“I used your money in my speculative schemes without your knowledge. I believe I had a right to do this, for under the terms of your mother’s will I had an absolutely free hand to make use of the money as I saw fit.
“For a time I made money on Wall Street. But my fate was the common fate of all stock gamblers. My own earnings went, and then I used your funds and they went, too.
“I could not bear to have it known that I had lost your inheritance on the stock market, and so connived at this other operation. I was to help Ramsay. Ostensibly the Royal Ophir was to cost a million, of which I was to put up five hundred thousand dollars and the two Boston men the remaining five hundred thousand dollars. Really, only the money of the Boston men was to go into the deal.
“It was my business to interest them and to help on the ‘salting’ operation to the extent of preparing the loaded cigarettes. For this I expected to receive one hundred thousand dollars—which sum I intended turning over to you.
“But I have failed in that, and now the utmost I can do is to die so that you may have the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars insurance which I have taken out on my life. That and this home is to be yours. It is all that is left of your inheritance.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE TENDER-HEARTED WATCHMAN.
Nick’s return to town had not been quite as peaceful as he had hoped. But he was more than satisfied with the result of the work of the last few days.
He had captured one of the men who had escaped him in the round-up of the big Western swindle.
Only one other member of that gang was now at large, and the capture of Ramsay served to make Nick all the more eager to repeat the operation with the missing swindler.
Ramsay was questioned as to the whereabouts of this man, but he was not able to tell anything save that the two had come East together and that Ramsay had parted from his pal in Boston and had heard nothing from him since then.
Nick sought around for clews and finally came in touch with his man through a splendidly organized bank robbery.
The story of the bank robbery indicated that more than ordinary intelligence had been brought into play in consummating this piece of villainy.
The bank was the People’s National, of Latimer, Vt.
The robbery occurred at one o’clock in the morning.
The watchman was making his hourly round of the premises when a voice outside struck on his ears.
“Help! For Heaven’s sake, do something for me!” came the cry. “Call an ambulance, quick!”
The bank occupied the first floor of a corner building.
There were two floors above, divided into rooms and used as offices by lawyers and real estate men.
In front of the building was a lamp-post.
Next to the lamp-post was an upright, bearing a box-like contrivance containing a massive gong.
This gong was connected electrically with the bank vaults, and was supposed to sound an alarm if the vaults were tampered with in any way.
Halting at one of the front windows, the watchman peered through into the ring of yellow light thrown by the street lamp.
Clinging to the lamp-post was a man in a frock coat and silk hat—well dressed, as the watchman could plainly see.
Nor was he drunk, although he wavered from side to side and had all he could do to hold himself in an upright position.
It was evident that there was something serious the matter with him, and the watchman pressed his face close to the window and craned his neck to look up and down the street.
There was absolutely no one in sight who might proceed to the unfortunate man’s assistance.
It was against the watchman’s orders to leave the bank for even a minute, but he was a kind-hearted person and hated to see a fellow being in distress and never raise a finger to help.
While the watchman stood there, the well-dressed individual gave vent to a hollow groan, slipped from the lamp-post and fell prone to the walk.
That was more than the watchman could stand.
The next instant he had unlocked and unbolted the massive bank door and had hurried across the walk.
“Who are you?” he demanded, kneeling beside the man. “What is the matter?”
The man tried to talk, but his voice was no more than a faint whisper.
The watchman bent his ear to the man’s lips.
Then, in a flash, the supposedly sick man’s hands shot upward and gripped the watchman about the throat.
Simultaneously with this movement, a figure darted out of a hallway to the right of the bank, sandbag in hand.
A blow on the head settled the watchman, who pitched along the walk and lay silent and still.
“Into the bank with him, quick!” hissed the well-dressed individual, and the watchman was picked up, head and heels, and hustled back into the room which he had so recently quitted.
The door was again locked and bolted.
“Not a second too soon,” went on the well-dressed man. “Down! Here comes the other watchman.”
The two villains sank out of sight beneath the window.
A slow step was heard outside as some one rounded the corner; then a pencil of light from a bull’s-eye lantern shot into the bank through the window.
The ray swept aimlessly around, vanished, and the steps were heard once more, dying away in the distance.
“It will be two hours before that cove comes around again,” muttered the man who had used the sandbag.
“In two hours, then, we have got to have this job over and be away from here,” returned the other. “Where’s Cricket?”
“On the watch halfway down the main street.”
“And Five Points?”
“He’s watching at the rear of the bank on the cross street.”
“Good! You know about the wires of that burglar alarm, Spark?”
“Sure.”
“Then go below and break the connection.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes, Clancy.”
Spark vanished in the dusky regions at the rear of the bank, and Clancy dropped down beside the watchman.
From his pocket he took a gag and fixed it about the watchman’s jaws; then, with two pieces of rope, he tied his prisoner hand and foot and dragged him out of sight under a customers’ desk that stood near the window.
After that he passed through the cashier’s cage and halted in front of the vault door.
There was a dimly burning light in front of the vault, and above the iron door there was a clock.
“A time-clock,” said Spark, coming up at that moment.
“Did you fix the alarm?” queried Clancy, in a sharp tone.
“Broke the battery that operates it.”
“Then out with the tools.”
Clancy threw off his frock coat, folded it carefully and laid it on an office stool.
On top of his coat he placed his silk hat.
Meanwhile, Spark had produced the “tools”—and peculiar tools they were.
They consisted of a rubber bag, a bar of brown soap, a coil of fuse and some caps.
Each man knew just what work he was to perform, and went about it without a word.
Breaking the bar of soap in two, Clancy handed one piece to Spark, and they set to work plastering up the crack at the edge of the vault door.
This was skillfully and quickly accomplished.
From the top of another office stool, Clancy fashioned a cup of the soap on the upper crack.
The bag contained nitroglycerin.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CASHIER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.
Spark handed the bag to Clancy, and the latter poured some of the nitroglycerin into the cup.
Then, crouching under one of the counters, they waited while the explosive oozed downward about the vault door on the inside.
“Give me the fuse,” said Clancy, emerging from under the counter when a sufficient period had elapsed.
Again he mounted the stool, fitted a cap to the end of the fuse, placed the cap in the cup and applied a match.
Both retreated for a short distance.
Presently there came a muffled explosion, resulting in the bursting open of the vault door.
The alarm was silent, proving that Spark had done his work well.
For several moments, however, neither of the robbers made a move—simply crouched where they were and listened intently.
There was no sound outside, so it was evident that the explosion had aroused no one.
“Now for the second door,” said Clancy.
The second door was treated in exactly the same manner as the first, and within an hour from the time the night watchman had left the bank to succor the distressed individual on the sidewalk the funds of the People’s National lay at the mercy of the “yeggmen.”
From his pockets Spark brought out a number of canvas bags.
While these bags were being filled a shout came from the rear of the bank, followed by two revolver shots—the two reports echoing out almost as one.
“The devil!” exclaimed Clancy.
“It’s Five Points,” breathed Spark, in a sharp undertone.
Both men hurried to the front door and stood there, revolvers in hand.
Quick steps were heard on the walk, and a face was pressed against the glass in the upper part of one of the doors.
“Cricket!” exclaimed Clancy, and hastily admitted the newcomer. “What is it?” he added.
“The outside watchman discovered Five Points, and they had a wrestle and an exchange of shots,” said Cricket.
“How’s the watchman?”
A muffled oath fell from Clancy’s lips.
“And Five Points?” he went on.
“He’s got it bad.”
“Able to get away?”
“Just about. He’s already started.”
“Lay hold of the plunder, you two, and we’ll make a get-away ourselves.”
Spark and Cricket hurried into the vault, and Clancy followed as far as the stool in the cashier’s cage.
There he halted and calmly got into his coat and put on his hat, all the time watching the door and listening intently.
The other two emerged from the vault, staggering under the weight of the bags.
Clancy took one of the bags, and the three walked out of the bank, fading away into the night like ill-omened wraiths.
It was six o’clock the following morning when a patrolman heard a groan coming from the alleyway in the rear of the bank.
Stepping in to investigate, he was horrified to find the outside watchman weltering in a pool of blood.
The wounded man was barely able to speak. He told, gaspingly, of the ill luck that had befallen him, and added that he believed the bank had been robbed.
Running to the nearest patrol box, the officer summoned an ambulance, after which he hurried to the bank.
He found and released the inside watchman, heard his story, and immediately got in some lively work with the telephone.
The chief of police was notified and also the president of the bank.
The latter, in turn, called up the cashier and as many of the directors as he could reach by phone.
By eight o’clock there was a gathering of police and bank officials about the wrecked doors of the plundered vault, the cashier and an assistant being inside checking up.
At eight-thirty the cashier came out of the vault with a white face.
“They got little for all their pains,” he said, loud enough for the police officials and a couple of reporters to overhear. “Only about five thousand dollars, all told.”
A look of relief overspread the faces of the president and the two directors who were present.
The next moment the president, directors and the cashier stepped into the president’s private office.
There the cashier acknowledged that he had made a misstatement.
Instead of taking five thousand dollars, the thieves had decamped with seventy-five thousand dollars.
“We’re a comparatively small and provincial institution,” said the president, slowly, after a brief interval of silence, “and this loss will spell ruin for us unless——” He hesitated.
“Unless what?” asked one of the directors, huskily, mopping the sweat from his forehead.
“Unless we can recover the money before it is generally known that the cashier made a willful misstatement.”
“The police of this town can never do it,” asserted the other director.
“Shall we go down in our pockets and pay out a good big fee to a man who might be able to save us?” inquired the president.
“It may be throwing good money after bad,” said the first director, shaking his head.
“Nevertheless,” said the second director, “I move that we try it, anyhow.”
“Shall I go ahead?” asked the president.
“Yes,” came from both directors and the cashier.
Ten minutes later the following telegram was speeding over the wires:
“Nicholas Carter, New York City: Bank robbery here. Will you name your own fee and take the case?
“Julius Hepner.”
“He won’t come,” said Clarkson, one of the directors. “He has all he can attend to right in New York.”
But Clarkson was wrong, for the following answer came from the great detective within two hours after the president had wired:
“Julius Hepner, Latimer, Vt.: Coming on first train. Keep hands off until I get there.
Nicholas Carter.”
It was fate that influenced Nick’s reply, for he did not guess that in responding to the summons he was going to strike the trail of the man whom of all others he wished to capture—the missing swindler from the West who had come East with Ramsay. Ramsay was now under lock and key, and Nick’s journey to Vermont was to bring him in touch with Ramsay’s pal.
CHAPTER XVII.
“OLD HANDS.”
The bank robbery took place during the night of Monday and Tuesday.
On Wednesday morning, at seven o’clock, a neatly dressed man, wearing a pair of very respectable “Dundrearies,” made his appearance at the Memorial Hospital, in Latimer.
“What can I do for you, sir?” inquired the assistant superintendent, who was in charge at that early hour.
“Albert Gardner, the watchman who was shot during the bank robbery, was brought here, was he not?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to speak with him a moment.”
“I am very sorry, sir, but he died an hour ago.”
“Ah! He left an ante-mortem statement?”
“He did.”
“And it is now in the hands of the police department?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
In half an hour the stranger had called at police headquarters, had introduced himself and had been cordially welcomed.
At his request, the statement made out by Gardner was brought out for inspection.
It had nothing whatever to say about the robbery, but nevertheless, it had an indirect value.
Some time between two and three o’clock in the morning, so ran the statement, Gardner was rounding the block, trying doors as he went.
When opposite the entrance to the alley in the rear of the bank he heard a sound that aroused his attention.
He started into the alley, flashing his bull’s-eye ahead of him as he proceeded.
He had not taken more than twenty or thirty steps when he was set upon, and, for a moment, roughly handled.
Finally he succeeded in drawing his revolver.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, his antagonist fired a shot.
This deflected Gardner’s aim, for he was hit in the breast. However, he fired and was certain he wounded his man.
Then he lost consciousness, and had come to himself but a few moments before being found by the patrolman.
He could give no description of the man, for the bull’s-eye lantern was knocked to the ground and smashed at the time the watchman was set upon, and thereafter the struggle had been continued in the dark.
“Not much to be learned from this, chief,” said Nick.
“The whole affair is the blackest kind of a mystery,” declared the chief. “The robbers left not the slightest clew behind.”
“You’ve been going over the ground pretty thoroughly?”
“Up to noon, yesterday. Then I got orders to wait for you.”
“How big a town is this?”
“About twenty thousand.”
“Have you brought in any suspicious characters?”
“Six or seven.”
“I’d like to have a look at them. If New York crooks pulled off this graft I may be able to recognize one of the suspects.”
The prisoners were brought in.
They were all of the “bum” variety, and their faces were unfamiliar.
“Better let them go,” said Nick; “they’re not concerned.”
“What makes you think they’re not concerned in the robbery?” he asked.
“Not one of the seven knows enough. If hoboes did this job, they are of a different caliber from those you have run in. And, last but not least, they’d have different hands.”
“Different hands?” echoed the amazed officer.
Nick nodded.
“A tramp who uses an ax, or a buck-saw, to earn a meal, has a palm entirely unlike a cracksman.”
“But you didn’t look at their hands!”
“Yes, I did,” smiled Nick. “Now, if you please, I would like to see the patrolman who found Gardner.”
“You seem pretty well posted, Mr. Carter.”
“I read the newspapers pretty carefully.”
The patrolman was brought in, but the interview with him developed nothing of importance.
From police headquarters the detective went to the home of Alonzo Burton, the bank watchman.
Burton had his head bandaged, and was lying on a lounge in his little front parlor.
The air of the room was impregnated with a smell of arnica, and a buxom young woman was moving about the place, waiting upon the sufferer.
Burton told the ruse by which he had been lured out upon the sidewalk.
He could give only a general and indefinite description of the man in the frock coat and silk hat, and could give no description whatever of the man’s companion.
Like the other watchman, Burton had been knocked insensible very early in the game.
“They are old hands,” thought Nick, as he went away from the watchman’s house. “Too bad that I am twenty-four hours late in reaching the scene. It is a serious handicap.”
He was bound for the bank, now, and in approaching the bank building he came from the rear.
Halting at the alley, he looked in.
“Twenty or thirty paces,” he mused, recalling the statement made by Gardner.
He counted off twenty paces and then saw, a few feet in front of him, on the right side of the alley, evidences of the struggle that had taken place there.
The feet of ruthless people had trodden ruthlessly about and over the spot, but the evidences had not been entirely obliterated.
The building on the right was a one-story structure, occupied by a grocery.
At the rear was a heap of empty boxes, and close to one of these boxes a dark stain of blood marked the place where the watchman had lain.
Nick searched the vicinity carefully.
The outlook for evidence was unpromising, but he knew very well that appearances were not always to be trusted.
In a quarter of an hour he had gone over the ground thoroughly, and under the edge of one of the boxes he had found a square card.
It was made of fine, heavy bristol board, and was the general shape of a visiting card such as a man might use.
On the side which had undoubtedly borne the name and address were two oblong blurs showing where a knife had scraped out the names and numbers.
On its reverse the card bore a stain of blood and these words, in pencil:
“Quarter to twelve, Mechlin, Gotham.”
“Here’s something, at all events,” thought Nick.
He placed the card carefully in his pocketbook; then, with a final look at the spot where Gardner had had his life and death struggle, he started slowly and thoughtfully out of the alley and toward the front of the bank.
Before he reached the bank entrance he came to a sudden halt.
“By Jove!” he muttered.
He did not go into the bank, at that moment, but hastened past the entrance and turned in at a telegraph office further down the street.
There he wrote out and sent the following “rush” message, the contents being in cipher:
“Chickering Carter, New York:
“Investigate No. 1145 Mechlin Street immediately. Send Patsy along by first train.
Nick.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
A MYSTERIOUS BULLET.
It was ten o’clock when Nick Carter walked into the People’s National Bank, halted at the cashier’s window, and asked for Mr. Hepner.
The cashier knew all the customers of the institution, and the sight of a strange face prompted him to put a question on a matter that was uppermost in his mind:
“Are you Mr.——”
“Yes,” interrupted the detective. “I am Mr. Nicholas, the man you are looking for.”
The cashier gave a start and looked at Nick blankly for a moment.
Then his face cleared.
“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “I understand. I will go in and tell Mr. Hepner you are here, Mr. Nicholas.”
“Just a moment. I would like a look at the vault before I talk with Mr. Hepner.”
“Very well, sir.”
The cashier opened the door of the cage, and Nick stepped in, throwing a critical glance about him as he walked to the wrecked doors of the strong room.
Brown soap lay thick on the edges of both doors.
He passed inside the steel chamber, the cashier accompanying him.
“Made a pretty clean sweep, did they?” Nick asked, looking keenly around at the evidence of pillage.
“They seemed to know just what they wanted, Mr. Car—er—Mr. Nicholas.”
“That’s a way they have—sometimes. Did they make off with any specie?”
“Both specie and bills.”
“I see. Now I believe I will talk with Mr. Hepner.”
The cashier took the detective to the president’s door and announced him.
“When did you get in, Mr. Carter?” asked the president, after greeting his caller.
“I would prefer to have you allude to me as Nicholas, Mr. Hepner. Cut out the Carter, for the present.”
“All right, Mr. Nicholas. When did you reach town?”
“Last night.”
“I have been looking for you to call for two hours or more.”
“I was too busy to call before. Just how much more than five thousand dollars did the thieves make way with, Mr. Hepner?”
The president flashed a quick glance into the detective’s face.
“What leads you to believe that they got any more than that amount?” he asked.
“Several things. You would not have wired me to take this case on my own terms for a mere bagatelle of five thousand.”
“Possibly not.”
“And yeggmen with the experience of those who made this haul are not running the risk for so small a figure. They timed their operations so as to catch the vault with plenty of the ready inside.”
“A simple case of deduction, by George!” exclaimed Hepner. “The reporter for the papers here, however, believed the cashier’s statement as to the amount of our losses.”
“A reporter is not a detective, although occasionally a reporter will do good work. Generally, though, they do more harm than good. How much are you out, Mr. Hepner?”
“About seventy-five thousand. Twenty thousand was turned in here on a demand certificate of deposit, at almost closing time, Monday.”
Nick brought his eyes suddenly in line with the president’s.
“Did you see the man?”
“Yes; I was at the cashier’s desk at the time.”
“Please describe him.”
“Short, thickset and prosperous looking, as a man would naturally be who had that amount of money.”
“What name did he give?”
“Leonard Martin.”
“How did he impress you, Mr. Hepner?”
“He impressed me as being a Westerner.”
“Good!” exclaimed Nick. “I am especially interested in Westerners, one in particular, whom I’d give a good deal to lay my hands upon. But tell me more about this fellow?”
“Well, he had an easy, independent way with him, and when he talked he used a vernacular only to be found beyond the Missouri.”
“He was a stranger in town, you think?”
“I don’t think anything about it—I know. He is one of a party of four who are touring New England in an auto car.”
“Still in town?”
“Yes, and liable to be here for a few days, I guess.”
“Why do you guess that?”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the president, suddenly. “It can’t be possible you suspect this man of—of——”
The president paused.
“It is immaterial to you whom I suspect, Mr. Hepner,” said Nick, coolly, “so long as I run down the thieves.”
“Of course, of course! But you’re far afield, Mr. Nicholas, if that is the point you are driving at.”
“Which is your opinion,” commented Nick. “What makes you think that Mr. Leonard Martin and his party are liable to be in Latimer for a few days?”
“Because their chauffeur is sick and the Red Spider cannot proceed without a man to run it.”
“The auto is named the Red Spider?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Mr. Martin staying?”
“At the Central House.”
“He feared to have so much money with him, and left it here for safe-keeping, I suppose?”
“That’s it. A very breezy, genial gentleman he is, too, Mr. Nicholas. I assure you of that.”
“Breezy enough, I dare say,” returned Nick, carelessly.
“You gave a peculiar name to these robbers, a moment ago,” said the president. “What was it you called them?”
“Yeggmen.”
“Originally he was a hobo. Association with professional criminals, either in prison or ‘on the road,’ has taught him a knowledge of high explosives—how to extract nitroglycerin from dynamite, and how to use nitro in blowing open safes, and so on. The methods of the ‘yeggs,’ as compared with the old-time, skilled cracksman, are simple and labor-saving.”
“That is quite interesting. It has been a mystery to all of us how our safe was blown open. Will you explain, Mr. Nicholas?”
Nick complied, very briefly, and then, after a little more questioning, arose to go.
“If I can aid you in any way, Mr. Nicholas,” said the president, rising to accompany the detective to the door, “do not fail to call on me. As for your bill——”
“You can consider the bill when I turn it in,” answered Nick. “There is only one way in which you can help me, Mr. Hepner.”
“How is that?”
“I presume there are several auto cars in this town?”
“Quite a number. I haven’t one myself, but Clarkson, one of our directors, has a very swift machine.”
“If I need that machine will Mr. Clarkson let me have it?”
“Certainly. He will go with you himself and operate it for you.”
“I will operate it, and will stand responsible for any damage I may do. I would like to have the machine held in readiness for instant use.”
“Where are you staying, Mr. Carter?”
“I registered at the Holland Hotel.”
“Then I will have Clarkson send the machine to the Holland Hotel stables, subject to your order.”
“I would prefer that you have the auto sent to the Central House barn, Mr. Hepner. I think of changing my location.”
“Very good. It will be some time, I suppose, before we can hope for any results?”
“Perhaps not so very long,” answered Nick, and took his leave.
Going at once to the Holland Hotel, he paid his reckoning, took his grip and had himself driven to the Central House.
“James Nicholas, Montpelier, Vermont,” was the way he inscribed himself on the register.
Turning away, he lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair by one of the office windows.
The Central House, in point of location, was anything but “central.”
It was situated on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood at once quiet and exclusive.
For fifteen minutes or more Nick sat in the comfortable armchair, smoking and thinking.
He was sifting the evidence so far secured and wondering what Chick’s investigation would lead to, if anything.
Presently, the bell boy came up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Nicholas,” said he, “you are wanted at the telephone.”
“Where is it?” asked Nick, getting up.
“This way, sir.”
The detective was conducted to the rear of the office, some distance back of the counter.
The telephone box was under the stairway, side by side with a ground-glass window overlooking a court.
So close was the side of the box to the window that the glass in the box and in the window were scarcely more than a foot apart.
The receiver was lying on the top of the phone, and Nick took it down and held it to his ear.
“Is this Carter?” called a voice.
“Who is this?” queried Nick.
“Call me the man from Montana. I’m the pal of poor old Ramsay whom you bagged the other day. I’m the only man left of the Western swindlers, and you want me badly. You’re Nick Carter?”
“My name is Nicholas.”
“By thunder, you can’t fool me, Mr. Sleuth!”
“What do you want?” asked the detective.
“Simply wanted to get you into the telephone box. Right here is where you connect with your finish, and——”
The words were lost in a sharp report and a crashing of glass.
Nick felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and, as he reeled backward and dropped the receiver, he heard a mocking and triumphant laugh come over the wire.
“Great heavens!” he cried; “I’m shot—killed!”
The next instant he burst out of the telephone box and fell into the arms of the chief of police, the latter having arrived at the hotel but a moment before.
CHAPTER XIX.
WARM WORK.
“Great guns!” exclaimed the chief. “What has happened, Mr.——”
“Call me Nicholas,” hissed Nick, clinging to the chief and with lips close to his ear. “I’m shot!” he cried again. “Some one fired into the telephone box from the court. Help me to my room! Send for a doctor—quick!”
There was a great commotion in the hotel office.
The clerk, the porters and the bell boys came running to the scene, inquiring excitedly about the shooting.
The chief turned Nick over to two of the porters, and he was carried upstairs to his room and laid on the bed.
At every step of the upward journey the detective let out a groan of pain.
One of the bell boys rushed away for the house physician.
The porters lingered in Nick’s room, and so did the clerk, who had accompanied them.
“Don’t stay in the room, so many of you,” moaned Nick; “my nerves are all on edge. Where’s the doctor? Isn’t he coming?”
The clerk motioned to the porters, who at once withdrew.
“The doctor will be here in a minute—ah, here he is now!”
The doctor entered hurriedly, hatless and with his medicine case under his arm.
“What in Sam Hill is the matter?” he cried. “Man shot, right in the hotel, in broad daylight? Outrageous! Unheard of!”
“It’s a fact, nevertheless,” murmured Nick, “and I’ve got it good. Leave me alone with the doctor, please,” he added, turning to the clerk.
The clerk went away, closing the door softly behind him.
Then Nick sat upon the edge of the bed, a half smile on his face.
“Why—why, what are you doing that for?” queried the astounded doctor.
“Sh-h-h!” whispered Nick. “The wound is nothing—it simply grazed my shoulder. A piece of court-plaster is all it needs. If you have that with you, doc, you can fix me all right in a jiffy.”
“You acted as though you were half killed,” grumbled the doctor.
“That’s all right,” Nick went on, in a low tone. “I’m a detective, and I want it to appear as though I have received a bad wound and may be laid up for a month. Are you willing to help out the cause of justice by creating such an impression?”
“I don’t understand——”
“Of course you don’t, and it isn’t necessary that you should. I want you to come here about every three hours and pretend to have seen a patient. That’s easy enough, isn’t it? Here’s a twenty to pay you in advance for your services.”
“All right,” answered the physician, taking the money. “Now let me see the shoulder.”
Nick divested himself of coat and vest and opened his shirt at the neck.
The wound was only a slight one, as the detective had said, and the doctor quickly attended to it and prepared to leave.
“Mind,” warned Nick, “you think I may be laid up for some time.”
“All right,” laughed the doctor. “You detectives are queer fish.”
“We have to be,” answered Nick, stretching himself out on the bed again.
The chief came in just as the doctor went out.
“How do you find him, doc?” the chief asked, anxiously.
“Serious,” was the answer; “he may be laid up for a month.”
The doctor went away, and the chief came up to the side of the bed.
“This is too bad, Nicholas!” he exclaimed.
“Lock the door,” said Nick.
The chief was surprised at the strength of the detective’s voice.
When he locked the door, he turned around and found the detective sitting up.
“Say,” muttered the officer, “what in thunder does all this mean?”
“It means that I am faking,” replied Nick.
“Faking?”
“That’s it. I wasn’t badly wounded: only scratched.”
“Who could have done it? What was the motive?”
“The motive was to put me on the retired list. Can’t you imagine who would want to do that?”
“The bank robbers!”
“Exactly. They have discovered that I am at work on the case, and they have tried to take time by the forelock and do for me. It isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, but it is the first time a telephone was ever used as a trap. That was rather clever.”
“I’m over my head, Nicholas; I can’t get next to you.”
“It was a put-up job to get me out of the way, chief. I was called into the telephone box by a man who told me I could call him the man from Montana. This fellow acknowledged that he had lured me there for the purpose of having me shot. That much he told me, and then his confederate in the court blazed away.”
“The audacity of it!” exclaimed the amazed officer.
“More proof that these bank robbers are old hands. Did you look around the court?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t find a trace of anyone who might have committed the outrage.”
“I hardly expected that you would. It was well planned.”
“But why did you act as though you were half killed?”
“Because I want these scoundrels to think that their murderous plan succeeded. If they believe that I am out of the way, it’s the biggest kind of a trump in my hand.”
“By Jupiter, that’s a fact! You’ve got a head on you, and no mistake. Why, you weren’t more than half a second in evolving the plan, were you?”
“Not much longer, chief. The point that now confronts us is this: This farce will have to be carried through to a finish. While I am working outside, the general impression must be that I am laid up in this room.”
“We can work that all right.”
“I think so. The doctor already has his instructions. If you will put one of your trusty plain-clothes men next to the scheme, and send him here as a sort of nurse, I believe the plan can be carried through without any trouble.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Then there’s another thing for you to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Send a man to the central telephone office and learn where the call for Nicholas, Central Hotel, came from.
“Let the man go to the place from which I was rung up, and, if possible, get a description of the fellow who sent in the call.”
“I’ll do it. It’s a great game you are playing, Mr. Carter.”
“I’m playing for big stakes. But don’t call me Carter; Nicholas will do for the present.”
“I’ll remember. What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“Lie here in bed until I hear what sort of a report your man makes about the fellow who called me up.”
“Will you stay here alone?”
“You can send one of the bell boys to be with me until your man comes.”
“All right.” The chief got up to go. “I’m surprised to learn that those bank robbers are still in town.”
“I’m not. This town is probably as safe for them as any other part of the country. Hurry that fly cop over here, chief. I have warm work ahead of me, and don’t want to be out of the running any longer than necessary.”
“Trust me to hustle things,” replied the chief, and took his departure.
CHAPTER XX.
THE MEN FROM CHICAGO.
Presently the bell boy came up and found Nick stretched out on the bed.
The boy was a quiet little chap, and brought Nick a pitcher of water and a daily paper, and did a number of other things to make him comfortable.
The detective was reading the paper when the plain-clothes man presented himself.
“I was sent over here to take care of you,” said he.
He accompanied his words with a wink by way of informing the detective that he knew what was expected of him.
“Thank you,” said Nick. “What name?”
“Jerome.”
“Well, Mr. Jerome, may I trouble you to take a dollar out of my vest pocket and give it to this boy?”
The vest and coat were hanging over a chair, and Jerome secured the dollar and handed it to the boy.
As soon as the boy was gone, the detective sprang from the bed.
“You know your duties, do you, Jerome?”
“I’m going to pretend I’ve got you here, whether you’re here or not,” he grinned.
“That’s it; and you’re also to pretend that I’m a mighty sick man.”
“I’ll play the part O. K., sir. Don’t worry about that.”
“I don’t worry about much of anything, Jerome. It’s a waste of energy.”
“You don’t believe in crossing bridges before you get to ’em, then?”
“That depends on the bridge. What is the town of Latimer saying about an attempted murder, in broad daylight, in a great hotel like this?”
“People are talking less about that than they are about the ease with which the man who perpetrated the outrage managed to slip away.”
While Nick was talking with Jerome, he was changing his make-up.
Presently he stood forth a younger man than “Nicholas” by some twenty years.
The spreading “Dundrearies” were gone and a black mustache ornamented his upper lip.
His clothes were different, and he was utterly unlike “Nicholas” in manner as well as appearance.
“By Jinks!” exclaimed Jerome. “You’re a great hand at that sort of thing, Mr. Nicholas.”
“Charlie Gordon now,” corrected Nick.
“Mr. Gordon, then,” grinned the officer.
A rap fell on the door.
Nick motioned to Jerome to answer the summons.
The caller proved to be the chief, and he was at once admitted.
He looked at Nick in surprise, and then cast a quick look at the bed.
“Well, you’ll pass,” he said, as the truth dawned on him.
“What’s new?” asked the detective.
“I called to report on that telephone matter.”
“Good! The man you sent out must have been a live one to get back with a report as soon as this.”
“I attended to it myself.”
“Much obliged, chief. Did you experience any difficulty?”
“None at all. At central they told me that the call for Nicholas, at the Central House, came from a pay station in a drug store.
“I got the number of the drug store, and found that it is less than a block from here.
“At about the time you received your call, one of the clerks in the store remembered seeing a short, thickset man——”
“Short and thickset, eh?” interposed Nick.
“Yes, and with red hair and a full red beard. This man went into the box. When he came out he came in a hurry, and lost no time in getting out of the store and away.”
“That’s A-1, chief.”
“Have you a theory?”
“Regarding the bank robbers?”
“Yes.”
“I’m full of theories. I shall want your help in a few minutes. Will you wait here until I come back? I can promise you that I won’t be gone long.”
“I’ll wait.”
Thereupon Nick let himself quietly out of the room and descended the stairs to the lower hall.
Passing through the hall into the street, he re-entered the hotel by the office doors.
Going to the counter, he drew the register in front of him and began looking it over.
He finally found what he wanted, which was the following, written in an easy and flowing hand:
“Leonard Martin, Chicago.”
This entry had been made on the preceding Saturday, and Nick saw that Leonard Martin had been assigned to Room 13.
Directly following this signature were three names, as follows:
“Leslie Hibbard, Morris Markham and Emil Z. Schiffel,” all hailing from the same place that claimed Mr. Martin.
But there were check marks opposite the names of these three guests, showing that they had balanced their accounts and left.
“May I see the letters and telegrams?” Nick asked.
The clerk handed over a bundle, and the detective proceeded to look at them.
There was a letter for Mr. Leonard Martin, bearing a Chicago postmark; also a telegram for James Nicholas.
Nick slipped the telegram into his pocket, unnoticed by the clerk, and passed out through the doors again.
This time he reversed his tactics, re-entered by the hall, and made his way to his room on the second floor.
He read his telegram.
It was from Chick, and ran thus: