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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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NEARLY everybody who reads the daily papers remembers the famous case of Marian Bentley, which so puzzled the police force of Gotham a few years ago.
For the benefit of those who do not recall the incidents of the affair a brief resume is here given.
Marian Bentley was a woman about thirty-five years of age, and she resided in a handsome house, located on Madison avenue, in New York city.
In many respects she was a second Lola Montez, and her marvelous beauty was a theme of general conversation at the clubs and cafes of New York.
She was as mysterious as she was beautiful, and she ruled over the circle with which she surrounded herself with indomitable sway.
Her home was the resort for men of fashion who defied slander, and laughed to scorn the wagging tongues which criticised their doings.
It was a gambling-house pure and simple. A place where fortunes changed owners in a single night, and where honor as well as wealth was staked and lost upon the gaming-table.
Nobody knew anything about the origin or antecedents of Marian Bentley.
She appeared in New York as suddenly as a meteor flashes across the sky in an evening in August, and she disappeared as mysteriously as she came.
In form, in feature, in manner, she was perfection itself.
Of the hundreds of well-known men who knew her and who frequented her house for the purpose of indulging their passion for play, not one was ever heard to breathe a word derogatory to her personal character.
She received her guests with the grace of a princess, entertained them royally, but with a quiet reserve and impenetrable dignity which she never forgot, and which stood an impassable barrier between her and any individual who attempted to presume upon her position, and become more familiar than her conduct warranted.
With the exception of a negress and a maid who were attached to her household, she was totally without society of her own sex, for the others of her servants, five in number, were men, and negroes, with one exception.
Neither was play permitted at her house every night in the week.
In fact, there were only three nights out of the seven when she was "at home," and when the frequenters of her place were permitted to enter.
Those nights were Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
The remaining four nights were devoted to nobody knew what, and by the initiated were termed "off nights," the expression meaning that none of her friends would be received at the "Temple" at such times. Many had given her house the name of the "Temple of Vice," and from that gradually came to be known among the familiar as the "Temple."
On "off nights" Marian Bentley was occasionally seen in a box at the opera or theater, and on pleasant Sunday afternoons she sometimes took a ride in the park in her open barouche.
On such occasions she was always attended by her maid, whose name was Ermine, and by a huge negro who was nearly seven feet in height, as black as ebony, and dumb.
The evenings when she "received" Scipio acted as attendant at the door, and his huge proportions were well calculated as a protection to his mistress from the men who sometimes drank too much of her wine, or fell too deeply in love with their charming and fascinating hostess.
Although dumb Scipio was in no wise deaf.
The well-known axiom that the loss of one sense quickens another was well demonstrated in his case.
His sense of hearing was as acute as a dog's, and his quick perception in understanding and making himself understood was simply marvelous.
There seemed to be an unknown means of communication between him and his mistress, for he would convey a whole sentence to her by a simple sign which nobody else understood.
But who was Marian Bentley?
Nobody knew.
She was a mystery when she came, and she remained a mystery which nobody could solve.
Suddenly, without warning, she disappeared, and that was also shrouded in the same impenetrable mystery which seemed to surround and overshadow everything that was connected with this strange woman.
Nick Carter was engaged to solve the problem, and it became a celebrated case, fraught with many incidents with which the public has never been made acquainted until now.
After continued urging the great detective consented to relate the story which is reproduced here in narrative form, at the request of hundreds of the readers of the NICK CARTER LIBRARY.
To relate the story in detail and to make the reader thoroughly conversant with the events which led up to the denouement, it will be necessary to begin at a period some time prior to Nick's connection with the case.
One Monday evening, at about half-past eight o'clock, two gentlemen were seated at a table in Delmonico's cafe.
Before them were the remains of a light luncheon and an empty wine bottle. They had just lighted their cigars.
"Are you going around to the 'Temple' to-night?" asked one of them.
"Yes, Paul; I thought I would. Monday night is my night, you know."
"For luck, you mean, Cephas."
"Yes."
"Yet one week ago to-night you lost five thousand dollars."
"Bah! that is but an exception which proves the rule. I shall win it all back to-night, Paul."
"Do you think so?"
"I am certain of it."
"Why are you so confident?"
"Can one ever explain a presentiment of the kind that I feel?"
"Yet I believe that you have a reason."
"Well, frankly, I have."
"Will you tell it to me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Put my refusal down to superstition if you like. If I should tell you why I expect to win the fact of telling you would spoil my luck, and I would lose."
"Nonsense, Cephas."
"Call it what you like. I never believe a gambler when he says that he is not superstitious. You play yourself almost as eagerly as I."
"Not for such large amounts, though."
"Bah! you play; that is enough. You jeer at superstition, and yet there is one point which you are as firm a believer in as I."
"What point is that, pray?"
"Do you think that I have not watched you?"
"Watched me?"
"Yes."
"To what end?"
"My dear fellow, I have gone to the Temple in your company a dozen times or more. I have been there a score of times when you have entered. Ask yourself what you first seek when you go there to play, and your question is answered."
"Still I fail to comprehend."
"You refuse to do so."
"Will you explain?"
"With pleasure. Every time that I have seen you enter the Temple you have sought the presence of Marian Bentley at once."
"Certainly. One must be polite to one's hostess."
"Without doubt. Yet the failure to exchange a particular greeting should not necessarily interfere with our play."
"You puzzle me more and more, Cephas."
"Do I? Very well, I will be more explicit."
"You will confer a favor."
"I have noticed you every time you have entered. If Marian is engaged so that you cannot approach her without the effort assuming an aspect that is too pointed, you turn to the tables, you pass from one to another, you perhaps wager ten dollars here or twenty there, you look on at the various games for a while, and then, without indulging in anything that might be termed play, in its true sense, you retire to the library, or leave the house altogether."
"A mere coincidence, Cephas."
"On the other hand," continued Cephas Dexter, "if Marian is not engaged when you enter you approach her, you shake hands with her, you spend a few moments in idle conversation, forming one of the group that is gathered around her, and presently you go to the faro-table, or to the roulette-wheel, or take the bank at baccarat. Then you play, in the true sense of the word. On such occasions I have seen you lose five or six hundred dollars, sometimes as high as two thousand, and also on such occasions I have seen you win as much as I lost last Monday, five thousand dollars."
"Bah! There are men who go to the Temple who win or lose fifteen or twenty thousand every time they go, and there is one, as you know, who boasts that he gains at the Temple, or leaves there, one hundred thousand dollars every week."
"That has nothing to do with the case."
"What case?"
"Our argument—your superstition."
"Ah!"
"Reduced to a few words, you believe that if Marian Bentley shakes hands with you within a certain number of moments after you enter her presence you will be lucky. If, on the other hand, she does not, you believe that luck will be against you, and you do not play."
"You are, I perceive, a close observer, Cephas."
"I am."
"I did not give you credit for noticing so much."
Cephas Dexter laughed heartily.
"Confess to the indictment," he said.
"I do. You force me."
"Good. Then you admit your superstition?"
"Yes. On that one point."
"It is enough, as it establishes the fact."
"Do you think that others have noticed it?"
"No. I do not."
"I am afraid that your discovery will change my luck."
"No fear of that."
"Why?"
"Because it would have been changed long ago. I discovered this peculiarity of yours two months ago."
"Then you are not my hoodoo."
"I hope not."
"Come, let us go."
"I am ready."
CEPHAS DEXTER and Paul Moran entered the Temple of Vice together.
They were both understood to be young men of considerable wealth, although but little was known concerning the latter.
Paul Moran had appeared in New York society about a year before the opening of this story, and was the reputed son of a rich ranchero of the South-west.
He was handsome, accomplished, and always well supplied with money, and he was speedily taken into the charmed circle that dines at Delmonico's and does nothing for a living.
Cephas Dexter had always lived in New York.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and compactly built, with the air of one who is conscious of physical superiority over his fellows. With it all he was called the best natured fellow in his set.
Easy-going, careless, and reckless as he was, however, there was a vein of remarkable and far-seeing shrewdness in his nature which few of his friends suspected.
"Go and shake hands with your divinity, Paul," he said as they entered. '" You have an excellent opportunity." Marian Bentley was standing all alone in the rear of her sumptuous parlors, and Paul Moran strode forward eagerly, with extended hand.
She took it, and welcomed him cordially, and they exchanged a few common civilities as Dexter drew lazily near, and also offered his hand.
The goddess of the gambling-house was more superb than ever in her wondrous beauty that night.
"I give you both good luck to-night, gentlemen," she said, with a smile, as they were about to withdraw.
"How can that be?" asked Dexter, "since we are to play against each other?"
"Against each other?"
"Yes."
"How is that?"
"Paul will be banker at Baccarat to-night. I read it in his eyes."
"And you?"
"I shall play against him."
"Better try some other game, Mr. Dexter."
"Why?"
"Mr. Moran's luck as a banker is proverbial."
"I mean to test it."
"By playing against him, eh?"
"Yes."
"Ah, well; I wish you both luck," and she laughed lightly.
"Will you name the winner for a thousand dollars, madam?"
"I never gamble, as you well know, Mr. Dexter."
"True, I was only bantering. Come, Paul; here is a chance for you at once. Get out your 'specs.' I often wonder why you don't wear them all the time instead of the eye-glasses."
"Why?"
"You are continually dropping the glasses from your nose, while the spectacles stay on."
"Ah, yes. But the eye-glasses are more becoming. One dislikes to wear spectacles at my age."
"You are very near-sighted."
"No—no; very far-sighted. When I was a child I was thought, for months, to be blind."
"Indeed!"
"Yes.
"The bank is ready for you, Paul. Take your seat, and begin. There are half a dozen who are anxiously awaiting you, and a dozen more who will join in as soon as you begin."
It was true.
The lovers of baccarat were patiently awaiting the arrival of someone who would take the bank, and they were glad when they saw Dexter and Moran approach, for they knew that they could rely upon one of them.
The scene in the room was fascinating.
Sumptuous elegance was the rule upon which the apartment had been furnished, and expenses had been courted rather than avoided in the decorations.
In one corner the roulette-wheel was revolving merrily, while the click of the ball as it dropped into a stall told the fortunes of the players who were gathered around it.
Yonder was the faro table, with a dozen worshipers at the shrine, clicking their chips together, and silently watching the dealer as he slipped the cards from the box in front of him.
Past it all, beyond the tapestry curtains, was the conservatory, where a fountain jetted sparkling perfumed water into the air, and where a table, loaded with delicacies, awaited the demand of any guest who wished for refreshment.
It was no wonder that men liked to go there.
They were free from espionage; they were hidden away in the very heart of a great city; they were surrounded with every luxury that could be devised, and cradled in the lap of oriental magnificence.
If there had been a covert challenge in Cephas Dexter's words it was so well concealed that his friend did not notice it.
Paul Moran placed his eye-glasses in his pocket, adjusted his spectacles, and began the game, after calling for new cards.
Soon there were piles of chips upon the table, representing several hundred dollars, and then the deal began.
Paul Moran refused to draw, and won the stakes with a six spot, there being a tray and a deuce out against him on one side, while the other was baccarat.
That he should "stand" on a six and win was all the more astounding by reason of the daring that such a risk entailed, and Cephas Dexter, who had staked and lost three hundred dollars on the deal, turned away in disgust.
"There is something in his fetish, after all," he muttered, "and I begin to think that luck is not the sum total of his good fortune either.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, suddenly. "I will wait until he leaves the bank at the baccarat table, and challenge him to 'buck the tiger' at faro."
"You surrender early in the game, Mr. Dexter," said the soft voice of Marian Bentley, who came up silently behind him.
"Yes, at that game. I am not through yet, however." He went out into the conservatory and called for refreshments.
A half-hour later, when he returned to the gambling-room, Moran had just resigned the bank.
"How much have you won, old fellow?" asked Dexter, who saw the huge pile of chips before him.
"More than usual, Cephas."
"How much?"
"Six thousand."
"Whew! I have a proposition to make to you."
"Indeed! what?"
"Let us try our luck at faro."
"No—no; I have played enough."
"I challenge you."
"To what?"
"To play the six thousand that you have won. That is, to double it at faro, or quit even."
"And you?"
"I will play a like amount against you."
"Against me?"
"Yes."
"You mean—"
"That when you play to win I will copper. When you copper I will play to win."
"In that case one of us must lose six thousand dollars."
"Exactly."
"But that is folly."
"No; I simply pit my luck against yours. It is a challenge."
There was deep earnestness in Dexter's manner, and Moran could not well avoid accepting the challenge.
"Very well," he said; "we will play."
They went to the faro-table together just as beautiful Marian Bentley glided past them with a smile.
"Still opponents?" she asked, laughing, and showing her matchless teeth.
"Yes," replied Moran, coming to a stop. "I wish you might dissuade Dexter from the absurd proposition that he has made."
"What is it?"
Moran explained in detail, and Marian listened with the same enigmatical but beautiful smile upon her face, never once taking her eyes from Dexter's features.
"You had better withdraw, Mr. Dexter," she said. "Luck seems to be with your friend to-night, and against you."
"I wish to prove it."
She shrugged her shoulders and moved away.
"The table is at your service, gentlemen," she said, as she went.
"Six one-thousand dollar markers," said Moran to the dealer, who was shuffling the cards, preparatory to putting them in the box for a new deal.
The players looked up in surprise.
Such play was heavy, even for the Temple.
"The same," ordered Dexter.
Then the deal began.
"I make my first play on the high card," said Moran, putting down a marker.
"To win?" asked Cephas.
"Yes."
"Then I play it to lose."
The cards were told off by the dealer, and a knave was the first to show.
"Ah! I have you," muttered Dexter, who for an instant thought that Moran's luck had deserted him.
"Wait," was the reply.
The next card was a king.
Moran had won; Dexter had lost.
Two turns were allowed to pass from the box before Moran ventured another bet.
Then he placed two markers on the ace to lose.
Dexter played against him, as before, and again Moran won, and he lost.
"Two markers on the ten to win," said Moran, presently.
"To lose," said Dexter.
Several smaller players, who saw that he was winning, followed his lead.
But there was a change.
He lost, and Dexter won.
"Your luck is changing," said Cephas.
"Wait. A marker on the seven, coppered."
"To win," said Dexter.
Again Moran lost.
"We are even now," he said, turning to his friend. "Shall we stop?"
"No."
"I prefer to do so."
"Do you decline my challenge?"
"No. I ask to be released."
"I refuse to release you."
"So be it. There are six markers on the king to win. We will end the play at once."
"Six markers coppers it," said Dexter, coolly.
The cards were turned.
The king showed, and won.
CEPHAS DEXTER had lost six thousand dollars.
Nevertheless there was a peculiar smile upon his face as he acknowledged to Paul Moran that he was defeated, and they turned away from the table together.
Dexter was very rich, and the loss of six thousand dollars was nothing to him—absolutely nothing in the face of the facts that he thought he had discovered.
Nevertheless, he was resolved not to be precipitate.
He would satisfy himself still further before he carried out a scheme which had developed in his mind since he left Delmonico's in company with Moran.
For two weeks he sought the society of Paul Moran constantly.
Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings saw them together at the Temple.
They played and played high, and with varying luck.
It was very noticeable, however, that when Moran lost he never lost much; when he won he left the place a considerable winner.
His greatest winnings were at baccarat. He rarely played faro, and never roulette or poker.
Baccarat took the money from the other players, when he won; faro and roulette took it from the house.
At the end of two weeks, thanks to the handshaking between Marian Bentley and Moran, and Dexter's determination to play against his companion, Cephas was $26,000 loser.
Then he decided to carry his plan into execution.
We will follow him, and discover, as he proceeds, what that plan was.
One Sunday afternoon, just as darkness was settling down, he was ushered into the reception-room at Nick Carter's residence.
The great detective presently joined him, dressed for once in his own proper person, for the young men were well known to each other.
"Well, Cephas," said the Little Giant, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Come right up to my study."
"Thanks, Nick, I will."
"Still fighting the tiger, old fellow?" asked Nick, when they were seated in the detective's study.
"Yes."
"Getting whipped?"
"Badly."
"Indeed!"
"Nearly thirty thousand in two weeks."
"Why don't you quit it?"
"I'm going to."
"I'm glad of that, Cephas. It is your one great folly—play."
"I know it, but I'm through."
"I congratulate you."
"Thanks. I've got an ax to grind."
"Where?"
"At the Temple."
"What sort of an ax?"
"I've spotted a cheat."
"Sure?"
"Certain."
"Why don't you 'round' on him?"
"I can't prove my statement."
"Ah! Then you are not sure?"
"I am, morally."
"Well?"
"I want your aid."
"I don't like the job."
"Why not?"
"I have always shunned everything that would mix me up in gambling affairs."
"Yet you are an expert at all games."
"Yes."
"Will you do this for me?"
"What do you want done?"
"I want Paul Moran exposed."
"Paul Moran, eh?"
"Yes; do you know him?"
"I have seen him."
"I think he is in league with Marian."
"Doubtless."
"Why do you speak so?"
"Because I have long thought so."
"Will you undertake to prove it? I will pay—"
"Wait. Do you come to me as a friend or as a client?"
"As a friend."
"Then I will do it, but without pay."
"Thanks, old fellow. Will you go with me to-morrow night?"
"Yes."
"Where shall we meet?"
"Where do you dine?"
"At Del's."
"What time?"
"At seven."
"Good. Have Moran with you. I will enter while you are at table. I will have a satchel in my hand. I will be just in from Chicago—an old friend, David Patten; catch on?"
"Yes."
"We will see what can be done."
"Good. Will you play?"
"Perhaps."
"If you do I must furnish the money. I cannot have you lose—"
"I will not lose."
"Oh, all right."
On the following evening, shortly after seven o'clock, a young man, who looked to be somewhere between thirty and forty, walked into Delmonico's.
He wore a closely trimmed Van Dyke beard of jet black, was dressed in perfect taste, and with some elegance, and carried a small satchel in his hand.
He cast one swift glance around the room, and then strode toward a table at which Dexter and Moran were seated.
"Hello, Cephas!" he exclaimed, giving his friend a hearty slap upon the shoulder. "I'm in luck to light upon you the first thing."
Dexter bounded to his feet with a loud exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
"Dave Patten!" he cried. "Well, well, well! when did you come to town?"
"Just now."
"I'm awfully glad to see you. Sit down. Mr. Patten, Mr. Moran; both old friends. I say, Dave, have you had your dinner?"
"Not a mouthful."
"Waiter, here; take this gentleman's order. You'll stop with me, of course, Dave."
"No—no; I—"
"There, that will do. You're going to stop with me. I say, Moran, you'll let me off of my engagement to-night, won't you?"
"Certainly."
"What was the engagement, if I may ask? I don't wish to interfere—"
"Nonsense, Dave. It was not of any importance. We were simply going around to the Temple together."
"The Temple! What is that? A prayer-meeting?"
"Not exactly. It is called the Temple of Vice."
"Ah!"
"In other words, a gambling-house."
"Indeed! Why not carry out your original intention?"
"But you—"
"I should like to see the place."
"Do you play?" asked Moran.
"Rarely, and always with phenomenal luck."
"Ah, you're a winner."
"Invariably."
"Would you really like to go, Dave?" asked Dexter.
"Yes, I really would."
"It's settled, then; we'll go."
"What game do you prefer, Mr. Patten?" asked Moran presently.
"All games. I play them without understanding them very well, and without a 'system.' I have always studiously avoided making myself acquainted with systems, for I believe they bring loss oftener than gain."
"Ah, that is your superstition," laughed Dexter.
"Perhaps so."
"All gamblers have one."
"So I have heard."
An hour later the three young men entered the gambling-room together.
During the interview between Nick Carter and Cephas Dexter on the previous evening the detective had prevented the latter from revealing any of the points that he had gleaned, by which he was led to suspect that Moran was a cheat.
His purpose in so doing was that he wished to see for himself, unprejudiced and uninfluenced by anything that Dexter had seen.
Without appearing to do so he watched Moran narrowly when they entered the room.
As a stranger and a guest, and one who was expected to play, Nick was taken at once to the beautiful proprietress of the place and introduced.
There was a general shaking of hands, and a few moments of idle talk, when suddenly the cry came from the baccarat table:
"Who takes the bank?"
"I!" replied Moran. Then turning to Nick be added, "Will you play?"
"Not yet. I will look on for a while."
"You are wise," said Dexter.
"Why?"
"Because Moran always wins when he takes the bank."
"Indeed!"
Moran took the bank, a crowd gathered around the table, and the play began.
Nick took a position where he could see every move that the dealer made, and watched him narrowly.
New cards were brought, and the bets were made.
There were nearly a thousand dollars on the table when the banker said, "No more to go down."
Then he dealt the cards.
He had a seven and drew, getting a six, and spoiling his hand; he lost because there was a nine out against him.
In the midst of the deal his eye-glasses dropped from his nose upon the table, and one of the lenses was broken.
"No luck to-night, I am afraid," he said. "Fortunately I have my spectacles with me."
In a moment he drew the spectacles from his pocket and adjusted them.
From that moment luck seemed to treat him in the most marvelous manner.
If the stakes on the table in front of him were small he invariably lost. If they were large he won.
Twice he drew on a seven, and made nine, when eight was out against him. Once he stood on a five and won against four on one side and three on the other. Once he drew on an eight, when the stakes were very large, and made nine, and a howl of dismay went up from the side which held eight.
Moran's luck was certainly phenomenal, and at the end of an hour he rose from the table several thousand dollars winner.
MORAN could not resume the use of his eye-glasses, because he had broken them.
The spectacles were still upon his nose when he rose from the table, and Nick noticed that he walked with some hesitation, as though he could not see well.
The detective had been greatly puzzled to know how the man cheated so dexterously, for he had both watched and listened for the slipping or palming of a card, and had detected nothing.
That he did cheat he was well satisfied, but how?
The cards seemed straight enough.
They were new, had been thoroughly shuffled before each deal, and Moran had made a point of requesting the players to cut and shuffle them all they pleased.
Evidently the act had not been done by the use of a "cold deck."
How then?
For once Nick was puzzled, and his mind was intent upon the problem when Moran left the table.
Nick saw that he rarely escaped stumbling over a chair that stood in his way, and that he speedily found one of the lounging-places in the room, and sat down.
The detective carried a cane, and twirling it gracefully in his hand he approached Moran.
A sudden idea had occurred to him, and he resolved to put it into execution at once.
When immediately in front of Moran he purposely let the cane fly from his hands, but in such a way that there could be no possibility of its hitting the man for whom the ruse was intended.
Any one who could see well enough to deal at baccarat could also have seen that he was in no danger of being hit by the cane, and yet Moran dodged, and uttered an exclamation of fear.
"I beg your pardon,"said Nick. "The cane slipped from my hands. You do not see as well with those glasses as with the others."
"Not nearly."
"It is unfortunate that you broke the others."
"Very."
"Yet you were lucky at the table."
"Yes, why did you not play? Your phenomenal luck might have overbalanced mine."
"I hardly think so."
"Why?"
"I would not have the courage to draw to an eight."
"No? Do you know why I did that?"
"To win, I suppose."
"On the contrary, to lose."
"Eh?"
"I had been winning."
"Decidedly."
"I believed that I could win more in the end by losing that deal, and I drew to the eight."
"Ah!"
"As luck would have it, I won instead of lost. I could get no more punters."
"You cannot blame them."
"No. My luck was astounding."
"It was."
"Shall you play now?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Faro."
"I will join you. This is a lucky night for me."
"Evidently. I think I cannot do better than follow your play."
"Come, then. I will be glad if I can give you luck. Where is Dexter?"
"Playing poker."
Moran took his glasses off to wipe them, and while in the act arose and accompanied Nick across the room.
"Let me take your arm," he said, "while my glasses are off."
"Certainly."
Nick purposely guided him in such a way that he would have stumbled over a cuspidor on the floor if he had not been able to see it.
But Moran did not stumble.
Instead he stepped around the obstacle as expertly as the detective could have done.
There was an inscrutable smile upon the face of the Little Giant as they seated themselves at the faro-table.
Each bought a thousand dollars' worth of chips, and the play began.
Nick played comparatively lightly, so that when, at the end of the deal, Moran had lost his thousand, Nick had three hundred still in front of him.
"My luck has turned," said Moran.
"Only momentarily," replied Nick.
"I lost every bet."
"Yes. You will win this deal."
"Shall you still follow me?"
"Yes."
"What is that on top?"
"An ace."
"Then I will bet a thousand on the ace to win, and get square at one turn."
Moran leaned forward and put his marker on the ace for a thousand, and Nick placed his three hundred beside it.
The dealer was about to push the cards from the box.
"Time!" exclaimed Nick, and the dealer paused.
"I wish to increase my bet," added the detective.
"Ah!" said Moran; "better wait to see if my luck has changed before you go in too heavy."
Nick laughed.
"Watch me." he said. "When I want to win badly I play with money. Will you permit me, dealer?"
"Certainly."
"Thanks. Here are five one thousand dollar bills, I will put them all on the one with the three hundred now on it, all coppered."
"But that is playing against me!" exclaimed Moran.
"Exactly. My phenomenal luck against yours."
The dealer turned the cards, and on that very turn the ace lost, and Nick won.
"I am four thousand six hundred dollars winner," said Nick, calling for the cash, "and I have played enough, Mr. Moran."
"What! going to stop?"
"Yes."
"Well, so will I."
They left the table, and Nick made a sign to Dexter, who presently joined them in the conservatory.
While they were discussing a bottle of wine one of the attendants came in with a package which he handed to Moran.
The latter took it, gave the attendant a dollar, and then proceeded to open the package.
It contained a pair of eye-glasses, which the fortunate gambler quickly adjusted, returning the spectacles to his pocket.
Nick saw him put them away, and watched his opportunity, for the detective could pick a pocket as expertly as the best professional in the business, and he was resolved to have a nearer view of those spectacles.
When they rose from the refreshment table to re-enter the saloon Nick purposely stumbled over his chair, and in doing so he fell violently against Moran, who was in the act of rising.
The fall was so sudden and so violent that both men were precipitated upon the floor.
Nick bounded to his feet instantly.
"I beg ten thousand pardons," he cried. "It was frightfully clumsy of me. A sudden attack of dizziness, I think. I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Moran."
"Certainly. It is nothing."
"Thanks. I will sit here a moment, if you will kindly leave me here alone."
"Can we be of service?"
"No—er—that is, stay a moment. If you will kindly send an attendant here—the one who just came in will do. Thanks."
Nick was left alone, and in another moment the attendant entered.
He bowed obsequiously to Nick.
"You are ill, sir?" he asked.
"No."
"Then you do not need me."
"Wait. I wish to talk with you."
"Yes, sir."
"Your name is—what?"
"Beagle, sir."
"Your true name, I mean."
"That is my true name."
"Bah! your true name is Jim Cross."
The man turned pale.
"How long have you been employed here?" asked Nick, sternly. "No lies now, unless you wish to go from here to prison."
"To prison!"
"Yes for writing another man's name on a check. I am Nick Carter, Jim. I'm not on your trail, but if you fight shy I'll take you in, all the same."
"What do you want to know?" asked the man, gloomily, but turning pale when he heard Nick Carter's name mentioned.
"How long have you been employed here?"
"Three months."
"Who employed you?"
"The madam."
"Bah! who recommended you to her?"
"Mr. Moran."
"I thought so. Where did you meet him?"
"Where?"
"When he asked you to come here?"
"At 'Corcoran's Roost.'"
"In East Fortieth street?"
"Yes."
"What name does he wear when he's up there?"
"I don't—"
"No lies, Jim."
"O'Brien."
"Red Leary, eh?"
"Yes."
"Who rings in the marked cards?"
"What marked cards?"
"Every card in the house is marked, isn't it?"
"Give you my word, I don't know."
"Perhaps you don't. It's out of your line."
"I don't know; give you my word."
"Go and get me a pack of cards."
"Yes, sir."
"A new pack will do."
"Yes, sir."
"You know me, Jim."
"Yes, sir.
"If you give any warning of any kind to anybody I'll start you on the road to Sing Sing in less than an hour."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait a minute."
"All right, sir."
"Get these cards, and take them to the library. I will meet you there! Be quick, now."
"Yes, sir."
When Beagle was gone Nick took the spectacles from his pocket, and held the lenses above the back of his hand.
"A very cute trick," he muttered. "I wonder that I did not tumble to O'Brien, and yet I never saw him but once."
He smiled grimly as he rose and started for the library. "This is a great big swindling scheme," he murmured, "and it might have gone on successfully for years, if Cephas Dexter had not come to me."
AS soon as the cards were brought to Nick in the library he began a thorough examination of them.
Beagle was about to hurry away again, when Nick bade him wait.
"Stand just inside the door," he said, "and if anybody comes this way let me know at once."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Dexter is coming now."
"Good. Let him come."
Cephas was presently in the room with the detective. "Well?" he said; "what have you discovered?"
"Everything."
"You know how he cheated?"
"I think so."
"Don't you know?"
"I will in a moment."
He took the spectacles from his pocket and put them on.
"Moran's specs, by Jove!" exclaimed Dexter.
"Yes."
"Did he loan them to you?"
"Hardly."
"Where did you get them?"
"Out of his pocket."
"When?"
"When I fell over him in the conservatory."
"Oh!"
"That was a trick of mine."
"So I perceive."
"We will suppose that we have a baccarat lay-out here."
"All right."
"I deal," said Nick, shuffling the cards.
"I'll bet you a thousand that I beat you."
"Wait. You have an eight, and you will refuse."
"Certainly, but how in the dev—"
"Wait. You see that I have a seven, but as you refuse to draw I do so, because I know that I will get a deuce, which makes me nine, and would win your thousand had I taken your bet. You are on the left; on the right there is a six. Look and see if I am correct."
"Well, that beats me!"
"Of course it does. It has been beating you right along."
"How is it done?"
"Put on these glasses, and see if you could not win in keeping the bank."
Dexter took the glasses.
Then he examined the cards very thoroughly.
Suddenly he uttered a cry.
"I've got it!" he said.
"What have you discovered?"
"The cards are marked!"
"Assuredly."
"By the point of a needle. One could never see the marks without a magnifying glass."
"Certainly not."
"And these spectacles—"
"Are magnifying glasses, certainly."
"Whew!"
"Are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly. He knew every time just what his opponents held, and whether to draw or not."
"He did."
"Nick, you're a wonder."
"Why?"
"I have watched this thing for weeks and weeks, and never tumbled."
"You don't know yet how he won at faro."
"No; do you?"
"I haven't proved it, but I think I know."
"How?"
"There is a very strong light just over the dealer's head, if you remember.
"We will see if we can make this one do."
"What has the light to do with it?"
"Watch me."
Nick shuffled the cards, and placed them together, as he would have done for a faro-box.
Then he laid them upon the table, face up, and evenly together.
"You still have the glasses, Cephas?"
"Yes."
"Notice the top card."
"I do."
"It is a four."
"Yes."
"Do you see anything strange about it?"
"No."
"Look closely."
"I do."
"And see nothing?"
"Nothing but a four spot."
"Good. I will now move the cards so that the light will strike them differently, slanting a little from the left—so."
"Very good."
"Do you see anything strange now?"
"No—stop."
"Eh? what?"
"Take away the top card."
"Why?"
"I wish to know what the next one is."
"Don't you know now?"
"I am not sure."
"What do you think it is?"
"The ten."
Nick threw aside the top card and exposed the ten.
"If you had been playing faro and had coppered the ten you would have won," he said.
"Certainly."
"Now try to see through the ten and discover what comes next."
"The king," replied Dexter, promptly.
"Good. We will now lay aside the ten and king, and discover the nine. What is next beneath that?"
"The deuce."
"Good; and next to that?"
"I am not sure."
"What do you think?"
"A Jack."
He ran the cards off and discovered them as they had been named—a deuce and a Jack.
"Can you see any of that?" asked Cephas.
"Nothing."
"And yet you sit right over them."
"Yes; but there are two reasons why I cannot see."
"What are they?"
"The principal one is that I have not those remarkable glasses."
"Well? and the other?"
"The light is not right where I sit."
"But, Nick, can you explain it?"
"Easily."
"I confess that I cannot."
"It is very simple."
"How so?"
"The cards are made to order."
"Yes."
"One ply is paraffined with some secret preparation, which renders the whole card partially transparent. When they are placed under the proper light a player who is aided by glasses like these can dimly see what the next card will be. Therefore he knows which one to copper."
"But Moran often played without the copper."
"Precisely."
"How did he do that?"
"Did you discern just now that the deuce would lose and the Jack would win?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"No. Except that I could see them both."
"But how, when you could not before?"
"I don't know."
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes."
"Because it was a deuce to lose."
"But—"
"Wait. Here, I will run off a few cards. I stop at the four of spades."
"Yes."
"Can you see what comes next?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"The trey of—"
"Never mind what. It is a trey?"
"Yes."
"Then you should also see the next."
"Why?"
"Because you have two low cards to see through. If one of these were a picture card your sight would be at fault. As it is—"
"As it is I think I can call a trey to lose and a ten to win."
"Trey—ten it is," said Nick, running the cards. "Do you see through his game now?"
"Perfectly."
"Very slick, isn't it?"
"I should say so."
"I won my five thousand to-night by beating him at his own game."
"How?"
"He had won at baccarat, and was perfectly willing to lose it all at faro, because he could get it back from Marian. By inducing me to follow his play he would make me lose to the house. I followed him until I saw a good chance to get even; then I called time, and played against him. The result you know."
"What shall we do now?"
For reply Nick turned and called:
"Beagle!"
"Yes, sir."
"Come here."
"Yes, sir."
"Where is your mistress?"
"In the main saloon, sir."
"Where is Moran?"
"He is with her."
"Good. Ask them both to come here."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Beagle!"
"Yes, sir."
"Remember my warning. If you peach up you go."
"I sha'n't forget."
"See that you do not. After you have delivered my message skip. To-morrow morning I shall send word to Inspector Byrnes that you are here, and—"
"Oh, I beg, sir, that—"
"That what?"
"That you will give me twenty-four hours."
"For what?"
"To get out of the country."
"I will. Go!"
"Now comes the tug of war, Nick," said Dexter, when they were alone.
"Why?"
"To accuse Marian and Paul Moran of cheating."
"I will do it."
"I'm glad it is not I."
"Why"
"Bah! I hate the job as it is. I feel like a spy."
"I will surprise you, Cephas."
"How?"
"By the revelation I will make."
"Regarding whom?"
"Your friend Moran."
"Why?"
"He is a notorious criminal."
"What!"
"It is a fact."
"And I have been associating with him!"
"Yes."
"What is his name?"
"You will learn soon enough."
"And who is Marian?"
"I don't know."
"You will find out?"
"If I can. One question, Cephas, before they come."
"Well?"
"Have you kept an account of your gains and losses in this house?"
"A rigid one."
"How do you stand?"
"Fifty-one thousand loser."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Hush! here they are."
Paul Moran and Marian Bentley entered together.
"Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?" inquired the hostess.
"Will you be seated?" replied Dexter, who had his cue from Nick. "I wish to ask a favor of you, or rather my friend does, for me."
"I am at your service, Mr. Patten," she responded, graciously.
"Thanks. My friend here, Mr. Dexter, informs me that he has lost the sum of fifty-one thousand dollars in your house, and he wishes the amount returned at once."
"Sir!" cried the woman, rising, her face a shade paler, but her wondrous beauty more prominent than ever in her anger. "I believed that you were gentlemen and would lose or win as gentlemen should."
"Did you? Indeed! Shall I tell you what he thought? He believed that he was in a house where cheating and swindling were not permitted."
"What do you mean?" cried Marian, towering in her magnificent beauty like an outraged queen above them.
"I mean exactly what I say."
"This is an outrage!"
"Ah, indeed!" said Nick, icily.
"Why did you send for me?" asked Moran, with well-assumed dignity; "to compel me to be a witness to this indignity?"
"No."
"Why then?"
"For the purpose of informing you," replied Nick, sternly, "that you are a thief, a forger, a swindler, a cheat, a confidence man, a professional gambler, and a blackleg of the worst kind. You are Red Leary O'Brien, and I am Nick Carter! Now, what have you got to say?"
Had a dynamite bomb been exploded on the library table the consternation could not have been more complete.
Marian Bentley uttered a sharp cry, and staggered back, while with one bound Moran leaped to the door.
"Halt!" came the stern command from Nick Carter, and the villain looked around to see that the detective had him covered with a revolver.
"Come back here, or I will wing you, Red Leary," he ordered, and the notorious confidence man obeyed.
But Marian Bentley was not to be so easily dismayed.
She clapped her hands together thrice, and the huge negro, Scipio, leaped into the room.
He seemed to take in the situation at a glance, and quicker than a flash he seized his mistress, and with a light toss, as though she were a doll, instead of a full-grown woman, he sent her through the door way into the hall.
Then he turned toward Nick, but the latter was ready for him.
"Scipio," he said, "I will kill you as I would a wild beast, if you come one step nearer, or seek to escape. Stand where you are if you want to live."
"Obey, Scipio," exclaimed Marian, from the hallway.
"Go, you, madam, and get the money which Mr. Dexter wishes refunded. When you have paid him you can go, and your partner with you. I have no wish to hold you."
"So this is a blackmailing scheme, is it?" asked Moran.
"If it is," returned Dexter, hotly, "we have your goggles and your cards to prove what we assert."
The gambler clasped his hand to the pocket where he carried his spectacles, and found that they were gone.
All his bravado vanished in an instant. He saw that the game was up.
Marian Bentley soon returned with the money which she gave to Dexter. There was no anger in her eyes now. Only sorrow. Dexter looked at her in wonder as he put the money in his pocket.
"Now," said Nick, coldly, "my duty is ended, but I give you fair warning that at nine o'clock in the morning I will lodge information with the police concerning this place.
NICK was true to his word.
At nine the following morning he reported the affair in full to the captain of the precinct, and directions were immediately given for a raid.
Warrants were sworn out, and officers sent to execute them.
It was half-past ten when they reached the house and rang for admittance.
But there was no answer to their summons.
They rang and re-rang, and rang again.
There was no response.
"Force the door" said the sergeant, sternly.
It was easier said than done, for the door was a heavy one.
However, it soon gave way to their attacks, and the officers, seven in all, entered the Temple of Vice.
At the first glance nothing seemed to have been molested about the palace.
The paintings hung upon the walls. The statuary and flowers, ornaments and bric-à-brac, were in the usual order.
But there was an air of desertion and solitude throughout the house, such as one feels rather than perceives.
The main saloon, which was the gambling-room, was first visited. It bore every evidence of recent occupancy.
Yonder was the baccarat table, and beneath it were cards scattered upon the floor where they had been hastily thrown by the players when they were through with them.
At the faro-table the box was only half empty, showing that play had been stopped in the middle of a deal, and the chips were in the disorder in which they had been piled before the dealer for cashing.
In the conservatory, where the fountain still played, the lights had not even been put out.
The sergeant saw that fact through the half-drawn curtains which separated it from the saloon, and he started forward to investigate alone.
He reached the curtains.and passed through.
He saw the refreshments still upon the table. A half-emptied bottle of wine, with four full glasses, was at one end of the table.
He drew nearer and looked more closely.
Then he uttered a cry of horror.
Upon the white cloth near the wine-bottle was a large, red, clotted stain.
"Blood!" he exclaimed. "There has been a crime here."
The stain was somewhat larger than his hand. It was pointed at the end farthest from the chair, and broad and square at the other end, giving it the shape of a pointed spade, and suggesting at once that it had spurted from some hastily inflicted wound.
The sergeant studied it carefully.
Then he glanced at the chair nearest to the stain.
It was upholstered in red, but there were blood-stains plainly discernible upon it, nevertheless.
Under the chair, on the carpet, there were others, and they led away, spot by spot, toward the great saloon.
The sergeant followed them, but when he reached the arch they disappeared altogether.
He returned to the table and looked again, searching every where.
But his eyes were not trained for that kind of work, and he was wise enough to know it.
Suddenly he abandoned the table, and re-entering the saloon he sent a man at once to the station-house with a message to the captain.
The captain was quick to act.
"Nick Carter gave me the information," he mused, "and I will get him to go there with me," so while he sent the officer back with instructions to do nothing until he arrived he went to the great detective's house.
"How are you, captain?" said Nick, when he met the officer. "Have you made the arrests?"
"No; my men are at the house now."
"Ah!"
"The sergeant sends word that there has been a murder committed."
"Who was killed?"
"He doesn't know."
"You were going there?"
"Yes."
"And came for me?"
"Yes."
"I'm ready."
"Come, then."
They soon reached the Temple, and Nick was taken to the conservatory, where the blood-stains were pointed out.
The men stood back, even the captain, and let Nick work alone, for they well knew that no one else could do that sort of thing as well as he could.
The captain stood near by.
"She was taken from the chair and carried from this room," said Nick, presently.
"She!"
"Yes."
"You think it was a woman who was—er—wounded?"
"I know it."
"How?"
"In several ways."
"Tell me."
"First, the wound must have been in the neck or the blood would not have spurted so far."
"Well?"
"If a man had been so struck his collar and tie would have prevented the spurting of the blood, whereas the low-neck dresses that ladies wear would offer no impediment."
"I see."
"Again, here is a handkerchief on the floor. It is a woman's. It lies exactly where it would have fallen from a woman's lap had she been sitting in that chair."
"Yes."
"Here are two leaves from a Jacqueminot rose. Marian Bentley wore such a rose in the bosom of her dress last night. I noticed it, and I did not see another in the rooms. These leaves were upon the floor near this chair, where they would have naturally fallen from a person who sat here."
"Then you think the victim is Marian Bentley, Nick?"
"I think the victim is a woman. Marian Bentley wore such a rose as these were on. She probably sat in this chair at some time after I left here, for I sat here an hour before I left."
"What time did you leave?"
"About half-past one."
"You think that those rose-leaves came from the flower that Marian Bentley wore?"
"I am sure of it. Here is another fact, captain."
"What?"
"Both leaves have blood stains upon them."
"Are you sure?"
"Look for yourself."
"Then she must have been the one who was struck."
"It is probable."
"Who could be her murderer?"
"Let us first be satisfied that there has been a murder."
"True."
"Have the upper floors been visited?"
"No."
"Come, then. Let the men stay here and let nothing be touched yet."
They passed through the gambling-room to the hall, and thence up the wide stair-way to the next floor.
They entered several rooms, and found nothing except that all looked as though they had been just vacated, nor were there signs of haste anywhere to be found.
Presently they tried a door which led into a front room.
This must have been Marian's room," said Nick.
"Yes."
"The door is locked."
"Shall I have it forced?"
"No. I will open it."
He produced his wonderful little pick-lock, and in a moment more the door swung open.
Nick passed through, followed by the captain.
Suddenly the detective paused.
"Look there, captain," he said.
He pointed toward an inscription which had been traced upon the wall in letters of blood.
"Pause and turn back."
It had been traced by a finger dipped in blood.
It was a menace and a warning, and it was intended for the eyes of the very man who saw it first—Nick Carter.
NICK paid little attention to the writing upon the wall.
The fact was there, and it proved one thing, i. e., that the body of the person who had been wounded in the conservatory had been carried to that room.
He began his search.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.
"What have you found?" asked the captain.
"Come here; I will show you."
The captain drew near.
Nick's hand was upon a jewel-case, the lid of which he kept closed.
"Do you see this?" he asked.
"Yes; it is a jewel-case."
"Look inside."
The captain raised the cover.
Then he started back with a cry of amazement and horror.
"This is awful!" he murmured.
"Even for a policeman to witness," said Nick.
"Ay, even for an officer."
"Those are a woman's fingers, captain."
"Undoubtedly."
"And the rings upon them I saw last night upon the hands of Marian Bentley."
"Are they—were they her fingers?"
"Who can say? It seems so."
"Yes—yes—it does."
"They are freshly severed from the hand."
"Comparatively—yes."
"There is another compartment in the box; open that."
"Why?"
"There is something more there."
He opened the compartment, and another exclamation escaped him.
"Horrible! Horrible!" he murmured.
"Yes, captain, it is horrible. The person who can first murder a woman and then mutilate her is worse than a fiend. There are the fingers of both hands, with the jewels still glistening upon them, and here are her ears, with the emerald pendants yet in the lobes. You are right, it is horrible."
"Have you seen the pendants before?"
"Yes."
"Whose were they?"
"Marian Bentley wore them last night."
"Then it is Marian Bentley who has been most foully murdered."
"There seems no doubt of that."
"She wore a low-necked dress?"
"Yes, cut down to a point in front, with the Jacqueminot rose at the apex."
"These rings fit the fingers perfectly."
"Yes."
"Then the fingers, as well as the rings, the ears as well as the pendants, must have belonged to her."
"It seems so."
"We must find the body."
"Easier said than done, captain."
"Why?"
"I do not believe that we will find it here."
"Why?"
"Because there is a fiendish method in everything we find here that shows careful premeditation in every act. Have you looked around the room?"
"Only a little."
"At the bed?"
"No."
"I looked at that first."
"Well?"
"A body has rested upon it, and when it was taken away somebody has endeavored to hide the evidence of that fact. Do you see where the cover to the bed has been mussed?"
"No."
"Look here. This cover does not rest exactly where it did originally, for the reason that this wrinkle would not then have been here. Again, after the bed had been mussed ever so little, a woman, in restoring it to its original shape, would have discovered that fact and have remedied it."
"Then it was done by a man."
"Certainly."
"Nick, you see things that nobody else would think of."
"So would you if you were accustomed to looking for them. Have you noticed that there are no traces of blood in this room?"
"Yes; there is not a spot."
"Not one, and yet-"
"Well?"
"I am satisfied that the body was brought here."
"Then we should find traces of blood."
"Unless something was used to prevent."
"What could have been used?"
"A rubber sheet, for instance."
"It does not seem probable."
"Let us go to the bath-room."
"Why there?"
"I think we will find something."
They did.
The bath-room was soon reached, and a new horror awaited them.
There was every evidence of the most fiendish work.
The tub was half filled with water which had been dyed red by the tell-tale fluid. In it, half floating, was a rubber sheet covered with stains.
The tiled floor was covered with coagulated clots; the marble walls were spattered with spots ranging from the size of a pin point to the bigness of a silver half-dollar.
Everything suggested that horrible work had been going on there; that a butcher had done his impious work upon a human subject, and that he had not even taken the trouble to conceal the evidences of his crime.
Nick searched everywhere for the tools with which the work had been done, but could find nothing.
Neither were there any traces of the body, except the fingers and the ears which had been found in the jewel-case.
"The body will not be found upon the premises," said Nick.
"Why?"
"Because it has been dissected for the purpose of removing it in as small compass as possible."
"Then why did the fiend leave the fingers and the ears?"
"An after-thought."
"What was his purpose?"
"Who can tell? Fiendishness, pure and simple; defiance to you and to me and to others; evidences of his triumph and his skill in the work he did."
"Who could have done it?"
"Ah! there's the question."
"Who was here when you went away with Dexter?"
"A score or more of gamblers; the servants, and Marian Bentley."
"What of the servants?"
"Scipio might be equal to it, but I am satisfied, for one reason only, that he would not murder his mistress."
"Well?"
"He had the devotion for her that a dog feels for its master. When I threatened him with my revolver he cared no more for it than he would for a bean-shooter. He would have attacked me if she had not commanded him not to do so."
"What of Beagle?"
"He would not have the courage."
"The other servants?"
"I cannot think of one of them who would be equal to it."
"The gambler whom you unmasked; who was he?"
"He called himself Paul Moran."
"What of him?"
"I do not think he did it."
"Why?"
"For many reasons."
"What are they?"
"First, he would have no motive unless they quarreled after I went away; second, he would not have butchered her; third, while he may have sufficient brutal courage to conceive the thing he would not have the moral courage—if I may outrage the word—to carry it out; fourth, I think I understand his character pretty well, and if he had struck her with the dagger or knife in the conservatory he would either have left her there, or managed to conceal the body without all these horrible preliminaries."
"Still he must be an old offender."
"Why do you think so?"
"His association in this matter, and his clever ruse for cheating."
Nick, for reasons of his own, preferred not to say just then that Paul Moran was in reality Red Leary O'Brien.
He was satisfied in his own mind that Red Leary was not the murderer, but he knew that the moment that the police became aware of the fact that Red Leary had been in the house they would at once arrest him on suspicion.
He deemed it better to wait and watch, for while Red Leary might not in reality even know that the murder had been committed, he still could be instrumental in leading a shrewd detective to the real perpetrator of the crime, ultimately, by reason of his associations and facts which he must know which, meaning perhaps nothing whatever to him, would be clews for Nick.
"I shall arrest Moran at once, if he can be found," said the captain, decidedly.
"Certainly."
"Now let us examine the rest of the house."
They did so.
They went into every closet and every cupboard.
They sounded panels and searched for secret hiding-places.
They examined the cellar, the wine-room, and even went out upon the roof.
But they found nothing.
The blood-stain upon the refreshment-table in the conservatory; the handkerchief; the rose-leaves; the fingers and ears in the jewel-box; the writing upon the wall; the condition of the bath-room comprised all that was discovered relative to the crime.
Each detail told its own story.
Everything pointed to one fact which seemed to be paramount, which was, that Marian Bentley had been murdered.
By whom?
Ah! there investigation was at fault.
The murderer had left plenty of clews regarding the identity of his victim, but none concerning his own.
Nick was convinced in his own mind by a sequence of reasoning that Red Leary was not guilty.
Who, then? Scipio?
Would not the negro, ignorant and avaricious, have taken the jewels instead of leaving them behind? They were of great value.
Would he have killed his mistress at all?
There was strong doubt in Nick's mind on that point and he felt that the other servants were not to be considered.
All had disappeared, however, and all must be found.
There was one point which impressed Nick forcibly.
He knew that there must have been a great deal of money in the house, and in the search they had found none.
Why? Where had it gone? Who had taken it? Moran, or, rather, Red Leary? The murderer? Scipio?
Yet there were thousands of dollars worth of jewels that had not been touched.
Why had not the person who took the money also taken the jewels?
OF course the captain of the precinct wherein the inexplicable incidents had taken place sent detectives at once to the hotel where Paul Moran was known to have been guest, and also, of course, they could find no trace of him.
Inquiry revealed nothing.
The man had gone; that was all they knew.
"Has he paid his bill?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"This morning."
"At what time?"
"About 7:30."
"Did he have a trunk?"
"Yes."
"Take it away with him?"
"No."
"Where is it?"
"In the store-room, at his request."
The trunk was watched, and finally opened and examined. It contained clothing and nothing more. The pieces were marked with the initials "P. M.," which the hotel clerk delicately insinuated might be construed into a sarcasm that they came too late to catch their man. At all events, he was gone, and he did not return.
Asked about him, the hotel men remembered that he was a very quiet, gentlemanly fellow who severely minded his own business, and that his sight was extraordinarily poor.
Nick Carter listened calmly to the report of these investigations, and when alone indulged in a quiet laugh at the officers' expense.
On the morning following the examination of the Temple the inspector sent for Nick.
"Well," he said, when they were together, "why don't you find this fellow Moran, Nick?"
"Because he is not the man you want," was the reply.
"You don't think that he is the murderer?"
"I am reasonably sure that he is not."
"Nor an accessory?"
"After the fact, perhaps, not before."
"Why are you so positive?"
"I have reasons which would probably weigh with nobody but myself."
"Have you any direct suspicions as to the real murderer?"
"Not definite."
"Indefinite, then?"
"Yes, several."
"Will you undertake to solve the mystery?"
"Yes."
"Do so."
"Very well. Now, inspector, I want a warrant for the arrest of Thomas O'Brien, known as Red Leary O'Brien."
"What do you want of that? Do you imagine that he is connected with this case?"
"In the abstract, perhaps."
"You shall have the warrant."
"Thank you. One more point."
The neighborhood from there to the East River and down to Thirty-fifth street is, in many respects, the worst in New York.
It is the resort for a gang of hoodlums and toughs of the worst description, and Corcoran's Roost is the headquarters of the gang.
No man is safe in that locality after dark if he is decently dressed, and a woman had better never have been born than to wander that way even in the day-time.
Scarcely a week passes when an outrage of some kind is not committed there, or in that neighborhood, and thieves who are "wanted," fly to it as a place of refuge, where they feel but little fear of being followed.
Nick felt reasonably certain that he would find Beagle there, for he had no idea that the crook would leave town, even after the scare that he had received at the Temple.
The detective was well disguised, and he represented a tough of the first water.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when he appeared in front of the roost where about a dozen young men were standing about, making night hideous with their oaths and obscenity.
They recognized a stranger instantly as he walked boldly among them, and a hoot of derision went up.
But many of them also recognized a kindred spirit in the new-comer, or thought they did, and Nick was not pounced upon at once as he would otherwise have been.
There was something in his compact figure, and in the easy daring with which he came among them that had its impression.
However, they one and all disliked strangers, and they did not want anybody among them in whom they could not place more or less confidence.
"Say, young feller, who're you?" said one of them, a fellow about Nick's build, but somewhat taller. As he spoke he stepped forward and confronted the detective.
"I'm meself; who're you?" retorted Nick.
"I guess yer lookin' fur a swipe in ther jaw, see?" continued the rowdy, with a leer.
"Give 'em one fur fun, Freckle," called out another, who was standing at one side.
Nick wheeled like lightning, and brought his right hand around with terrible force.
He kept the hand open, and the object of his attack received a slap that could have been heard a block away.
There was force in it, too, for he was whirled around, and sent half senseless into the arms of his friend.
"My argyment's wid de feller ye calls Freckle," said Nick, coolly; "when I git t'rough wid him I'll talk to you, see?"
But the toughs were sworn to defend each other, and as Blinker, who was the one that Nick had struck leaped to his feet with a drawn knife in his hand they rushed forward in a body to the attack.
But Nick was ready for them.
He coolly drew two pistols from his pockets and pointed them at the crowd.
"De first sucker wot comes too close 'll git hurt, see!" he said. "You make me tired, you do, see. I ain't got no use fur a lot o' blokes wot don't know a gent when they sees one, see. I'm lookin' fur a feller named Tommy Corcoran, see, but 'f he's one o' this gang he must be a chump, too, see."
"Who says Tommy Corcoran' s a chump?" demanded a harsh voice, and another hoodlum. joined them, coming from the house.
"Nobody," replied Nick.
"Yer a liar! I heer'd yer, see."
"Well, then, ye didn't ketch on."
"Why didn't I, hey?"
"Cos ye didn't, see. Say, d'ye think I'm a tenderfoot, you blokes, ter come here lookin' for Tommy Corcoran, ef I ain't all right? You fellers'd better go 'n sweep crossin's fur a livin'. I ain't got no use fur you, see?"
"Guess you're lookin' fur a lickin'," said Tom, with an evil glitter in his eyes.
"Well, I won't git it here if I am, see."
"Yes, yer will."
"Who'll give it to me?"
"I will."
"Who be you?"
"I'm Tommy Corcoran."
"Oh! say!"
"Wot?"
"I didn't come here to fight you. I'm Budge Thompson from Chicago, an' I was sent to you by a feller that said you were a lu-lu, see. Mebby I can't do you up; I don't wanter try anyhow, see. But if any o' them blokes want a whack at me I'm ready, see."
Freckle stepped forward.
Next to the redoubtable Tommy he was recognized as the best fighter in the gang.
"Say," said he, "ye jest swaller them words, 'r I'll ram 'em down yer throat, see?"
"You will, hey?"
"Yes, I will, hey!"
Nick turned to Tommy.
"Say, Tommy, do I git fair play?" he said.
"You betcher life!"
"Shake, an' I'll do this freckle-faced, mealy-mouthed, cross-eyed bum up so quick that he won't know wot's hit 'im, see?"
Tommy shook hands with Nick.
"Dis 'ere rows's 'tween Freckle 'n Budge, fellers," he said, with a slow distinctness, "an' de cuss wot interferes 'll hev ter tackle me."
That settled it.
Nick knew that he would have a fair chance, and that he would not be tackled from behind.
He saw that he had made a good impression on Tommy, who was the recognized leader of the gang, and that he would make a better one if he thrashed Freckles.
In the meantime Freckles was furious.
The names that the new-comer had applied to him were all near enough to the truth to enrage him almost beyond control.
"Come on, Baby Freckle!" cried Nick, laughing derisively.
He saw Freckle put his hand in his pocket, and when he drew it out again it was fitted with deadly brass knuckles, which are as terrible as a bludgeon in the grasp of a man who knows how to use them.
"Brass knuckles, hey?" laughed Nick. "Yer a coward's well's a baby, Freckle. But keep 'em on, an' I'll lick ye just the same."
Freckle leaped forward, but ere he could strike with his metal knuckles he received two blows in quick succession, which sent him back upon the pavement, dazed and half blinded.
But his friends picked him up, and pushed him forward again.
He tried to stand up, but before he could pull himself together Nick gave him a terrible left-hander under the chin, which raised him clear off his feet, and he fell upon his back on the pavement, senseless.
"Anybody else want any?" asked Nick, coolly.
But nobody volunteered.
NICK at once became a lion in that gang.
Even Tommy Corcoran showed him much more consideration than he did anybody else, for he knew by what he had seen that he could only retain his prestige as a fighter by keeping clear of the fists of Budge Thompson.
As for Nick, he allowed Tommy to think that he feared him just a little, for it flattered the vanity of the tough, and made him a warmer friend of the new-comer than he would otherwise have been.
The story that Nick told was, in effect, that his home was in Chicago, where he was badly wanted by the police for numerous offenses which made it advisable for him to become scarce around his old haunts on Goose Island fur a while.
A friend had sent him to Tommy Corcoran, and he had come.
But although he had gained the friendship of Tommy Corcoran he had also earned the undying enmity of Freckle.
The latter only wanted an opportunity to "do up" the cowboy who called himself Budge Thompson, and Nick knew it.
When the fight was over, and Freckle had come around, Nick improved an opportunity to make them all friendly to him.
"Have yer got er growler, Tommy?" he asked.
"Betcher life!"
"Wot's de matter wid a keg, hey?"
"A keg?"
"Yes."
"Ain't got de ringers, see."
"I have."
"Say, Budge, d'ye wanter set up a hull keg?"
"Dat's wot I said, see."
"Got de boodle?"
"Have I! Here! you send two fellers fur de keg, an' we'll take it inside, see."
Two of them stepped forward and offered to bring the keg, and Nick passed over the money.
"Now, look a-here, yous fellers," he said, when he gave them the price of the keg, "I don't want any funny business, see. De keg comes O.K., or yous fellers gits yer jaws busted. It's Budge Thompson talkin', see."
Then he turned on his heel and went inside with Tommy.
The beer was brought and taken to a room on the second floor, where pandemonium was soon supreme.
Ribald songs, coarse jests, oaths that were as frightful as they were frequent, and finally drunkenness.
Nick shuddered, although he played his part to perfection.
One after another of the hoodlums dropped away in drunken stupor, or staggered out in search of other company, when the beer was gone.
In the midst of the orgy Beagle entered the room.
Tommy, with drunken solemnity, introduced him to Nick, who knew his history thoroughly.
Beagle did not join the party in time to get very full, but he drank enough for Nick's purpose, and the moment came when the detective could question him.
"I've seen you in Chicago," he said.
"Yes, I've been there."
"Remember me?"
"No."
"You an' Tom O'Brien were together when I saw you."
"Sh-h-h!"
"Wot's de matter?"
"Don't say that name again."
"Wot name? Tom O'Brien?"
"Sh-h-h!"
"Aw, come off! You make me tired! Guess I know all about Red Le—"
"Sh-h-h!"
"Look-a-here, wot'r yer givin' me, Beagle? Some new kind o' taffy?"
"No, I ain't."
"Wot, then?"
"Somebody's lookin' fur hissen."
"You don't say so. Well, I never know'd him when there wasn't."
"He's wanted."
"'Course he is; allers."
"Bad."
"Worse'n usual?"
"Lots."
"Wot fur?"
Beagle drew his finger across his throat and winked solemnly.
"Slittin'?" asked Nick.
Beagle nodded, and looked scared.
"Rats!" exclaimed Nick, with well feigned disgust. "Who'd he kill, hey?"
"Sh-h-h! Speak low."
"All right. Who'd he do up?"
"Nobody."
Nick gazed in blank amazement at his companion for an instant.
Then he leaped to his feet, and seizing him roughly he turned him over before he could resist, and stood him on his head in one corner of the room.
Upon the table behind them were several glasses half filled with beer, and Nick seized them and poured the contents down Beagle's pant-legs.
Beagle at once set up a howl. Who wouldn't?
"Let up!" he cried.
"Makin' game o' me, was yer?" said Nick.
"No, I wasn't."
"Will ye give it to me straight?"
"Yes; let up."
"O. K. Now, wotcher mean, hey?"
"The perlice think he killed a woman; but he didn't."
"Oh!"
"He wasn't even there."
"Then wot's he hidin' fur?"
"Who said he was hidin'?"
"You did."
"No, I didn't."
"Yer a liar. How'd I know'd it ef ye hadn't said it, hey? Wot's he hidin' fur?"
"Cos the proof's dead against him."
"'Tis, hey?"
"Ye said that afore."
"Well, it's true."
"Wot's her name?"
"Bentley."
"Whew?"
"What are you whistling about, Budge?"
"That name."
"Why?"
"I read all about it in the papers this mornin'."
"Did, hey?"
"Yes. Ye don't mean to say that the perlice think Red done that!"
"Yes."
"Then they're cussed fools."
"Why?"
"'Cos he ain't got sand enough ter butcher a woman in that way. T'other Red Leary might, but Tom O'Brien? Oh, no."
"Was she butchered?"
"Don't you know, Beagle?"
"Only what I've heard."
"Who from?"
"Fellers talkin'—an' O'Brien."
"She was all cut up."
"Papers say that?"
"Yes. The bloke cut off her fingers an' her ears, an' cut out her tongue, an'—"
"Cut out her tongue!"
"Yes."
"They're lookin' for O'Brien, ain't they?"
"That's wot you jest said. I didn't know it."
"Papers don't say nothin' 'bout that, hey?"
"Narry word."
"They're after him, jest th' same."
"Does he know it?"
"You bet."
"Where is he?"
"Hidin'."
"Where?"
"Where they can't find him."
"Wot fur?"
"Bah! can't he prove an alibi?"
"No."
"Why?"
"'Cos he was—well, 'cos he can't."
"Rich woman, wasn't she?"
"Richer'n mud."
"It stan's to reason that O'Brien didn't do ther job."
"Why?"
"'Cos the fool wot done it left all the rings on the fingers he cut off, and ye wouldn't ketch Red doin' that."
"Don't look's though the feller wot done the cuttin' was lookin' fur boodle, does it?"
"No: it don't. Say!"
"Wot?"
"Do you hang out here all the time?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes."
"Not much."
"Where d'ye linger most?"
"I'd be green ter give it away, wouldn't I?"
"Not to me."
"Why?"
"'Cos you wouldn't."
"Well, I ain't givin' it away, jest the same."
"I s'pose that's where O'Brien's hidin'."
"Mebby 'tis, an' ag'in mebby 'tain't."
"Say, Beagle!"
"Wot?"
"Are ye dead sure that Red didn't do the slittin?"
"Course I am."
"Who did do it?"
"How do I know?"
"Well, I'll tell yer."
"Wish ye would."
"I've been readin' the papers."
"Ye said that."
"They said suthin' bout a nigger."
"Scipio?"
"Yes."
"I wish they'd roast him fur it."
"Why?"
"I hated him."
"You hated him!"
"Yes."
"Oh, I tumble now."
"To wot?"
"You're the feller they called Bugle in the papers."
"Eh? wot's that?"
"Didn't ye know they was onto you, too?"
"No,"
"They be."
"Wot fur?"
"They think you know suthin' 'bout the murder."
"How should I?"
"'Cos you worked there."
"Yer a liar!"
"Look out, Beagle. Ef ye say that ag'in I'll round on ye, see."
"I didn't mean it."
"Better not. Now, who d'ye think done the thing, hey?"
"I'm cussed 'f I know."
"Hain't no idee, hey?"
"No."
"You're a fly cuss, you are."
"Why?"
"S'pose if I'd been there as you was I'd ha' come away empty-handed an' empty-headed, too? Not much."
"Mebby I didn't."
"Bah! yer a chump from chumpville, Beagle."
"I've talked enough anyhow," replied Beagle, shortly, and he sprang to his feet, and started away.
Nick let him go, but one moment later he went out also, his purpose being to shadow the man to his hiding-place.
NICK took the track of Jim Cross, or Beagle, at once, but kept well in the rear, out of sight, until he found an opportunity to alter his disguise. Then he went up quite close and strolled along with an , apparent aimlessness which he knew would not attract attention to him.
Beagle went straight west along Fortieth street until he had crossed the city to Seventh avenue.
Then he turned down to Thirty-ninth street, and thence westward again.
He seemed to have no idea of being followed, for he took no precautions whatever, not even looking back once.
He continued on his way through West Thirty-ninth street until he reached No. 341.
There he paused and looked around him.
But few people were in sight, yet Nick was quite close.
He, however, continued: on his way past the spot where Beagle was standing.
The latter, as though satisfied that he was unobserved, darted through the door-way almost as soon as the detective had passed.
But Nick did not turn back as some would have done.
He was up to all of the little ruses which crooks employ in attempting to discover whether they are followed or not, and he knew it would be a very simple matter for Beagle to wait long enough where he was, to see if the person who had just passed him was inquisitive.
Nick continued on his way for some distance, finally , darting into a convenient alley, where he again altered his disguise.
He appeared this time in the character of a red-headed Irishman of middle age, with Molly Maguire whiskers under his chin, and a swagger that would have made Pat Rooney green with envy.
Then he sauntered back to 341, and leaned against a barrel which stood near the house.
He knew that Beagle had not come out since he went in, and he concluded to remain where he was for a while, expecting that the crook would presently head for some other locality.
Nearly a half-hour passed, when Nick heard voices behind him.
He started, for he recognized the tones of Red Leary O'Brien as soon as he heard them.
"I'll be back in two hours," he heard him say. "If that fellow is over there I want to have a look at him. I don't remember anybody who was called Budge Thompson, but a name isn't anything. If he knows me I ought to know him, and if it's the man I think it is he's just the pal we want here, Beagle."
"He's lightning!"
"It's Bunco Tim, I'll bet. You'd better keep steady while I'm out."
"I'm goin' in fur a snooze."
Red Leary walked away, but as he passed the Irishman he paused and looked earnestly at him for a moment.
"Who are you?" he asked presently.
"Sure, Oi'm Pat Clougherty. Who're you, by the same token?"
"My name is Callahan."
"Thin bedad yer Irish, too."
"So I am, Pat. Are you lost?"
"I am not."
"Why are you waiting here?"
"Sure, me wife, Biddy's her name, is afther havin' a bit of a toime wid the dishes an' chairs, an' Oi'm waitin' forninst till it's over, so I am."
"Drunk, eh?"
"Dhrunk, is it! sure, it's crazy dhrunk!"
"Well, good-night."
"Good-noight, sor. Yer an Irish gintleman, begob."
"Thank you."
Nick saw nothing more of Beagle, so after waiting a suitable time he went through to the rear of 341, and began an investigation.
He was satisfied that the men did not live in the house, and he sought some way of reaching the cellar.
But after spending nearly half an hour in the search he was just beginning to think that he was mistaken, and that he must look for the secret elsewhere, when he heard a slight scraping noise, almost at his feet.
One quick spring took him out of the way. Then he waited and watched, with his eyes on the spot where he had heard the noise.
Suddenly he fancied that he saw one of the stones move a little. He watched it narrowly.
Presently it moved again, and he plainly saw that somebody was raising it from the under side.
Slowly—so slowly, in fact, that had a chance observer instead of an interested one been present it is doubtful if the thing would have been seen at all.
Presently there was an aperture at least six inches wide between the edge of the flag and the level of the yard.
Nick drew back more deeply into the shadow at the corner of the fence, where he was well concealed, and waited.
He thought he knew who was moving the stone, and he was not mistaken.
Presently the head and shoulders of Beagle appeared in the opening.
He gazed carefully around him to make sure that he was unobserved, and then deciding that he had nothing to fear, he threw the stone back, and leaped out.
There was a mechanical arrangement which caught the stone and held it in place, so that it would not fall way back.
Then Beagle leaped out.
He looked quickly around him, and perceiving no one fixed a short but stout cord in place, and lowered the stone.
Then he glided away.
Nick followed him to the front of the house, and watched him until he disappeared.
Then he hurried back into the yard, and went at once to the movable flagstone.
The cord which Beagle had left in place looked as though it had simply become wedged in between two stones, but. Nick knew well what its utility was.
He seized it, and pulled, and was surprised to find that the stone came up easily.
The reason for that, he afterward found, was that it was arranged with a system of weights which made it balance; even a child could have moved it quickly and noiselessly.
The aperture was open, and the brave detective quickly lowered himself into the black hole beneath, realizing that he was investigating one of the thousands of the mysteries of Gotham.
He lowered the stone into place, taking care to leave the cord outside as he had found it, and then he produced his bull's-eye lantern and pressed the button.
The lantern did the rest.
There was a sudden flash of its brilliant rays through the blackness of the strange place, and Nick saw that he was in a narrow chamber which had been dug out of the earth.
It was only about four feet deep, and about the same width.
To reach it he had been obliged to descend a flight of rude steps cut out of the earth.
They were slippery and slimy, and led down far enough, so that the detective judged that he was under the cellars of the adjacent houses.
He saw that one portion of it led away toward Thirty-ninth street, and that the other led toward the center of the block.
Looking in that direction he saw that there was a dim light burning, and he darkened his lantern and crept forward.
He traversed about ten feet, and then emerged into a spacious room, which was the robbers' cave proper.(*)
(*) Nick Carter, as we see by this story, was the first one to discover the famous 'Robbers' Cave" in West 39th street. After he caused it to be raided, and the entrances blocked up with stones and debris, its existence was forgotten. Subsequently it became the home of future gangs of crooks, who partially restored its original utility. It was finally raided a second time by Detectives Taylor and Hay, of the 20th Precinct, and a record can be found in the Jefferson Market Police Court Records of Sept. 27, 1891. The origin of the cave remains in doubt, but it is generally accepted that it was created by the original Red Leary, Bill Irving, Jem Sullivan, and that gang of notorious burglars. THE AUTHOR.
It was thirty feet long, twenty feet wide, and fully fifteen feet from the floor to the ceiling.
The floor was strewn with pieces of carpeting; there were three common tables, evidently of home manufacture, a dozen chairs, and five mattresses with blankets and quilts upon them.
The walls were literally covered with illustrations cut from pictorial papers, the likenesses of pugilists and burglars predominating.
At one end of the room was a picture of the original Red Leary, whose memory was evidently the deity of the place.
A candle was burning upon the table, but there was nothing that betrayed the identity of the men who lived there.
Nick knew that, however, and he did not care.
"I haven't much time now," he mused, "but I am coming again when I will have more. I will use up this trip in getting the hang of the place."
At the farther end of the big room he saw that a blanket was hung over an opening, and he went toward it, pushed aside the blanket, touched the button of his lantern again, and passed through.
But he was obliged to resort to his hands and knees.
The passage in which he found himself was not more than three feet high by four feet broad, and it led upward at a steep incline.
He followed it, and presently came to a stop before a stone wall, the foundation of a house, he thought.
Looking up he perceived that there were steps for him to mount, and he followed them to the top.
There he was confronted with another system of weights like the first that he had seen, when he entered from the yard in the rear of 341.
An examination revealed the secret of their utility, and he moved the lever that worked them.
A stone in the wall in front of him moved to one side, and he peered out upon a street.
He thrust his head out, and looked first one way and then the other.
"Fortieth street!" he muttered, "and, no doubt, the other passage I saw leads to Thirty-ninth. That makes three ways of getting in and out of this cave.
"Good! forewarned is forearmed!"
He closed the opening, and started back.
He had gone but a few feet, however, when he came to a sudden halt.
He heard voices in the big room, and he knew that Red Leary O'Brien and Beagle had returned.
NICK knew instantly that while he had been engaged in exploring the passage that led to Fortieth street the regular occupants of the robbers' cave had returned.
Fortunately he had already discovered another means of exit from the place, so he would not 'be obliged to pass through the big room in taking his leave.
He could depart at any moment he chose, and so he resolved to remain and listen to whatever conversation took place, in the hope of hearing something about the murderer in the Temple.
It was O'Brien and Beagle who were there, and they had evidently just entered, for Nick heard the beginning of their conversation.
"Been out, eh?" said O'Brien.
"I thought you were going to take a snooze."
"I found we had no whisky," replied Beagle, who could talk good grammar if he chose, "so I got some."
"Happy thought."
"Did you find your man?"
"No."
"You went to Corky's?"
"Sure."
"What became of him?"
"Nobody knew. He disappeared as suddenly as he appeared."
"Funny."
"The thing makes me uneasy."
"Why?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
"Suppose your friend Budge was no other than Nick Carter."
"By thunder!"
"Exactly."
"But it couldn't be."
"Why?"
"He played it too well."
"Bah! Nick Carter can play any role."
"He fooled us once."
"Yes, and he has fooled better men than we are, I wish he was dead."
"So do I."
"There's one thing that bothers me."
"What?"
"Did you come from Corky's straight here?"
"Yes."
"If that was Carter he followed you."
"And if he didn't follow me he wasn't Nick Carter, eh?"
"That's so."
"Then it's all right."
"Why?"
"Because I know he didn't follow me."
"How do you know?"
"I was careful."
"Bah! he could follow you and you would never know it, no matter how careful you were."
"I don't think so."
"You're a fool, Beagle!"
"I'm not alone in the world."
"Maybe not. Say!"
"What?"
"Do you remember the Irishman I spoke to when I went out?"
"Yes."
"That might have been Carter."
"What's the matter with you, Tom? You'll begin to think that every man you meet is Nick Carter soon."
"It's that confounded murder. It bothers me."
"You didn't do it."
"No; but—"
"You weren't even in the house when it was done."
"No, but I was there mighty soon after it."
"As a matter of fact you don't know any more about the murder than the police do."
"Yes, I do."
"What?"
"I know what they only suspect."
"What?"
"I know who was killed and cut up."
"So do the police."
"No; they only suspect—believe, perhaps; but they don't know. It is not called the murder of Marian Bentley, but the supposed murder of Marian Bentley. They have no proof that she was killed. They know that somebody was murdered, and they believe that it was Marian Bentley, I found and carried away the only proof as to who the victim was when I went back there at half-past three."
"What did you find?"
"Never mind. I found enough to satisfy me who was killed."
"You think it was she?"
"I know it was."
"Why didn't you leave the proof there?"
"Because I'm not a fool."
"You would have been less liable to suspicion."
"That's where you're away off."
"Who killed her?"
"Bah! I know just as much about it as you do. We were both here, where we are now, when the deed was done."
"But you have an idea."
"I don't know whether I have or not."
"Well, I have."
"Let's hear it."
"Scipio."
"I have thought of that, but I can't believe it."
"Why?"
"Because I know his devotion to her. He would not have harmed her unless he went crazy all of a sudden, and I do not believe he did."
"He might."
"I don't believe it. It was ten minutes past two when I left the house."
"Yes."
"And half-past three when I returned."
"Yes."
"So I was gone an hour and twenty minutes."
"Well?"
"When I got back the thing was done, and there wasn't a soul left to tell who did it."
"What does that prove?"
"Simply that the first blow was struck very soon after I left."
"How soon?"
"Certainly within half an hour, and I should say sooner."
"What makes you think so?"
"Beagle, you're a fool."
"You said that before."
"Nobody could commit a murder such as that was, cut up the body, pack it away, and get out of sight in less than an hour."
"Perhaps not."
"It would be impossible. Pass me the whisky."
"Well, it must have been either Scipio or Ermine."
"Why?"
"Because they were the only persons in the house besides Marian Bentley when you left."
"That's true enough."
"Well, then—"
"Wait. Let's play detective a few minutes, and figure on the thing; you used to be smart enough, Beagle, before you began to 'hit the pipe.'"
"I haven't 'hit' it in two months; but drive ahead."
"First, then, Ermine could not have done it."
"Why?"
"She hadn't the strength or the nerve; you know that as well as I. Besides, Scipio was there to prevent it."
"Unless he had been sent out."
"If that were true. he would have come back, and if such a thing had occurred in his absence New York wouldn't be solid enough for him not to shake it down to find the murderer. It is physically, morally, and mathematically impossible that Ermine did it."
"Then Scipio."
"I can't believe it."
"Why?"
"He had the strength, but he would not have had the method. A blow from his fist would have served as well as the knife, and it is what he would have used."
"Besides, you think he loved his mistress too well to have done it."
"I certainly do."
"He might have taken sudden offense, and struck the blow in a moment of anger."
"No."
"Why?"
"If he had he would have used his fist, or a chair; not a knife; and besides, there would have been two murders."
"Two murders!"
"Yes. Ermine was there. He would have had to kill her also."
"Why?"
"To escape discovery. Again, he would not have done the butchering. I don't believe Scipio did it; I don't believe Ermine did it."
"Maybe you don't believe that it was done at all," sarcastically.
"I know it was done."
"Then who did it?"
"Somebody from outside."
"That's nonsense."
"Why?"
"Because of the very reasons you have already given. Scipio and Ermine were there to prevent it."
"They might have been sent out by Marian."
" You have already answered that objection."
"How?"
"About Scipio's shaking down New York."
"True."
"I think Scipio did it."
"I don't."
"What was to hinder Ermine being sent away by Marian and told to meet her somewhere a day or a week or a month later, eh?"
"I know that no such plan was thought of when I left."
"She might have changed her plans."
"I don't think so."
"She might."
"Not in ten or fifteen minutes."
"Well, suppose she had."
"Very well."
"That left Scipio alone in the house with her."
"Yes."
"Then he could have done it. There would have been but one murder, and he, knowing where Ermine had gone,could follow her later, butcher her at his pleasure somewhere else, and then disappear."
Red Leary shook his head.
"How much money was there in the house when you left there at two o'clock, or soon after?" asked Beagle.
"Over a hundred thousand dollars."
"In cash?"
"Yes."
"Where was it?"
"Marian had it."
"Where?"
"In a little leather bag."
"Where was the bag when you saw her last?"
"In her hand."
"Did you look for it when you went back?"
"Well, I should smile."
"You wouldn't tell me, if you had found it, but all the same, I know you didn't."
"Why?"
"Simply by the way you acted when you got back here."
"Well, you're right. The bag and the money were gone."
"Then she was killed for the money."
"Probably."
"And Scipio did it."
"You may think so if you want to, but I know in my own mind that he didn't."
HOW Nick longed to sit in Beagle's place, and ask a few questions! So far he had listened very intently, and he had heard a great deal that was very valuable to him.
He was gratified to know that his own judgment of the case had proven correct, but he perceived that the true solution of the enigma was involved in greater mystery than ever.
He expected that they would continue the conversation for some time longer, but when Red Leary made the remark that closed the preceding chapter he looked at his watch, then rose and began putting on his coat, which he had laid aside.
"Where are you going?" asked Beagle.
"Out."
"I guessed that."
"I've got to get some things for a disguise."
"Oh, you're going to Blumenstein's."
"Yes."
"You're sure of catching him at this hour. He'll be asleep."
"Yes, and if I went at any other hour I'd probably get caught myself by some of the cops who keep an eye on his place."
"When'll you be back?"
"In two 'r three hours. Maybe not so soon. I'm going to have the old cuss make me up."
"He's a dandy."
"You bet. He did the Moran act for me, and it was perfect."
"Carter knew you."
"He'd know the devil disguised as an angel. I think he scents out a man like a blood-hound. But I'll fool him this time."
"Think so?"
"I'm going to try."
"What are you going to work?"
"Don't know yet. I'll consult old Blume, and take his advice. You won't know me when I come back."
"Then look out that I don't shoot."
"Why?"
"Well, if I see anybody coming in here that I don't know I'll be apt to pull on him."
"I'll give you a pass-word."
"What?"
"I'll say, 'Where is Marian?' You will answer, 'Dead,' and then I will say, 'Let her rest.'"
"Good."
"Don't go out while I am away."
"All right."
"Well, I'm off."
Nick wondered if Red Leary would leave by way of the Fortieth street entrance.
If he should happen to do so discovery and a fight were certain, for the passage was too narrow for them to avoid each other.
But he did not.
He went out as he came in, by the entrance in the rear of No. 341.
Beagle was soon alone.
As soon as Red Leary was gone his pal helped himself to copious draughts of the whisky, and presently he threw himself upon one of the improvised couches, and went to sleep.
Then Nick decided upon a bold and exceedingly precarious move.
He turned through the passage, and went out on Fortieth street.
Then hurrying as fast as he could without attracting attention from the few people in the street at that hour he went straight to his own home.
There he altered his disguise somewhat, and provided himself with several articles that he knew would be necessary in the work he had to do.
Then he looked at his watch, and perceiving how much time he had he sat down and wrote a note, which he left with his servant, Patsy.
The note was to be given to Chick as soon as he should return, for faithful Chick was at that time engaged upon a less important case with which Nick had not chosen to trouble himself.
That done he spent a few moments more in looking over some notes that Chick had left for him, and then he started out again, heading directly for West Thirty-ninth street.
The plan that he had adopted was both risky and dangerous.
There were a thousand things, trivial in themselves, which might spoil it all, but Nick was a firm believer in the adage, "Nothing risked, nothing gained."
He was going to play two parts, but we will follow him in his plans, and see how they worked.
The reader has guessed that it was his purpose to return to the cave in Thirty-ninth street, and to personate the disguised Red Leary long enough to take Beagle off his guard.
The question naturally arises, why did he not capture Beagle when he slept, after O'Brien went out.
The answer is plain.
Simply because the detective did not have the few things about him which would be most necessary in carrying out his plans.
But we shall see.
As he entered the court-yard at the rear of 341 he again noticed the time.
"I have been gone just an hour and a half," he mused. "If Red Leary has returned I'm in for it; if he has not my plan will work, but I have no time to lose, for the scoundrel may come back at any moment."
He raised the stone and descended, moving as noiselessly as possible.
When he reached the big room in the place he saw that the chief villain had not yet returned, and that the candle was still burning on the table—was, indeed, almost burned out.
Beagle was still sleeping, but he moved uneasily when Nick entered, and then sat up.
As he did so he raised a revolver, and pointed it at Nick's heart.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Hello, Beagle," said Nick; "where is Marian?"
"Dead."
"Let her rest."
"Well, by thunder!" cried Beagle, in astonishment. "If that ain't the best get-up I've seen! Even your voice hag changed."
"You bet!" said Nick. "I guess I'll fool him this time."
"Sure to."
"Have you been out, Beagle?"
"Narry an out."
"Good. Didn't expect me back so soon, did you?"
"Not by four hours. I know what old Blume is."
"Well, here I am."
While Nick was talking he was steadily getting nearer and nearer to Beagle.
Suddenly he leaped forward, and Beagle found himself seized in an iron grasp from which there was no escape.
He struggled valiantly, but it was no use.
The iron muscles of the detective were like vises, holding him absolutely helpless and at Nick's mercy.
He pressed a handkerchief over the struggling man's mouth and nostrils, after first saturating it with chloroform, and presently the struggles ceased, and Beagle lay helpless before the indomitable detective.
"Now to work," said Nick.
He arranged his little mirror, and fixed the bull's-eye lantern so that it would shine full upon the face of the unconscious crook.
Then his little make-up box came out, and the transformation began.
It was a bad place in which to work, and Nick knew that he could not do it perfectly, but he did not hesitate on that account.
Beagle was about the same height as Nick, although not so compactly built, but Nick knew well how to disguise that fact.
He changed his wig for one that exactly resembled, Beagle's hair, and trimmed and brushed it after the peculiar style that the crook affected.
He reproduced the long scar that disfigured Beagle's forehead just under his hair, and he built on to his nose until it looked like the enormous proboscis that belonged to Beagle.
Then when the facial work was completed he changed clothes with the unconscious man, and the job was done.
A good job it was, too.
Nick, as he surveyed himself in the glass, felt that he would have no difficulty in passing for the genuine Beagle, under the circumstances, although he realized that he had to fool one of the sharpest and shrewdest criminals in the world—Red Leary.
When everything was ready he bound the helpless Beagle hand and foot, put one of his perfect gags in his mouth, and then carried him through that part of the cave which led to the Fortieth street entrance, and left him there, near where the movable stone was located.
Then he returned and threw himself upon the bed where Beagle had been sleeping.
He was very tired, and he actually fell asleep, so that he did not know when Red Leary entered until he was standing over him.
Then he leaped up and presented the very pistol that Beagle had pointed at him.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Where is Marian?" asked Leary.
It was the signal agreed upon, and Nick promptly responded:
"Dead."
"Let her rest," was the reply.
"I say, Tom," said Nick.
"What?"
"Old Blume has outdone himself this time. You've struck a disguise that will fool any of them. How did he get your skin that color?"
"With a stain. You think the disguise good, eh?"
"Perfect."
"The beauty of it is it's all real."
"Ain't that a wig?"
"Not much. He dyed my hair and cut it. Then he dyed my skin and next my moustache, and waxed it. Don't I look like a Cuban?"
"Exactly."
"And nobody will tumble to the fact that I am disguised, even if I should be arrested. I'll bet that I could call on Byrnes himself; and he would never suspect that I am Red Leary O'Brien."
"It's great, and no mistake. Say, Tom."
"What?"
"I've been thinking since you went out."
"What about?"
"The murder."
"Damn the murder!"
"That's what I say, but I think it would be a good thing if we could find out who did it."
"Why?"
"Why! Well, if we were ever held up for the thing we'd know who was really guilty, see. I've taken a notion to play detective, and if you'll help me I think I can work this thing out in good shape."
"WHAT do you want me to do?" asked Red Leary.
"Answer a lot of questions."
"Fire away. That can't do any harm."
"Will you answer 'em?"
"I guess so; I'll hear 'em first."
"You say you left the house at ten minutes past two?"
"Yes."
"And got back at half-past three."
"Yes."
"What time was it when I left? I didn't notice."
"About one."
"Now, what happened between one and two?"
"How do you mean?"
"You and Marian decided to break up, didn't you?"
"She did; I had nothing to do with that."
"Is that straight?"
"Yes."
"I always thought—"
"Never mind what you always thought. I had no more real interest in the house than you had, and Marian Bentley was as great a mystery to me as she was to—to—anybody who went there."
"Honest Injun."
"That's straight, Beagle."
"Where'd you encounter her?"
"She sent for me."
"Sent for you!"
"Yes, when I was in Chicago. And, say, that part of it hasn't anything to do with the murder, so drop it."
"You don't know who she was?"
"No."
"Nor where she came from?"
"No."
"Didn't you try to find out?"
"Of course I did."
"But couldn't."
"No."
"Did you pump Ermine?"
"No use, Beagle. I tried every way I knew, and it wouldn't work. What was more, she knew it all the time, and only laughed at me for my pains."
"What was your arrangement with her?"
"Simply that I was told how to do the cheating act, and was to have all I won at baccarat and poker, and to get back all I lost at faro and roulette, as well as to pay back all I won at the last two games."
"What did you do for that?"
"Roped fellows in. The kitty paid well, and she won piles at faro."
"You made something out of it."
"Yes, but like a fool, I let her keep most of my money. I've got about eight thousand dollars, and I ought to have twenty thousand."
"You expected to get the balance when you went back at 3.30."
"Of course."
"You say she had about a hundred thousand in money."
"That's what she said, but she probably had two or three times that."
"Why didn't you get it all?"
"Eh? What? How?"
"By sticking the knife into her yourself, and getting away with the leather bag."
"Well, I didn't and I wouldn't, not if I had as many chances as there were dollars."
"Stuck on her, eh, Tom?"
"Who wasn't?"
"Give it up. Now, say, what was the first thing that was done after Carter and Dexter left?"
"The players were requested to cash in and go."
"And then?"
"The four niggers and the negress were paid off and given a bonus besides, and sent about their business."
"You don't suspect any of them?"
"No more than I would so many flies."
"What next?"
"We all went into the conservatory, and talked it over."
"All! who do you mean by all?"
"Scipio and Ermine, Marian and I."
"Scipio couldn't talk."
"No, but he could listen, and he could nod and shake his head, and a pretty level head it was, too, for a nigger's."
"You went into the conservatory?"
"Yes."
"And sat down together?"
"Yes."
"Where did Marian sit?"
"At the end of the table."
"How long did you sit there?"
"Till 2.10."
"She was there when you left?"
"Yes."
"And Scipio and Ermine?"
"Yes."
"Say."
"What?"
"That's the very chair she was sitting in when she was stuck."
"I know it."
"Then Scipio must have done it."
"I tell you I don't believe it."
"When you were talking it over what was said?"
"We were planning,"
"Planning what?"
"To open a place of the same kind in Chicago."
"Was it agreed?"
"Yes."
"Why were Scipio and Ermine taken in at the confab?"
"Blamed if I know. She said so, and they were. What she said went, you bet."
"Sure? Say!"
"Well?"
"Did anybody object to the plan?"
"No."
"Why didn't you say something about it to me?"
"When I came here at half-past two?"
"Yes."
"Because you weren't in it, see."
"Oh, then, when you left here at three o'clock you didn't intend to come back?"
"No."
"What kind of a girl was Ermine?"
"I never said a dozen words to her in my life."
"Rather wishy-washy, eh?"
"A little, yes."
"Didn't know much?"
"Not very.'
"Devoted to Marian?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. What the devil are you getting at anyhow?"
"Facts. It's a notion I've got. You don't mind, do you?"
"No; go on."
"When you went back there what was the first thing you noticed?"
"The blood on the table-cloth."
"And then—"
"I skipped up stairs."
"What for?"
"To find Marian."
"You went to her room?"
"Yes."
"What did you see there?"
"The writing on the wall."
"Scared you, didn't it?"
"I never was so near being scared in my life."
"What did you do?"
"Drew my revolver and cocked it."
"Was the gas lighted?"
"Every burner."
"Well?"
"I knew that somebody had been killed, and that the house was empty. I knew that I was reasonably free from interruption for a time at least."
"So you got over your scare?"
"Partially."
"What did you do then?"
"I remembered that Marian had some fine jewels. Her jewel-box was on the dresser, and I went for it.
"My first idea was to take box and all, but the box was heavy, so I opened it."
"And found the fingers, eh?"
"Say, I never came so near croaking as I did then. I dropped that box as quick as I knew how."
"And ran, eh?"
"No."
"What?"
"I looked around for the leather bag."
"Where did you look for it?"
"Everywhere."
"In the bath-room?"
"Yes, I went there, too. I wish I hadn't."
"Why?"
"I'm pretty tough, Beagle, but that was too much, even for Red Leary. I skipped out, went back to Marian' s room, and put out the lights. Then I went to Ermine's room, and in short through every room in the house."
"But couldn't find the bag."
"Not a sign of it."
"What became of it?"
"The fellow that killed Marian Bentley got away with the boodle."
"Go on; what did you do next?"
"Skipped."
"You put out the lights?"
"Most of them."
"Now, let us go back to the time when you were all sitting together in the conservatory. Was there anything like a quarrel there?"
"Nothing."
"Did Marian speak sharply to either of her servants?"
"No."
"Where did you sit?"
"On Marian's left. Ermine was next to me, and Scipio was opposite."
"Suppose that Scipio did do the job, and that Ermine was either persuaded or frightened into helping him, and that they agreed to share the money, where do you think they would have gone to hide?"
"I have no more idea than the man in the moon."
"Suppose again that it was Marian's intention to back out of the Chicago scheme with you, and to skip out; suppose in carrying out that idea that she sent Ermine away with her satchel, and agreed to meet her later, where would she have been likely to have sent her?"
"Give that up, too."
"Have you no idea?"
"None."
"Suppose again that having sent Ermine out she also sent Scipio for a carriage, or for tickets, or even sent him by another route to meet her also in some distant place, that would have left her alone there.
"Absolutely."
"Could a stranger have gotten into the house without breaking in?"
"I don't think so."
"Would she have remained sitting at the table after the others had gone?"
"She might."
"Being alone a person who had already gained admittance to the house might have crept up behind her, and struck her with a weapon, eh?"
"Why not? You could do it, so could I."
"Suppose another case."
"What?"
"Suppose Marian left the house right after you; suppose that she left Scipio and Ermine there alone, and that Scipio for any reason at all killed Ermine, cut her badly up, and then followed his mistress."
"Bah! Beagle, you're crazy. Those fingers that I saw in the jewel-box were Marian's fingers; besides, they wore her rings. Another thing; I tell you I found a proof that to me was perfectly convincing that Marian Bentley was murdered."
"What was that proof?"
"WHAT was that proof?"
Nick asked the question very quickly and sharply, and in a tone which seemed to demand a reply.
For a moment O'Brien hesitated.
"I don't know as there is any harm in telling you, Beagle," he said, finally. "I must say that, judging from your questions, you have developed remarkable sagacity of late."
"Thanks!" replied Nick, dryly. "I am waiting for the answer to my question."
"It is very simple."
"Well, give it to me."
"When I went back to the Temple at half-past three and found that a murder had been committed during my absence I found something in the conservatory near the table where we had been sitting that satisfied me at once who had been killed. That was why I went at once to Marian's room."
"What did you find?"
"This."
Red Leary put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth a paper which he unrolled.
From that he took a lock of hair and a red rose, badly crumpled.
The hair and the rose both had blood upon them.
For anyone who had ever seen Marian Bentley there was no mistaking to whom this particular tress had once belonged.
Its color was that peculiar dead black which was one of the woman's charms.
It had once adorned the head of Marian Bentley; there could be no gainsaying that fact.
The rose was of the common red variety, and Nick remembered that she had worn such a flower in her hair that night.
The tress of hair consisted of what might be termed a handful, and the rose was badly crumpled.
Both had blood upon them, not as if it might have been spattered there, but thickly, just as though left there by the grasp of a bloody hand.
The hair showed plainly that it had been pulled from the head by the roots, as though the assassin had seized his victim by the hair of her head after striking her with a knife.
"How do you account for this?" asked Nick.
"Simply that the murderer grabbed her by the hair after using his knife."
"You think he struck her with the knife first?"
"Certainly."
"The blood that spurted from the wound stained his hand, so that when he seized her he not only crushed the rose, but smeared it and the hair with blood."
"That's it."
"This seems convincing as to the identity of the victim, doesn't it?"
"To me it is."
"Don't you know that you make a fool of yourself by carrying that around with you?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because I can't seem to help it."
"You were badly in love, Red Leary."
"I was, Beagle, sure!"
"And you keep the hair—"
"To remind me that if ever I find out who killed her I will kill him if I hang the next minute."
"Good! Did she return your love?"
"No. I never said a word of love to her in my life."
"Then you don't know."
"No."
"You want to find the murderer, eh?"
"Yes, and I will, some day."
"And then—"
"Then I will kill him."
"Why not give him away?"
"Why? Because there would be a chance for him to escape."
"How?"
"Bah! justice is a queer fish. I know by my own experience how easy it is to get out of a difficulty."
"But a murder like this."
"If I find him I shall kill him. That settles it. And I shall do it in the same way, only I think I will cut his fingers and ears off, and pull out his hair before I use the knife."
"Ugh! I'm glad I didn't do it."
"You may be."
"You don't believe it was Scipio."
"No."
"You have a suspicion, Tom; I can read it in your manner."
"Yes, I have."
"Tell me what it is."
"No."
"I will help you."
"Will you swear it?"
"I will swear by anything that you want me to that I will use every effort in my power to hunt the murderer down, and I will never give up the chase till it is done."
"Then I will tell you."
"Do."
"I will. Since I have been associated with her, she received a visit from a stranger."
"Ah!"
"On one occasion I was in the library, and she did not know that I was in the house."
"Well?"
"I heard them coming toward the library—"
"Was the visitor man or woman?"
"Man."
"Well, you heard them coming—"
"Yes, and I was jealous."
"Naturally."
"I got under the library table."
"Yes."
"There I was protected by the heavy table-cover, and knew that I would not be seen unless they suspected that I was there, and raised the cover.'
"Well?"
"I could not be seen, and I could not see."
"No."
"But I could hear."
"Yes."
"I heard every word that was said."
"Ah!"
"They quarreled."
"What about?"
"I don't know. The quarrel began before they came where I could hear them."
"They were only finishing it."
"Exactly."
"And you could not learn what the cause was?"
"No, only—"
"Only what?"
"He wanted her to do something, and she refused."
"Couldn't you guess what it was?"
"No."
"Tell me what they said."
"The conversation, as I remember it, went something like this, he speaking first:
"'Marian, I demand that you obey me.'
"'And I refuse.'
"'Is this final?'
"'It is.'
"'You will regret it some day.'
"'If I do you will never know it.'
"'No, your infernal pride will make you mock me still.'
"'Leave me, now, Gerald,' she said.
"'I have a good notion to remain,' he replied.
"'If you do I will have you put out.'
"'Put out!'
"'Yes.'
"'By whom? Who will put me out?'
"'Scipio!'
"'Scipio would not attack me.'
"'He would kill you if I asked him to,' she replied, calmly.
"Then I will stay and let him do it.'
"'You will go, or Scipio will put you out of the house,' she said, coldly.
"'Marian, beware!'
"'Of what?'
"'Of me!'
"'Why?'
"'You may drive me too far.'
"'I wish that I might.'
"'You do?'
"'Yes.'
"'Why?'
"'I would then be rid of you for good and all.'
'Marian, can you mean that?'
"Yes, I do mean it.'
"'Well, then, let me tell you one thing.'
"'Say it, and go.'
"'When you are rid of me it will be because either you are dead, or I am.'
"Then she laughed.
"It seemed to exasperate him almost beyond endurance.
"I heard him take a step toward her, and thought for a moment that he was going to attack her, but he did not.
"I heard her laugh again, and then he said:
"'By Heaven! if it were not for the fact that you are my—"
"'Sh-h-h!' she said.
"He was silent, and then she laughed again.
"'You would kill me, no doubt,' she cried.
"'I might, yes.'
"'Why not do so as it is? I will not defend myself.'
"'By Heaven! Marian, don't tempt me, or I may forget myself, and take you at your word!'
"'Do—do—do!'
"There was a moment's silence, and then I heard her say:
"'Well, strike.'
"I was about to rush out from my hiding-place when I heard him cry:
"'No—no! not yet! not yet!'
"Then something fell upon the floor close by the table.
"It was near enough so that I could see it.
"It was an Italian stiletto.
"As soon as it dropped he turned and rushed away, and I heard the front door bang as he went out.
"Marian stood where she was for several moments, seemingly without moving.
"Then she stooped and picked up the slender weapon.
"'Poor Gerald!' she murmured; 'poor Gerald!'
"'Then she left the room.
"That was all that I heard."
"When was the other occasion of his call?" asked Nick.
"I don't know exactly."
"Then you did not hear anything that time?"
"No."
"How did you know that he was there?"
"I heard Marian say to Scipio:
"'Gerald has been here again, but it is for the last time.'"
"Did you see his face at all?"
"No."
"Nor learn anything regarding his looks?"
"Nothing."
"But you heard his voice."
"You bet I did."
"Would you know it again?"
"Among a thousand."
"We know that his name is Gerald, and you know his voice. That seems to be a clew which we may work up."
"Some time I will hear that voice again."
"You think he did the killing?"
"I firmly believe it."
"You may be mistaken, and you may torture an innocent man."
"Bah! I will know the truth before I torture him."
"You think he was her husband?"
"Yes, or someone who wanted to be."
"If he killed her how did he get into the house?"
"By ringing the bell, fool! He was used to going there, and used to being admitted. It may be that she had sent Ermine and Scipio out before he came, and that she was alone when she admitted him. That would be his chance."
"There is something in what you say, Tom, and we must find Gerald, whether he is the murderer or not."
ABOUT two o'clock the following afternoon Red Leary went out into the street without hesitation or fear.
His disguise was so perfect that he had not the slightest apprehension of discovery.
Nick, however, playing upon the well-known fear of arrest evidenced by Beagle, chose to remain within the robbers' cave.
In the note that he had left at the house for Chick when he had gone there to change his disguise the preceding night he had told his faithful assistant to be on Fortieth Street the following morning at ten o'clock, at a point near the secret entrance to the cavern, and to wait there until he received a signal from Nick, no matter how long it might be.
As soon as Red Leary left the cave, therefore, Nick felt that he could carry out the rest of his programme without hindrance.
He had managed two or three times during the intervening hours to visit Beagle where he was bound and gagged in the passage-way.
The poor fellow had suffered intensely, owing to the condition in which Nick had left him, but there had been no help for it.
When Nick now reached Beagle he undid the cords from his arms and legs, and removed the gag that had prevented him from making an outcry.
"Beagle," he said, "do you know me?"
"No, but I can guess who you are."
"Who?"
"Nick Carter."
"Right."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Send you to police headquarters."
"What for?"
"For safe keeping."
"But you said you wouldn't when you were at the Temple."
"I said I would not if you left town."
"Won't you let up on me?"
"No, Beagle, I can't."
"Then I give in."
"You know me, Beagle."
"Yes."
"You know that I mean what I say."
"Yes."
"There is a man outside waiting for you. I am going to turn you over to his care. If you make any outcry, or any attempt to escape, or manage to communicate with any of your crooked friends on your way to headquarters, I will have you sent up for every charge that I can bring against you."
"And if I don't, what then?"
"I will let you down easy."
"Sure?"
"Did you ever know me to break my word?"
"No."
"Then you can depend upon it this time."
"All right; it's a bargain."
Nick led his prisoner to the entrance, and worked the movable stone.
Chick had received such explicit instructions in the note left for him by Nick that he was waiting within a few feet of the spot where they appeared.
"Chick!" said the detective.
"Here," was the reply.
"Step inside a moment."
Chick obeyed.
"I want you to take this fellow to headquarters, and ask the inspector to keep him in solitary confinement, and not, for any reason, to let him communicate with anyone not connected with the force, until he hears from me again."
"Correct!"
"When you have done that come to this place again, and wait until you hear from me. I may need you."
"I will be here."
Chick managed to leave the secret entrance with his prisoner without being seen by people upon the street, and Nick went back to the inner cave to await the return of Red Leary.
The great confidence man reappeared about midnight.
He seemed to be greatly elated over something, and the detective questioned him.
"What's up now, Tom?" he asked.
"I struck it rich to-day."
"How?"
"I've gone back to the old business."
"What—shaking hands?"
"Yes."
"Who helped you?"
"Billy Madden."
"I don't know him."
"He lives in Double Alley, but he's no good at this business."
"Why didn't you take me with you?"
"Didn't think of it."
"Will you next time?"
"Yes."
"I guess I can fix up so I won't be recognized."
"It's a go, Beagle."
Nick, in the character that he represented as Beagle, had conceived the idea that O'Brien would be very useful to him in pursuing the murderer of Marian Bentley, and for a week they worked together to that end.
But nothing resulted, and the detective finally concluded that the confidence man was of more hindrance than assistance in the work.
He was hampered in the job by the constant care that he was obliged to exercise, lest he should let some word fall or commit some act that might betray his real identity.
He resolved, therefore, to get rid of the notorious crook, and to do it in a most effectual way.
We will presently see how well he did it.
During one time that they worked together, however, Nick had to play the part of a confidence man, and do the first act of handshaking, in order to keep in the good graces of O'Brien.
But he always managed to convey a warning to the intended victim, so that when it came Red Leary's turn to grab the countryman's hand, and say how glad he was to meet him again, Mr. Countryman was posted, and wouldn't bite.
But Nick had arranged a beautiful scheme for entrapping the crook, and after the week had passed, and he had become satisfied that Red Leary was of no assistance to him in the murder case, he resolved to spring the trap.
Chick had been in constant attendance near the Fortieth street entrance.
He was always on hand in case Nick should want him.
In order to remain there and yet not attract attention, he had set up a little peanut stand and candy stall, which he constantly attended.
It was the twelfth day after the murder in the Temple, when just at dusk, Nick appeared at the movable stone, and called Chick inside.
"Chick," he said, "I've got a delicate job for you."
"What?"
"One that will require all your skill."
"I'm ready."
"You'll have to fool the shrewdest crook in Gotham."
"I'll try."
"You must do it. Trying won't do."
"All right, I'll do it."
"That sounds better."
"Now, what am I to do?"
"First go to Inspector Byrnes, and get a couple of men from him to make the arrest at the proper moment."
"Correct."
"Fix your plans all ahead, so there can be no mistake."
"Sure."
"Red Leary's picture is not in our Rogue's Gallery."
"No?"
"No; and the inspector wants it."
"Of course."
"So you must be the means of capturing him."
"Good! I like the job."
"First, do the Joshua Juniper act."
"The old Thunderbolt rig?"
"Yes."
"Correct."
"Make it greener than ever."
"You bet."
"Don't forget the carpet bag, or anything."
"No."
"Be on Sixth avenue, on the west side of the street, between Twenty-third and Thirty-fourth, to-morrow afternoon."
"Correct."
"Spend your time looking in windows and gawking."
"Sure."
"I'll do the first racket, and leave O'Brien to do the second."
"All right."
"You must play it well."
"I will."
"He's sharper than steel."
"I'll watch him."
"Good! I guess you will. Bite well."
"You bet!"
"Lay your plans carefully. Post the men who are going to lay for you both, and have everything go like clock-work.
"Sure."
"Every thing depends on you, Chick."
"I won't fail."
"You have got to work him to the right point in order to get the evidence, and you have got to appear in court against him later."
"Yes."
"I will trust it all to you."
"You may."
"I must, Chick. I have got to follow up this thing, and cannot spare the time to fool with Red Leary."
"You can depend upon me."
"I know it."
"I will not fail."
"I am sure of that."
"Sixth avenue to-morrow afternoon."
"Yes; what time?"
"Somewhere about two."
"Correct."
"Red Leary may shoot if he is cornered. He is as desperate and daring as he is shrewd, so look out for him."
"Never fear. He will be in limbo to-morrow night if he is alive."
"I believe it."
"What shall I do then?"
"When you are not needed elsewhere come here. You need not fear to come right in."
"Don't other crooks come here?"
"Never, so far."
"Queer place, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Who do you think fixed it?"
"That's hard to say. The original Red Leary, I guess."
"And left it as a legacy to this one, eh?"
"Seems so."
"Well, so long."
"Good-by, Chick. Be careful now, my lad."
"You bet."
They parted, and one of the cleverest schemes ever planned was about to be inaugurated.
ON the following day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, a very green-looking specimen of a down-east farmer was loitering along Sixth avenue.
In his right hand he carried a huge carpet-bag, and he wore a long-tailed coat that might have been made in colonial days, so primitive was its cut.
He paused at every window and gazed at the goods displayed by enterprising shopkeepers, and once or twice he entered and priced some things that he saw.
In one place, a hardware store, he discovered some bright-looking tin pans, and he at once entered, and negotiated for a half dozen of them, getting them, as he said to himself, "mighty cheap."
"By gosh!" he muttered audibly when he first discovered them, "ef them ain't jest the things thet Mirandy wants fur milk pans. I'll get some."
Accordingly when he continued on his way down the avenue he carried the half dozen milk pans under his left arm.
Presently he shifted the bag from the right hand to the left, and wandered on.
When he reached the middle of the block between Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth streets, somebody rushed up to him very suddenly, and he felt his hand seized in a most cordial grasp.
"Why, how are you, Uncle Josh," cried a voice, and he looked and saw a very dapper young man before him.
"How are all the folks up at Beaver Dams?" continued the stranger.
"Whar's Beaver Dams?" drawled the countryman.
"Why, don't you know?"
"No, an' I don't know yew nuther."
"Dear me, aren't you Mr. Joshua Juniper, head select-man of Beaver Dams, in New York State, near Watkins Glen?"
"Not by a long shot. Say!"
"What?"
"Yew've mistaken the brindle cow fur the red one, b'gosh!"
"How so?"
"Why, yew call me Joshua somebody, from somewhere, an' I ain't. I'm Silas Morgan, I am, and don't come from New York State nuther."
"Indeed! I'm very sorry that I made a mistake. Where are you from?"
"Me? Wal, I'm from Otterville, New Hampshire."
"Oh!"
"There's suthin' funny 'bout this 'ere meetin'."
"What's that?"
"Well, yew called me uncle, an' all the boys call me uncle up to Otterville."
"Is that so?"
"Ye-us. Say!"
"What?"
There's another funny thing, tew."
"What is that?"
"W'y, yew thought I kim from Beaver Dams, whereas I come from Otterville. Both animiles, hey?"
"Yes. You'll excuse me, won't you?"
"Course."
"Been buying milk pans for your wife?"
"Ye-us. Mirandy's air abaout used up."
"Your wife is well, I hope."
"Yew bet. So's Bob, my son. Yew oughter be abaout his age, I guess."
"I'm twenty-nine."
"An' he's twenty-seven."
"Well, good-day, Mr. Morgan."
"Good-day."
The countryman continued on his way down the street, still giving his undivided attention to the windows and their contents.
When he reached the corner of Twentieth street, and was busily engaged in examining the contents of one of O'Neill's windows, he felt a heavy slap on his shoulder, and a voice exclaimed:
"Well, well, well! if this isn't Uncle Sile!"
The countryman turned.
He knew that now he had to deal with one of the shrewdest of all confidence men—Red Leary himself.
"Seems tew me I'm meetin' lots o' folks tew-day," he drawled.
"Don't you remember me, Uncle Sile?" asked the stranger.
"Wal, no; can't say I dew."
"How's Bob?"
"Bob's well, thanky."
"And Miranda?"
"Wal, Mirandy's so-so."
"Good. So you don't remember me! Silas Morgan, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to forget me so soon. Do yew still trade up at George's Mills?"
"Ye-us."
"Russell runs the store and post-office now, don't he?"
"Ye-us."
"Ever go to New London these days?"
"Often."
"How are the Derbys?"
"They're purty well, I guess."
"Who runs the state line now?"
"Whipple."
"Oh! yes. So you don't remember me?"
"No."
"My name is Sargent."
"Wal, there's bout forty families of Sargents 'round there."
"I'm Demas Sargent, and Bob and I used to go to school together. You must remember me now."
"Wal, I guess maybe I dew. Fact is, Demas, that my memory's sorter gone back on me of late. Gittin' rusty, I guess, same's the oats will when we have a wet season."
"I'm awfully glad I met you, Uncle Sile."
"So'm I?"
"What are you going to do the rest of the afternoon?"
"Nothin'."
"That's lucky."
"Why?"
"I can have a chance to show you around, but you'd better leave your bag somewhere while we are out together."
"Not much."
"Why not?"
"I don't let that air bag out o' my sight, not ef I know it!"
"Why?"
"Well, I'll tell yew, Demas."
"Do."
"When I left hum the folks all said that I must look out for sharpers in New York, an' I've got some valuables in that bag."
"You don't carry your money there, I hope?"
"Why, ain't it safe?"
"Hardly."
"Then b'gosh, I'll change it."
He dropped the bag upon the pavement, opened it, and took out a good-sized package, which he quickly thrust into his pocket.
"Is that money?" asked the sharper.
"Yew bet!"
"You must have quite a pile."
"I have."
"How much?"
"'Bout four hundred dollars."
"Whew!"
"Ain't it safe?"
"Yes, it's safe enough, now that you're with me."
"Yew wouldn't let me git robbed, would yew?"
"Not by a long shot."
"Well, what are you going to show me?"
"What do you want to see?"
"I've heer'd tell on an elephant that is kept daown here somewhere. I've axed two 'r three 'bout it, but they only laffed."
"That was mean of them, Uncle Sile. What did you say to them?"
"Wal, I stopped one feller, an' said to him, sez I, 'Say,' sez I, 'I wanter see the New York elephant,' sez I. 'Yew' ll find it bimeby,' sez he. Say, Demas."
"What?"
"Dew yew know where that elephant is kept?"
"Of course."
"Will you show it to me?"
"Well, I should smile. You shall see the elephant before you're through with me, Uncle Sile, and don't you forget it."
"I won't, Demas. Say!"
"What?"
"Dew yew know Tom Collins?"
"Has somebody been playing that old gag on you?"
"Old what?"
"Joke."
"Is that a joke?"
"Yes, a gray-headed one."
"Wot d'ye mean, Demas?"
"Tom Collins is a fictitious personage."
"Git out. Yew don't say so. That must be suthin' orful. Wy don't they lock him up?"
"They can't catch him."
"Can't! Why, he was in my hotel lookin' fur me this mornin', an' left his name tew boot. Told 'em where I could find him, tew."
"Did you go there?"
"Course."
"Find him?"
"No. He'd jest gone to another place."
"And you went there?"
"Course."
"Find him then?"
"No."
"He'd gone to another place, hadn't he?"
"Ye-us."
"To how many places did you follow him?"
"Dozen 'r more, I guess."
"Haven't found him yet, have you?"
"No."
"That's the way he always is. He's a hard fellow to find. He's a bad egg, too."
"Wal, I left word fur him to the last place I was in."
"What was the word?"
"I told 'em to tell Tom Collins that I'd be dog-gasted 'f I'd foller him 'round any more, 'n' if he wanted tew see me he could come where I was stayin."
"That's right."
"Now, I wanter see that elephant."
"Well leave that for the last, Uncle Sile. Let's go in over there, and have a drink."
"What do they sell there—cider?"
"Everything."
"Then I'll take some whisky."
"That's right."
The whisky was procured and drank, and they came out again upon the street.
"Did you ever hear of a lottery, Uncle Silas?" asked the sharper.
"Yes: we have 'em up our way to church fairs an sich."
"I've just drawn a prize in one."
"Git out! Have yew?"
"Yes."
"What was it, a crazy quilt?"
"No—no; money."
"Money!"
"Yes."
"Git out! How much?"
"A thousand dollars."
"Je-rew-sa-lum!"
"The ticket only cost me two dollars."
"Yew don't say so! Wal, I swow!"
"Beats all, dont it?"
"I should say so!"
"I was just going around to get the money when I saw you."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Don't you want to go with me?"
"Yew bet I do."
"It's one of the straightest concerns I know. I've drawn lots of money of them, and they always pay cash down."
"I'll go with yew, Demas."
"Come on."
THE sharper who had given his name as Demas Sargent, but who, as the reader knows, was in reality Red Leary O'Brien, led his intended victim through Twentieth street to Seventh avenue, and presently ascended two flights of stairs in an old house, the ground floor of which was devoted to the uses of a gin-mill.
"Live sorter big up, don't they, Demas?" inquired the countryman.
"Rather."
"Why don't they do biz on the lower floor?"
"They have to be careful, you know."
"Careful o' what?"
"Well, there's a man in town named Comstock, who persecutes them."
"Sho! does he?"
"Yes."
"What fur?"
"For conducting a lottery."
"Oh!"
"He thinks it's wicked, you know."
"Git out! does he? 'Tain't, is it?"
"Certainly not."
"Wouldn't have if at church fairs if it was wicked, would they?"
"Of course not."
"Lots o' fools in this world, Demas."
"Lots of them."
"Wot, more stairs?"
"One more flight."
They presently stopped before a door upon which O'Brien tapped lightly.
The door was opened, and O'Brien led his country friend into a room where the light was half excluded, because of the fact that the blinds on the windows were closed.
"Come right in, Uncle Sile," he said; "these gentlemen are all friends of mine."
There were two men in the room when they entered.
One of them was Nick, still in his disguise as Beagle, but with enough alterations, so that the countryman would not be supposed to recognize him.
The other was one of Red Leary's old assistants, and they were supposed to be the ones who played the game which was to defraud the countryman of his wealth.
"I've come to get that ticket cashed," said O'Brien, when they entered.
"So you've drawn the lucky number again, have you?" asked one of them.
"Yes."
"How many times does that make?"
"Five."
"You're lucky."
"Yes; I've paid just ten dollars for five thousand."
"Whew!" whistled the countryman.
"Gentlemen, this is an old friend, Mr. Morgan, from New Hampshire," said Red Leary.
They all bowed.
"He came around to see me draw the money on my ticket."
"Glad to see him."
"Are you ready to pay?"
"Any time."
"There's the ticket."
"Good. Will you have big bills or small ones?"
"Have you a thousand-dollar bill?"
"Certainly."
"Give me one."
"With pleasure."
A drawer was opened, and a cash-box was taken out.
From the top of a heap of money in bills a thousand-dollar bill was taken.
The man handed it to O'Brien.
"Whew!" gasped Silas Morgan. "Say, Demas."
"What?"
"Does that air bill represent a thousand dollars?"
"Certainly. Did you never see one?"
"Never."
"Want to look at this?"
"Ye-us."
It was handed to him.
His eyes seemed to start from their sockets as he looked at the bill which represented so much money.
Chick was certainly doing the act well.
"A hull thousand!" he muttered.
"Yes."
"B'gosh! I wish 'twas mine."
"Why don't you win one?"
"How?"
"Buy a ticket. You can leave the ticket with me, and if you win I will send the money to you."
"Only two dollars, hey?"
"That's all."
"B'gosh! I'll do it. Here, you buy the ticket for me, Demas."
"With pleasure."
The two dollars were passed over, and a ticket was given out, which was supposed to be a lottery ticket.
Then one of the men who seemed to belong in the place spoke up.
"We were just going to have a little game, Sargent. Won't you join in?"
"Don't care if I do. Do you mind waiting a little while Uncle Sile?"
"No, no, Demas."
"Perhaps your uncle would like to play," suggested the proprietor.
"No, he'd better not," said O'Brien.
"Why?"
"He might lose, and I wouldn't have him lose for the world."
"No danger of his losing much, I guess."
"Why?"
"Well, he's got a lucky look about him."
"Do you want to play, Uncle Sile?"
"What game is it?"
"It's called 'bunco.' Ever hear of it?"
"Never."
O'Brien leaned forward, and whispered mysteriously in his ear:
"It's the best game out, and I always win at it."
"Dew yew, naow?"
"Always."
"Gosh! yew must be gittin' rich."
"I am, and I've made it all here in this room, too."
"Gosh! hev yew?"
"Yes."
"Whew!"
"You watch me a few minutes."
"What fur?"
"If I lose don't you play, but if I win you play, and put your money right where I do every time, see."
"Ye-us."
"If you're careful, and do just as I tell you you can take a thousand or two home with you just as well as four hundred."
"B'gosh! I'll do it!"
"That's right. Don't be in a hurry now."
"No."
"Don't play till I wink at you, see."
"Ye-us."
"Do just as I tell you, and you'll win."
"All right, Demas."
The play began.
It consisted of twirling a huge dice in a wooden bowl, not unlike an ordinary butter bowl.
The bowl was divided into six sections, which were numbered from one to six.
A little table was brought out which had a cloth upon it, upon which were squares, numbered like the bowl.
The bowl was whirled rapidly, and while it was gyrating the cube or dice was thrown into it by the banker.
It bounded around a few times, and then stopped, with none of its numbers uppermost.
If the six came up and the dice rested upon the section numbered "three," six and three won, and the other numbers lost.
The players were not allowed to bet on numbers to lose, but only on those to win.
A bet placed upon any number that won was supposed to pay two for one.
If a number came up, and the dice was found to be resting upon the section bearing the same number in the bowl, that was called a "double," and paid four for one.
The game is very simple, and is a very easy one at which to cheat.
The play began.
Red Leary, of course, won from the start.
In a few moments he had a big pile of chips in front of him.
"Look here." he said. finally, "can't you cash some of these chips for me? I'm getting too many."
"How much have you got?"
"Two hundred dollars."
The money was handed to him.
"Now's your chance, Uncle Si," he whispered; "buy a hundred dollars' worth of chips, and play as I do."
"I guess I will."
"Good. You may lose a little at first, but you're sure to win in the end."
"I guess I be."
"Will you play, sir?"
"Ye-us."
"How many?"
"'Baout a hundred."
"There you are."
"Thanky. Now, Demas."
"Well?"
"Show me how."
"You bet."
Again the play began.
In a few moments more the countryman was found to be a winner.
"You're doing nobly, Uncle Si."
"Purty well, ye-us."
"You're fifty ahead."
"Ye-us."
"Keep it up, and we'll break the bank."
"Keyreckt, Demas."
But he lost then until he got down to only a few chips.
"It's goin' t'other way naow, Demas," he said.
"Wait; it'll change again."
It did.
Ten minutes later the countryman was nearly two hundred dollars ahead.
Then he lost again until his last chip was gone.
"Whew!" he exclaimed. "Gi' me another hundred."
"That's right, Uncle Si. I see you've got sand."
"I'm goin' ter win that air hundred back."
"That's the talk."
Again his fortune fluctuated.
First he was winner and then loser; then winner again, and then loser, until the second pile of chips was gone. He bought a third, seeming to be wrapped up in the game.
"I'm bound to win 'fore long," he exclaimed, "an' I'm goin' to take home a silk dress to Mirandy."
"Go it, uncle. The trouble with you is you don't play heavy enough."
"Think so?"
"Yes."
"What shall I do?"
"I'll tell you what I'm going to do."
"What?"
"I'm going to play a pile of money on the six this time."
"How much?"
"Five hundred."
"Git out! Be yew?"
"Yes."
"I'll follow yew with my pile, an' we'll win, hey?"
"You bet."
"B'gosh!"
"How much is your pile?"
"I've got a hundred an' fifty more."
"Good! Play it."
"There, b'gosh!"
OF course the play lost.
It always does when the victim stakes his last dollar upon the game.
Red Leary was supposed to have lost five hundred dollars, and he turned with a lugubrious expression upon his face and confronted the supposed countryman.
"Uncle Si, I'm awful sorry," he said. "But you sha'n't have it to say that you lost through me. Come to my rooms with me, and I will give you back every cent that you have lost here."
That is always the way.
The unsuspecting victim believes.
He goes away trustingly with the bunco man, believing that his money will be returned to him.
Presently they stop to take a drink.
Then suddenly the bunco steerer remembers that he wants to see a man in some place near by, and he asks the victim to wait for him, saying that he will not be gone but a minute.
The victim waits.
Not one minute, but many.
An hour passes. Then another.
The generous friend does not come, and at length the defrauded victim is overwhelmed by the knowledge that he has been grossly cheated out of the money that he wagered upon the game, and that his supposed friend is in league with the villains who have robbed him.
But as the reader knows, the victim from the country in this particular case was not as green as he appeared.
Chick was thoroughly posted regarding every move that the confidence men would make.
He knew beforehand pretty nearly everything that would be said, certainly everything that would be done, and he had arranged his plans accordingly.
There was a signal agreed upon between him and the officers from headquarters who were to assist him in making the arrests.
Therefore when Red Leary made the seemingly generous offer to refund the money that the victim had lost Chick; instead of falling into the trap that was so well laid, by which the confidence men are enabled to get rid of their victims, acted in a most violent manner.
He leaped to his feet, and seemed to tear his hair in the intensity of his emotion.
"My money!" he cried. "Lost! all lost! You have robbed me."
It was the cue upon which the other actors in the drama were to make their entrance.
They had previously followed Nick to the building wherein the game took place, and had concealed themselves in close proximity to the zoom where the scenes already described were enacted.
They were already there when Red Leary entered with his intended victim, and they were in the hallway, just outside the door, when Chick, in the character of Silas Morgan, uttered that loud exclamation of agony and despair.
In an instant they burst open the door and leaped into the room.
There were three of them, as there were also three of the confidence men, counting Nick, in his disguise as Beagle, as one.
They held drawn revolvers in their hands, with which they covered the men whom they were seeking to capture.
"Trapped!" hissed Red Leary.
"Yes," said Detective Price. "We've got you this time just where we want you."
"Curse you!" muttered the sharper.
"Curse away, O'Brien. It will do you no good."
"Ah! you know me."
"You bet we know you!"
"How long have you been shadowing me?"
"Ever since that little affair at the Temple. We've got you on this charge, even if we can't hold you on that."
"You think you've played it pretty sharp, don't you?"
"Yes, we've done it well this time, well enough to keep you in retirement for a while at any rate."
"Well, you've got us, and there's no use kicking."
"That's right. Stick out your hands while the boys put the irons on you. And you other fellows, too."
Nick allowed himself to be manacled and led away captive with the others, for it was no part of his purpose to reveal his true character at that point in the game.
Nobody knew better than he how perfect are the means of communication which crooks have established between each other, even when behind iron bars.
There was yet a possibility that Red Leary knew more of the incidents connected with the murder of Marian Bentley than he had cared to reveal.
True, it was not probable, but it was possible, and Nick preferred to guard against any chance of accident.
So also did Chick play his part out to the end, continuing the impersonation of the verdant countryman both in language and manner, and following the group when they started for headquarters, in order to make the proper charge against the sharpers.
Detective Price, who is connected with Inspector Byrnes' bureau, possesses a strongly humorous vein.
He well knew that the chief inspector desired the picture of Red Leary to adorn his gallery.
He also knew that there was nothing for which the namesake of the great burglar held a stronger aversion than to have his photograph so taken and used.
As they marched along the street Detective Price having Red Leary in charge, said:
"O'Brien, we had three reasons for capturing you to-day."
"Three?"
"Yes.
"What were they?"
"We wanted to talk to you about that murder."
"I know that."
"We wanted you for this bunco business."
"I know tHat, too."
"And we wanted your picture."
"You'll never get it."
"Won't we, though!"
"No, you won't "
"I'll bet we will."
"How?"
"Oh, we've got lots of ways for doing those things."
"What are they?"
"I'll tell you one, if you want to know it."
"All right; tell me."
"We have got seven men, with seven cameras, stationed at seven different places along the route that we shall take from here to headquarters."
"The devil you have!"
"Yes, and they will be on the lookout for us as we go by."
"They'll never get a shot at me."
"Don't be too sure of that, O'Brien."
"Why not?"
"I'll tell you. There is one standing in that door-way over yonder. He is keeping just out of sight, but I am going to take you across the street here, and walk you past him, so as to give him a good chance at you."
"I'll dodge him; you see if I don't."
Price said no more, but crossed the street, as he had threatened, and walked Red Leary past the door-way where the photographer was supposed to be concealed.
When they reached it Red Leary's antics were extremely amusing. He contorted his features into the most hideous shapes that he could imagine.
He screwed his head around until the back of it was toward the door-way from which the camera was supposed to be aimed at him.
He stuck his tongue out at full length, looked cross-eyed until scarcely anything but the whites of his eyes could be seen, and humped his shoulders until he appeared like a hideous travesty of himself.
"I don't think that'll be a very good picture," said Price, when they had passed the door.
"You bet it won't," said O'Leary.
"The fellow on the other side got a good view of your tongue, I guess."
"Was there another camera across the street?"
"Sure."
"That makes two we've passed."
"Yes."
"Then there are only five more?"
"No, six."
"But you said there were only seven in all."
"Seven on the way down, and one at headquarters. That makes eight."
"Curse the cameras anyhow."
"Certainly."
"Where is the next one?"
By chance it happened at that moment that a young man was approaching them with a bona fide kodak under his arm.
Price saw it, and made the most of it.
"There," he said, pointing to the young man, who was totally unconscious of the anathemas that were being hurled at him by the captive bunco steerer.
Red Leary immediately began to dodge.
He ducked his head, contorted his features, screwed his neck, rolled his eyes, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue.
He kept it up without cessation until the danger was passed.
Thus at intervals along the route Price watched for an opportunity to play the same joke upon his captive.
The antics and contortions which Red Leary enacted during the trip must have been as painful to him as they were amusing to Price.
Of course the whole thing was a hoax. There were no cameras pointed at the confidence man during the journey, but he firmly believed that his photograph had been taken at least seven times when he arrived at headquarters, and was ushered into the presence of the great inspector before whom all rogues quail and feel themselves small, mean, and totally without nerve.
"So we've got you, have we?" said the inspector.
"Looks like it," replied Red Leary, sullenly.
"We want you for several different things, O'Brian, and the first thing we want is your picture."
"You've got seven of 'em now," retorted the bunco steerer, gruffly.
"Seven?" said the inspector.
Price winked, and the inspector smiled and nodded.
"All right," he said. "Those are to send around the country. We want one for our own particular album."
"You'll be wanting the earth next."
"If we do, O'Brien, we've got detectives enough here to get it. Take him away, Price. Tell Adams to get the things ready for our distinguished friend to sit for his picture. I will join you in a few moments."
O'Brien was then led away to the room where the great ordeal was to be undergone.
It did not take long to get things in readiness, and the detectives, who thoroughly enjoyed a scene of the kind that they felt sure was about to be enacted, piled on the agony in every way in their power, in order to enjoy Red Leary O'Brien's discomfiture.
They kept him with them during the active preparations, explaining every detail in full, until O'Brien's temper entirely got the better of him.
EVERYTHING was in readiness.
A chair was placed in the center of the room, where the light was right, and O'Brien was told to sit upon it.
He refused.
They urged him.
He refused peremptorily.
"If you want me in that chair you've got to put me there," he said, "and if you want to keep me there you've got to hold me."
"Put him there boys," said the inspector, quietly, "and hold him there, too."
Detectives Hickey, Adams, Lanthier, and Price were the ones upon, whom this duty devolved.
They seized the ruffian and forced him upon the chair.
He struggled with all his might to get away from them, but he was in the grasp of powerful men.
Hickey and Adams seized him by the hair and neck, while Lanthier and Price clutched his arms and legs.
Ten feet away, with a quiet smile upon his face, stood the tall and dignified figure of Inspector Byrnes.
He watched the proceedings with calm contemplation, as one who was merely interested in the result, caring little for the means of bringing it about.
Never in the history of police headquarters in New York city had there been a struggle so severe as the one with Red Leary O'Brien that day.
He seemed to be gifted with superhuman strength.
While ordinarily anyone of the four detectives could have got the better of him in a fair hand to hand contest it was almost more than they all could do to hold him in place there.
Several times, in spite of all their efforts to the contrary, he forced himself from the chair.
Each time he was thrust back again with no gentle hand.
He swore, he cursed, he made faces at the camera, he tried every means in his power to avoid having his picture taken.
But his efforts were in vain.
The picture was taken, and to-day a copy of it, two feet by three, hangs upon one of the walls of Inspector Byrnes' room.
It portrays the sullen-looking, heavy-jawed man that Red Leary is known to be.
He is struggling violently, exactly as has already been described here.
*
Nick Carter, in the character of Beagle, was, of course, taken to headquarters with O'Brien and the other crook.
There he was speedily released.
He held a short interview with Inspector Byrnes, in which he told him of the progress he had made in ferreting out the murder at the Temple of Vice.
He also related the particulars concerning the discovery of the Robbers' Cave between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth streets.
It was decided to do nothing about stopping it up until Nick had finished with the case in hand.
Regarding the solution of the mystery of Marian Bentley's fate, there was yet much to do.
It was nearly dark when Nick reached his own home.
Chick was there awaiting him, and they speedily changed their disguises for others more suitable for the work in hand.
About nine o'clock in the evening they decided to go together, and once more thoroughly inspect the rooms of the Temple, where the strange murder had occurred.
As they were about leaving the house the door-bell rang, and Cephas Dexter's card was brought in by Patsy.
"Show him right in," said Nick, and a moment later Dexter entered the room.
"Well, Cephas, what's new?" asked the detective.
"I've got a clew, Nick."
"A clew to what?"
"To the murder"
"What is it?"
"I have run across a fellow named Hayward, who, I think, knows something about this matter."
"What is his first name?"
"Gerald."
"Ah!"
"Have you heard of him?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Never mind. Tell me what you know."
"In the first place, I was crossing Madison square last night about half-past eleven, and in the distance I saw a very large man, who made a gesture which at once reminded me of the negro Scipio.
"I did not really think that it was he, but I acted upon impulse, and went nearer.
"I turned up my coat-collar, and pulled my hat down over my eyes, so that he would not recognize me.
"When I got near enough I saw that I had not been mistaken."
"It was Scipio, then?"
"It was."
"Well?"
"I pretended that I was intoxicated. I staggered to a bench near by, and threw myself upon it. I had scarcely got settled when another man approached.
"Ah!"
"He rapidly drew near to Scipio."
"Well?"
"When he reached him he stopped for just a moment, and the following conversation took place."
"You forget that Scipio is dumb."
"He is no more dumb than I am."
"Good! go on."
"'Well,' said the stranger to Scipio, 'what have you to say to me?'
"'It is all right, Gerald,' was Scipio's reply.
"'When am I to come?
"'To-morrow night.'
"'At what time?'
"'Midnight.'
"'She will receive me?'
"'Yes.'
"'Thank you; I will be there.'
"Then they parted, Scipio going toward the upper end of the square at the Madison avenue side, and the other man up Fifth avenue."
"You followed one of them, of course?"
"Certainly."
"Which one?"
"The one called Gerald."
"Well?"
"Imagine my surprise to have him lead me straight to my own club."
"Good! Go on."
"I followed him in."
"Of course."
'In the light I saw that he was a man whose face I had seen there several times."
"But you were not acquainted with him?"
"No."
"You sought an introduction?"
"At once."
"And his name?"
"Is Gerald Hayward."
"Did you talk with him?"
"Yes."
"Question him?"
"Yes."
"What did you ask him?"
"We talked politics, social economy, and various subjects, until I finally touched upon that of gambling."
"Good; very good!"
"I asked him if he ever gambled."
"What did he say?"
"He said 'no', with an expression of horror that I shall never forget."
"Ah! and then?"
"I told him how much I enjoyed it, and how much it had cost me."
"Did you refer to the Temple?"
"Oh, yes."
"Ask him if he had ever been there?"
"Certainly."
"What did he say to that?"
"He said no, very promptly."
"Good! I know that he has been there at least twice."
"You do; how?"
"Never mind. Did you speak about the murder?"
"I did."
"In what way?"
"I regretted that the Temple had to be closed on account of the crime that had been committed there."
"You watched. him when you said that?"
"As a cat watches a mouse."
"Did he start or turn pale?"
"Neither."
"What did he say?"
"He looked at me very calmly, and asked, 'What crime?'"
"What did you say then?"
"I told him that Marian Bentley had been murdered and cut up, and that her body had entirely disappeared."
"What did he say to that?"
"'Who was Marian Bentley?' he asked me, very coolly, as though only partially interested.'
"So you got no satisfaction from him?"
"None whatever."
"You are sure that it was Scipio that he met?"
"I am positive."
"And the meeting to which they referred was for to-night?"
"Yes, at midnight."
"But you don't know where?"
"No, I have no idea."
"Well, we will go to the Temple anyhow."
ALTHOUGH the vital point was wanting in the clew that Dexter had brought to Nick the detective felt that he had gained a great deal.
"Come, Chick," he said. "We will carry out our original intention."
"And go to the Temple?"
"Yes."
"Very well."
"Will you go, Dexter?"
"If I may."
"Glad to have you."
"Thanks."
It was half-past ten when they left Nick's house.
The detective had a key to the deserted Temple, which he had retained in his possession ever since the murder, and they set out together.
As they passed beneath a street light, just before reaching the Temple, Nick looked at his watch.
The time was 11.15.
"We will go singly," he said, pausing.
"Why?"
"I don't want anybody to see us entering the place."
"All right."
"I will go first."
"Yes."
"Chick next, and then you, Cephas."
"Correct."
"I will get the door open. I want you each to be particular that nobody sees you enter."
Nick started on.
He ran up the steps, and silently made use of his key.
The door refused to open.
"Ah! he thought. "Locked upon the inside. What does that mean?"
He examined the lock.
He found that the lower lock had been turned, but that the key was left in the door.
He took his little pincers from his pocket, those which were intended for the very use to which he put them.
In another second he had seized the end of the key through the keyhole, and turned it.
Then the night-key worked, and the door swung noiselessly open.
At that instant Chick joined him.
Nick made a sign which his assistant well understood was meant for him to make no sound, and together they awaited the approach of Cephas Dexter.
He soon came.
Then noiselessly, like spirits gliding through haunted rooms, they entered the house.
Nick closed and locked the door, leaving it exactly as he found it when he first ran up the steps.
That somebody was in the house he was well assured by the condition of the door, but who that somebody was remained to be seen.
But they were not long to be kept in ignorance.
Nick motioned for the others to go into the library and wait there for him.
Then he glided up the stairs.
He moved like a phantom.
Not a sound escaped from the stairs as he ascended them.
He drew near to the door of Marian Bentley's room, where the writing upon the wall, in letters of blood, had been discovered.
He almost crept as he approached, so low did he crouch in his readiness to spring away into concealment at the first sign that might portend discovery.
Presently he reached the door.
He could hear voices upon the other side, although the door was closed.
One was the gruff voice of a man, and the other the murmuring tones of a woman.
"I tell you," said the voice of the man, "that it was the height of folly to persist in holding the meeting at this place."
"Pshaw!" replied the woman.
"I dread the consequences," he continued.
"Why?"
"Because I fear that this house is watched."
"Pshaw! It is the one place in the city that is not watched, and I know whereof I speak."
"I hope you are right."
"You forget that I have been here almost every night since the—the—"
"Yes, I know what you would say. It is not the name that I would give it."
"What name would you apply?"
"I would call it your folly."
"Why?"
"The fingers—the ears—the writing —the wall yonder—in fact, the whole thing."
"But you forget my purpose."
"No, I do not."
"It was necessary."
"It was folly."
"Oh, well, insist if you will; it is done."
"Yes, it is done, and now you have the other job ahead of you."
"Poor Gerald!"
"Bah!"
"Why do you say that?"
"Can you feel pity?"
"I pity him. He loves me."
"So did—"
"Yes, yes, I know, but that was necessary."
"So is this."
"For perfect safety, yes. It will be done; never fear."
"I don't, for I shall do it myself, and mind you, I will have no butchering this time."
"It is not needed."
"It was not before."
"Yes, yes; I had to disappear; to be thought dead. The world thinks that Marian Bentley was murdered, and they think that Scipio did it."
"Yes, and Scipio has been as hard to find as Marian."
"Quite!"
"I have done but one imprudent thing."
"What was that?"
"When I blacked up to meet Gerald in the park last night. What would the shrewd detectives think did they know that dumb Scipio walks among them every day, as white and as free of speech as they? That he sits in the hotels, parades Broadway, and hobnobs with the best of them? I tell you, Marian, I can forgive you for mutilating Ermine after I had killed her, for the pleasure I have taken since," and the big fiend chuckled audibly.
"Where will you strike Gerald?"
"Here, when he enters this room."
"Will you not even let him speak to me?"
"No, curse him!"
"You forget that he is my brother."
"Bah! do I? If he had not been your brother he would have been dead long ago. I have spared him too often already, for your sake."
"May he not speak to me?"
"No! I say no!"
"Ah, well, let it be so. To-morrow we leave this country forever."
"Yes, and with a fine fortune."
"You are right; you always are."
"Hark! he comes."
"Will he come straight to this room?"
"Yes; he understands."
"Kiss me, Malville."
"Wait, when he is dead I'll kiss you."
A key grated in the lock of the front door, and Nick turned and bounded down the stairs.
He was just in time to meet Gerald Hayward as he entered the house.
With one bound the detective was upon him.
He seized him by the throat, and placed the other hand over his mouth, thus preventing any outcry.
Then he lifted him bodily, and bore him into the library, where chloroform very quickly silenced him.
"Come!" said Nick to the others.
They followed him, and he led the way up stairs, motioning to Chick and Cephas to make no noise, while he himself walked as one who was expected.
He went straight to the door of the room that was to have been Gerald Hayward's death-chamber.
He turned the knob and threw the door ajar.
Then he leaped suddenly backward and away.
It was well that he did.
There was,a flash and a blow, but the glittering weapon fell short of its mark.
It was Scipio, only white and well dressed, who had struck.
As Nick leaped forward after the blow fell the huge-bodied villain sprang back out of his way.
Behind him stood Marian Bentley, as beautiful as ever, but with an expression of terror upon her face.
But it did not last long.
The giant, with a loud curse, swung his hand around, and the blade of his knife sank into Marian Bentley's throat.
She uttered one loud and gasping cry, and sank to the floor as the human devil withdrew the knife and with a wild laugh plunged it into his own heart. It all happened so quickly that Nick was scarcely upon the threshold before it was done, and the two whom he had heard talking over their plans but a moment before were lying dead at his feet.
Both died instantly, for the blows were quick and sure. There was nothing to do but to return to Gerald Hayward, and make a report to police headquarters of what had happened.
The mystery connected with the murder was solved, but the mystery which surrounded Marian Bentley's life and death never was.
They thought to find out the particulars from Gerald Hayward, but when he was told the awful fate of his sister he swooned away, and when consciousness was restored he was hopelessly insane.
So began and thus ended Nick Carter's celebrated case, which was and is one of the greatest mysteries of Gotham.
Roy Glashan's Library
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