CHAPTER XXX.
THE MASTER DETECTIVE’S LITTLE GAME.
“Empty? That house?” again cried Opal, from the depths of the chair. “I cannot believe it.”
“It is true. I just came from the place,” answered Claude. “What did you do there, sis?”
“I shot him.”
“Not the detective?”
“Yes; Carter. I lured him to the place. He was here again, playing his hand. I could not stand it. He was in our way. I wanted him removed. Father was helpless, and the desperate scheme came into my head. I lured him to the Cedar Street house and leaned over the banister, shooting him through the transom while he stood in the parlor.”
“And left him there?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well, he wasn’t there when I looked into the room.” Opal Lamont looked wildly around the library.
“What could have become of him?” she asked.
Claude shook his head.
“Do you think he could not have been dead?”
“I thought you went into the parlor afterward?”
“I did. I bent over him.”
“And he appeared at the end of the trail?”
“He did.”
“It’s a mystery to me.”
“Why didn’t you look all over the house?”
“That’s just what I did.”
Opal sat silent for a moment longer, and then she sprang up with a sharp cry.
“If he lives he will try to get even. We must silence this man. It must be done at once.”
“Granted. You were a fool to decoy him to the old house.”
“I knew of no other place,” was the reply. “I took the first plan that entered my head. I never dreamed of failure.”
“There, don’t think I’m finding fault, sis. You did the best you could; I’m sure of that. The only wonder is that you didn’t make a sure shot after what you’ve done at the galleries.”
Half an hour after the interview with his sister Claude Lamont occupied the armchair in the room in which he once showed himself to Carter and Bristol Clara, the latter his near neighbor.
This time he was alone.
Presently he was startled by a rap on the front door, as if some one outside had no use for a bell, and in a moment he had opened it.
He found a well-dressed, dark-faced stranger on the step—a man with a brownish beard and clear, gray eyes.
Claude did not know just what to do with the man, but as he held the door open the fellow entered and faced him in the hall.
“Come this way if you have business with me,” said the city sport, and he escorted his caller to the room he had just left.
The man took a chair and laid his hat on his knees.
“To whom am I indebted for this call?” asked Claude.
“Call me Hugh Larkins,” answered the stranger, in a squeakish voice that made a sound almost like a file.
“I don’t know you, Mr. Larkins.”
“Perhaps not. You don’t remember me. You have forgotten all about the old place on the Bowery that flourished five or six years ago. You don’t recall the barkeeper and the sometime pianist?”
A smile flitted across Claude’s face.
“Are you that person?” he asked.
“I’m Hugh Larkins. Sometimes they call me ‘Rosy’ Larkins, you remember.”
“I never recall nicknames.”
“Mr. Lamont, you’ve got good quarters here.”
Claude started a little at mention of his name.
“You see, I know you. Why, you haven’t changed a great deal. You’ve got a few more years on you, and you’ve grown a little stouter—good living, I guess. The ‘Daisy Chain’ isn’t running now, I believe. I dropped into the old place this morning, but the piano stopped four years ago and the hole is a poor bucket shop at present.”
“I don’t know,” said Claude.
“Well, Mr. Lamont, let’s to business. I’m a little hard up—somewhat desperate, to make use of a homely phrase.”
“And you think I’m a nabob when it comes to cash, eh?”
“I know you’re not Lazarus. I’ve got to have a little chink to keep the proverbial wolf from the door, and——”
“My dear sir, you’ve struck the wrong place,” broke in Claude. “I can’t accommodate you.”
Larkins fell back in his chair and seemed at his wits’ end.
“That’s bad,” he suddenly squeaked. “It nearly puts me into the river—a desperate man’s last resort, you see.”
“I can’t help that,” said Claude coldly. “Every man can do as he pleases with his anatomy, and if you see fit to immerse yours, why, I can’t object.”
“You can’t help Rosy Larkins, who used to play for you at the Daisy Chain? You can’t give the old beau a lift?”
“It wouldn’t stop with you,” was the reply. “It wouldn’t stop with you, Rosy.”
“I’m but the advance guard, eh?”
“That’s it.”
Rosy Larkins appeared to get upon his feet with difficulty. He looked down at Claude Lamont and seemed to study him a minute.
“Then I’ll have to sell it,” said he.
In spite of himself the millionaire’s son lost a little color.
“You’ll have to sell what?” he asked.
“What I know!”
“See here, that’s an old game,” cried Claude. “It’s a rascal’s last resort. You can’t blackmail me.”
“But I can sell what I know—to the police.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Do you dare me?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
Larkins crossed the room, but stopped at the door, the knob of which he held in his hand.
“You wasn’t in the old place that night? Oh, no. You wasn’t in Hell’s Kitchen a few nights ago? You never go to such a disreputable place? Certainly not. The son of Perry Lamont never goes to such places. Why, of course he doesn’t. Hell’s Kitchen? Why, there’s where Mother Flintstone lived—and died, I believe.”
Claude said nothing.
He looked as if his tongue had become riveted to his palate; his eyes seemed to bulge from his head, and his hand dropped from the table at his right.
“Of course you don’t go to Hell’s Kitchen, because you say you don’t,” grinned Rosy Larkins in the same squeaky tones.
“What are you driving at?” at last Claude made out to say.
“At just what I’ve said. I’m pretty plain. My voice isn’t as sweet as the notes of the oriole, but you understand my words all the same.”
“You certainly don’t mean to say that you’ve got a secret about my going to Hell’s Kitchen?”
“Now you’ve hit it. You wasn’t there the night Mother Flintstone was helped out of this world?”
“I was not.”
“But I know better.”
“You do?”
“Yes; you were there, and Rosy Larkins holds the secret so far all alone.”
Claude leaned forward and fastened his gaze upon the face before him.
“Don’t you think silence is worth a thousand dollars?” queried his caller.
“Your silence?”
“Mine! That’s not a large sum with you who has his hands upon the purse strings of a millionaire. You don’t want the police to drag you forward as being connected with the mystery of Hell’s Kitchen? I don’t want to see one of my old patrons in such a fix.”
“Did you see me there?” asked Claude, a little nervously.
“I’ve got convincing proof.”
“But I haven’t got the money, Larkins. You will have to come again.”
“I won’t,” said Larkins, and the squeak seemed to get the snarl of a wild beast.
Claude looked at the table and then back at the man.
Larkins was twirling his hat on one of his hands, and his face was still immobile.
“What if I can’t raise that amount, and then, what does a man of your present standing want with a thousand dollars?”
“What does a porcupine want with his quills?” flashed the young sport’s visitor. “He uses them, that’s what. I can use a thousand dollars.”
Lamont thought of his own account in bank.
It would not do to give that man a check for the amount, for identification might be followed with unpleasant recollections.
Suddenly he thought of the five thousand he had lately received from Lamont, senior.
A part of it was still in his pocket.
Biting his lips Claude produced the roll of bills and slowly counted out the required amount.
“There, don’t come again,” he said, looking up at Larkins, whose hand reached out for the money. “But hold on. What assurance have I that you won’t sell me out yet?”
“My word.”
“If it’s no better than your face I’m afraid it’s not worth a great deal.”
“That’s all right. I’m no seraph. Neither was Mother Flintstone, who died that night—you know how,” and with this shaft Rosy Larkins opened the door.
As he stepped into the hall his face was for a moment turned from Claude, and that moment the young man whipped a revolver from the table drawer.
As he started up there was a musical click, but the next instant the bare hand of Larkins covered him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “The secret wouldn’t die with me, Mr. Lamont.”
The leveled weapon dropped and Claude went back again.
“Aha, good-by. Thanks for the chink. It saves Rosy Larkins from the river,” and the man with the squeaky voice was gone.
He went from the scene of the interview almost straight to Mulberry Street; he entered police headquarters and made his way to the superintendent’s private office, where he handed the roll of money to a young man.
“Lock it up,” said he. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m rather tired of this beard,” and Carter immediately stood revealed.