Snarled Identities; Or, A Desperate Tangle

CHAPTER XVII.
CRAY WIRES FOR “CARTER.”

It is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Simpson looked surprised at a question which appeared so irrelevant.

“Yes, I do,” she answered, “but I don’t see what in the world that has to do with Mr. Simpson’s absence.”

“Nothing, of course,” was the prompt response. “I’m trying to get at something else, Mrs. Simpson—I’m afraid I can’t tell you just what at present. Are you a light sleeper?”

“Yes, very.”

“I suppose your room is on the second floor, there, where those double windows are?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the windows are open these nights?”

“Of course—all of them. It has been very warm, you know.”

“Was that the room you originally planned to occupy?”

Mrs. Simpson looked amazed.

“Why, no, it wasn’t,” she confessed. “Naturally, the best bedroom is supposed to be at the front of the house. It has a big bay window, and gets the air from three sides. It’s so big, though, and seemed so lonesome after Mr. Simpson was gone, that I changed to this back one after the first night. But I don’t understand what’s in your mind, Mr. Jones.”

“Don’t try to, Mrs. Simpson,” he advised. “I have an idea, but I’m not free to share it yet, even with you. That’s all I care to look at here, Mrs. Simpson; let’s go back to the house.”

They went around to the front door, and the woman invited him in again somewhat reluctantly. He would have liked to get hold of a pair of Simpson’s shoes, but he did not dare ask that, feeling sure that she would smell a rat if he did.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I have imposed on you too much already.”

He paused for a moment, and went on, picking his words carefully.

“I suppose you haven’t got a very good opinion of my abilities along this line, Mrs. Simpson?” he said deprecatingly. “Mr. Griswold himself has thought fit to send me here, and I have an idea or two that I would like to test. It’s too soon to tell you what I believe, but I think I have a clew to your husband’s behavior. Will you help me to find out whether it’s good for anything, or not?”

“Of course, I will—I’ll do anything I can.”

“Then—it sounds like a mystery thriller, but the explanation is very simple—will you sleep in the front room for a night or two, and see that all the windows at the back are closed and dark?”

Mrs. Simpson looked at him as if she thought he had lost his senses, but she reluctantly agreed to do as he asked.

“Thanks ever so much,” Cray said uncomfortably. “I know how it sounds, but I have a notion that it will help.”

And, after a few more words, he left the house, being careful, however, to caution Mrs. Simpson to say nothing to any one concerning his peculiar request, or the trend of his inquiries.

Incidentally, he had secured from her the name of the garage at which Simpson had rented the car—an electric.

The ex-police detective’s manner, as he strode down the hill, was a very thoughtful one, but there was something triumphant about the swing of his shoulders and the carriage of his massive head.

In his opinion, he had done a good day’s work. Certainly, he had made some very curious discoveries, and if his theory were anywhere near correct, he had hopes of solving the mystery—and, incidentally, of capturing John Simpson, and recovering a large share of the stolen gold—before many hours had passed.

And the best of it was that he had done everything single-handed. To be sure, his friend Carter had advised his going to New Pelham first of all, but, beyond that, the great detective had had nothing to do with the affair, thus far.

“Carter will be sorry he didn’t get into the game at the start,” Cray told himself, with a satisfied grin. “If this thing goes through, as I hope it will, I’ll cop about all the credit there is. Too bad I called Carter in at all. If I had known what a cinch it was going to be, you can bet I would have handled it alone.”

He and Nick were great friends, but Cray saw no reason to hide his own light under a bushel for that reason. On the other hand, he well knew that Nick would rejoice in his success, and decline to take any credit or pay that did not rightfully belong to him.

He would have been less certain of the outcome, however, had he suspected that he was not dealing with Nick Carter at all, but with one of the most unscrupulous criminals in the country.

Cray found the garage easily enough, and lost no time getting down to business.

“Friend of mine, Mr. Simpson, rented a car here,” he said. “An electric. It looks pretty good to me. Is it still for hire?”

“No, sir,” the owner of the garage answered. “Didn’t you know I sold it to Mr. Simpson nearly a week ago?”

“The deuce you did!” ejaculated Cray. “That’s a new one on me. Haven’t seen Simpson lately.”

“Well, he liked the machine so much that he took it, after having it out several times. I’ve got other cars here for sale, but that was the only electric. There isn’t very much demand for them, you know.”

“It was an electric I wanted,” Cray told him, with apparent regret. “Like them quiet.”

“That’s what Mr. Simpson said,” the garage owner vouchsafed. “They may be quiet enough, but I like something a little faster and bigger. I’ve got a dandy Wellington here, sir, as good as new, that I’ll sell you for——”

“Nothing doing,” Cray interrupted. “Wife has set her heart on an electric, and you know what that means. Thanks just the same, though.”

They exchanged meaning glances, and Cray left the garage. As he walked along the main street, he whistled softly, but very cheerfully. The garage man’s hint as to Simpson’s reason for purchasing an electric car had served to strengthen his suspicions. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he was right, and the more eager he was to lay his amazing theory before Nick Carter.

He desired the great detective’s approval, and his cooperation in the last dramatic scene, which he hoped would take place that night. But again there would have been a fly in his honey had he known that another had arrived at practically the same conclusion by pure reasoning, and that that other was not Nick Carter, but an impostor and ex-convict, who was posing in Nick’s place.

Perhaps it is just as well that Jack Cray did not know that fact when he proceeded to the combined railroad station and telegraph office, and wrote out the following message: