The Twin Mystery; Or, A Dashing Rescue

As a matter of fact, they did follow the man, but only because their ways were the same.

At the corner below they saw this man pass through a door, which Nick and Chick sized up to be the back door of a drinking saloon.

They let him go, and Nick led the way to the house of the woman on whom Ida had first called.

This was not guesswork. He recalled that he had advised Ida to see that woman immediately on arriving in Philadelphia.

It was with some difficulty that the woman was aroused, and when she was, her means of communication with them was through the window of her bedroom. It did not take long for Nick to learn that Ida had called on her, and that she did not know whither Ida had gone on leaving her.

“The first point is made,” said Nick to Chick, “for we have found that Ida reached here and began work. Now we will follow her up.”

Taking a position under the arc light near by, Nick took from his pocket some papers, and, after examining them, said:

“I fancy we can travel Ida’s course pretty straight for a while. Come along.”

Thus, without delay, they called at each of the next three places Ida had gone to, and in the order that she had, compelled in each instance to arouse people from their beds to answer their questions.

But at the end of this journey they were, to use the words of Chick, “up against it.”

What line Ida had traveled, and to what address she had gone, they had no way of judging.

Although Nick had given her the name of a person to call on, he was unable to tell where that person lived, and had advised Ida that she would have to find out on her arrival in the city. He could only tell that it was in a certain neighborhood, information which he had obtained from Blanche Constant after the murder.

However, assuming that this was her next direction, they went thither in what Chick felt to be a rather hopeless search.

Reaching that part of the town, they traveled the streets in all directions without hitting upon any indications of Ida’s tracks.

Coming to one corner, which they had passed several times. Nick said:

“Here’s a street that we have not been over yet; let’s try it.”

“I am afraid,” said Chick, as he followed his chief down the street indicated, “that we will find other streets that we will travel until daylight.”

He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth than he stopped short and dropped down on his knees, looking at something intently on the pavement.

Nick halted, looking with great interest at what his aid was doing. He saw him take from his pocket a small lantern he always carried with him, and turn the light on a particular spot of the pavement.

“What is it, Chick?” said Nick.

“Red chalk marks,” said Chick.

“Signs?” asked Nick.

“Not our signs,” said Chick, “though they seem to look as if there had been an attempt to make one. But, chief, I’ll bet my life that this is the same chalk we use.”

Nick bent down over the spot, and saw that the pavement was made of red brick; that it would have been difficult to have made one of the signs that they used between them, and that in this case the marks only seemed to have been hastily made without any form whatever.

He stood up erect, looking at Chick.

“Could those marks have been made by Ida?” asked Nick.

“I am guessing that they were,” said Chick. “Anyhow, I gave Ida a piece of that chalk, and told her she ought to always carry it with her, for she could not know how useful it might become.”

“Let’s look a little farther,” said Nick.

“Wait a minute,” said Chick. “If any one comes, play drunk.”

Backing up against a tree, Chick suddenly lifted that fine, manly voice his friends knew he had, in a popular song of the day, that rang out on the night air as clear as a bell.

He had sung but a verse, when two men suddenly appeared at the corner beyond them, say a hundred feet away, and Nick began to urge him to come home and not make a holy show of himself in the street, saying that they’d have the cops down on them if he didn’t stop it.

He could hear one man say to the other that it was only a couple of drunks, and saw them turn back and go out of sight.

Chick sang another verse, and then both listened.

There was an answer, indistinctly, yet clear enough for them to hear every note. They heard the third verse of the song sung through.

“Ida’s here,” said Chick.

“Are you sure?” asked Nick.

“Sure!” replied Chick. “I’d know her way of singing in the wilds of Africa.”

“Then you have found her,” said Nick. “And the next thing is to get to her.”

On looking up, he saw nearly opposite where the marks on the pavement were, a door in the fence opposite to where they were standing.

Both he and Chick carefully examined this door and the fence for further marks without finding any.

Then Nick followed up the pavement, until he came opposite the door of the first house to be reached, and there beckoned to Chick, pointing with as much excitement as the great detective ever showed, to long red marks on the brickwork of the door.

“That’s the house she is in,” said Chick.

Nick tried the door, and found it was locked. It took him but a minute to pick the lock, but this did not open the door, for it was soon apparent that it was barred from within as well as bolted.

Chick was preparing to put his strength against it, when Nick checked him, and said:

“Let’s try if there is an entrance from that yard.”

Hurrying to the door in the fence and through it, they closed it after them and began an examination of the yard in which they found themselves.

The brick wall of the house, on the door of which were the red marks, made one side of the yard, and at the rear of this side was a door to which they went. This door opened to them on the first trial, and Chick’s lantern came into play again to show a hallway with stairs leading up.

They mounted these stairs revolvers in hand, and on reaching the landing, found an open door opposite them.

Turning into this room, the first thing that they saw was a large black cloth bag on the floor, the next a woman’s handkerchief, which Chick said belonged to Ida.

It was the handkerchief which Ida had wound around her hand with which to break the pane of glass, through which she had talked to the boy who had helped her.

A hasty examination of the adjoining rooms satisfied the two shrewd detectives that the house was not occupied regularly.

Out into the hall they went again, to follow it to an angle, where it turned sharply to the rear, examining each door that they came to.

Finally, at the extreme end of the hall, they found a door which was not only bolted, but barred as well. Chick went to this door, and tapped on it lightly, but in a peculiar manner.

The signal was so light as to be almost unheard, but it was immediately responded to.

“She’s here,” said Chick. “Cover me while I take these fastenings off.”

In a twinkling the bar was wrenched off and the bolts withdrawn and the door flung open.

Nick and Chick sprang through, with revolvers up and were met with a merry laugh.

“There’s no one to fight here but me,” said Ida.

She soon satisfied the anxious inquiries of the two that she was unharmed and uninjured in any way, and then Nick said:

“Not another word now until we get Ida out of this place.”

“Give me a gun,” said Ida. “I lost mine early in the evening.”

Chick handed her one, saying that she’d find it a little heavier than the one she was used to having.

“Now,” said Nick, “I will lead, Ida follow and Chick behind. Come on.”

They passed through the hall and to the stairs, and down them without anybody interfering. But, as they reached the door, it was opened and a man made his appearance.

Ida immediately recognized him, even in the dim light, as the tough who had misdirected her into the dark hallway where she had been seized.

“That is one of them,” she said.

The tough, with an oath, called on some one behind him and sprang at Nick.

Possibly if he had known the ready use the famous detective could make of his fists, he would have thought twice over his action.

As it was, he received a blow straight between the eyes which sent him out of the door and on his back to the pavement.

Nick sprang forward through the door at once to meet the second coming up. He did not wait for any action on the part of that fellow, but sent him to keep company with the other, who was endeavoring to get on his feet.

Chick caught Ida and swiftly carried her out of harm’s way, through the door and into the street, through which now she had passed for the second time that night.

Nick followed them closely, and in a moment they were out on the corner.

“Take notice of the place, Chick,” said Nick. “We may want to come back here again.”

The two rascals who had been so severely dealt with by Nick made no attempt to follow them, and it was not long before they were in the street where they could take the cars that would take them to the hotel where they usually stopped when in that city.

It was not until then that Ida told the story of her experience of the night, and of the information she had gained.

After he had listened to it intently, Nick said:

“What you tell us puts an entirely new look upon our case. Chick has picked up a point to add to it, and together they give us some work that will keep us in Philadelphia to-morrow. That brown-bearded man has got to be investigated.”

“Yes,” said Chick, “and we have got to know where he spent the last three days.”

“But what was the meaning of their peculiar treatment of me?” asked Ida.

“They meant to keep you a prisoner,” said Nick, “to prevent you from doing work which they had already found was getting too close to them.”

Nick got up from his chair, and turning to Chick, said:

“Come, Chick, Ida wants rest after her rough experience, and you and I have got to size up something. Come with me.”

CHAPTER XX.
PATSY’S TRIUMPH.

While these events were transpiring in Philadelphia Patsy was endeavoring to set out as a yachtsman.

Chick said that Patsy was like a cat, since he always fell on his feet, no matter how you threw him.

Leaving Nick and Chick starting for their Philadelphia trip, he wandered over to Broadway and from caprice turned into the hotel café where he had left the man who had brought to Masson the news of the change in the arrangements for the funeral of Ethel Romney.

Rather to his surprise than otherwise, he found this man drinking with acquaintances.

Among them was one with whom Patsy was slightly acquainted.

This man knew Patsy had some connection with Nick Carter, but how much he knew Patsy could not tell.

As Patsy was standing near the bar, this man looked up and recognized the lad.

He arose from his seat and crossed to where Patsy was standing, addressing the young detective rather familiarly.

His purpose of rising appeared to be to light his cigar; but he said:

“I want to shake that crowd. They drink too fast for me, and I don’t like the gang.”

The man who was in relations to Masson called out:

“Are you going, Jensen? Well, don’t forget to send me a handy boy for the cabin, as you promised.”

“Who is that?” asked Patsy.

“His name is Moore. He is a sort of a hanger-on of Masson, the broker. Don’t know what, exactly. But does things for him.”

“What does he want of a handy boy?”

“Some one to go as a steward on Masson’s yacht.”

“I wish you would get me the job.”

“You?”

The man called Jensen looked curiously at Patsy for a moment, and then asked:

“Do you mean it?”

“Sure.”

“You would take the place?”

“Try me.”

“By George! What a go. I’ll try it. Ever had any experience that way?”

“I was on the Gay Flirt one season.”

“Good.”

He called Moore aside and whispered to him a while. Moore came to Patsy, saying in an off-hand way:

“My friend backs you for the place. Wages twenty dollars a month and board. Report on board the Derelict off Twenty-third Street, at nine to-morrow morning.”

He handed Patsy a slip of paper, on which he had written some words, and went back to his companions.

Looking at it, Patsy saw it was an order to the chief steward to put him to work.

Hailing the man Jansen, Patsy prepared to leave, but Jansen followed him out to say:

“I’d give an old button to know your game. But I’ll wait to hear the story until I meet you again.”

Patsy went off with a laugh, and to bed.

The next morning, promptly at nine, he reported on the Derelict, and was promptly set at work.

He was heartily sick of his job before the day was over, for it was hard work he was at, with nothing occurring to relieve the monotony.

About six o’clock in the evening the man he had seen the night before waiting for Masson in front of the club house came aboard.

Patsy soon learned that he was the sailing-master and he had not been on board long before there were orders to pull up and steam down the river.

The yacht was taken around Governor’s Island, into Gowanus Bay, and brought to anchor not far from, but out of the track of boats of, the Thirty-ninth Street Ferry.

All things were settled for the night.

The next morning there was much work done in preparation of sailing that afternoon with the owner on board.

Patsy kept a keen eye open for signs of the things Nick expected to occur, for he felt that whatever did occur must happen before the yacht set sail on its cruise.

At twelve o’clock the man who had engaged him as steward the night previous, Moore, appeared on board and entered at once into an earnest talk with the sailing-master.

What the subject of their talk was Patsy was unable to discover, although he made all sorts of efforts to get within earshot.

Whatever it was, was not to the liking of the sailing-master, for he shook his head doubtfully over what Moore was saying. The other was persistent.

Finally, the sailing-master arose, saying in a tone easily heard by Patsy:

“Well, all right, I’ll do it. But I tell you, Moore, I don’t like it. There will be trouble for some of us, if it keeps up.”

“There’ll be no more,” said Moore. “The Mogul has his mind set on this and——Well, if we don’t help in it, some one will be out of a job.”

“And some of us take a chance of being in—somewhere else,” replied the other, with a bitter laugh.

As he turned away Moore detained him, and there was a further whispered conversation, during which Patsy could see that they frequently looked at him.

Finally the sailing-master called him over and asked:

“Do you know how to obey orders and keep your mouth shut and your eyes closed for an extra wad?”

“For that I do,” replied Patsy.

“I size him up as right, Moore,” said the sailing-master. “Give him your orders.”

He walked away.

“There’s something on this afternoon that’ll make dollars for you,” said Moore.

“All right,” said Patsy.

“Well, then,” said Moore, “in twenty minutes you’ll go ashore and be posted in a certain place, where you can see all around you. And there you’ll stand. See?”

Patsy nodded.

“By and by, up on a hill that will be shown you, a man will wave a red cloth. If there are no policemen in sight you will wave a white handkerchief. If there are you’ll wave a green one. See?”

“I see, all right.”

“Then you’ll feet for the launch, and, getting aboard, shut your eyes. See?”

“All right.”

“Then you’re game for it.”

“Game for anything.”

Moore went away, but was back again shortly, telling him to follow.

A steam launch lay alongside, into which Moore dropped, telling Patsy to follow.

This launch ran off to a part of the beach rather out of sight and retired.

A broken-down wharf stretched out into the water, and the launch ran up to it.

At a signal Patsy went ashore. Four other men went ashore also, leaving two men aboard, one at the wheel, and the engineer.

Patsy noticed that none of the other men seemed to be of the yacht’s crew.

The six picked their way over the wharf or pierway and reached the land.

It was a lonely spot, a large, unbroken waste, few houses or buildings near.

They all followed Moore for some three hundred yards, when he stopped, saying to Patsy:

“This is your post. Now keep your eyes open for policemen. Up on that hill yonder the man will be with the red flag. If the way is clear and nobody down there where we landed, wave this.”

He handed Patsy a napkin.

Moore took the other men away. Just then a bell tolled in the distance.

“The devil!” exclaimed Patsy. “We’re not far from Greenwood Cemetery.”

Then he said again:

“And the funeral is to-day.”

He sat down on a stone and did some thinking.

The result of this was that he took off his coat, turned it inside out and put it on again, looking as if he had another coat on. From his pockets he drew a wig and put that on. He rolled up his cap and put on a slouch hat.

Then he stole up in the direction the others had gone. He passed the man stationed on the hill unrecognized.

Arriving at the avenue where the cars ran, he looked around for Moore. By and by he saw him standing in front of a drinking saloon.

He edged up close to him and saw he was anxiously waiting for some one.

That some one appeared shortly in the person of Masson, from a carriage which was driven up to the place.

“Well?” said Masson.

“It’s all right, so far,” replied Moore.

“The funeral carriages will be along in a moment.”

“Is the driver fixed?” asked Moore.

“Yes; to be knocked off his box, and one of our men to take his place.”

“Does she ride alone?”

“No; hang it. There’s a woman with her.”

Patsy went out and sat on the curbstone. Something—an outrage of some kind—was on foot.

A funeral procession came up—a small one. In the carriage immediately behind the hearse were two women. One he recognized at once.

It was Edith, Nick Carter’s wife.

The other was Blanche Constant. He was sure of that from the description he had had of her and a photograph he had seen.

Something of the villainy on foot came to him. He hurried back to his post and again became a steward of the Derelict.

His wait was a long one. By and by he saw the red cloth waved by the man on the hill.

He gave the signal of the white cloth—indeed, gave it without care as to whether or not there was any one near or not.

A minute later a carriage came dashing over the hill.

Four men sprang out, one seizing the horses, while one knocked the driver from the box and climbed up himself.

Two others climbed into the coach from either side.

Then the coach made straight for the landing where the launch was.

Patsy started on a run for the little pier, and at the land end waited, well hidden.

As the coach whirled up, he could see within it.

Edith was there, and so was Blanche Constant, but both were unconscious.

Masson and Moore were both there also. The two men—the signal man and the one who had stopped the horses—were left behind.

Masson had planned to seize Blanche Constant as she was returning from the funeral of her sister and carry her off in his yacht.

Edith had been with Blanche, contrary to expectation, and she had been dosed to prevent her from interfering, but was to be sent back to the city.

Patsy’s plan was made in an instant—a plan to spoil the plan that had been carefully laid.

He waited until Masson got out of the coach and had lifted Blanche out.

Then he sprang into full view, both revolvers leveled.

“Hold!” he cried. “Put that lady down!”

“What!” shouted Masson. “What the deuce! Moore, look to that fellow!”

The driver made a movement as if to get off his box.

“Jim Grady!” cried Patsy; “if you stir, I’ll put a ball into you and pull you in beside for that job of two nights ago!”

“Heavens!” cried the driver, “it’s Patsy Murphy!”

He jumped from his box and ran like a deer. Meanwhile Masson was raving like a madman, calling on Moore to shoot the young detective.

Moore did start for Patsy, and with revolver in hand.

Patsy was in no humor for fooling and, as Moore approached, he fired, striking the scoundrel in the shoulder and sending him to the ground with a groan.

Masson, seeing his lieutenant down, dropped Blanche to the ground and rushed like a maniac at Patsy, shouting for help.

The engineer and the wheelman, hearing the shot and the cries of Masson, climbed out of the launch and came rapidly over the rickety wharf.

Patsy saw at a glance that he was likely to be attacked from behind, and, taking deliberate aim, fired at Masson, hitting him in the upper right arm.

Yelling with pain and rage Masson dropped to the ground and Patsy, whirling around, shouted to the two coming over the rickety pier:

“Back, you curs! I’ll serve you as I have the others. I’m Patsy Murphy!”

Whether they knew the name, or were satisfied that he would do what he said he would, the fact is that they stopped, and at Patsy’s command dropped to the pier.

Dashing up to the carriage, Patsy picked up Mrs. Constant, put her in the coach, and, springing on the box, whipped up the horses.

He was not a minute too soon, for the signal man, the driver and the other one were approaching as fast as they could run.

Indeed, as Patsy drove toward them they made an effort to stop his way, but Patsy, standing up in his box, fired his revolver, right and left, in a way that made them believe that caution was the better part.

So he dashed on toward the avenue.

The shots had attracted attention, of course, and several policemen came.

“I’m Patsy Murphy, of Nick Carter’s staff of detectives,” cried Patsy. “This is a case of abduction that I have spoiled. The ladies in the coach are Mrs. Constant and Nick Carter’s wife. Seize those men of that yacht lying out there.”

But, looking out on the water, they could see the yacht was moving out into the harbor under full steam.

Patsy was disappointed, for he would have liked to arrest Masson, but he had saved the women, and that was the important thing.

He first drove them to a drug store, where they were quickly restored to consciousness, and then to the city, having first engaged a driver at a livery stable.

Edith took Blanche home with her, and Patsy was a hero in the eyes of both. But Patsy, getting home, was inconsolable that he had no prisoners.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE MURDERER.

Events developed rapidly in Philadelphia while Patsy was having his fight with Masson and defeating the abduction scheme.

Before they had discussed Ida’s information long both Nick and Chick had arrived at the same conclusion.

They believed they had found the murderer in Philadelphia, and that Nick’s instinct that Masson was not the person guilty of the murder of Ethel Romney had been right from the first.

“We must move without delay, Chick,” said Nick. “Our rescue of Ida will inform this man that we are in town, and he will run.”

“To make our conclusions a dead certainty,” said Chick, “we ought to prove that George Macrane was in New York on the day of the murder.”

“We’ll take the chances, and prove it afterward,” said Nick, grimly. “Come.”

“Where?” asked Chick.

“To see the chief of police.”

“At this hour? It is three in the morning.”

“He’ll have to stand for it.”

They went out and woke up the chief of police, who, understanding the situation, summoned two officers, whom he put at the disposal of Nick.

The four then set out for the house of Macrane, arriving there a little after four in the morning.

They approached the house cautiously, concealing themselves where they could watch it.

A light was burning in the third-story window, which Nick fancied was the window of the room occupied by George Macrane.

As they watched, two men came down the street, and, rapping at the door of the Macrane house, asked for George.

They were told that he had not yet returned home.

Chick’s sharp eyes recognized one of these men as one of those that had opposed their rescue of Ida.

These two men sat down on the lower step of the Macrane house.

“They mean to wait for George Macrane,” said Nick.

They did not wait long, for in ten minutes’ time a man was seen approaching from the opposite direction.

The two men stood up to meet him.

What they told him could not be heard by Nick and Chick, but it was followed by a frightful explosion of oaths and curses from George Macrane.

So frantic, indeed, was this outburst, that Nick thought it proceeded from a craven fear of the result.

Touching Chick, and, bidding the officers to follow, Nick slipped across the street, closely approaching the three men before they were seen.

Laying his hand on the shoulder of Macrane, Nick said:

“George Macrane, you are my prisoner. I want you for the murder of Ethel Romney.”

The shock was so sudden that Macrane dropped to the pavement in a heap.

If the other two had been disposed to make a resistance they were too much astonished at the charge made against their employer to offer any.

They stared in open astonishment, and made no show of objecting when the officers took them in charge.

George Macrane soon recovered possession of himself, and, rising, said rather tremblingly, to be sure:

“You must be wild to charge me with that. Ethel Romney is in New York.”

“She is in Greenwood by this time,” said Nick.

“I couldn’t have done her—she in New York and me here,” said Macrane, growing bolder as he talked. “She’s been there a week or more.”

“It is useless, Macrane,” said Nick. “We know the whole trick. You were in New York yourself. You laid the game up well, but we know it.

“You knew there was a man in New York who was following Ethel’s sister; you were told you looked like him; you saw him, and you trimmed your whiskers to be exactly like him.”

Nick stopped and looked at Macrane. What he had been saying was purely guesswork, but he saw that he had hit home.

“You called at Mrs. Constant’s home at eight o’clock on the night of the murder, giving the name of Masson. You were told that Mrs. Constant had gone out to the dressmaker’s.

“You knew that wasn’t so—you knew it was Ethel who had gone out, but thereby you found out where she had gone to.

“You went to the dressmaker’s and waited till she came. You tried to speak to her as she went in. Then you went into the coach and waited.

“When she came to enter it she saw you and screamed, but you pulled her in and shut the door.

“The coach drove rapidly up the avenue, and during that drive you shot her, for she had told you that she was done with you forever, and meant to live with her sister.

“When the coach was checked, at Fifty-eighth Street, you stepped out, crossed the street, and, going down Fifty-eighth Street, you bowed to a man at nine o’clock, who spoke to you as Masson.

“Half an hour later, on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and Fifth Avenue, you talked for a few minutes with a man who stopped you and called you Masson.

“You made yourself conspicuous in other places when you thought suspicion could be thrown on Masson.

“Then, when you thought you had done enough you started back to Philadelphia, but one of my aides was on the train. We were on your track. We were bound to land you as we have landed you.”

Turning to the officers, Nick said:

“Take us to the lockhouse. Chick, have you hand-cuffs?”

Chick had not, but one of the officers had, and Macrane was ironed.

It was daylight when Nick and Chick returned to their hotel to snatch a brief sleep.

Early in the morning they were out, making the proof strong that Macrane had been in New York.

They wired for Patsy to come on, with Moran and the storekeeper of Sixth Avenue that Chick had dug up, by an early train.

On their arrival they positively identified Macrane as the man seen entering and leaving the coach.

Patsy, on his arrival, reported his experiences with Masson and the rescue of Mrs. Constant and Edith.

Though Patsy told it with all modesty, Nick knew that Patsy had performed a most gallant and heroic deed, and so said, but it was not until he returned to New York that he learned how gallant and brave the deed was.

Speaking of the curious development of the case, Nick said:

“From the first I felt that Mrs. Constant’s natural bitterness toward Masson had misled her judgment. I never did believe that he did the murder.

“The strange thing is that Mrs. Constant did not give greater importance to the feeling of Macrane toward Ethel.

“However, she has a hold on Masson now, and if she will follow my advice, Masson will see the inside of a prison for his evil deeds. He deserves it.”

But he did not.

When Mrs. Constant learned that she had unjustly charged Masson with the murder of her sister, she seemed to feel that she had done him an injury which she could atone for only by refraining from following up the advantage she possessed.

Masson fled to Europe, so that Mrs. Constant is now free from his persecutions.

Macrane lies under conviction of murder in the first degree, and awaits execution.

He has confessed, saying that he visited New York to force Ethel to return with him, and, finding that he had lost her and all control of her, in a fit of anger he killed her.

Mrs. Constant devotes herself to her kennel, but her grief for the death of her sister is so great that she is a broken woman.

When Patsy wants to be particularly swell, he sports a fine diamond ring that Mrs. Constant gave him in recognition of his bravery when he prevented her abduction by Masson.

The case is referred to by Nick Carter’s outfit as “Patsy’s Triumph,” and as such is not easily forgotten.

THE END.

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