CHAPTER XXII.
THE BIRD IN THE DEATH TRAP.
Leaving Carter, the shadow, in the net of doom, let us go back a little in our story of crime and see how fared one of our other characters.
You will recollect Margie Marne’s visit to the Trocadero in answer to the mysterious note which had reached her, and how the detective discovered that the person whom she encountered vanished with her into the alley back of the café while the detective himself was coolly and cleverly drugged by Caddy.
If the detective could have tracked the cab he would have seen it stop in front of a frame building not far from the East River.
He would have seen the door open and a man step out.
This person looked cautiously around, as if he feared he had been followed, but seeing that no one was on his track, he reached into the dark depths of the vehicle and brought out a limp form.
It was the form of the young girl, and he hastily carried her into the house.
Margie looked unconscious, as, indeed, she was, for she made no move of any kind, and once in the old house the man laid his burden on a sofa.
Then he went outside and spoke to the man on the box of the cab and the vehicle rattled away.
All this did not occupy much time, and had been accomplished as neatly as ever a dastardly job was.
Soon afterward there was a slight movement on the part of the girl on the sofa, and Margie looked up.
She seemed to have an indistinct recollection of what had taken place, for she arose with difficulty and tottered across the darkened apartment.
“This is not home,” she exclaimed. “Neither is it the café where I met the stranger. What has happened and how came I to this house? I will not remain here. I must get out of this trap, for trap it must surely be.”
She found the door, but could not open it, and then, as a full sense of the horror overtook her, she fell to the floor.
The next second the door opened softly, and a man looked into the room.
His face, which was rather handsome, was full of devilish triumph, and for half a second he gloated over the body on the carpet.
“Caught,” he said. “Caught like a fly in the spider’s web! You didn’t give us much trouble, girl. We expected a little more than we met. But it’s all right. Now the coast will soon be clear. I’ll just turn you over to Nora.”
He went away with the last word on his lips, and five minutes later a woman entered the room. She looked like a typical jaileress, for she was tall, lean, rawboned and dark-faced.
She smiled when she saw Margie.
“Another one!” she grinned. “This one won’t give me much trouble. Why, she’s but a girl. And such hands, too! I wonder where he netted her?”
She went to work restoring Margie to consciousness, and in a short time succeeded.
At sight of her the young girl put forth her hands in pleading gesture, but when the light fell upon the woman’s face she shuddered and turned away.
“That’s right. I’m no beauty,” said the woman. “I’m no princess like the one in the fairy tale. They call me Nora, if you want to get acquainted with me. Call me Nora, nothing more.”
“But you’ve got another name?”
“Guess not! Nora’s good enough for me.”
“Then Nora, where am I?”
“In my house.”
“Who brought me here?”
“There, don’t ask too many questions,” smiled the dark jaileress. “You are liable to get some lies if you do.”
“What, are you in the plot, too?”
“I know my business,” evasively answered the woman. “You don’t think I live here for nothing, little one?”
Margie felt hope almost desert her soul.
“But you don’t intend to keep me here,” she cried. “You have no right to do that.”
“I obey orders, never asking any questions.”
“Then it is a plot against me. I remember the visit to the café. It was a decoy letter, after all. I went; I fell into the snare and here I am—lost!”
“Don’t take such a black view of matters and things,” was the reply. “Mebbe they aren’t quite as dark as you paint them.”
“They are dark enough,” said the despairing girl. “You shall not keep me here.”
“Very well. Then go.”
Margie bounded across the room and caught the doorknob wildly.
“Why don’t you open the door?” coolly asked Nora.
“Heavens, I cannot!”
“That’s the easiest way to find out. No, you can’t get out till I say so.”
Margie looked at the woman and then once more at the window between her and the street.
“I’ll call for help,” she exclaimed.
“All right, miss.”
In a moment the poor girl was at the window, but when she drew back the curtain she saw inner shutters of iron.
Truly she was in durance.
“Why am I here? Surely you will tell me that? What have I done to deserve this fate?”
“Wait and see. You want some sleep, don’t you?”
“In this terrible house? No!”
“But you must take a little rest. Come.”
Nora gripped Margie’s wrist and led her from the room. She escorted her upstairs and into a smaller apartment on the floor, where she pointed toward a bed.
“Not a particle of sleep till you tell me why I am treated thus,” cried the distracted girl.
“Then you’ll remain a long while awake,” was the quick answer. “I’ll tell you nothing.”
Margie grew desperate. She darted forward and clutched the woman’s sleeve and looking into her face saw it grow white.
“Tell me!” cried Margie. “I am the victim of some awful plot. Is it because I am the detective’s friend?”
“The detective?” echoed Nora. “What detective?”
“Nicholas Carter.”
The name had a magical effect on the woman, for she shrank as far away as Margie’s hand would let her, and for half a minute gazed into the girl’s face.
“Where is he?” she cried.
“On the trail.”
“On what trail?”
“On the trail of the hand that stilled Mother Flintstone’s life.”
“My God! Can this be true, girl?”
“It is true, and because I am Nick’s friend I am here. You know him.”
Nora did not speak, but her lips parted in a gasp and she looked away.
“You don’t want that man to implicate you in the plot, do you?” asked Margie.
No answer.
“You don’t want to hang with the balance?”
“I won’t; the rope that hangs me isn’t made. The hemp has never grown for that purpose.”
“Then let me out of here.”
“To tell on me—to go to Carter with the story of where you’ve been?”
“I’ll shield you, Nora.”
Margie thought she was making headway with her jaileress, but the next moment dispelled her hopes.
“Not for the world, girl,” said Nora. “I can’t afford to do that. It would doom me.”
“But this man will find out. He intends to discover the hand that took the old woman’s life. The murderer never escapes Nick Carter. He is doomed from the moment the trail is found.”
“I know him.”
“Then you don’t want to be dragged into his net. I am more than Margie Marne. I have another name, as I verily believe, and the man who brought me here knows that.”
“I cannot say.”
“It is the foulest plot ever hatched in this or any other city. Look here: Mother Flintstone lived alone in squalor and apparent poverty. One night she is killed—stabbed in the neck. Why was the life of the old woman taken? Who was the man who came back to the window, back to the scene of his crime to be discovered by little Billy, the street rat? What was Mother Flintstone to that man?”
“Was he the murderer?” asked Nora.
“If not, why did he come there? As I live, I believe that man has Mother Flintstone’s blood on his hands.”
“I don’t know,” she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “But go to sleep, girl. I can’t let you out.”
In another moment Margie was alone, for the woman had broken from her grasp, and the girl heard her footsteps on the stairs beyond the room.
“I see. This woman is merely the tool of the plotters,” thought the detective’s fair friend. “She serves them, while she fears Mr. Carter. Nora knows the detective, but she stands by the man who brought me to this place.”
The girl did not dream of going to bed.
She went to the window, and found it shuttered like the one in the lower room.
The old house was a prison, which seemed as solid as the Bastille, and at last Margie came away from the window.
An hour passed.
She heard footsteps come up the stairs and stop at the door.
It was Nora coming back to see if she was asleep, and in a few seconds the steps receded.
At last she threw herself upon the bed, and, wearied out, fell into a dreamless slumber.
Suddenly, however, she opened her eyes, and then bounded from the couch.
Smoke which seemed to pour into the room over the door almost suffocated her.
She shrieked for help, she beat the door with her hands, she was here, there, everywhere.
But no help came, and as the walls of the little room grew hot Margie Marne fell senseless and hopeless to the floor.