What was to be done, though?
To burst into the room and seek to overpower the four doctors then and there, in Helga’s presence, would place the actress in additional danger.
Nick was convinced, however, that that risk would have to be run. He had seen evidences that more than one of the men were tiring of the cruel sport, and it might now come to an end at any moment.
He swiftly considered two or three possible plans for drawing the four away from their victim, but rejected them all. They would only increase the danger of a slip of some sort, and he was bent upon capturing the four, as well as releasing the actress.
Furthermore, he did not believe that even Grantley would dare to harm Helga further in his presence, even if the fortunes of war should give the surgeon a momentary opportunity.
He, accordingly, motioned to his assistant to follow close behind him, and laid his left hand on the knob.
He turned it noiselessly, and was greatly relieved to find that the door yielded. Their advent would be a complete surprise, therefore, and would find the four totally unprepared.
Nick paused a moment, then flung the door back violently and strode into the room.
Grantley was the ringleader, the most dangerous of the lot at any time, and the fact that he was an escaped convict would render his resistance more than ordinarily desperate. The periscope had told Nick where the fugitive stood, and thus the detective was enabled to cover him at once with the unwavering muzzle of the automatic.
“Hands up, Grantley! Hands up, everybody!” cried Nick, stepping a little to one side to allow Chick to enter.
His assistant took immediate advantage of the opening and stepped to his chief’s side, with leveled weapon. Chick’s automatic was pointed at Doctor Chester, however. After Grantley, the man whose house had been invaded was naturally the one who was likely to put up the hardest fight.
The guilty four were spellbound with astonishment and fear for a moment, then the three younger ones jumped to their feet like so many jacks-in-the-box. Grantley had already been standing when the detectives broke in.
“Did you hear me, gentlemen?” Nick demanded, crooking his finger a little more closely about the trigger. “I said ‘Hands up!’ and it won’t be healthy for any of you to ignore the invitation. One—two—three!”
Before the last word passed his lips, however, four pairs of hands were in the air. Doctor Willard’s had gone up first and Grantley’s last.
“Thank you so much!” the detective remarked, with mock politeness. “Now, if you will oblige me a little further, by lining up against that right wall, I shall be still more grateful to you. Kindly place yourselves about two feet apart, not less. I want you, Number Sixty Thousand One Thirteen”—Grantley winced at his prison number—“at this end of the line, next to me, with Chester, alias Schofield, next; Graves next to him, and Willard last. You see, I haven’t forgotten any of my old friends.”
This disposition of the trapped quartet was designed to serve two purposes. In the first place, it would remove them from proximity to Helga Lund, who, crouched in the middle of the floor, was watching the detectives with bewildered, uncomprehending eyes. In the second place, it would enable Chick to handcuff them one by one, while Nick stood ready to fire, at an instant’s notice, on any one who made a false move.
It looked, for the time being, as if the capture would be altogether too easy to have any spice in it, but the detectives did not make the mistake of underrating their adversaries—Grantley, especially.
To be sure, they were probably unarmed, and had been taken at such a disadvantage that they would hardly have had an opportunity to draw weapons, even if they had worn them. Still, any one of a number of things might happen.
The four doctors had been caught “with the goods,” as the police saying is, and they might be expected to take desperate chances as soon as they had had time to collect their scattered wits and to realize the seriousness of their plight.
Nick Carter had shown his usual generalship in the orders he had given so crisply.
Grantley himself, the most to be feared of the lot, was to be placed nearest to the detective, where Nick could watch him most narrowly. That was not all, however. The detective meant that Chick should handcuff Grantley first, and thus put the leader out of mischief at the earliest opportunity.
After him, Chester was to be disposed of, and the two that would then remain were comparatively harmless in themselves.
Grantley doubtless saw through Nick’s tactics from the beginning, and if the detective could have caught the gleam behind the wily surgeon’s half-closed lids, he would have known that Grantley thought he saw an opportunity to circumvent those tactics.
With reasonable promptness, hands still in the air, Grantley started to obey the detective’s order. He moved slowly, grudgingly, his face distorted with rage and hate.
Chester started to follow the older man toward the wall, but Chick halted him.
“Hold up, there, Schofield-Chester!” the young detective ordered. “One at a time, if you don’t mind!”
He wished to prevent the confusion that would result from the simultaneous movement of the four scoundrels.
Chester paused with a snarl, and Grantley went on alone. He was making for the corner nearest to Nick, who still stood close to the door. In doing so, he was obliged to pass in front of the detective.
It had been no part of Nick’s plan to have the fugitive take to that corner, and he suddenly realized that the criminal was crossing a little too close to him for safety.
“Here, keep to the left a little——” he began sharply, when Grantley was about four feet away.
But before he could complete his sentence, the escaped convict ducked and threw his body sidewise, the long arms were already above his head and he left them where they were. Their abnormal length helped to bridge the distance between him and Nick as he flung himself at the detective.
Nick guessed the nature of the move, as if by instinct, and when he fired, which he did immediately, it was with depressed muzzle. He had allowed, in other words, for the swift descent of Grantley’s body.
In spite of that, however, the bullet merely plowed a furrow across the criminal’s shoulder and back, as he dropped. It did not disable him in the least, and, before Nick could fire again, Grantley’s peculiar dive ended with a vicious impact against his legs, and claw-like hands gripped him about the knees in an effort to pull him down.
The convict’s daring act broke the spell which had held his companions. Without waiting to see whether Grantley’s move was to prove successful or not, the three of them threw themselves bodily upon Chick, while the latter’s attention was diverted for a moment by his chief’s peril.
Doctor Chester, who had been looking for something of the sort from Grantley, was the first to pounce upon Nick’s assistant. He gripped Chick’s right wrist and began to twist it in an attempt to loosen the hold on the weapon.
“Help Grantley, Willard,” he directed, at the same time, between his clenched teeth. “Graves and I can handle this fellow, I guess.”
Willard started for Nick, while Graves shifted his attack, and, edging around behind Chick, seized him by the shoulders. At the same moment he placed one knee in the small of the young detective’s back.
There could be only one result:
Chick was bent painfully back until his spine felt as if it was about to crack in two; then, in his efforts to relieve the strain, he lost his footing and went down, with Chester on top of him, and still clinging doggedly to his wrists.
A few feet away Nick was being hard pressed by two other rascals.
The pendulum of chance had swung the other way, and things looked very dubious for the detectives—and for what was left of Helga Lund!
Chick had thrown himself to one side to ease the pressure on his back. Accordingly, he struck the floor on his left side.
Chester and Graves dropped heavily upon him before he had more than touched the boards, the former at his feet, the latter on his shoulders.
Their bony knees crushed him down, and Graves used his weight to try to pull Chick over on his back.
Nick’s assistant had twisted his left wrist out of Chester’s grasp as he fell, but the renegade physician had clung for dear life to the hand which held the automatic.
Chick allowed himself to be pulled over on his back—for a very good reason: His free arm had been under him as he lay on his side, and he wanted an opportunity to use it.
Graves grabbed at it at once, but Chick stretched it—all but the upper arm—out of his antagonist’s reach. Graves would have to lean far over Chick in order to reach the latter’s left wrist, and, in so doing, he would expose himself not a little. Or else he would be obliged to edge around on his knees, behind Chick’s head.
He chose to try the latter maneuver, but Chick feinted with his left arm. Graves dodged, and Chick’s hand darted in behind the other’s guard, grasping Graves firmly by the hair.
Almost at the same instant the young detective jerked his right foot loose and gave the startled Chester a tremendous kick in the stomach.
The master of the house gave a grunt and doubled up like a jackknife. His grip on Chick’s right wrist relaxed simultaneously, and its owner tore it away.
Chester had involuntarily lurched forward, and the act had brought his head well within the reach of Chick’s right hand, which was now once more at liberty.
While Nick’s assistant held the struggling Graves at arm’s length by the hair, with one hand, he brought down the butt of the automatic, with all the strength he could bring to bear, on Chester’s lowered poll.
He had juggled the weapon in a twinkling, so that it was clubbed when it descended. The blow was surprisingly effective, considering the circumstances.
Chester groaned and toppled forward, over Chick’s legs.
The detective’s assistant was ready to follow up his advantage at once. He wriggled about until he was facing Graves, and then he began pulling that individual toward him by the hair.
Tears of pain were in Graves’ eyes, and he struck out blindly in a desperate effort to break Chick’s relentless hold. The attempt was a failure, however. Despite all of Graves’ struggles, he was irresistibly drawn nearer and nearer. The fact that he wore his hair rather long helped Chick to maintain his grip.
Presently the young physician’s head was near enough to allow Chick to strike it with his clubbed weapon. He drew the latter back for the blow, but his enemy, seeing what was coming, suddenly changed his tactics.
Instead of trying to pull away any more, he ducked and threw himself into Chick’s arms.
The revolver butt naturally missed its mark, and, for a time, they fought at too close quarters to permit such a blow to be tried again.
Graves had seized Chick around the body as he closed in, and he drew himself close, burying his head on Chick’s chest. Chick still maintained his hold of his opponent’s hair, however, and now retaliated by rolling over on Graves, working his feet from under the unconscious Chester as he did so.
Graves snuggled as close as he could to avoid the dreaded blow, but Chick, now being on top, was able to hold Graves’ head on the floor by main force, while he arched his own powerful back and began to tear his body from his antagonist’s straining arms.
Graves was game; there was no doubt about that. The pulling of his hair must have been torture to him, but he did not relinquish his hold about Chick’s waist.
His eyes were closed, his face drawn and twisted with pain, but he clung obstinately, and without a whimper.
Slowly but surely, nevertheless, Chick raised himself, and the space between their laboring breasts widened. Graves’ hold was being loosened bit by bit, but it had not broken.
As a matter of fact, Chick did not wait for it to break. It was not necessary, for one thing; and, for another, he realized that it would be a kindness to Graves to end the painful struggle as soon as possible.
Accordingly, as soon as he had raised himself enough to deliver a reasonably effective blow with the clubbed automatic, he struck downward, with carefully controlled aim and strength.
The butt of the little weapon landed in the middle of the physician’s forehead. A gasp followed, and the tugging arms fell away.
Chick had floored his two opponents.
He got quickly to his feet and looked to see if Nick needed him. Chester and Graves ought to be handcuffed before they had time to revive, but that could wait a little if necessary.
It was well that Chick finished his business just when he did, for Nick was in trouble.
Doctor Grantley was not an athlete, and his long, lanky build gave little promise of success against Nick Carter’s trained muscles and varied experience in physical encounters of all sorts.
On the other hand, the convict was possessed of amazing wiriness and endurance, and, although he was not cut out for a fighting man, his keen, quick mind made up for most of his bodily deficiencies.
His original attack, for instance, was an example of unconventional but startlingly successful strategy. On the surface, it would have seemed that such a man, without weapons, had precious little chance of gaining any advantage over Nick Carter, armed as the latter was, and a good four feet away.
But Grantley followed up his impetuous dive in a most surprising way. His long arms closed about Nick’s legs, but, instead of endeavoring to pull the detective down in the ordinary way, Grantley unexpectedly plucked his legs apart with all his strength.
The detective’s balance instantly became a very uncertain quantity, for the surgeon’s abnormally long, gorillalike arms tore his legs apart and pushed them to right and left with astonishing ease.
Nick felt like an involuntary Colossus of Rhodes as he was forced to straddle farther and farther. He threw one hand behind him to brace himself against the wall, reversed his automatic and leaned forward, bent upon knocking the enterprising Grantley on the head.
The fugitive had other plans, however. Just as Nick bent forward, Grantley suddenly thrust his head and shoulders between the detective’s outstretched limbs, and heaved upward and backward.
The detective was lifted from his feet and pitched forward, head downward. His discomfiture was a decided shock to him, but he neither lost his presence of mind nor his grip on his weapon.
Had he struck on his head and shoulders, as Grantley evidently intended he should, the result might have been exceedingly disastrous. The detective would almost certainly have been plunged into unconsciousness, and his neck might easily have been broken.
Nick saw his danger in a flash, though; drew his head and shoulders sharply inward and downward, and at the same time grasped one of Grantley’s thighs with his left hand.
The result would have been ludicrous under almost any other circumstances. The detective’s lowered head went, in turn, between Grantley’s legs, and their intertwined bodies formed a wheel, such as trained athletes sometimes contrive.
This countermove of Nick’s was as much of a surprise to the surgeon as the latter’s curious mode of attack had been to the detective.
They rolled over and over a couple of times, until Nick, finding himself momentarily on top, brought them to a stop. So awkward were their positions that neither was able to strike an effective blow at the other.
Nick had the upper hand temporarily, however, and proceeded to wrench himself loose. He had been busily engaged in this when Willard had rushed to Grantley’s assistance.
That put still another face on the situation at once.
The newcomer saw his opportunity and snatched up a chair as he rushed toward the tangled combatants.
Nick heard him coming, but did not have time to extricate himself from Grantley’s dogged grasp.
He raised his weapon, though, and was about to fire at Willard, when he saw that the latter was directly between him and Helga Lund. Under the circumstances, the detective did not dare to fire for fear of hitting the actress.
He kept Grantley down as best he could with his left hand, and waited for Willard with his right hand still extended, holding the automatic.
He might have an opportunity to fire, but, if not, he could at least partially ward off the expected blow from the chair.
Just as Willard paused and swung the chair aloft, Grantley managed partially to dislodge the detective, with the result that Nick was obliged to lower his right arm quickly. Otherwise he would undoubtedly have lost his balance completely, and the surgeon-convict would have had the upper hand in another second or two.
This involuntary lowering of Nick’s guard served the purpose that Grantley had intended. Willard’s cumbersome weapon descended with uninterrupted force on the detective’s shoulders and the back of his head.
Nick lowered the latter instinctively, and thus saved himself the worst of the blow. Nevertheless, the impact of the chair was stunning in its force.
The detective felt his senses reeling, but he somehow managed to retain them and to grasp the chair, which he blindly wrenched from Willard’s grasp.
As he did so, however, Grantley succeeded in throwing him off and scrambling to his feet. Nick followed his example almost simultaneously, dropped his revolver into his pocket—for fear it would fall into the hands of one of his enemies—and, grasping the heavy chair with both hands, whirled it about his head.
His two antagonists dodged it hurriedly, thus clearing a space about him. Their blood was up, however—especially Grantley’s—and they felt sure that the detective had by no means recovered from the blow.
“Catch the chair, Willard!” cried Grantley.
The younger physician obeyed instantly, grasping the round of the chair with both hands, and thus preventing Nick from using it to any advantage.
The detective shoved it forward into the pit of Willard’s stomach, but the newcomer managed to retain his hold. He guessed that Grantley merely meant him to keep Nick busy in front, in order to allow of a rear attack; and such was the case.
While the detective was occupied with Willard, Grantley stole behind him and plunged his hand into Nick’s pocket, in search of the automatic.
The detective was obliged to let go of the chair and clamp his hand on Grantley’s wrist. He was still feeling very groggy as a result of the punishment he had recently received, and a thrill of apprehension went through him.
Grantley’s hand was already deep in his pocket, grasping the butt of the weapon; and there was nothing about the wrist hold to prevent the criminal from turning the muzzle of the automatic toward his side and pulling the trigger.
Incidentally, Nick foresaw that he could not hope to hold the chair with one hand. Willard would twist it away and turn it upon him.
He was right. That was precisely what Willard did. Nick let go just in time to escape a sprained if not broken wrist, and dodged back.
In order to keep his hand in Nick’s pocket, Grantley was then obliged to circle about, between the detective and Willard. That saved Nick from the latter for the moment, and, simultaneously, the detective shifted his hold from Grantley’s wrist to his hand, pressing his thumb in under the latter in such a way that it prevented the hammer of the automatic from descending.
He was just in time, for Grantley pulled the trigger almost at the same moment. Thanks to Nick’s foresight, however, the weapon did not go off.
Grantley cursed under his breath, but he had not emptied his bag of tricks. He suddenly drove his head and shoulders in between Nick’s right arm and side, and threw his own left arm around, with a back-hand movement, in front of the detective’s body.
The move threw the detective backward, over Grantley’s knee, which was ready for him. At the same time, the criminal, whose right hand had remained on the weapon in Nick’s pocket, began to draw the automatic out and to the rear.
In other words, he was forcing the detective in one direction with the left arm and working the revolver in the other with his right. It was manifestly impossible for Nick to stand the two opposing pressures for long.
Either he must break the hold of Grantley’s left arm, which pressed across his chest like an iron band, or else he must let go of the weapon.
The former seemed out of the question in that position; and to relinquish his hold on the revolver meant a shot in the side, which, with Grantley’s knowledge of anatomy, would almost certainly prove fatal.
Backward went Nick’s straining right arm, inward turned the hard muzzle of the weapon. Grantley was twisting the automatic now, hoping to loosen the detective’s grasp all the quicker.
Something was due in a few moments, and it promised to be a tragedy for the detective.
Then, to cap the climax, Willard circled about the two combatants, like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey, and, seeing Nick’s head protruding from under Grantley’s left arm, hauled off and let drive with the chair.
The surgeon received part of the blow, but Nick’s head stopped enough of it to end the strange tussle.
The detective crumpled up, but Grantley held him from the floor and wrested the weapon from the nerveless fingers. He withdrew it from Nick’s pocket and put it to the detective’s left breast, determined to end it all, without fail.
It was at that supreme moment that Chick charged up and took a hand.
Nick’s assistant reached Willard first. The latter’s back was toward him, and he was just in the act of drawing back the chair. Chick’s clubbed weapon descended on his head without warning, and Willard pitched forward on his face.
It was not until then that Chick saw the automatic at his chief’s breast. There was no time to reach Grantley—not a second to waste.
The young detective did what Nick and his men seldom allowed themselves to do—he turned his automatic around again and shot to kill.
Nick’s own life depended upon it, and there was nothing else to do.
The bullet struck Grantley full between the eyes, and the escaped convict dropped without a sound.
The battle was over and won.
* * * * * * *
Doctor Hiram A. Grantley—so called—master surgeon and monster of crime, would never return to Sing Sing to serve out his unexpired term; but neither would he trouble the world or Helga Lund again.
If the truth were known, it would doubtless be found that Warden Kennedy heaved a sigh of profound relief when he heard of Grantley’s death. It left no room for anxiety over the possibility of another hypnotic escape.
Doctors Chester, Willard, and Graves were speedily brought to trial, and they were convicted of aiding and abetting the deceased Grantley in an illegal experiment in hypnotism on the person of the great Swedish actress.
As for Helga Lund, she was a nervous wreck for nearly a year, but gradually, under the care of the best European physicians, she recovered her health and her confidence in herself.
She has now returned to the stage, and Nick Carter, who has seen her recently in Paris, declares that she is more wonderful than ever.
He wishes he could have spared her that last humiliating ordeal, but she is wise enough to know that, but for him and Chick, the man she had despised would have made his dreadful vengeance complete.
Nick had just concluded the preceding case, when he received a request to come down to police headquarters at his earliest convenience. The request came from the inspector in charge of the detective bureau, and Nick hastened to comply, as Inspector Ward was an old and tried friend.
The inspector looked worried as he greeted Nick in his private room at headquarters.
“Nick,” said the inspector, getting right down to business, “this is undoubtedly the strangest case that has ever come to the attention of the department, at least while I have been connected with it. We have called it ‘Mystery 47,’ on account of its similarity to the case which startled Paris a few years ago, that, if you will remember, occurred at 47 Rue Boulogne.
“The bodies of six men have been found, one after another, and all of them within ten feet of each other. Another puzzling feature about the murders is that there does not seem to have been any motive for any of them, as the bodies when found did not appear to have been robbed. Still another strange feature is that, so far, the coroner’s office has not been able to determine what has been the cause of death in any of the cases. We have absolutely no clews on which to work. Whoever the assassin is, he has covered his tracks with the hand of a master, he has not left the slightest thing on which we can work. There does not appear to be any reason for the shooting down of the people that have fallen at the hand of the murderer. In all my experience I have never known of a case where murders have been committed without a reason, but in this instance there does not seem to be the slightest reason for the man to have struck down the people that he has, as the murdered men were in different walks of life, and, so far as we can learn, none of them had an enemy in the world.
“Another strange feature of the case is that the bodies all present exactly the same appearance; on each is found a small speck of blood over the heart. No other marks of violence are visible, and the coroner’s physician says that he has not been able to find any trace of poison in any of the bodies.
“So far the papers have not paid much attention to the mystery, but I have concluded that the men whom I have had assigned to the case will not be able to solve it, and so I sent for you, as I know that Nick Carter has never yet failed to get at the bottom of any case.”
“You are very kind to say that, but I am afraid that you overestimate my work,” said Nick modestly. “I will undertake to solve the mystery for you, however.
“Of course I will not be hampered with instructions from anybody, as the manner in which I work is not always in accordance with the set rules of some of the detectives,” continued Nick.
“You will not be interfered with in any way, and any assistance that you may need will be furnished you gladly,” said the inspector.
“Now if you will commence at the beginning and tell me all about the case I will go to work at once,” said Nick.
The inspector told Nick all that he knew, from the finding of the first body.
Nick listened attentively.
When the inspector had finished, Nick said:
“Kindly give me a detailed account of the spot where these men were found.”
“Are you familiar with the country surrounding Astoria?” asked the inspector.
“Fairly so.”
“Well, about two miles north of Astoria is an old lane that runs through a clump of trees——”
“I am familiar with the place,” said Nick.
“Right on the edge of these woods the murdered men were found——”
“That would bring it within a hundred yards of Weeden’s place, the man who keeps an automobile repair shop.”
“Precisely. I see that you are acquainted with the locality.”
Nick smiled, but did not interrupt.
“You looked as if you thought that Weeden might be mixed up in it when I mentioned his name,” said the inspector. “It is not possible that you suspect him?”
“I don’t know. Do you think that he is?” asked Nick.
“Certainly not.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Because Jack Weeden’s name is above suspicion. His reputation is that of a sober and industrious man. His neighbors all bear testimony to that fact.”
“I have seen other men whose neighbors thought that they were above suspicion, and they afterward found out their mistake,” quietly replied Nick.
The inspector studied a moment and then asked:
“What do you suggest might have been the object of the murders?”
“That is not an easy question to answer, offhand,” replied Nick.
“You say that a sum of money was found on the body of each. Was the sum always about the same?”
“No, there were different amounts found on each, on one over three thousand dollars. It was in a wallet which was in the upper vest pocket where anyone could see it. There were also about forty-five dollars in the pocket of the trousers, so that the wallet could have been taken and there would still have remained a sum sufficient to divert suspicion.”
“At first glance that would remove robbery as a motive for the murders.”
“It certainly does.”
“What do you know about Weeden?” asked Nick.
“Nothing except what I have told you,” replied the inspector.
“Then I will give you a short history of the man that you say bears such an excellent reputation. I am sure that you will be surprised when you hear what I have to tell you.”
“I will be pleased to listen, Nick,” said the inspector.
“Fifteen years ago he was convicted of highway robbery in Boston and was sentenced to five years in prison at hard labor. He served that term. Two years before that he was sent up for the same offense, that time serving a year and a month. He had some hold on a man who had friends in politics, they had his sentence made light, or he would have still been wearing prison clothes. Besides these he has had several other ‘run ins’ with the police, but somehow has managed to escape. After he had left the Massachusetts prison it was said that he had sailed for Australia. That evidently was a blind to throw off the Boston police, who had been watching him on several other cases.
“Now what do you think of the record of the man that you said enjoyed the confidence of his neighbors?” asked Nick, as he concluded.
“Are you sure that you are not mistaken in the man?” asked the inspector. “It hardly seems possible that a man could get such a good reputation and be the villain that you say he is.”
“I am sure that it is the man.”
Nick then arose from his chair and strolled over to the window.
“Quick, come here!” he cried.
The inspector hurried to the window.
“What is it?” he asked.
Nick pointed to two men who were just passing.
“That is the man of whom you were talking a few minutes ago.”
“Jack Weeden?”
“Yes, that is he. Do you know the other man?” asked Nick.
“I do! It is Billy Young, one of the most noted burglars in New York.”
The men were powerfully built fellows.
The appearance of the men was peculiar. Weeden looked like an honest, hard-working man, while Young looked like a typical thug; his battle-scarred face bore the marks of dissipation as well as the marks of numerous encounters.
It was a most remarkable thing that they should be in the locality where the police had their headquarters; it was evident that they were there for a purpose. What was it?
“What do you think of your honest workman now?” asked Nick, with his quiet smile, as the inspector watched the men.
“I guess that, as usual, you are right,” replied the inspector.
“Look! they have seen you from the window and have disappeared,” cried Nick suddenly.
“Let’s follow them,” said the inspector excitedly.
“No, don’t do it; leave that to me,” said Nick, as he left the room.
Going downstairs, he called to a man who had been waiting for him in the hall. Whispering a few words into the man’s ear, he nodded in the direction that the men had taken.
The man left the building on the mission which Nick had given him.
Nick went upstairs to the room where he had left the inspector.
“It is all right,” he said. “I have sent one of my men after them, and he will find out where they go.”
“Well, what do you want to do now, Nick?” asked the inspector.
“The first thing will be to go to the morgue and see those bodies, and, if you have no objection, I will bring a young surgeon with me. He is a very clever chap, and one who can be depended upon to keep his mouth shut. I hope that there will be no objection to his coming?”
“Not the slightest; this case is in your hands now, and you have full charge to bring whom you will, and to do as you please.”
“Well, then, let’s be off, as every minute may be valuable.”
Just as they were about to leave the room a great commotion was heard in the hall, and the sound of excited voices reached their ears.
“I wonder what the racket is all about?” cried the inspector.
At that moment the door burst open and a man, bareheaded, staggered into the room.
The man was bleeding from a great wound in his right temple, his face was pale as death, and he was gasping for breath.
“Great heavens! it is Sweet,” exclaimed Nick Carter, as he sprang forward. “Who has done this, Tom?”
“Billy Young—Weeden——”
As he gasped out the words, Sweet’s head fell forward. He tried to finish the sentence; a spasmodic shudder ran through his frame, and he was dead.
Nick made a hasty examination of the body and found that, besides the wound in the temple, Sweet had received a knife lunge through each lung.
It was miraculous how he had kept his strength enough to enable him to stagger back into the office.
The inspector and Nick gazed at the body for a moment in sorrowful silence.
“Poor Tom,” said Nick, “you did your best. But, if I live, your cowardly murder shall be avenged.”
The inspector did not know who the murdered man was until Nick explained that Sweet was the man he sent to shadow Weeden and Young.
Immediately after the explanation a general alarm was sent out, so that steps could be taken to arrest the assassins before they had time to leave the city.
After this had been done, Nick and the inspector, accompanied by the young surgeon, made their way to Brooklyn.
They called first on the inspector in charge of the Brooklyn detective bureau, to whom the inspector explained the nature of their business. The inspector was astounded when he learned from Nick Carter the character of Weeden. The man bore such an excellent reputation, for sobriety and honesty, that he could scarcely credit what he heard.
“If you have any doubt as to the correctness of what I have just told you, here are proofs that I am sure will satisfy you,” said Nick.
He handed the inspector a document, and a photograph from the rogues’ gallery, of Boston, numbered 1313.
The inspector read the document carefully and scrutinized the picture.
“Your information seems to be correct, Mr. Carter,” he said, as he handed the paper and the photograph back to Nick. “It seems that Weeden is a dangerous character, as well as a cunning hypocrite.”
After a moment’s pause, he added: “I agree with Mr. Carter. Weeden has either committed these murders or else been a party to them. I am ready to aid him in running down the criminals.”
Nick explained that he had brought a young surgeon with him so that a careful examination of the bodies might be made.
The party at once went to the morgue.
Upon their arrival there the doctor went skillfully to work.
On the left side of each body was found a slight puncture, just over the heart.
Nick followed the doctor’s examination very carefully, as did the two other detectives. The doctor, as he probed the puncture of the last body, gave a startled exclamation.
“What is it?” demanded Nick.
“Wait a minute,” said the doctor, as he proceeded to cut away a small portion of the flesh. The knife ran against a minute metallic substance. A close examination showed that it was a small needle, one end having a slight opening in the end of it.
The needle had been driven clean through the heart.
On the point of it was a bright yellow spot.
The doctor, after some trouble, drew it forth. How it had been driven into the body was a mystery. The doctor made a hasty examination of the other bodies, and from the heart of each he drew forth a similar instrument of death.
“Never before,” he said, “have I seen so unique a manner employed in putting a fellow creature out of the world. The five pieces of steel have pierced almost in the same spot, the deviation being less than one-sixteenth of an inch. One thing is certain, these men all died instantly.”
“Why are you certain?” asked Nick. “Might they not have died before these murderous needles were driven into their hearts?”
“Such a thing is impossible,” said the doctor. “They all died in the same way.”
Nick Carter was puzzled.
If Jack Weeden was the murderer he had chosen a strange way to slay his victims.
Had these men been enticed to his place? And, if so, how? Had they been drugged?
The doctor said they had not, but that the yellow spot on the point of each needle was Ewara, a powerful poison, which is used by the fanatics in India.
“Who could have secured this poison?” wondered Nick.
Here, perhaps, was a clew which would enable him to run to earth the murderer of these men, who had met such a strange and untimely end.
One thing that puzzled Nick, and also Inspector Ward and the doctor, was how these bits of steel had been projected into the heart of each of the victims. It seemed preposterous that they could have been shot into the bodies.
During the doctor’s operations the bodies lay exposed on the marble slabs. The party was about to leave the morgue when the ambulance came in. In it was the dead body of a man who had been found in exactly the same spot as the other victims.
His death had been caused in the same manner. A piece of needle, with its fatal yellow point, had been driven through the man’s heart.
While the doctor was making an examination of the last body a shadow crossed one of the windows of the morgue.
A face was flattened against one of the dingy panes of glass. It remained but an instant only.
None of the party had seen it.
The startling report of a pistol shot rang out through the stillness of the night. With a loud crash the shattered glass fell to the floor as the bullet sped into the room.
Simultaneous with the report, a cry went up from the driver of the ambulance as he fell to the floor in his death agony.
Unfortunately for him, he had just stepped in front of Nick Carter, and received the bullet meant for the detective.
Nick was the first to recover his presence of mind. In an instant he was out into the street. A block away he saw a man spring into a motor car and drive furiously away.
While he could not see the man’s face, Nick could have sworn from his general appearance that the man who jumped into the machine was Jack Weeden.
Did the man in the motor car fire the shot which had killed the driver of the ambulance? Nick was certain that it was so. It was useless to try to pursue the man on foot.
As Nick was about to reënter the morgue, Inspector Ward came out. His face was white with excitement.
“Did you see the man who fired the shot?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“I am positive that it was Weeden.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No, I didn’t. But from the man’s general appearance I could have sworn it was he. This is two murders that Weeden has been guilty of to-day. The first was poor Sweet; the second the driver of the ambulance,” said Nick.
“It was a mighty lucky thing for you that the driver stepped in front of you just as he did, or we should not have had the services of Nick Carter, the famous detective, at our disposal now.”
“Yes, the poor fellow saved my life,” said Nick. “The bullet evidently was meant for me.”
The doctor, having finished his work, bade the detectives good night.
After he had gone they walked slowly up the street. A taxicab was driving by the corner. Nick and Inspector Ward hailed the chauffeur. Having made a bargain with him, they directed him to drive them to Weeden’s shop.
He looked at them very hard. It was evident that he had recognized them, and had purposely thrown himself in their way. If they had seen the gleam in the chauffeur’s eye, as he made a motion to three men who stood in the shadow of a doorway on the other side of the street, they would have been on their guard.
They did not see it, however.
The vehicle was driven rapidly in the direction of Grant Avenue. The machine had not left the corner more than a couple of minutes when a taxicab surrey with drawn curtains drove up.
The three men who had been standing on the other side of the street jumped in and drove in the direction of the vehicle occupied by the inspector and Nick Carter.
Jack Weeden was not among the men who were following the detectives. Had he anything to do with them? They probably were his accomplices. Their following of the detectives boded no good to the men who were trying to solve “Mystery 47.”
Great masses of dark clouds obscured the stars; fierce gusts of wind howled dismally through the branches of the trees at the roadside; peals of thunder broke the stillness of the night; vivid flashes of lightning illumined the sky for an instant and made the roadway as light as day.
“I’m afraid this may upset our plans,” said Nick, as he looked out of the taxi window.
That instant a gust of wind blew his hat into the road. It fell into a pool of water. With an exclamation Nick shouted to the chauffeur to stop.
The man obeyed, and Nick sprang to the ground. As he did so, he saw the taxi that was following.
When the motor car stopped the taxi stopped also. Nick gave a glance at the chauffeur and saw that there was a diabolical grin on his face as he sat on the box looking down at him.
“That chauffeur,” Nick muttered to himself, “is Phil Meloy.”
The chauffeur of the motor car seemed to have grown nervous. He glanced back at the taxi, and, with a muttered oath, was about to drive on when Nick stopped him.
“What’s the matter?” asked the inspector, as he put his head out of the window.
“We are being followed,” replied Nick.
“By whom?”
“By that taxi with the four men in it. It is now waiting for us to go on.”
“How do you know?”
Nick quietly told Inspector Ward about the chauffeur, Meloy.
“He is one of the most desperate characters I have ever met,” said Nick, “and, as for him being a licensed chauffeur, that is all rot. That taxi probably contains Weeden and some of his pals. Let us go back and arrest Weeden and Young, if they are in the party.”
As they were about to start up the road the chauffeur of the motor car made a motion with his arm.
It was evidently a signal to the chauffeur of the taxi, as he suddenly threw in the clutch, and, turning around, dashed off in the opposite direction.
“Too late,” cried Nick. “They saw us and have skipped.”
Fifteen minutes later the motor car drew up at Weeden’s shop and the detectives got out. They found no one in the shop, which contained four rooms.
“There is nothing here,” said Nick; “let’s get back into the machine.”
The chauffeur had been watching their every movement. He peered anxiously up and down the road, by which he had come, expecting, no doubt, the arrival of his accomplices in the taxi.
Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet from the threatening clouds that swept furiously overhead, though the winds tore the branches from the trees.
“Now show me the exact spot where these bodies were found,” said Nick.
The inspector walked down the road.
“Who is that?” Nick asked, as his quick eye perceived the figure of a ragged-looking old man who sat by the roadside. His clothing was in tatters; his long hair was matted on his shoulders, and his torn shoes were tied with bits of cord.
In his right hand he carried a heavy staff.
He appeared to be either shortsighted or partially blind.
“Oh, that old fellow bobbed up here about a week or so ago,” said Inspector Ward.
“What is he?”
“Oh, I guess he’s a tramp; anyhow, he looks as if he had been on the road for forty years or more.”
“This is a peculiar neighborhood for him to be in. What is his business here?”
“Why, he’s begging here, I suppose.”
“Oh,” said Nick quietly.
It certainly was a peculiar location for a beggar to choose. Few people passed there, and those who did were not of the class who had money to give away, even to a poor old beggar, reasoned Nick to himself.
“The murders were committed right near this spot, were they not?” Nick asked, pointing to a place about ten feet from where the aged tramp sat.
“Precisely; the bodies were found right there.”
“What is the name of that old fellow?”
“They call him Benny the Bum.”
“He seems to be blind.”
“I believe he is, and deaf, too; at least that’s what they all say around here.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ll test him by asking him which he would rather have, a quarter or a dollar.”
Inspector Ward laughed.
Nick Carter was serious.
Perhaps Benny the Bum was not so blind as he would have people believe. He probably was like the majority of his calling, a fraud.
“I’m going to talk to him,” said Nick, as he crossed the road.
“Hello, Benny!”
Nick spoke in tones that an ordinarily deaf man could hear. The tramp answered at once: “Well, what do you want?”
“I’ve got a charitable friend with me who will pay you well if you will tell him what mark to put on his gate so the other tramps will see it and keep out.”
The beggar gave a hoarse chuckle. “Maybe he owns a bank; if he does, he can pay me well.”
“No, he don’t,” Nick replied, “but he will give you ten dollars if you will tell him.”
After the first few words the conversation had been conducted in ordinary tones. Nick had led the supposed tramp on cunningly. He had gained his point. The beggar was not deaf.
And he must have heard the sounds of the various murders committed so near him.
Was it possible that this tramp had had any hand in these ghastly acts?
“He is no more blind than he is deaf,” Nick muttered to himself. “I’ll bet he is an accomplice of Jack Weeden. I——”
Four men stole quietly into the road through a hole in the hedge.
They sprang forward with savage oaths.
They were the same men who had followed Nick Carter and the chief in the taxicab.
Before the detectives had a chance to draw their weapons they found themselves looking into the muzzles of four shining revolvers.
With an exultant cry the apparent blind beggar sprang to his feet cursing like a demon.
Nick and the inspector were taken aback by this turn of affairs.
As the beggar hobbled down the road his hoarse laugh came back mockingly.
At the same moment that the four men appeared, two others came from the direction of Weeden’s house; they were Meloy and the chauffeur of the taxi.
The question that flitted through Nick Carter’s mind was: “Where was Weeden?”
None of the men who confronted the detectives bore any resemblance to Weeden or Billy Young.
Was it possible that the old tramp was none other than Weeden in disguise. He was evidently a fraud.
Nick made up his mind that he would look after the beggar when they had finished with the rascals who now confronted them. That they would be able to overcome the men, who now threatened them, Nick was almost certain. He had been in tighter places before, and his calmness and courage had gotten him out of many a hole. After Meloy and his companion had arrived the detectives were ordered to throw up their hands. As they were covered by the guns of the men they were compelled to submit.
At this moment the rain commenced to come down in torrents.
The flashes of lightning and the awful peals of thunder made the scene a weird one.
“Meloy, see what these fly cops have on them,” commanded the leader of the gang.
He was about to obey the order when a terrific peal of thunder, accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning, struck a tree at the side of the road.
The tree fell with a tremendous crash across the road, burying two of the men under it as it fell.
The rest fell back, awed for the moment; it seemed as if the heavens had opened and sent a messenger to the aid of the detectives.
The instant’s delay had given Nick Carter and the inspector time to draw their revolvers, and when the villains had recovered from their surprise they were looking down the shining barrels of the weapons that were in the hands of the two detectives.
“The tables are turned,” rang out in Nick’s clear tones; “throw down your guns or we will shoot you full of holes!”
The only answer that the men made was the report from two of their guns. They did not propose to be taken without a fight.
The first shot that was fired struck the inspector in the shoulder, the second one just grazed Nick’s head, inflicting a slight scalp wound.
The inspector, wounded as he was, pluckily returned the fire of the villains. One of them gave an unearthly yell and dropped to the ground with a bullet through his heart.
Nick’s revolver spoke quickly, and the man at whom he fired dropped to the ground without a cry; Nick had shot him through the head.
The inspector had fainted from loss of blood. This left Nick alone with Meloy and the chauffeur of the taxi.
Both of these men were great, husky fellows, and, besides, they knew that it was to be a fight to the death.
Meloy sprang at Nick with a horrible oath. He was followed by the chauffeur.
The latter struck a terrific blow at Nick with his fist, knocking Nick’s revolver from his grasp.
A yell of triumph came from Meloy as he saw that the detective was unarmed.
It looked as if Nick Carter was about to meet his doom.
Nick waited patiently the onslaught of his assailants as they dashed toward him with yells of savage delight.
As the chauffeur of the taxi reached him, Nick struck out with his left, and the fellow staggered back under the force of the blow, landing on his back on the ground.
In an instant he was on his feet and made a savage rush at Nick. Meloy aimed a terrific blow at Nick’s head.
The detective adroitly dodged the blow meant for him, and gave his assailant a couple of heavy blows in rapid succession.
Meloy went down like a log, and lay on the ground motionless. He evidently had had enough to last him for a while, at least.
The driver, who was a boxer of no little skill, tried to bewilder the detective by cunningly feinting, hoping that he would be able to get Nick to leave an opening through which he could deliver a blow that would settle the detective for a moment until he could draw a knife, and then he would quiet Nick Carter for all time.
The rascal did not know that Nick was a past master at the art of boxing.
Try as hard as he could, he was not able to break through Nick’s guard, and in a few moments he was panting for breath, while Nick was laughing at the fellow’s desperation.
As a last resort, he tried to kick the detective, but again he was unsuccessful.
Finally he made one last desperate effort to strike Nick in the stomach. Nick stepped quickly to one side and dealt him a terrific blow on the side of the jaw.
The fellow spun around for a moment, and then fell to the ground as if he had been struck on the head with a club.
Nick turned around to see what had become of the other two men that had been standing by the tree when it had been struck by lightning.
They were nowhere to be seen.
The rain was falling in torrents, and there did not seem to be any chance of it ceasing.
What had become of the inspector was Nick’s thought as he turned to where he had seen him fall.
He must be taken care of at all hazards.
The inspector lay as he had fallen, while the blood oozed from the wound.
He was unconscious.
“I must get him to the city at once,” said Nick, to himself.
As Nick turned to look where the taxi had been left, he had just time to dodge a murderous blow that the driver of the taxi was about to deal him; the fellow had recovered consciousness and was bent on murdering Nick.
“You coward, you!” said Nick, as he dealt the fellow a blow on the side of the head that sent him to the ground. As the fellow arose Nick gave him another one, and the rascal went down and out.
Having disposed of the fellow, Nick turned his attention to the inspector.
He lifted him in his arms and bore him gently to the taxi. After cranking the machine, Nick jumped to the chauffeur’s seat and drove rapidly in the direction of Brooklyn.
Stopping at the house of a doctor, whose sign he had noticed coming over, Nick went in and told the physician that he had a friend outside who was in need of medical attention, and that he would bring him in at once.
When the wounded man was brought into the house the doctor looked at him and shook his head gravely.
“This appears to be a very serious wound,” he said. “It may not be fatal, however. May I ask you how your friend came by such a wound?”
Nick did not tell him how the inspector had been wounded, nor did he tell him that the patient was a police official.
“Do your best by my friend. I will be back to-morrow and see how he is getting along,” said Nick, as he took his leave.