster replied.

“From whom did you purchase it?”

“A man named Peter Wright, who had been the proprietor for nearly a quarter of a century.”

“Is Mr. Wright alive?”

“He is.”

“Where does he reside?”

“At the Cosmopolitan Hotel, across the street. He is a bachelor, and entirely alone in the world, all of his relatives having died. He is an Englishman by birth, and a courtly old gentleman. He has a moderate income to live on, and he is enjoying himself in his declining years. All of the merchants of old New York knew him, and when he conducted the Red Dragon Inn it was famous as a chop house.

“Mr. Wright’s acquaintance is extensive,” added Lancaster. “If you see him, he may know something about the murdered man—if the man spoke the truth when he said that he used to stop here twenty years ago.

“I shall surely call upon Mr. Wright, and ask him to take a look at the remains.”

At this moment Carter felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned around and beheld the captain of the precinct, who had just arrived.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” the officer exclaimed. “You can help us in this, and as usual I suppose you have gleaned considerable information?”

“I have found very little,” the detective replied.

“Will you help us?”

“Certainly.”

“My mind is relieved. I hope you’ll take full charge of the case.”

“What about headquarters?”

“I will take care of that. While you have charge, the people at headquarters will not interfere.”

“Have you sent out an alarm?”

“Yes.”

“Let us go up to the attic room. Request your men to keep every one downstairs.”

“I will do that.”

The police captain issued his instructions to his men, and then he and Carter proceeded upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the victim lay.

The captain stood out in the hall on the threshold, while the detective entered the room.

Carter stepped up to the side of the bed and scrutinized the face of the victim closely in silence.

“His throat was cut while he slept,” Nick remarked, looking toward the captain.

“Do you see any sign of the weapon with which the crime was committed?” the police official asked.

“Not yet.”

Carter turned around and commenced to inspect the room.

For nearly fifteen minutes he was engaged in the work, without uttering a word.

The police captain watched him with close attention.

The detective went over the ground with the avidity of a sleuthhound scenting for a trail.

Every nook and corner of the apartment was inspected, until the detective stood by the window, the sash of which was raised. He looked at the sill and then uttered an exclamation.

“What is it?” the police captain asked, entering the room and stepping up to Carter’s side.

“See,” the detective replied, pointing with his forefinger to stains upon the window sill and the lower part of the sash. “Here are imprints of bloody fingers. The murderer, after he committed the crime, came over to this window and raised the sash. And here are bloody tracks on the outside. Look; there are imprints of shoes in the snow across the roof—they lead from here to the edge. The murderer escaped this way. Wait here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Carter crawled out of the window onto the roof, and followed the tracks in the snow, until he came to the edge of the roof, where he halted and looked over.

There, attached to the side of the house, he beheld an iron ladder leading from the roof down to the yard.

Still he saw nothing of the weapon with which the crime had been committed.

There was no doubt now in his mind about the assassin having escaped by the roof. He returned to the room and gave the captain an accurate but brief account of what he had discovered.

“This leads me to think the murderer possessed some knowledge of this house,” the police captain remarked, after he had listened to what the detective had to say.

“Probably,” Carter rejoined, and then for a time he lapsed into deep thought.

The captain was also silent.

Nick’s eyes wandered around the room and he bit his lips.

Upon his face there was a strained expression.

One could tell that he was following some train of thought.

The pupils of his eyes blazed brilliantly.

Minute after minute passed and still he did not speak.

Patiently his companion waited.

Carter’s eyes rested upon the clothing of the victim, which was lying on a chair near the bed in a corner of the room.

It was in a confused heap.

The detective stepped forward.

“We have overlooked these!” he exclaimed, pointing to the clothes.

“I was just looking at them,” the police captain remarked. “It seems to me that they must have been disturbed by the murderer.”

“They were,” Carter rejoined, holding up the dead man’s vest for the police captain to inspect. “There are bloodstains upon this and the other garments.”

“Search the pockets.”

For some minutes the detective was engaged in making the search. When he finished he looked at the captain.

“Nothing,” he said tersely.

“The murderer secured everything,” the police captain rejoined, in a tone of disappointment, “he has not left a scrap of paper by which the dead man could be identified.”

“Everything is gone.”

“It is too bad.”

“Yes—but I have made a discovery.”

“What is it?”

“These are prison clothes—they are new.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“I am positive. They were made in Sing Sing Prison.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“This murdered man was recently released from State’s prison.”

“Perhaps the motive for the crime was revenge.”

“Maybe, and still he may have been murdered because he possessed information which some one was afraid would be divulged.”

“That may be it.”

“In one way this discovery is important.”

“And you really think this man was a convict?”

“I do. If he were not a released convict he would not have worn clothing made expressly for the convicts.”

“He may have purchased them from some one.”

“That is so—but still I think he did not.”

“There is one clew anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Let us go downstairs.”

They left the room.

Carter closed and locked the door.

On the way downstairs the detective inspected the steps, but he found nothing which would throw any light upon the mystery. There were no tracks, except those in the snow on the roof. The leading question in his mind was how the murderer had entered the house.

After he had returned to the barroom he called the bartender aside and asked:

“Do you remember if any one came in after the old man retired?”

“Yes, I do, now that I come to think of it,” the bartender exclaimed, with considerable animation. “A tall man entered just as the old man left the room. He wore a long ulster and a slouch hat.

“This man, sir, stepped up to the bar and called for whisky, which I served to him. He took a seat at a table near the hall door.

“I was busy supplying the orders to the other customers and I did not pay any attention to him.

“When I came to close up he was gone.

“When he went out, I do not know; but he may have left while I was serving drinks at some one of the tables.”

“Would you know the man if you should see him again?” inquired the detective.

“I cannot tell whether I would or not.”

“Are you able to describe him?”

“I should think he was about forty-five or fifty years old. His face was covered with a heavy brown beard. His eyes were black, restless and penetrating. That is all I can remember about him. I didn’t pay particular attention to him.”

“Who occupied the room next to the one in which the man was murdered?”

“I did.”

“What time did you retire?”

“It was probably about half past one o’clock. As I was about to enter my room I noticed that a light was burning in the old man’s room. I thought at the time that he had not yet retired, but I didn’t hear him make any noise.”

“You were not awakened during the night?”

“No.”

“Are you a sound sleeper?”

“I am.”

“What time did you get up?”

“About half past eight o’clock.”

Carter went out into the back yard.

There he found footprints in the snow leading from the foot of the ladder over to a gate in the fence, which opened to an alley running along between the yards into Hudson Street.

The trail was plain and distinct.

The detective followed it until it ended on Hudson Street.

Then he returned to the yard, where he made a search for the weapon, thinking the assassin might have thrown it away.

But there was no trace of it to be found.

Carter went back into the barroom.

The coroner had arrived and was preparing to take charge of the body.

The detective hurried across the street to the Cosmopolitan Hotel and asked to see Mr. Wright, the former proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn.

Mr. Wright was a portly old gentleman with a large, florid, jovial face, and he received the detective instantly. He listened attentively to what Carter had to say, and he complied with his request to accompany him over to the inn and view the remains of the victim.

“If that man spoke the truth,” Mr. Wright remarked, as he and the detective left the hotel, “I may be able to identify the body.”

CHAPTER III.THE IDENTIFICATION.

Carter conducted Peter Wright upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the victim lay.

The coroner was making an examination, but he stepped aside, so as to allow Mr. Wright to see the face of the murdered man.

The former proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn looked at the ghastly white countenance long and intently.

All of the persons in the room watched him in silence.

Several times the old man shook his head back and forth and his brow became contracted.

Finally he looked at Carter and shook his head dolefully.

“There is a certain familiar expression about that man’s features,” he said, in a tone of awe, “but for the life of me I cannot recall who he is. If he were a patron of the Red Dragon Inn while I was proprietor, he has changed so that I cannot remember him.”

“I am very sorry that you are not able to identify the body, Mr. Wright,” the detective said. “Will you kindly accompany me downstairs. I want to have a private talk with you.”

“Lead on, and I will follow.”

The detective led the way down to the parlor.

As soon as they were inside the room he closed the door. Presently he and Mr. Wright were ensconced in easy-chairs.

“Permit your memory to wander back ten or twelve years to the time when you owned this place, and see if you can recall the name of any one of your patrons who was sent to State’s prison.”

Mr. Wright started.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.

Carter smiled and his eyes sparkled.

“What startles you?” the detective asked, with an assumed air of surprise.

“Nothing startles me,” Mr. Wright rejoined.

“Then what is it?”

“That man is Alfred Lawrence—he has changed mightily—it is no wonder I did not recognize him. But I know him now.”

“Who was Alfred Lawrence?”

“He was one of my old customers. He was sent to Sing Sing for fifteen years for forgery. Don’t you remember the famous Lawrence will case?”

“I have a slight recollection of it. The trial took place while I was away in Europe, and I read very little about it.”

“I will tell you about it.”

“Do so.”

“Alfred Lawrence was a well-to-do produce merchant, who had an office on West Street and lived on Beach Street.

“His uncle, after whom he was named, was the senior member of the firm. Old Alfred Lawrence was a bachelor.

“When he died a will was found, and in it he left all his estate to his nephew.

“Simeon Rich, another nephew, and his sister contested the will. They claimed that it was a forgery and that Alfred Lawrence had forged his uncle’s signature.

“The case came up before the surrogate and the fight was a bitter one on both sides.

“Lawrence’s wife, with whom he had lived unhappily, went before the referee and swore that she had seen her husband forge the will. Her testimony was corroborated by Blanchard, the chief witness, who was Lawrence’s butler.

“It was hinted at, at the time, that Mrs. Lawrence and Simeon Rich were very intimate.

“The will was broken. Lawrence was arrested, tried, convicted, and sent to State’s prison.

“Then people forgot all about him.”

“What became of Mrs. Lawrence?” asked Carter.

“She lived for a time in the Beach Street house. A year after her husband’s conviction the house was closed up and Mrs. Lawrence and her child disappeared. The house has remained closed ever since.”

“Then there was a child?”

“Yes—a girl—she was about twelve years old at the time.”

“What became of Simeon Rich?”

“I do not know.”

“How was the estate divided?”

“That I do not remember.”

“Lawrence, you say, was a customer of yours?”

“He was, and he was a mighty fine fellow. I always believed he was innocent, notwithstanding the fact that all the evidence was strong against him.”

“And you believe that the murdered man is this same Alfred Lawrence?”

“I do.”

“Is this all the information you can give me, Mr. Wright?”

“It is.”

“What was the number of the old house on Beach Street in which Lawrence resided?”

“I don’t remember, but you can find it easily. It is near Varick Street, and it is the only house on the block that is closed.”

“Ah!”

“Some one is at the door,” said Peter Wright.

Carter arose from his chair and opened the door.

The police captain entered the room, followed by a policeman.

“Mr. Carter,” he said, “here is one of my men, Officer Pat Maguire; he saw the murdered man last night.”

“Did he?” Carter queried, casting a searching glance at Maguire, who replied:

“That I did, sir.”

“Sit down and tell me all about it.”

Pat Maguire took a seat.

“This morning,” he said, “I reported at the station house and I heard about the murder. The instant I heard a description of the man read I concluded it was the poor, forlorn, down-and-out old chap with whom I had talked last night while on my beat.

“I came around here, took a look at the body, and I saw that it was the old man. Then I instantly told the captain about the conversation I had with him, and he brought me here to see you.”

“Tell me about that conversation, Maguire.”

Policeman Maguire gave Carter a clear account of the conversation which he had held with the old man and described how he had acted.

When he concluded, Mr. Wright ejaculated:

“You see, Mr. Carter, that corroborates what I told you. There are no reasonable doubts now about the man being Alfred Lawrence.”

“Why did he try to enter that house on Beach Street?”

“I cannot tell.”

“There is a deep mystery here,” remarked Carter, “one which I intend to solve. Gentlemen, I must leave you. Please keep silent about what you have told me.”

Before any one could utter a word, he had slipped out of the room.

“A strange man,” the police captain remarked, as soon as Carter was gone. “Why has he left the room without giving any intimation of what he was going to do?”

The information which had been imparted to Carter by Mr. Wright and the policeman was important. He was certain now that the murdered man was the ex-convict, Alfred Lawrence.

It was his intention to probe into that man’s history and learn more of the details of the will case and the trial.

In doing this, would he be able to discover the motive of the murder?

After leaving the Red Dragon Inn the detective at once—without waiting to go home—went to a near-by telephone exchange and called up the keeper of Sing Sing Prison.

From this man he learned that Lawrence had been released early the day before, that he had been furnished with clothing and a small sum of money, and that he started for New York.

“What train did he leave on?” Carter asked of the keeper.

“The eleven-ten,” the keeper replied.

“Was he an exemplary prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have any visitors call on him?”

“None.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“During his imprisonment, did he receive many letters?”

“None.”

“Did he ever talk to you about himself?”

“No, he was always a taciturn man and he never talked to me or to others about himself. When he left here yesterday he said that he intended to be revenged on the persons who had wronged him, for, he said, he had suffered for a crime of which he was not guilty.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“No.”

“How much money did you give him?”

“Ten dollars.”

From the telephone office the detective went in his automobile to the old house on Beach Street. He stood on the sidewalk and inspected it. There was no sign on the house to indicate that the formerly handsome residence was for rent or for sale. All the windows were boarded up tight.

A man, who lived next door, noticed Carter, and coming up to his side, coughed nervously, to attract his attention.

“Are you thinking of buying or renting this place?”

“Is it for sale?” the detective asked, without answering the man’s question.

“I do not know. I thought from the manner in which you were looking at it that you thought about renting or buying it. No sign has ever been up on the house.”

“How long have you lived in this neighborhood?”

“About twenty years.”

“Then you are pretty well acquainted with it?”

“That I am.”

“How long has this house been uninhabited?”

“About ten years, I think.”

“Were you acquainted with the last tenant?”

“I was. Alfred Lawrence and his family lived there. Lawrence was sent to State’s prison on a charge of forgery. His wife and child moved away, and from that day to this I never heard what became of them.”

“Have you ever seen any one visit the house?”

“No one has ever come here.”

“Was the furniture taken away?”

“Yes.”

“Then the house is evidently empty?”

“It is.”

“Were you acquainted with Lawrence enough to know anything about his affairs?”

“I was not.”

“All I know is what I read in the newspapers at the time.”

“Was he a man of considerable means?”

“I always thought so.”

“Did you know Simeon Rich?”

“No.”

Not being able to secure any further information from the man, the detective walked away.

Many thoughts crowded his mind and he asked himself innumerable questions in regard to the case.

The prison keeper had told him over the telephone that Lawrence had only ten dollars in his possession when he left Sing Sing, and the bartender at the Red Dragon Inn had informed him that the man who had been murdered had displayed a large sum of money when he paid for the night’s lodging.

“From whom had Lawrence received money?” the detective asked himself as he pondered over this. “He must have got money from some one.”

That was clear.

But the bartender might have been mistaken.

Nick told Danny to drive to a restaurant, where he procured an excellent breakfast; then he directed the chauffeur to make a dash up to the Grand Central Station, where he hoped to find some one who had seen Lawrence leave the train and had noted the direction in which he went.

What had Lawrence done from the time he left the depot until Pat Maguire saw him standing in front of St. John’s Church looking into the churchyard?

Would the detective be able to follow his footsteps?

Many would have looked upon such a task as Carter had set out to perform as hopeless.

The railroad detective who was stationed at the depot was unable to furnish Nick with any information.

Carter made inquiries of the porters and others, but none of them remembered seeing any man who answered to Lawrence’s description.

Finally, he left the depot and went outside to the cab stand.

Here he commenced to question the drivers.

At last he found a man who, in reply to his question, said:

“I drove the old chap downtown in my cab.”

“Do you think you would be able to identify him if you should see him again?” Carter asked.

“I do,” the cabman answered.

“Will you come with me?”

“What for?”

“I want you to take a look at a man and see if he is the same person whom you drove downtown.”

“I can’t leave my cab.”

“Drive me down to the Cosmopolitan Hotel.”

“I’ll do that.”

Nick sent Danny home, got into the cab, and was driven away.

He had his reasons for not telling the cabman anything about the case.

Before he questioned him further he wanted to see if the murdered man was the same person whom the man had had for a fare the previous day.

The cab stopped in front of the Cosmopolitan Hotel and the detective alighted. He and the driver crossed the street and entered the Red Dragon Inn.

To the chamber of death the detective conducted his surprised companion.

When they entered the room Carter pointed to the corpse and asked:

“Is that the man?”

“Dead!” the cabman ejaculated, as he started back, after having glanced at the face of the murdered man. “Yes, sir, it is the man, all right. He has been murdered!”

“Yes.”

“Did you fetch me down here to place me under arrest?”

“No.”

“I know nothing about this.”

“Come with me.”

“I’ll go with you, but I swear——”

“There, there, my man, don’t get excited. You will not be arrested—rest easy on that score.”

“But——”