“Look out for a man with a mole on his right cheek, short, thickset, named Clancy. Will come with Patsy. Important that I should see you.”
“This short, thickset man is making himself pretty numerous,” thought Nick, putting the telegram away in his grip.
“What I want you to do, chief,” said Nick, approaching the officer, “is to wire the Chicago chief of police and ask for immediate information about a man named Leonard Martin. If the Chicago people know such a man, I’d like to learn his present whereabouts.”
“I’ll send the dispatch at once,” said the chief.
“Have the answer left with Jerome, when it comes.”
“Very well.”
The chief left the room and passed down the stairs.
Nick went out, a few moments afterward, but did not descend to the first floor.
On the contrary, he made his way along the hall to Room 13.
There was no one else in the passage, and he paused at the door and listened intently.
All was quiet inside.
Stooping, he peered through the keyhole.
The key was not in the lock, on the inside, so it seemed fairly certain that Mr. Martin was out.
With a final swift glance up and down the passage, Nick drew a skeleton key from his pocket and quickly opened the door.
To step inside and softly reclose the door was the work of only a moment.
The room was exactly like the usual hotel chamber.
There were two doors opening to right and left, so that, if desired, the apartment could be used en suite with others adjoining.
On the bed lay an open satchel, its contents very much disarranged.
The owner had apparently left it in a hurry.
Nick went over to the bed and looked down at the contents of the grip.
The first object to catch his eye was a red wig with a false beard of the same color attached.
This interested him mightily.
There was a fat wallet in the satchel, and——
Just at that point the detective, steel-nerved though he was, experienced something like a shock.
A dresser stood at the end of the room, at right angles with the foot of the bed.
Out of the corner of his eyes Nick caught a glimpse of the glass, and in it was reflected the figure of a man.
The man had opened the door leading off to the left and was standing just within it, coolly eying the detective.
Furthermore, this man was short and thickset, and there was a black mole on his right cheek.
Not only that, but he had a revolver in his hand and was training it full upon the intruder.
In a flash Nick had made up his mind as to what he should do.
This man, of all others, must not take him for a prying detective.
It would be better for him to consider Nick as a common sneak thief.
So the detective set about to foster the latter impression.
Catching up the wallet, he slipped it into his coat pocket.
Then he began throwing the other contents of the grip aside in a seeming eagerness to find something else of value.
“There, my man, that’ll do!”
The voice came from the man in the doorway, and Nick sprang round, the very picture of trepidation and fear.
CHAPTER XXI.
NICK BECOMES CHAUFFEUR.
“Don’t shoot!” pleaded the detective, cringing before the pointed gun; “for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!”
“What do you mean by sneaking into this room?” demanded the man, making a threatening gesture with the revolver.
Nick thought he recognized the voice.
It sounded strangely like the tone assumed by the man from Montana, through the phone.
“My wife and family are starving,” said Nick, in a choking voice; “I can get no work, and they must live.”
“Bah! What do I care for your wife and family? You can’t ring in a bluff of that kind on me, not on your life. You’re a common, ordinary, go-as-you-please sneak thief, and right here is where you are going to get it in the neck!”
The man took a sidestep to the left, still holding the gun on Nick, and reached his left hand toward the push-button above the speaking tube.
“Oh, don’t, sir!” implored Nick, wringing his hands. “Let me go! I beg of you to let me go!”
“Shut up, you coward!” gritted the man. “If you had any nerve about you, I might be tempted to cut you loose; but I haven’t any sort of use for a sniveling, chicken-hearted coyote like you are showing yourself to be.”
His hand rested on the round piece of wood that framed the push-button, but he did not ring the bell.
Nick gave vent to a hollow groan, sank to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.
“Look here, you!” growled the man with the gun. “You’re pretty well dressed for a man working this sort of graft.”
“I’ve seen better days,” sniffed Nick.
“Bother! Better days don’t count. It’s what you are to-day, not last week, or last year. What do you call yourself?”
“My real name do you want, or the one I have been going by?”
“The one you go by now.”
“Chuffer Jones.”
The man with the gun gave a start.
“Chuffer!” he exclaimed. “You mean Chauffeur, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because of my trade, sir.”
“You know how to run these automobiles?”
“That used to be my business. But I took to drink, sir, and lost job after job. Then I took to this graft.”
“What’s your record?”
“It’s terrible, sir.”
“How terrible?”
“Five years in Sing Sing and ten in Stillwater.”
A gleam had come into the murky eyes of the man with the gun.
“I suppose you know,” said he, “that I could jab this button and have the house policeman up here in about two minutes.”
“Mercy!” gasped Nick, all but tying himself up in a knot.
“Oh, brace up, brace up!” grunted the other. “Haven’t you got any sand at all?”
“How much sand do you expect a man to have when he’s caught red-handed like this?”
“You ought to back your legitimate amount of nerve, no matter what happens. You know, I suppose, that I could send you up for quite a spell for what you have tried to do here this afternoon?”
“Will you hush that yaup?” said the man with the gun, exasperated.
“But if you knew——”
“I know you’re a sneak thief, and that I’ve got you dead to rights. Understand? Now, if you want to do the right thing, there’s a chance for you to square yourself with me.”
“What is it?” cried Nick, eagerly.
“First, hand over that leather.”
The detective forked it over.
“Take anything else?”
“Didn’t have time.”
“Well, young man, my name is Leonard Martin. I’m from Chicago, and I’m touring New England with three friends of mine, traveling in one of these auto cars. The machine belongs to me, but I haven’t the first notion how to run the thing. One of my friends knows the ropes, but he was taken sick a day or two ago, and will be hung up here for quite a spell. Now, if you want to run the Red Spider for me——”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” mumbled Nick, with another contortion.
“You whining fool!” growled Mr. Martin, testily, “will you shut up?”
“Then, if you want to save your scalp, you can drive the Red Spider for me.”
“All right, sir.”
“That is,” qualified Martin, “if you can. I’m going to try you right now.”
Once more he reached out his left hand, and this time he pressed the bell.
“Order the Red Spider around to the office entrance,” he called down the tube.
Turning away from the wall, he again addressed himself to the detective.
“I’m taking you into my employ, Jones,” he went on, “but at the first sign of disloyalty I shall turn you over to the police.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Try to run away from me, and I’ll have you hounded down if it costs me every dollar I’ve got in the world.”
Nick shivered.
“And another thing,” went on Martin, “you’re to let whisky alone. There’s a time for lushing, as for everything else, and when I’m ready to have you booze, I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on, then. And don’t forget that I’ve got this right here, ready for use.”
Martin thrust the six-shooter into his hip pocket with a flourish, and Nick had another shiver.
They passed out into the hall and downstairs to the office.
At the counter Martin halted for a word with the clerk.
“How’s that man who got shot?”
“Poorly, sir, poorly,” replied the clerk.
“Will he be in bed long?”
“He may never leave his bed, Mr. Martin.”
“Tough, mighty tough,” mused the kind-hearted Mr. Martin, and passed out to his waiting auto.
CHAPTER XXII.
FOLLOWING A THEORY.
Nick looked the machine over with a critical eye.
It was an ordinary, two-thousand-dollar, single-cylinder, American-made car, and looked as though it might be able to work up considerable speed.
It was painted red, and had the squat, sprawled-out appearance of the ill-omened thing after which it was named.
Nick Carter could drive any kind of a car, and so could Chick.
The detectives had acquired the knowledge as they acquired everything else which even remotely promised to be of aid to them in their work.
Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed.
“Now, then,” said Martin, “let her go!”
Nick started off in fine style, guiding the broad-tired wheels on a hair line.
“You’ll do,” said Martin, approvingly. “I think you can run the Spider better than Emil ever dared to. Keep along this road, right on out into the suburbs. I’ll tell you when I want to stop.”
They reeled off about a mile before Nick got the order to halt.
The stop was made in front of a two-story brick house.
“I’ll get out here, and you can wait for me,” said Martin. “Better turn on the electricity in the lamps, for it will be pretty dark when we start back.”
Martin got out and went up the steps and into the house, and Nick turned the electricity into the side lamps and settled himself back in the seat as comfortably as he could.
Presently he became aware that a roughly dressed man, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, was sizing up the machine through the semigloom.
“What’s one ov them there dinguses wuth?” the man inquired.
“More than you’ll ever salt away,” answered Nick.
“I want tew knaow! Naow, mister, ef yeou’ll jist tell me——”
Nick started up suddenly in his seat, and swept a quick glance around.
“You’re taking a big risk, chief!” he muttered.
“Got an answer to that Chicago telegram, and had to see you,” the chief replied.
“Do you often tog up like that?”
“Not often; that’s something I leave to my under-strappers. But in this instance, as only Jerome and I know your make-up, and Jerome can’t be spared, I decided to help you out.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Saw you come out of the hotel, and followed along on a bike that stood at the curb.”
“Bully for you, chief!” exclaimed Nick. “That answer from Chicago got around in short order.”
“It had the right of way, and they must have known all about this Leonard Martin at headquarters.”
“What of him?”
“The Chicago chief says that he’s one of the shining lights of the bar, in that place, and that some time ago he started to tour New England in his auto, the Red Spider, with three friends. The party, at this time, is believed to be somewhere in Vermont.”
“That all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“I think so,” returned Nick, musingly.
He was “up a stump,” so to speak.
Something was wrong, for this Chicago information did not jibe with his own deductions—and he was ready to bank on his deductions.
“What in Sam Hill are you running that machine for?” queried the curious chief.
“Following out a theory,” returned Nick. Then he suddenly aroused himself. “We may be watched from the house,” said he, “and you hadn’t ought to hang around long.”
“I’m ready to go now.”
“Wait. I’m expecting two of my assistants from New York—Chick and Patsy. It’s ten to one that I’ll be bowling along through the country in this machine before many hours have passed, and I want Chick and Patsy to follow in another auto.”
“Where’ll they get the auto?”
“There’s one, subject to my order, in the Central House stable—a machine belonging to Mr. Clarkson, one of the directors of the People’s National Bank.”
“I know the machine well. Clarkson has been hauled up half a dozen times for exceeding the speed limit.”
“Well, that’s the machine I want Chick and Patsy to follow with.”
“How will your assistants keep track of you?”
“Trust them for that.”
“But if the Red Spider pulls out before they get here——”
“It won’t. I’ll see that it doesn’t.”
Nick had not got quite through with the chief, but was obliged to break off his talk at that moment.
There came the sound of a closing door from the brick house, and Martin appeared and came down the steps to the sidewalk.
The chief did not attempt to run, but stood his ground.
“Hosses aire good enough fer me, by gosh!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t give ye twenty-five cents fer a dozen o’ them there machines.”
Martin paid no attention to the supposed “hayseed,” beyond flashing a curious look at him as he climbed into the auto.
“Back to the hotel, Jones,” said Martin.
“G’lang, ye rubber-tired freak!” whooped the man on the walk, as the Red Spider started off.
“We’re going to pull out of here to-night,” observed Martin.
“Which way do we travel?”
“Never you mind which way we travel!” was the sharp response. “All you got to do is to work the levers and steer where I tell you to.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“We’ll take the Red Spider to the barn,” went on Martin, “and then we’ll go to the hotel.”
“Where’ll I put up?” asked Nick.
“You remember the room next to the one where you were operating this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s empty, and you can occupy that. You’re not going to get out of my sight while we’re in town.”
Nick did not fancy this arrangement, but there was nothing else for him to do except to proceed as Martin directed.
As they trundled into the bar, they saw another auto standing near the door.
“Whose machine is that?” asked Martin.
“It belongs to Mr. Clarkson,” replied one of the men connected with the stable.
It was an electric vehicle—a fact which Nick was glad to observe.
Being electric, it was practically noiseless.
The Red Spider, on the other hand, had a gasoline motor, and pounded along in a way that would make it heard at some distance.
Chick and Patsy would thus have the advantage in the chase; they could hear the Spider fanning along, but those on the Spider would not be able to hear them.
On leaving the barn, Martin and Nick went upstairs to the former’s rooms.
Nick was shown into the room on the left.
This room had a door opening upon the hall, and Martin locked it and put the key in his pocket.
Then he ordered the detective to hand over the skeleton key which had been of such good service several hours before.
Thinking that he now had his chauffeur just where he wanted him, Martin went into the other chamber and threw himself down on the bed with his clothes on.
Martin need not have worried about Nick taking “French leave.”
The detective was only too glad to be in the society of the supposed Chicago men, and would not leave until he had satisfied himself on one or two points.
It was about five o’clock in the morning when Nick was summoned to get up and make ready for the start.
They did not stop for breakfast, but, as Martin said, they would get something to eat at a town a little further on.
As they passed through the office, Nick saw a man seated in a chair, and apparently sound asleep.
The man was Chick, and he was not so sound asleep as he seemed to be.
Martin paid his bill, and he and Nick walked out to the Red Spider, which stood at the curb in front.
Nick cast a casual glance through the window near which Chick had been sitting.
His chair was empty.
There were two men on the rear seat of the automobile; men who had faces of the recognized criminal type.
Martin climbed into the machine, and Nick followed, the two men on the rear seat eying him sharply.
“Start east and take the first turn to the left,” ordered Martin, “then follow that road right out of town and into the country.”
Nick put the car in motion.
As he turned the corner he caught a glimpse of Clarkson’s machine just rounding the hotel from the direction of the barn.
Chick and Patsy were on the seat, and Chick was doing the driving.
CHAPTER XXIII.
OVER THE BRIDGE.
Each man in the touring party carried a large satchel, and Nick noticed that he took very good care of the grip, never letting it get out of his hands for an instant.
The satchels appeared to be rather heavy, and once, when one of them dropped to the bottom of the auto, the detective heard a jingle as of coin.
The morning was bright, the air was fresh, and for five miles the Red Spider cut along at a smart clip.
“Show me how to operate the thing,” said Martin, and Nick instructed him in the art.
“How long have you had this machine, Mr. Martin?” Nick asked.
A silence followed the question, during which Martin exchanged looks with the men on the rear seat.
“Close onto two years,” said Martin, finally. “What do you want to know for?”
“It seems strange that you haven’t learned something about running the Red Spider in two years.”
Martin leaned forward and rapped Nick on the shoulder.
“Look here, Jones,” he growled, “don’t you get too blamed inquisitive. It’s liable to strike in and carry you off.”
After that Nick held his peace for a time, but there were a whole lot of things he wanted to know, and he wasn’t long in opening up again.
“Chicago is a great town,” he remarked.
“Bet your life!” exclaimed Martin.
“I used to do janitor work in the Guggenheimer Building,” confided Nick.
“Is that so?”
“Sure. You know anything about Chicago?”
“Well, rather. I’ve lived there about all my life.”
“Then you know the Guggenheimer Building, corner State and Madison Streets?”
“Like a book. Been in it more times than I can count.”
The detective wanted to laugh.
There was no such building in Chicago.
“Do you remember the orang-outang, carved out of marble, that they’ve got over the door of the Guggenheimer Building?” Nick went on.
“You bet. Seen it a hundred times.”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Nick. “It seems like meeting old friends to run across a man who remembers that orang-outang.”
At the end of the five miles there was a little town called Herkimer, and here the party stopped for breakfast.
When they got down from the machine and went into the hotel, they took their satchels with them.
Nick got outside of his meal and returned to the Red Spider several minutes before the rest of the party had finished and left the table.
The detective knew very well that Chick and Patsy wouldn’t bring their machine up to the place while the Red Spider was in evidence, but he wanted some assurance that his assistants were following.
He got what he wanted, for Patsy appeared in the road, back at a point where it made a turn in the woods, and gave his hat a wave.
Patsy then disappeared, and Nick felt much easier in his mind.
“It’s a cinch,” thought Nick, “that not one of this outfit of supposed Chicago men knows anything about Chicago.
“And another thing, Martin never had the Red Spider for two years, or he’d know how to run it.
“But what did the Chicago chief of police mean by that message he sent to the police department in Latimer?”
Nick was exceedingly thoughtful for a few moments.
“I’d like to pinch the entire outfit, and make them prove that they’re what they say they are,” he said to himself, finally, and gave a look down the road, as though he would summon Chick and Patsy.
But Chick and Patsy were not in sight.
If Nick could have known what Martin and his two friends were talking about in the hotel, however, it is safe to assume that he would have made the effort of his life to arrest the three men before they had gone another mile further.
“I don’t like the looks of that driver of yours, Clancy,” one of Martin’s pals was saying.
“He’s all right, I tell you, Spark,” averred Clancy. “Didn’t I spot him while trying to sneak a wallet in my room? I’ve got the fellow right under my thumb, and he knows it.”
“He looks to me as though he’s playing a part. Don’t you think so, Cricket?”
“He looks all right to me,” replied Cricket.
“We ought to get rid of him,” persisted Spark.
“What’s got you on the run, old man?” queried Clancy.
“Give it up; but I’ve got a feeling that there’s trouble ahead. And look here—I’ll bet I can prove to you that this Jones, as he calls himself, is crooked.”
“If you can do that, Spark,” said Clancy, “we’ll salt him too quick.”
“Can you run the Spider now, Clancy?”
“Well enough to take us where we want to go. But come on, if you’re through. It’s time we hit the trail.”
They got up, picked up their satchels from beside their chairs, and went out and got into the auto.
“Keep right on along the turnpike, Jones, just as we were going before we stopped,” said Martin.
Nick carried out his orders, and they were soon spinning along in a due north direction.
“Did you have any trouble in connecting with the twenty thousand, Clancy?” asked Cricket.
Clancy!
The word was out of Cricket’s mouth before he fairly realized that he had said it.
Savage looks were darted at him by Clancy and Spark, and then all three fixed their eyes upon Nick.
Apparently he had not heard the word.
“No trouble at all,” said Clancy.
“It was easy money,” went on Cricket, “and earned you a hundred per cent. overnight.”
Nick knew that Clancy and Cricket were talking about the demand certificate for twenty thousand dollars which the former had got from the People’s National Bank on Monday afternoon.
Here was proof that the money had been deposited, stolen back, and collected again on the demand certificate.
The detective was more than ready now to take chances in capturing the three scoundrels.
Some parts of the deal were still dark to him, but he was sure of his ground so far as Clancy and his two pals were concerned.
But how were the men to be captured?
With two at his back and one beside him, to attempt to make an arrest single-handed would have been the height of folly.
A startling expedient occurred to Nick.
Why not wreck the machine?
That would give Chick and Patsy a chance to come up and take a hand in the capture.
Nick looked ahead.
The turnpike wound around through the hills, and was bordered with large trees.
Some of these trees stood out close to the roadway, and it would be a comparatively easy matter to speed up the auto and smash against a tree.
The collision would certainly wreck the Red Spider, and it might also cause the gasoline tank to explode.
In the latter event it was a question whether any of the party would be left alive to tell the tale.
Nick had no desire to cut short his career on that lonely turnpike in northern Vermont, but still he realized that he would have to take chances, no matter what course he pursued.
In the distance he could see a plank bridge crossing a stream.
The edge of the bridge was guarded with a low wooden railing, and to run the Red Spider into the railing and off the bridge would not be a difficult task.
But that would be infinitely more dangerous than running the auto into a tree.
Nick, therefore, decided on a collision.
The approach to the bridge was slightly downhill, and he started the Spider at a tremendous clip.
“Slower, slower!” shouted Clancy. “Do you want to wreck us?”
“It’s out of control!” cried Nick. “I can’t do anything with it!”
The Spider was shooting toward a tree, a hundred feet ahead, and Nick seemed to be working frantically at the levers in an attempt to stop it.
Suddenly Spark, who sat directly behind Nick, thrust a hand in his pocket and slipped his fingers through a set of brass knuckles.
Bringing the hand out of his pocket, Spark half arose and dealt the detective a smashing blow on the back of the head.
Nick fell forward, stunned and helpless.
“He was shamming!” cried Spark; “quick, Clancy! Turn the machine, or we’re gone!”
Clancy flung himself on the steering lever and swerved the auto so that it missed the tree by a hair’s breadth.
A moment more and he had halted the ponderous machine.
“He was trying to do for us,” said Spark, excitedly.
“But why in the fiend’s name should he try to wreck us?” answered Clancy. “He would have done for himself as well.”
“He had some game, I tell you,” persisted Spark. “He must be one of Nick Carter’s men. He wants revenge for what you and I did to Carter, Clancy.”
“Bosh! Your nerves are running away with you, Spark.”
“Look here!”
Spark leaned over Nick and tore the false mustache from his lip.
“Now what do you think? This sneak thief of yours, Clancy, has been in disguise!”
Clancy voiced a lurid oath.
“I wish I knew Carter’s assistants,” he added, with a fierce growl; “but I don’t even know Carter himself, except from description.”
“Are you sure we got Carter at the hotel?” queried Cricket.
“Nicholas is the name he uses, now and then, and we know he took that bank robbery case. You followed him from the Holland Hotel to the Central House, Cricket, and ought to know him, if anybody does.”
“Nicholas was disguised,” said Cricket, “and I couldn’t tell what he looked like with the disguise off. But he didn’t look anything like this fellow.”
“This chap is trying to plug our game, anyhow,” said Clancy, a savage gleam in his eyes, “and right here is our chance to get rid of him. Bring out a couple of ropes, Cricket.”
Cricket fumbled around in the bottom of the auto, and finally found a piece of rope, which he cut in two.
Nick was still unconscious, and did not recover his wits until the tying operation had been completed.
When he opened his eyes, Clancy was going through his pockets.
“Guns, and handcuffs, and a pocket bull’s-eye,” muttered Clancy, producing the articles one by one and handing them over the back of the front seat to Spark and Cricket. “A nice equipment for a sneak thief to tote around with him. He’s Nick Carter’s assistant, all right.”
“He has two men assistants,” spoke up Spark—“Chick and Patsy.”
“I have heard of them,” said Clancy, with an oath. “Here, you!” he added, grabbing Nick by the shoulders and giving him a rough shake; “what sort of a deal were you trying to ring in on us?”
“Who hit me?” demanded Nick.
“I did,” asserted Spark. “What did you try to wreck the auto for?”
“I couldn’t manage it.”
“Bah!” snorted Clancy. “You’re one of Nick Carter’s men, we know that, and right here is where our trails divide. I’m from Montana, I am, and Ramsay, a man Nick Carter hounded into the penitentiary, was a pal of mine.
“I swore, when Ramsay got sent over the road, the other day, that I’d never rest until I had played even with Carter on Ramsay’s account.
“I have pretty near succeeded in doing that, I reckon. Cricket shadowed Carter from the Holland Hotel to the Central House and reported to Spark and me. Then I put up that job and called up Carter on the Central House phone. Spark was beside the glazed window in the court, and he fired the shot that put this crack detective of yours out of the chase after these bank robbers.
“I didn’t count on having such good luck as to connect with one of Carter’s assistants; and now that we’ve got you, Jones, or whatever your name is, we’ll see that you’re properly taken care of.”
“You may be able to take care of me,” said the detective, “but you’ll still have Nick Carter to settle with.”
“Carter!” sneered Clancy. “Why, he ain’t in it with me when it comes down to head work. I can think all around him any day in the week.”
“You’re thinking all around him now,” answered Nick, quietly.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’ll know some time.”
“Quit this fooling!” cried Spark. “Let’s get rid of the fool and then push on toward the Canadian line. I won’t feel easy till we cross the border.”
That was Nick’s first clew to the intentions of Clancy and his pals.
They were working to get into Canada, where an American detective could not touch them without going through a lot of red-tape proceedings.
If these men were captured, it must be before they crossed the line.
“How’ll we fix him?” asked Clancy.
“A gun is good enough,” said Cricket.
“A knife is better,” supplemented Spark. “It makes less noise.”
“What do we care for noise?” asked Clancy, with a harsh laugh; “there is no one within a mile of us. But I know a trick worth two of either one of those.”
“What is it?” inquired Spark.
“We’ll give him a chance to swim without the use of his hands or feet.”
“That’s the talk!” declared Cricket.
“Make for the bridge,” added Spark, “and we’ll toss him over.”
Clancy ran the Red Spider to the foot of the hill and onto the bridge, halting close to the right-hand railing.
Then he and Spark stood up, Nick was caught by the feet and shoulders and swung back and forth.
“One, two, three,” counted Clancy; “now, then!”
The form of the detective was released and went whirling outward and downward.
“Help!” he cried, at the top of his voice; “the river!” Then he splashed into the water and went plunging away on the breast of the swift current.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ONE WAY TO STOP AN AUTO.
Nick’s cry for help and his reference to the river were intended for the ears of Chick and Patsy.
If they failed him, Nick felt that his case was hopeless.
The stream into which he was thrown was narrow and winding, and, at that point, flowed with great force.
The swiftness of the current bore the detective up and kept him from sinking.
The men in the Red Spider watched until he was carried around a bend in the stream, and then continued on, confident that they had been completely successful in their murderous designs.
The torrent was full of drift, and Nick, half strangled and dizzy, felt that his chief danger lay in being struck by some of the logs that were spinning along with him on the surface of the water.
But this fact, so far from being a danger, proved his salvation.
An uprooted tree came sweeping toward him, and he was caught in the spreading branches.
Tangled among the limbs, as he ultimately became, it was impossible for him to sink, and for a short distance he rode along with his head out of the torrent.
Presently the tree lodged in a jam of driftwood, and Nick watched the whirling débris shoot against the jam and pass on, missing his head sometimes by no more than an inch.
“Help!” he called again, “This way, Chick! Patsy! Help!”
He did not call in vain, for Chick and Patsy suddenly appeared on the bank, the former with a coil of rope in his hands.
“We’ll have you in a minute, old man!” cried Chick, cheerily. “I’ll throw the rope and you can catch it.”
“No, I can’t,” answered Nick. “My hands are tied.”
“Here,” said Patsy, grabbing one end of the rope and tying it about his waist. “I can go out on that tree and fish Nick out of the branches. I’m a regular cat when it comes to walking a log.”
“All right, Patsy,” said Chick. “Mind your eye and be careful that the tree doesn’t turn with you.”
Patsy started, made his way into the branches, knelt down, and cut the rope from Nick’s hands.
Nick was then able to help, and his rescue was not long in being effected.
On reaching the bank, he dropped down for a moment, completely exhausted.
“Wouldn’t this give you a jolt?” muttered Patsy, as he cut the rope from Nick’s ankles. “They expected him to swim with his hands and feet tied.”
“They expected me to go to the bottom,” returned Nick, “and I’d have done it, too, if you and Chick hadn’t been handy by.”
He arose to his feet.
“We haven’t any time to waste here,” he went on, giving himself a shake and throwing as much water as he could out of his soaked clothing. “Where’s the auto?”
“On the turnpike, about a hundred yards away,” replied Chick.
“Then let’s get to it and keep on after that outfit. They’re making for the Canadian line, and we’ve got to stop them before they get across.”
“Then we’ll have to rush,” said Chick. “The border isn’t more than twenty miles away.”
They all realized the value of the minutes that were slipping past, and ran for the turnpike, sprang into the auto, and started on at top speed.
After they had crossed the bridge and got some distance beyond, they began to look and listen for some sign of the Spider.
They could hear nothing.
“Give her every ounce of power!” cried Nick, and Chick turned on the current full drive.
“We’ll overhaul ’em,” averred Chick, “providing something doesn’t give way.”
“And providing we’re on the right track,” added Nick; “they may have scented trouble and turned off the main road.”
“We’ll soon find out. Who are they?”
“They are the men who robbed the bank at Latimer, Monday night. One of them is short, thickset and has a mole on his right check——”
“Clancy!” cried Chick.
“If we get near enough,” put in Patsy, lifting a repeating rifle from the bottom of the auto, “we can stop them with this.”
“Where did you get that?” asked Nick.
“The proprietor of the barn, in Latimer, had it, and I borrowed it. There’s more range to this than there is to a six-shooter.”
Again they listened, and a worried look overspread Nick’s face when they failed to hear the pounding of the gasoline auto.
“There hasn’t been a road, so far, that they could turn off on,” said Chick, “so it’s a safe-money guess that we’re behind them.”
“At this rate we ought to come up with them before long,” returned Nick. “What did you find at 1145 Mechlin Street, Chick?”
“It was Mechlin Avenue.”
“That’s immaterial. You found the place?”
“Like a top.”
“What sort of a place is it?”
“A tough boarding house run by a hag who has a son called Five Points.”
“Well?”
“I went to the hang-out in a tough disguise, and had no difficulty in getting lodging. I thought I might have to stay a day or two, but a couple of hours was enough.”
“What did you learn?”
“Lots; and it was hot stuff, too.”
Again they listened and looked for the Red Spider, but in vain.
Nor had they yet passed any crossroad, so they felt sure their men must still be ahead of them.
“Go on, Chick,” said Nick.
“The hag that bossed the roost was having a confab with a brother of hers, in the sitting room of the place.
“The brother was as clear a case of grafter as I ever saw—he had all the marks from soles to headpiece.
“It seems that he was out for the stuff, and wanted to join a gang where there would be something doing.
“The old woman was putting him next to a touch of the warm variety, and, say! I heard enough to land them both in the Tombs.
“The hag was telling about her son, Five Points, and how he had connected with a Montana man who was working a graft that was as novel as it was successful.
“The old woman, you see, thought that her brother might be able to join the same gang, and he was dead anxious to make the attempt.
“From what the hag said, it appears that there were four in Clancy’s party—Clancy himself, Five Points, a man called Spark, and another known as Cricket.
“They came together at some place in Vermont, and captured an auto car belonging to some Chicago people who were doing the New England States.
“Clancy, it seems, had had his eye on this party for some time.
“He is a gambler and appears to have plenty of money, so that he could have bought his own machine if he had wanted to, but that wasn’t his object.
“He lays for the Red Spider, makes prisoners of the Chicago men, and tucks them away somewhere in the Vermont woods where they will be safe; then he and his outfit gets into the Chicago men’s clothes, and go piking around the circle as Leonard Martin, Leslie Hibbard, Morris Markham and Emil Z. Schiffel——”
“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Nick, as the whole graft dawned on him. “That was a clever game, for no one could ever suspect these rich Chicago men of looting a bank, or doing any other crooked work.”
“Clancy has a good head for that kind of business.”
“The old woman was well informed, it seems to me.”
“She got her information through Five Points, I suppose, who knows something about driving an automobile.”
“Why did you wire me to look out for Clancy?”
“The old woman described Clancy to her brother, so that he would know him at sight. She also mentioned that he was a pal of Ramsay’s, and had come East with a double purpose—to clear up as much good money as he could and, incidentally, to settle Nick Carter.”
“He’s tried it twice,” said Nick, “and——”
“Listen!” broke in Patsy. “That other auto is dead ahead. Can’t you hear it?”
They could hear it plainly, the chough, chough, chough coming to their ears with great distinctness.
“Now, then,” muttered Nick, “if this machine holds together, we’ll be up with them in a very few minutes. Let me have one of your revolvers, Patsy.”
“Take ’em both,” said Patsy, tendering the weapons; “I’ll use the rifle.”
“Better let me take the rifle,” returned Nick, a sudden idea coming to him.
“All right.”
Patsy handed over the gun.
The next instant the auto rounded a hill and the Red Spider came into sight.
It was some distance off and racing at a speed which caused it to lurch dangerously from side to side.
“A stern chase is usually a long one, but I don’t think this will be,” muttered Nick. “We’re gaining at every jump.”
“And they don’t know yet that we’re after them,” chuckled Patsy.
“They know now,” said Chick. “One of them, on the rear seat, is turning around. There! He’s trying a shot.”
The report of a revolver echoed out, but the range was too great for effective shooting with small arms.
“Give ’em the Winchester, Nick!” suggested Patsy.
“I will,” replied Nick, “and I’ll cripple the Spider so we can overhaul it in less time than ever.”
He threw the repeater to his shoulder and sighted it long and carefully.
It was a pretty shot that he intended making, for not only must he take into consideration the motion of his own auto, but of the Red Spider as well.
Suddenly he pulled the trigger.
A loud report volleyed out, and instantly the Spider began to wobble.
The speed of the gasoline machine was reduced at least one-half.
“By thunder!” exulted Patsy; “he’s punctured one of the rear tires!”
CHAPTER XXV.
PATSY’S CAPTURE.
“We’ll be on them in a minute,” said Nick. “Got an extra pair of handcuffs, Patsy?”
“Sure!” and Patsy dove into his pocket and brought out a pair of bracelets.
“I was pretty well stripped by Clancy and his gang before they threw me in the river,” went on Nick.
“We’ll get your property back in short order, Nick,” said Chick.
“We’ll have a fight first. By George! they’re jumping from the automobile and taking to the woods!”
“They’re going to make a run of it, the cowards!” exclaimed Patsy.
“You take the tall man, Patsy,” said Nick. “I’ll attend to the short, thickset individual, and you, Chick, can take the other.”
“All right,” came from Chick and Patsy.
Presently the electric auto was alongside the Red Spider, and the detectives leaped into the road and started for the woods.
At the edge of the timber a volley was fired at them, the bullets whistling through the air uncomfortably close.
The fire of the robbers was returned, the detectives leaping forward.
In a few moments they caught sight of Clancy and his pals.
They were separating and making in different directions.
“Here’s where we divide,” said Nick. “Remember, we’ve got to have those men before they get across the line.”
“They’re ours!” said Chick.
“Easy!” added Patsy.
Patsy’s man was Cricket, and the way Patsy sprinted after him was a sight to see and remember.
Through the woods, pell-mell, raced the grafter and the detective, leaping over logs, plunging through bushes, and halting now and again to try a shot at each other.
None of the bullets took effect, and both Patsy and Cricket had soon used up their ammunition.
“It will be a give-and-take with our mitts now,” thought Patsy, “and it’s a mighty good thing that I’m the best runner. Hello! There’s a farmhouse, and Mr. Grafter is making right for it.”
There was a clearing in the woods, and Cricket leaped a fence and made for the farm buildings.
At first he headed toward the house, but a sight of the farmer and his wife, and a contingent of children, with a hired man and a bulldog in the background, caused him to change his mind.
Swerving to the right, he pushed for the barn.
“Hi, there!” cried Patsy. “He’s a thief! Head him off! Stop him!”
Instead of trying to head off the fleeing robber, however, the farmer and his family retreated into the house at a double quick.
“Hurry, Hiram!” cried the woman, frantically. “They’re tramps, and we’ll all be killed, I know we will!”
“Don’t you fret, Mirandy!” whooped the farmer. “I’ll take care of you.”
Then the door was slammed shut, effectually debarring the entrance of the hired man.
“Le’me in!” bellowed the hired man, banging at the door with his clinched fists. “Gosh all hemlocks, d’ye want me tew git killed?”
“You don’t amount to nothin’, Willyum,” called the farmer from behind the door; “they won’t kill you. Set Tige on ’em!”
The hired man whirled and loped toward the barn.
Seeing Patsy making in that direction, William sidetracked into a corn crib.
At any other time the ludicrous side of this situation would have appealed to Patsy, but just now he had his hands too full to consider it.
Cricket had run into the barn, and the detective sprang to the door through which he had vanished.
Just as Patsy reached the barn the bulldog, Tige, became a factor in the case.
The dog was not so easily scared as the farmer and the rest of the household, and didn’t care particularly who he tackled, just so long as he tackled somebody.
It happened that he came up with Patsy, as the latter was about to leap into the barn, caught him by the tails of his coat and pulled him backward.
The instant Patsy recoiled, a pitchfork cleaved the air in the exact place his head had been an instant before.
The detective grabbed the fork, wrenched it out of Cricket’s hands, and turned.
“Good dog!” cried Patsy. “But that’s enough of it,” and he brought the handle of the fork around with terrific force.
Tige was a bulldog, but he was sensible, and realized when he had enough.
He was knocked end over end, and when he picked himself up he raced for the corn crib and tried to get inside with the hired man.
As Patsy once more leaped to get into the barn and try conclusions with Cricket, a currycomb caught him in the shoulder.
“Never touched me!” shouted Patsy.
The next instant he and Cricket were having it rough and tumble on the barn floor.
Patsy had strength, and science as well, and was not long in placing the robber in chancery.
“That’ll do,” said Cricket; “you’re too many for me.”
“Where are your guns?” demanded Patsy.
“Dropped ’em,” panted Cricket. “They wasn’t any good, anyhow.”
“Got a knife?”
“No.”
“You’re another!”
Patsy thrust his hand into the breast of the robber’s coat and pulled out a knife in a leather sheath.
After transferring the blade to his own pocket, he brought out the darbies and attached them to his prisoner’s wrists.
“Now, get up,” he said, hanging on to the bracelets.
Cricket arose.
“One of Nick Carter’s men,” grinned Patsy. “I should think you’d know the brand by this time.”
“The best thing we’ve done this trip is to fix Carter,” gloated Cricket.
“You starred yourself at that, didn’t you?” returned the detective dryly.
“You bet we did! Who was that duffer that ran your auto?”
“Chickering Carter, the Little Giant’s right-hand man.”
“And that cove in the water-soaked garments and minus the hat. You pulled him out of the river, didn’t you?”
“Oh, no. He swam out and walked up the bank.”
“But his hands and feet were tied!”
“That’s no trick at all for Nick Carter.”
Cricket gave a jump.
“Nick Carter!” he gasped. “Was that man Nick Carter?”
“Sure. Who did you think he was?”
Cricket muttered an oath.
“There’s no use in a lot of pinheads like us going up against Nick Carter,” he said. “When that sleuth enters a race it’s all over but paying the bets.”
“You’re a pretty sensible kind of a grafter, after all,” said Patsy. “If you’re done chinning, we’ll move—out of the barn and toward the house.”
Cricket started, and Patsy walked at his side, still keeping a grip on the comealongs.
The hired man and the dog were just crawling out of the corn crib, and the farmer had mustered up courage to open the door of the house a couple of inches, as the detective passed by with his prisoner.
A feeble plot darted through Cricket’s mind.
“I say,” he shouted, “this man is a highway robber, and he chased me here. Go for him, will you? Help me get away from him!”
“Yeou be derned,” drawled the farmer. “A feller that ’u’d scare honest folks like you did ought tew be robbed.”
“Got anything else you want to tell ’em?” queried Patsy.
Cricket gave a black scowl, and turned away.
“Then it’s us back to the auto,” went on the detective, and marched his prisoner back through the woods to the road.
The two machines were standing side by side, as they had been left, and there was no one around or in them.
“It looks as though I’d make a record for bringing in the first man,” remarked Patsy. “Hello! What’s that?”
A thump of swiftly falling hoofs reached him, and a team and a lumber wagon came slashing into view around a wooded bend.
The horses attached to the wagon were more than laying out.
The lines were dragging on the ground, there was no one on the bounding seat, and the awkward vehicle leaped and buck-jumped like a thing of life.
In the rear of the wagon box were two men, struggling with each other for the mastery.