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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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NIGHT!
Tempestuous night, with the wind driving a mass of rain and cutting sleet before it.
The sort of night when pedestrians hurry with all speed toward their objective points; when the policeman on his beat seeks the retreat and shelter of some convenient doorway; when prison-guards remain in their little post-houses until the very last moment, and then hurry with all possible speed along the precarious pathway at the top of the wall, exchange a hurried word with each other, and then return quickly to shelter.
The driving sleet and biting wind cause them to hold their heads down, and they think more of protecting themselves from the furious inclemency of the weather than of discovering a possible attempt at prison-breaking on the part of the hapless convicts who are paying the penalties of past crimes.
For a convict to escape from his cell is next to an impossibility, and the difficulties which stand between him and freedom grow greater as he proceeds.
From the cell to the corridor; from the corridor to the yard, and thence to the prison-wall. Then to mount the wall, which is built broader at the top than at the bottom, and which is provided with spikes along the top; then to pass the wary guard with his loaded rifle—a weapon which he carries for utility and not for show.
Having passed him, to safely reach the ground without the prison-wall; to slink away in the darkness undiscovered; to conceal the close-cropped head; to get rid of the striped suit and obtain a citizen's dress in lieu of the prison-garb; to successfully hide from the inevitable and thorough search which follows; to avoid recapture and its dreaded results.
For one man to escape from such a place, alone and unaided, and particularly after the prisoners have been locked into their respective cells for the night, is deemed impossible.
The guards do not expect such a thing.
They believe in determined rushes by a whole gang of prisoners at once, to break through the impediments to liberty.
For one prisoner to make such an attempt, in the night and unaided from within, is unheard of.
That is why they hurry from post to post along the top of the wall, dodging the sleet and never once casting their eyes into the gloomy and forbidding prison-yard.
That is why they do not see a dark figure glide forth from the shadow of the somber building, and flit, like a ghost of evil, across the stone-paved yard.
Suddenly the bell in the prison-tower strikes twice.
Then from the top of the wall, at the north-eastern extremity, a hoarse voice cries out:
"Two o'clock and all's well."
There is an instant of silence, and then the next guard takes up the cry and repeats it.
So it goes from guard to guard, until it makes the circuit, and the man who leans closely against the inner side of the wall, smiles grimly.
"I am on time," he mutters, "and if Dema keeps her word, fifteen minutes more will make me a free man. Then, Nick Carter, prince of detectives, look out for breakers."
The last few words escaped from his lips more like the hiss of a snake than the mutterings of a man, but if his face could be seen in the darkness, a soft and cunning smile instead of a ferocious frown would be found upon it.
He waits, patiently leaning against the wall.
Minute after minute passes until five are gone.
Suddenly, away off in the distance, a mile away, perhaps, there sounds the sharp report of a pistol.
Again the man smiles.
"The signal!" he mutters.
Then he straightens up and waits somewhat more expectantly than before.
Another minute passes.
Then, through the air there comes a faint, swishing sound, scarcely distinguishable, and yet, by him, plainly heard.
Something falls upon his head, and then, in coils, like a reptile, glides to the ground. He stoops and picks it up, for it is one end of a stout cord which has been flung over the wall.
He jerks rapidly upon it; short, twitching jerks, but he makes no effort to pull the cord over the wall.
Suddenly he pauses, and the cord is jerked from the other side. Somebody is telegraphing to him from the outer world, and he understands and answers.
Presently he releases the cord from his grasp, and it glides rapidly away, more like a snake than ever, until it disappears over the top of the wall.
Suddenly there comes another low, swishing noise.
It is deeper and somewhat louder than that which preceded it, but it ceases quickly, and the man in the shadow seizes one end of a rope-ladder, which is made of silk cord and twisted.
But he does not mount the ladder. He still waits, as though expecting something more.
It is only a signal that he awaits, and presently it comes in the form of three quick twitches on the silken rope. Then he starts forward.
He places his feet upon the ladder and begins to ascend. Slowly at first, then rapidly.
Up, up, up until his hands seize the summit of the wall. There he pauses.
The guard is approaching, walking rapidly.
He hangs there and waits.
The position seems most precarious.
The guard comes nearer.
Will he see the rope stretching across the top of the wall? The night is dark to blackness, and yet, even if the guard's eyes do not discern the ladder, his feet may tread upon it, and he thus be apprised of its presence.
The man who waits so silently upon the ladder, just under the edge of the wall, for once loses his smile. He takes something from the striped blouse he wears and grips it savagely in his right hand, while with the other he clings to his frail support.
The something is a knife, long, murderous, dangerous in the hands of a desperate man, in the grasp of one who has been condemned to pass the balance of his life behind prison-walls, when he sees only the life of a guard between him and freedom.
Nearer comes the guard, closely muffled in his coat, and with his hat pulled down over his eyes to protect them from the sleet.
He reaches the silk ladder, and his foot passes over it.
There is very little to spare, but still it does not touch.
The other foot follows, and both are clear of the obstruction.
The man hanging there in the darkness, places the knife blade between his teeth, and then, using both hands, pulls himself upright, until his head and shoulders are above the top of the wall. All seems clear now.
While the guard is at the other end of his beat, the escaping prisoner will cross the wall and descend on the other side. A flip of the ladder will throw it from the iron spikes, and he will pull it down after him and glide away in the darkness.
But no!
A sudden noise arises from the ground on the outer side of the wall.
It is made by the snapping of a twig or the cracking of a pebble, perhaps.
It is very faint, but it is enough to attract the attention of the guard.
He stops suddenly and listens, bending over and peering downward into the darkness in the attempt to see what has caused the noise.
The escaping convict realizes that he must act now or never.
Again that cruel smile plays upon his face.
Like a serpent he glides upon the summit of the wall until he stands upright behind the guard, with the murderous knife again seized tightly in his grasp.
There is one instant when the guard, by moving on, might save his own life, but the noise has attracted him and he means to ascertain what has caused it.
The decision is fatal.
As he stoops still lower, the left arm of the escaping prisoner darts forward as quickly as the tongue of a toad.
The hand seizes the guard by his throat, and closes tightly upon it, thus shutting off every chance of a cry of alarm from the doomed man.
At the same instant the other hand, grasping the hideous knife, descends, and the deadly weapon is buried to its hilt between the guard's shoulders.
He does not even gasp; he cannot, for the convicts other hand never for an instant releases its terrible grip upon his throat.
Tighter and tighter the convict clenches his muscular fingers.
He is a man of extraordinary strength, for in his energy, and with his left hand alone, he once lifts the dying guard from his feet and holds him there at arm's length in order that he may make no noise upon the wall with his feet.
There are a few convulsive shudders.
The form of the guard first becomes rigid and then relaxes.
He is dead.
The soft smile which is yet so cruel again plays over the face of the convict.
Gently, as though he were handling a babe, he lowers the body until it lies prostrate upon the top of the wall.
Then with a jerk he withdraws the reeking knife, and wipes it upon the clothes which cover the dead body.
With a quick motion he seizes the two revolvers which the guard has in his belt, and transfers them to his own person.
Not a sound that might have been heard five feet away, has escaped either man in the brief but terrible struggle.
The footfalls of the guard on the next section of the wall can be plainly heard by the convict as he straightens up, but he pays no heed to them, knowing that they will not come his way.
Quickly he pulls upon the rope-ladder.
A signal answers him, and he seizes the frail, snake-like instrument and rapidly descends.
In ten seconds he is upon the ground outside the wall.
Two persons are there awaiting him.
One is a man; the other, a woman.
"Quick!" he whispers, as he touches the ground, "I had to kill the guard. We have just ten minutes. Where are the duds?"
"Here."
A bundle is thrown at his feet.
In a twinkling he rips off the striped garments that he has worn in the prison.
"Skip, Bob," he whispers to the man. "Meet us at the old place. Dema and I can work the rest of this racket."
The man called Bob, turns and glides away in the darkness.
In a moment more the convict makes the necessary change. A wig of long gray hair is on his head, and a beard of snowy whiteness is under his chin, A slouch hat, a long coat, a heavy cane, and a placard on his breast, which reads, "Please help the blind," complete the disguise.
WITHIN the walls of the great State prison of California, all was commotion.
A prisoner had escaped, and a "lifer" at that.
The first alarm was sounded by one of the guards on the outer wall, who, missing the companion with whom he shared the post-house between their respective beats, had hurried in search of him.
A few leaps had brought him to the spot where Jim Fulsom, always a faithful and fearless prison-guardsman, lay stretched upon the top of the wall dead.
Murdered!
There was an ugly wound in his back to tell how the crime had been committed, and a rope-ladder which lay across the top of the wall near him, descending on either side, betrayed the reason for the deed.
The guard who made the discovery gave instant alarm, and every effort was made to recapture the fugitive.
Officers were hastily sent out to scour the neighborhood; word was sent to the city police, and a general description of the escaped convict was telegraphed in every direction.
Beneath the prison-wall was found the cast-off garb which the convict had worn while in custody, but no other clew of any sort was forthcoming.
The man had disappeared as mysteriously as though the darkness of that tempestuous night had swallowed him up.
"The morning papers got out "extras" in which the affair was graphically described. Here is a copy of one of the headings:
ESCAPE OF DR. QUARTZ.
PRISON-GUARD FULSOM MURDERED AT HIS POST.
Everybody in California knew who Dr. Quartz was.
People in San Francisco knew him particularly well, for there he had lived for several years, carrying on his practice as a physician, winning renown as such by reason of his undoubted skill, but at the same time committing crime after crime, until he counted as many victims as the principal bully and desperado of a mining-camp in the mountains.
There, also, he had thrived, unsuspected, until Nick Carter, in solving "The Mystery of a Piano-Box," had at last brought his criminal career to a temporary close.
But now the man was again free, and those who knew him knew also that he would leave no stone unturned to work out a terrible vengeance upon those who had been instrumental in his arrest and conviction.
None knew it better than the chief of the detective bureau in San Francisco.
Dr. Quartz had once sworn to kill both him and Nick Carter, and the chief knew that he would endeavor to keep his word.
The evening following the escape, a letter was received by the chief:
"I have escaped and am now at liberty," it read. "Find me if you can, but permit me to say you cannot. Sooner or later you must die, chief. I have said so, as you know, and I have a curious habit of keeping my word. But I will grant you a respite, say of one month, for in the meantime I have another fish to fry. After that, look out for rough weather. Until we meet, I am mockingly yours,
"J.G. Quartz, M.D."
"I know who the other fish is," mused the chief. "He is going on a still hunt for Nick Carter. Good! Carter can take care of himself, I think, and in the meantime, the place to look for Dr. Quartz, alias Jack Quigley, is in New York city."
Inspector Byrnes had already received a telegram, in which he was warned of the escape, etc., but the chief speedily wrote another.
Here it is, reproduced:
TO NICHOLAS CARTER No. — ——— ST., NEW YORK CITY:
QUARTZ ESCAPED. THINK HE IS AFTER YOU. SEE BYRNES FOR PARTICULARS.
Nick Carter and Chick, his assistant, were sitting together in the smoking-room of Nick's house, when the telegram was received.
Chick had just obtained a leave of absence from his master, and in an hour was to start on a pleasure trip to San Francisco, for there was a powerful magnet in the shape of a young lady named Bertha Mortimer, which drew him there.
On hearing the contents of the telegram, however, he said at once:
"That settles it, Nick; I can't go."
"Why not?"
"You will need me here."
"Pshaw!"
"Quartz is a dangerous man."
"Very likely; and for that very reason it is all the more necessary that you should go to San Francisco."
"Why?"
"Because there is a young lady there, named Bertha Mortimer, with whom you are in love, and because Dr. Quartz cordially hates her, and may forget me long enough to do her some ill-turn first. I think you had better cling to your original plan, Chick."
And Chick did.
On the following day, about noon, Nick Carter walked into the private office of Inspector Byrnes.
The object of his visit was soon made known, and the escape of Dr. Quartz discussed.
"I haven't a doubt that he will come to New York," said Nick, presently.
"Perhaps; but why so positive?"
"He swore to kill me."
"Bah!"
"He will make the effort, inspector."
"Then he is made of different stuff from most crooks."
"So he is. My experience among the criminal classes has been somewhat extensive, as you know, inspector, and this man Quartz, or Quigley, is, without doubt, the most difficult fellow with whom I have had to contend."
"Tell me about him, Nick."
'You know me fairly well, inspector, don't you?"
"Rather."
"Very well, multiply me by two, and you will have a pretty fair idea of Dr. Quartz."
"Impossible, Nick."
"It is true, nevertheless. I am called the Little Giant because I am muscular; Dr. Quartz is twice as powerful in his muscles as I."
The inspector looked astonished.
"How about his brains, Nick?" he asked.
Nick mused a moment.
"At dissimulation," he answered, presently, "at disguises, in point of education, and in cunning and daring, he is certainly my equal."
"Indeed! you surprise me. For once, then, you have found a foeman worthy of your steel—a man who is your equal in this strange warfare."
"Yes; if not my superior."
"Are you flunking, Nick?" asked the inspector, looking fixedly at the detective.
Nick laughed.
"No," he said; "I am simply doing this man justice. I shall down him, inspector, in the long run, but I've got the biggest job on hand that I ever tackled yet."
"You think that he will come to New York?"
"I am sure of it."
"If he is so formidable, you will want some help from this office."
"No, sir; that is precisely why I am here to-day."
"I don't understand."
"Simply this. This is a case which comes naturally within the jurisdiction of your office, and I want you to let me manage it alone."
"But, Nick—"
"Pardon me, inspector. You have often asked me to take cases for you, and I have never refused. I now ask you to turn one over to me as a favor. I don't see how you can well refuse."
"I can't."
"Thanks. This is a sort of duel between Quartz and me, and I am going to win."
"I'll bet on you, Nick."
"Thanks again."
"But if this fellow is so formidable, you will want help."
"When I do, I will ask for it."
"Good. We want this eminent physician here, don't we?"
"Yes, for murder. A girl named Ethel Burns was his victim. He cut up her body, embalmed it, and sent it to California by freight in the same car in which he traveled with her sister in the piano-box, you will remember."
"Perfectly, yes. Those girls had a brother—"
"Yes, Oscar Burns."
"I remember. Nothing could be proved against him."
And so the two greatest detectives in the world parted, and before they met again, the inspector was well satisfied that Nick had not overestimated the powers of Dr. Quartz.
LET us return to that stormy night when Dr. Quartz broke his way out of prison, climbed the wall, murdered the guard, Jim Fulsom, and thus made good his escape.
The disguise which had been prepared for him was perfect.
With the slouch hat upon his head, a heavy green shade over his eyes, and the long-tailed, greasy coat, he resembled not at all the convict who had so lately escaped after having stained his hands with yet another crime.
The woman who led him by the hand was young and beautiful, could a glimpse have been taken of her beneath the veil she wore.
Before them trotted a little dog, with all the complacency of an animal accustomed to caring for the blind.
In truth, Dema had hired the dog from a blind beggar, with the idea that the canine would effectually complete the disguise.
The escape of Dr. Quartz from prison had been planned and executed in a remarkable manner.
Communication with a "lifer," of a nature which would afford opportunity for making such plans, was utterly impossible, and no one was better aware of that fact than Dr. Quartz.
The result was, that the moment he was arrested, he began planning his escape from prison, for he knew that he would be convicted, and that no subsequent chance would afford him an opportunity of communicating his plans to his friends.
In less than a week, from the time of his arrest, his plans were made. Before his trial was finished, they were in the hands of Dema Dorrance and "Bouncer Bob," and he had nothing to do but wait.
He purposely fixed a time two months ahead, appointing the day—or rather the night—and the very hour and minute when the attempt was to be made.
Then he rested tranquilly, knowing that he could depend upon the exercise of every possible effort by his friends.
The pistol-shot in the distance was a part of the arrangements, and it told him as plainly as words could have done, that everything had been prepared exactly as he had directed.
The doctor and Dema made their way, hand in hand, directly to the front of the prison, and were immediately before the entrance when the alarm sounded which told everybody within hearing that a prisoner had escaped.
But they did not hurry their steps.
Instead, they paused, exhibiting that idle curiosity which would have been natural to two such persons, in passing the prison at that moment.
The time was after two o'clock in the morning, and a pelting rain was falling, so that they did not manifest more than a passing suggestion of curiosity, after which they continued ploddingly on their way.
Twice they were stopped by officers; but only for an instant, and just as clocks were striking three, they entered a room in a dark quarter of the city, and closed and locked the door behind them.
"Now, Dema," said the doctor, sharply, "answer me quickly."
"Fire way, Doc."
"What about Paul Dangerfield?"
"Nothing."
"Has he been missed?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Where are we to meet the others?"
"There."
"Good! I'll be ready in two minutes."
Dema brought him a satchel.
He hastily threw aside the disguise of a blind beggar.
Then he opened the satchel.
A smile—the one habitual with him—passed over his face.
He began to work rapidly, and in fifteen minutes he had finished.
The most acute detective would not have discovered the slightest resemblance to the blind beggar, or to the lately escaped convict.
When he had finished, he stood before Dema, the personification of a well-dressed gentleman bordering on sixty years of age.
His dress and his manners were elegant.
His face was adorned by an iron-gray mustache and imperial, a diamond glistened in his shirt-front, and his entire make-up was that of a man of refinement and wealth.
"So far so good, Dema," he said. "In a half-hour I will be out of danger."
"You are out of it now," she replied, laughing. "I have to call you Uncle Paul again."
"Yes; and now is the carriage ready?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Where you ordered it to be."
"Good! You and Bob are jewels of priceless worth. There is just one thing that you forgot to provide."
"What is that?"
"An umbrella."
"Here are two."
"Ah, come then!"
They left the house, taking care to notice that they were unobserved.
Five minutes later they were seated in a closed carriage, which was rolling rapidly over the pavements.
"Tell me what you have done," the doctor said, presently.
"Everything that you ordered."
"You rigged Bob out?"
"Yes."
"And had him appear in the flower-garden, and at the window after my conviction?"
"Yes, often."
"Excellent. One thing more; did Bob find Shorty and Long Tom and enlist their services?"
"He did. Both are now in New York awaiting you."
"Humph!"
Silence was maintained after that until the carriage drew up before the door of an unpretentious but eminently respectable-looking residence.
There they boldly alighted, the doctor assisting his pseudo-niece with all the gallantry for which in the days of his prosperity as a physician, he had been famous.
The house door was opened for them, and immediately closed after they had passed through.
The doctor at once became all energy.
"Who drove the carriage, Bob?" he asked, sharply.
"A fellow named Simmons."
"Do you know him?"
"No."
"He must be silenced, then."
"I have fixed him."
"How?"
"I gave him one of your favorite cigars to smoke."
"Ah!"
"He was full of gratitude."
"Indeed!"
"Said he would have a good smoke as soon as he took care of his horse."
"Good! He will be found dead, and dead men tell no tales."
"Unless the cigar fails, as one of them did with Nick Carter," said Dema.
"Bah!" exclaimed the doctor. "I have improved upon them since then. They are stronger than they were."
"Then if the driver smokes—"
"He is a dead man."
Dema laughed.
It was a joyous, rippling laugh that she uttered, and hearing her one would never suppose that she was amused because a fellow-creature was about to die.
Even the doctor looked at her in astonishment.
"When you were manufactured," he said to her, "the stock of hearts had run out."
"Bah!" she said, laughing again. "I love power. To hold a man's life in the hollow of my hand, to feel that I can send him to his grave without personal contact, and yet without employing a confidant is delightful."
Bouncer Bob looked at her and shuddered.
"It behooves your friends to beware of you," he said.
"Yes," she replied, and again a merry laugh lit up her beautiful face. "I would not hesitate to rid myself of any one who stood in my way."
Dr. Quartz looked at her and smiled, and as she met his glance, the laughter faded from her eyes and she became suddenly pale.
Neither spoke again for some time.
On the following day, Paul Dangerfield, Esq., accompanied by his niece and servant, took the train for New York.
"You are a fool to go there of all places," said Bob, before they started, and when they were engaged in making preparations.
The doctor smiled at Bob before he answered.
Then he said:
"Perhaps, although it is not wise to tell me so, Bob. Communications of that kind are dangerous, and what would be foolish in another, in me, is wise. You may remain here, if you wish."
"No," sullenly, "I will go."
"You cannot be separated from Dema, eh?"
"Dema, be—"
"What, Bob?"
"Blessed!"
Bob turned away with a curious paleness on his face, for although he was a man to whom fear was almost unknown, he felt it in all its terrors when Dr. Quartz smiled.
PAUL DANGERFIELD—otherwise Dr. Quartz—traveled from California to New York via the usual route, taking the Pennsylvania Railroad from Chicago.
By that means, he passed through Philadelphia en route, where he stopped for two days.
Although he staid at the best hotel, and seemed very methodical and precise in his habits, yet the fact was that he secretly spent both of his nights there among the dark and narrow streets and alley-ways where the criminal classes abound.
He had formerly known something of an organization, which was called the "Night Hawks," and with several of the ex-members of that band of outlaws he had business.
Just what he did there does not appear.
However, seventy-two hours later, he was in New York, where he was soon located in a furnished house in a fashionable part of the city.
He spent a week in completing his arrangements, in which only Bob and Dema were made his confidants.
But at midnight, immediately after he was in readiness to proceed with his work, having disguised himself as a laboring man, he ran up the steps of a house in Rivington street, and, placing a key in the door, entered.
Passing through the house to the yard, he made his way through the fence by means of a little door cunningly concealed, and entered the house adjoining by the rear door.
All was dark and silent.
The house seemed deserted, but he found his way to the stairs by means of a bull's-eye lantern, and having ascended, he paused before a door upon which he gave one sharp rap with his knuckles.
There was a cautious sound within, and then a little wicket was pushed aside, and a voice whispered:
"Who raps here?"
"No. 1," replied the doctor.
"For whom does he inquire?"
"Thirteen."
"Good; you may enter."
The door was thrown open, and the doctor went in. He was in a room, the walls of which were completely covered by black muslin.
Stripes were hung over the windows and doors, thus excluding the possibility of the escape of any light to be observed by people outside.
There were already twelve men in the room when the doctor entered, and they rose as with one accord when he stood in their midst.
Nobody spoke until the doctor was seated, and then he was the first to break the silence.
"We are the 'Thirteen,'" he said, solemnly.
"We are," they answered.
"We have a common cause."
"We have."
"We are banded together for vengeance."
"True."
"Who is the object of our hatred?"
"Nick Carter."
"Good! You have all suffered at his hands."
"We have."
"Let No. 2 stand forward."
A man, over six feet in height, angular and coarse in every feature, with a veritable demon in his face, rose from his chair, and stood in the center of the room.
He was the one to whom reference has been made as Long Tom.
"Why do you hate Nick Carter?" asked the doctor, coldly.
"For the loss of my left hand," was the reply, and he held up the stump where the missing hand had been.
"How did you lose it?"
"In a struggle. We grappled, and the detective seized me by my left hand, and bent it backward until my wrist broke. I was obliged to have the hand amputated."
"Ah! Then you hate him?"
"Hate him!" and an expression that was genuinely fiendish swept across his face.
"No. 3," called the doctor.
Shorty took Long Tom's place in the center of the room.
He was short and fat, and his face looked as though a grin, evil as well as humorous, had frozen there and become perpetual.
"Why do you hate Nick Carter?"
"For this," and he pointed to his misshapen nose, which looked as though it had once been used for an anvil by some blacksmith.
"There was a row. The Little Giant wanted me. I didn't want to go. He hit me, an' I've never had no nose since."
"So you want a nose for a nose, eh?"
"No; I want a life for a nose."
"Well said. No. 4!"
"Here."
"Why do you hate the Little Giant?"
"Cos he sent me up the river fur five years, and broke my leg with a kick when I tried to get away from him."
"No. 5."
"Here."
"What is your story?"
"See them fingers?" and he held up his right hand, from which the first, second, and third fingers were missing.
"No; I see where they were."
""Well, he shot 'em off, he did."
"How?"
"He came to arrest me an' my pal. We was in a room in Houston street. While he was pickin' my pal up an' a-chuckin' him ag'in the wall, I pulled my pop an' got ahead on him."
"Why didn't you shoot?"
"I was a-goin' ter, but I didn't have time. Afore I could pull that trigger, he fired right through this pocket an' shot away them fingers, an' 'fore I knowed it, I was handcuffed an' sent up for a tenner—but I got away by jumpin' from the black mariar 'tween ther jail an' ther court house."
"Do you want to get even?"
"I'm bound ter, I am."
"No. 6!"
"Here."
"Are you 'in it?'"
"Yes."
"What did the detective do for you?"
"Broke me jaw."
"Anything else?"
"Sent me brother to the gallows."
"And you're looking for Carter's blood?"
"You bet."
"No. 7!"
"Here."
"What did he break for you?"
"Nothin'."
"What did he do to you?"
"Nothin'."
"Why are you here, then?"
"Cos I hate him."
"Why?"
"He fooled me once."
"How?"
"By gittin' ther irons onto my pal, an' then dressin' up like him."
"Well?"
"He came whar I was waitin' fur Black Billy to turn up, an' blowed ef he didn't make me b'lieve he was Bill."
"He begun talkin', an so did I, an' he jest got ther hull yarn outen me 'thout any trouble. Bill had to go up for ten years. He's there now. He swore I peached on him, and that he'd cut out my liver when his time was up. He'll do it, too."
"I see. No. 8!"
"Here."
"What's your complaint?"
"Jim-jams."
"Eh?"
"I never sleep 'thout dreamin'; I never dream 'thout seein' Nick Carter; I never see him 'thout wishin' he was dead fur pickin' me up in his arms onct on board of a sloop in the bay, an' chuckin' me like a rubber ball right plumb inter the faces an' arms of my friends, who were goin' ter do him."
"Did they do him?"
"No, nobody ever did, an ef we fellers can't, I'm a-goin' ter git some feller to shoot me."
"Good! No. 9!"
"That's me."
"What's your story?"
"Three years an' six months."
"No. 10!"
"Here."
"What is yours?"
"Same as ten's."
"For the same reason?"
"Yep."
"No. 11!"
A little, cat-like, swarthy Italian stepped forward.
He was a pickpocket by profession, and a very expert one.
His dark eyes flashed ominously, while his fingers twitched as though he would like to clutch the handle of a stiletto—his favorite weapon.
"I hate him, this Nick Carter," he gritted out in excellent English. "He caused my father to be hung for stabbing a man, and I have sworn the vendetta. He shall die, if I can kill him."
"Good! No. 12!"
"Here."
"What has Carter done to you?"
"Done? He came up behind me once, and before I had a fair chance I was bound hand and feet. Then he stood me up in a corner, an' with paint and false hair an' a lot o' stuff, cussed if he didn't make himself to look so much like me that I wouldn't ha' know'd the difference myself."
"What then?"
"I was helpin' some friends o' mine to make an' pass some ten-dollar bills, an cussed ef he didn't walk in onto 'em with a lot o' cops.
"They thought twar me, an' thought I'd blowed. He had the dead wood, an' so, to save myself, I turned State's evidence. I only got a year, but the others got all the way from five to twenty.
"Some of 'em 'll be out purty soon, an' ef Nick Carter ain't dead afore that, they'll lay me out, that's all."
"He will be, 12. No. 13."
"Here. I hate him cos I hate him. I've got a reason which I ain't goin' ter tell; ef ye don't like it, lump it. Ef ye don't want me, I'll git—ef ye do, I'll stay."
"Stay, 13; we want you. Now, my friends, I am No. 1. I hate Nick Carter because I think he is the only man that is as smart and quick as I am. But he is not so strong, and we will down him. Once out of the way, we will have clear sailing. Is there any man in this room, who has not, some time in his life, committed a murder?"
Silence was his answer.
"It is well," said the doctor; "and now I want you all to take the thirteen's oath of vengeance."
IT was then that those thirteen desperate men, all criminals, every one of whom confessed to one or more murders, took a solemn oath which bound them together for one definite purpose, and that purpose which they swore to accomplish was the murder of the great American detective, Nick Carter.
Dr. Quartz smiled with great satisfaction, for he felt that his object would be easy of accomplishment.
He did not fear that he could not consummate the deed alone and unaided.
But the wily doctor was shrewd and farseeing.
He did not, by any means, underrate the abilities of the man he sought to destroy.
His purpose in banding those desperate characters together was twofold. If by any chance he should fail, and Nick Carter should again get the best of him, he would know that there were still at large, twelve enemies who were sworn to kill the man he hated.
Again, if he should succeed in accomplishing the act himself, and should be too hotly pursued, it would be a comparatively easy matter to turn suspicion from himself to one or more of the twelve men who that night took that frightful oath.
He began operations systematically, like a general of an army who plans an extended campaign.
Upon three of his men, he placed great reliance, because he knew them well.
They were Long Tom, Shorty, and the little Italian.
That those three had already been at work became evident from the questions and answers which followed the taking of the oath.
"Have you seen the detective to-day?" he asked, addressing Long Tom.
"I have."
"Where?"
"He went to the central office, and spent an hour with Inspector Byrnes."
"Ah, and you followed?"
"I did."
"Without his catching on?"
"Can't say. He's a hard one to shadow."
"Well, what then?"
"He went home."
"Good, and you?"
"I hung around till dark, and then I came here."
"Not directly."
"Do I look as green as all that?"
"No, Tom, not quite."
"Neither am I."
"Where did you go?"
"I stopped in every gin-mill I came to, and gradually got loaded."
"Ah!"
"Full up to the neck. When I had a good comfortable jag on, I reeled into my old quarters in Houston street, and tumbled into bed."
"Did you lock the door?"
"Not much! I didn't do nothin' but snore, and I went into that for all I was worth. I was as sober as a judge, but anybody who had seen or heard me would have thought me loaded for beer."
"How long did you stay there?"
"Two hours, snoring like blazes all the time."
"See anything."
"No."
"Hear anything?"
"No."
"Do you think you were followed?"
"Dunno. If I was, it didn't go any farther than that, for if Nick Carter himself had been on my track he would have been satisfied and gone away and left me for drunk."
"Good, Tom. Now, what is the result of your investigations?"
"I am satisfied that he suspects that you are here."
"Why?"
"He's been lookin' up the pedigree of the feller you talked about once."
"Oscar, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Ah, that is something! Did you take a good look at his house?"
"You bet."
"What sort of a crib is it?"
"Easy."
"Can you crack it?"
"By half-trying."
"Very well. To-morrow night you and Shorty will go there between two and three in the morning. You will enter the house, pick up any swag that you can find, but, above all, find the detective's room, and run a knife into him, if you can."
"All right, Doc."
"I will be there."
"Correct."
Then the doctor turned to the others.
"This is the last time that we will all meet at the same time and place," he said. "Carter might follow one of us, and finding where we were, bring a reserve down upon us, and catch us like rats in a trap. It would be dangerous. After to-night, you will report to Bob at the times and places already indicated. Each man will go to work on his own hook; when I want you I will know where to find you.
"Go, now, and see that you do your work well."
Then addressing the Italian:
"Dominick, you remain; I want to talk with you."
As he ceased speaking, he uttered a sharp sound, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth, and then suddenly withdrawing it.
It was a signal which they well understood.
No sooner had the noise escaped him, than every light in the room was suddenly extinguished, leaving them all enveloped in total darkness.
"Good!" muttered the doctor, smiling even in the dark. "I see you have learned that lesson well. Master as thoroughly all the others that I have suggested, and we will not only accomplish the purpose which brought us together, but 'The Thirteen' will cause a reign of terror in this community.
"Thirteen is an unlucky number—for those who are not in it. Remember, you are all in my pay. I want implicit obedience, and the first man who fails to obey me, dies. Go!"
Without a sound they stole away.
There was something about the doctor—perhaps it was his soft smile—which awed and terrified even those savage and brutalized beings, and there was not one who was, not glad to leave him.
Each felt that in Dr. Quartz he had found his master, but none of them knew that that same master would not hesitate to sacrifice them all to gain his ends, and that, when he enlisted the twelve into his service; every one of them was marked for the grave.
The doctor knew how to murder scientifically, and he had coldly calculated that not one of the men who might learn to know him in this conspiracy, should live to tell the tale.
"They all smoke—they all drink," he mused, with that strange smile on his face, when laying his plans, "and some of them may overdo the matter when I have done with them."
As soon as the doctor was satisfied that he was alone with Dominick (for the lamps had not been relighted, and they were immersed in Stygian darkness), he called the Italian to him.
"Have you a stiletto, Dominick?" he asked, speaking in Italian.
"Si, signor."
"Light a lamp, and let me see it."
The would-be assassin obeyed, and they were soon bending over the glittering weapon, examining it.
Then the doctor took a small vial from his pocket, and with great care withdrew the cork.
The tip of the stiletto was so small and tapering that it could easily be inserted in the neck of the vial, and Dr. Quartz thrust it into the dark-colored liquid with which the little vial was filled.
Presently he drew it out again, and returned the weapon to its owner.
"Take it, Dominick," he said; "but don't scratch yourself with it, or use it for a toothpick."
"Why?"
"Because a scratch from it will kill now, as effectually as a stab through the heart with it would have done an hour ago. It is tipped with the venom of the cobra, distilled and intensified. Go, now, and find a place to use it."
Without a word, the Italian departed.
The doctor was alone, and his face was wreathed in smiles.
Five minutes later, he put out the light, pushed open the slide of his bull's-eye lantern, and then left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
He left the place by the same route by which he had entered it, moving along stealthily and noiselessly, pausing every now and then to listen and to watch.
Twice he fancied that he heard a noise, and the second time he drew a little weapon from his pocket, and held it ready for use.
But he could not be positive that he was followed, and he was presently in the street.
A dark shadow did glide after him, however.
A shadow that had been hidden in the hallway while the "Thirteen" were holding their conference.
In the excess of their shrewdness, the "Thirteen" had taken the very best means of warning Nick Carter of their presence.
He had realized that he was followed when Long Tom was shadowing him, and he had returned the compliment with interest.
He had seen Tom get "full," and, to do the "crook" justice, Nick had really believed that the man was under the influence of liquor.
There was just one point in which Long Tom failed, and that was that he overdid his part.
He got a little bit too drunk, and the liquor affected him remarkably quick.
"Hither this amateur 'shadow' had a comfortable jag on already, or else he is making two-thirds of this spree," mused Nick, as he followed him.
"One thing is always certain, he would not have undertaken to shadow me, unless he had some well-defined object in view, and that object is without doubt instigated by my genial friend, Dr. Quartz.
"Very good; if that is the case, drunk or sober, this man will sooner or later lead me to Quartz, and I'll just hang to him, if it takes a week."
He followed Tom to his quarters in Houston street, he penetrated to the door of his room, and heard the man snore.
"Hardly genuine, that;" thought Nick, "I don't believe he'll sleep long."
And he didn't.
When he did get up and start for the rendezvous, Nick Carter, perfectly disguised as an east-side bully and tough, was close at his heels.
The place of rendezvous was in a house in Rivington street, the basement of which was occupied as a low dive for abandoned men and women of the worst type.
Nick entered, and made himself very much at home, although his face was strange.
But he kept his eye on Long Tom all the while.
The latter had recovered from his drunk in wonderfully quick time, and the detective was thoroughly satisfied that he would soon be on the track of something which would prove to be worth all his trouble.
When, at last, Tom did start for the room where he was to meet the others, Nick went also, and during all the time that the conference lasted he remained in the hall outside with one ear pressed against the threshold of the door.
He could not hear all that was said, nor half of it, in fact.
But he caught now and then a word which satisfied him as to the purpose of the meeting as well as of the fact that there were thirteen men in that room who had sworn a solemn oath to kill him.
NICK reasoned that Dr. Quartz would be the last one to leave the room, in which the meeting had taken place, and he resolved to remain concealed in the hallway until the others had all left and then to follow the last man.
"When once I know where to put my hands upon Dr. Quartz," he mused, "I can gather the others in one by one, and reserve him for the last."
It would not do to capture the leader first, for he knew that the others would immediately take the alarm and leave for parts unknown.
Thus, there would be twelve desperate men at large, each of whom had sworn to kill him.
With their leader gone, they would scatter, and thus become much more dangerous, and thrice as difficult to apprehend.
On the other hand, just as long as their leader was unmolested, they would stick together, or, at least, remain in communication with each other, and they could thus be made to play into the detective's hands.
He counted the men as they came from the room.
"Eleven," he muttered, when silence reigned again; "I certainly thought that there were thirteen there. One of them must have remained behind with the Doc."
Again he crept forward, and listened at the door.
He could hear the low murmur of voices as the doctor and Dominick conversed, but he could not catch a word of what was said.
Suddenly the door opened, and he had barely time to draw back sufficiently to permit the Italian to pass him.
As it was, there were not more than six inches between him and the crafty murderer.
Dominick little realized that the very man whom he had sworn to kill was crouching so close to him that he could easily have pricked him with the poisoned tip of his murderous stiletto.
So he passed on, down the stairs and away, while Nick drew back and waited for the leader to come out.
He had not long to wait.
Nick saw the flash of the lantern which the doctor carried, and knew that it would require all of his cunning to avoid being discovered.
To hide was out of the question.
Dodging the flash of the bull's-eye was his only chance, and so he remained close against the wall near the door-casing as the doctor emerged from the room.
Nick was in his stocking feet, for he had removed his shoes when he followed Long Tom up the stairs.
As the doctor stepped out of the room, he threw his light the entire length of the hall, so that it quickly swept the whole area.
Few persons besides Nick Carter could have avoided it, but Nick's agility was as phenomenal as his strength.
Standing within two feet of the wily doctor, he stepped behind him so quickly and so silently that neither a noise nor a shadow served to warn the physician of his proximity.
Then as Quartz turned to lock the door, Nick stepped back again the other way.
While he was dodging, he held his little revolver in his right hand, and he was prepared to use it at any instant, for he well knew that if the doctor discovered his presence, one of them would have to die then and there, and he was resolved that it should not be Nick Carter who went under.
However, he was not discovered.
He had to dodge back and forth several times, but he always did it so silently and noiselessly that he did not betray himself.
Nick realized that there was only one way in which to successfully shadow Dr. Quartz, at least until the street was reached, and that was by keeping within a few feet of him all the while.
It was a difficult feat to perform while they were descending the stairs, but nothing risked, nothing gained, and holding his revolver in constant readiness, he did it.
Whenever the doctor turned to look behind, and to flash his lantern over the path that he had just traversed, Nick escaped discovery by stepping to one side and crouching where the ray of light was not likely to strike him.
There was always the chance that it would, but Nick's life was made up of taking chances, and luck was always on his side.
So they descended the stairs, and passed out into the yard.
There, where there was a convenient shelter, Nick paused.
He saw the doctor enter the next house, and realizing that he could not follow him through it, he hurried to the street through the dark and ill-smelling hallway that adjoined the "dive."
When he gained the street, he waited for Quartz to appear.
Five minutes passed before the door opened, and then an Italian ragpicker with a bag and iron-hook came out.
"That's Quartz," muttered Nick, and he started in pursuit.
The ragpicker paused at every ash-barrel and poked with his hook among the debris that it contained.
He even stopped twice and picked up refuse articles in the street, which would attract the cupidity of one in his profession.
"He plays the part well," thought Nick; "but he would improve if he overcame that evident reluctance to touch the filth which he collects. The ragpicker is Dr. Quartz."
Nick Carter never before exercised such great care in shadowing a man as he bestowed upon Dr. Quartz.
He knew that the man was his equal in most things, and in some his superior.
Just the depth of the man's cunning, or the heights to which his sagacity had soared, he did not know.
He tracked Dr. Quartz with the same feeling that he would have had could he have divided himself in half and followed his own footsteps.
The doctor led him up town, walking rapidly, seeming to disdain the use of cars of any kind.
He turned into Fourteenth street, and then up Irving place.
Nick paused beneath the canopy at the entrance to the Academy of Music, long enough to somewhat alter his appearance.
Bushy red whiskers, a dab of red on his nose and cheeks, a change of hats, and a turned coat, made another man of him.
The change did not consume more than twenty seconds, and during the time he did not lose sight of the doctor.
The change made, he hurried forward.
Quartz turned the corner of Sixteenth street going toward Third avenue.
Nick crossed Sixteenth street on Irving place, and also turned toward Third avenue, only on the side of the street opposite the doctor.
Suddenly Quartz crossed the street abruptly, as though making for an ash-barrel that had attracted him.
The direction he took would have brought him to the curbstone on Nick's side of the street about thirty feet in advance of the detective.
Nick hesitated without seeming to do so.
He realized at once that there was a strong probability that the doctor believed himself shadowed, and was taking that means to find out.
The detective made up his mind in an instant what to do.
Just as Quartz reached the curbstone, Nick turned, and ran up the stone steps of the house that he was passing.
He pulled out his bunch of skeleton keys as he ascended the steps, rattling them with the carelessness of one who lived in the house.
Selecting one of them at hap-hazard, he thrust it into the keyhole.
Luck was still with him.
The key turned the lock, and Nick pushed the door open.
In the meantime Quartz had paid no attention to the ash-barrel, but had turned again toward Irving place, so that as Nick pushed open the door, the doctor reached that point on the sidewalk which was directly in front of it.
Nick was in the act of stepping through the doorway into the vestibule of the house, when he saw the ragpicker make a sudden move with his right arm.
Quick as a flash, the detective leaped aside.
As he did so, there was a whirring sound, and something flashed past him within an inch of his side, and stuck, quivering in the wood-work.
It sung with an angry, hissing whirr, and the detective knew that he had met with a narrow escape.
But he acted instantly.
Like a flash he drew his revolver, and leaped down the steps toward the man who had sought to murder him.
"Hands up, Quartz, or you're a dead doctor!" he exclaimed.
A low laugh answered him; a laugh which he recognized as belonging to Dr. Quartz.
Again the doctor's hand flew up, and Nick pulled the trigger.
Even as he did so—at the self-same instant that the re-port sounded, the detective received a stunning blow upon his head.
Everything grew black, his senses whirled, and Nick Carter fell headlong to the pavement just as another low, mocking laugh rang in his ears.
PRESENTLY Nick Carter opened his eyes.
He was lying upon the pavement, and two policemen were bending over him.
"Comin' to, are you?" said one of them, gruffly, but not unkindly; "are you hurt much?"
"Not much," replied Nick, still somewhat dazed, but rapidly pulling himself together.
"Well, you had a close call," said the second policeman, who was a patrolman, while the other was a roundsman. "Do you know who it was that tried to do you?"
"No—do you?"
"I wish I did."
"Why?"
"I'd light onto 'em."
"Why didn't you do that when you had the chance?"
"What d'ye mean by that?"
"Didn't you see him attack me?"
"Him! Them, you mean! There were three of them."
"Three?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
Nick was puzzled.
There was not a person in sight when he had ascended the steps, except the man he had been following, and now the cop said there were three who had attacked him.
"Tell me what you saw and heard," said Nick, sharply, and getting upon his feet.
"We were on the corner of Irving place," said the roundsman. "We had just reached it when we heard a pistol-shot, and we both started on a run this way, rapping with our sticks as we came."
"Well?"
"You were stretched out here, and three figures were running for all they were worth toward the avenue."
"Did you chase them?"
"Patsy did, but they had a good start, and when he got to the avenue they had disappeared. Say, do you know who hit you?"
"No."
"They meant to kill you."
"Why?"
"Look here."
The roundsman held up a knife, and Nick for the first time was conscious of a pain in his side.
"Where did you get that?" asked Nick.
The roundsman pointed at Nick's vest.
"There," he said.
There was a hole in his vest near the top pocket, showing that after knocking him down, his assailants had endeavored to stab him.
"I guess it didn't touch you, did it?" asked the roundsman.
"I think not," replied Nick. "Ah, they left their sandbag, didn't they?"
"Yes; this is it."
"Well, officers, I'm much obliged. Without knowing it, you saved my life, for if they had not heard you coming, they would have made sure of their work with this knife. I've got this to spare, if you will divide it between you, and leave me the knife and the sandbag," and he handed the roundsman a twenty-dollar bill.
It is needless to say that the proposition was accepted, and the officers soon withdrew.
As soon as he was again alone, Nick ran up the steps of the house once more, to remove the knife that was stuck in the wood-work, and also to close the door which he had so unceremoniously opened.
At the top of the steps, he paused suddenly.
The door was closed, and the knife was gone.
"Humph!" thought the detective; "that's rather strange. If Doc and his two pals had to run for it, they had no time to hurry up these steps in order to get that knife, and I don't see what their object would be, either."
He stepped back and looked the house carefully over.
Not a light nor a sign of life was visible anywhere.
"It may be that somebody inside of that house heard the shot and saw the row," thought Nick, "and was coming out to take a hand when the cops came. If so—ah! By Jove! Why didn't I think of it sooner? I see the whole thing as plain as day now, and I'll just wait here in the neighborhood long enough to prove it. Nick Carter isn't through with you yet, Dr. Quartz, not if I know it."
He turned and walked rapidly away toward third avenue, but, presently he dodged into a hallway long enough to again change his disguise.
Then he stole quietly back toward the house, before which so much had taken place.
As soon as he reached a spot where, by the aid of the street lights, he could command a view of the steps where he had so nearly lost his life, he concealed himself in an area way and waited.
An hour passed, and then he saw a man turn into the street from Irving place, walking rapidly.
He watched the man, and smiled when he saw him ascend those same steps.
As he was unlocking the door, he was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
"A signal," mused Nick. "What fools the smartest of crooks are! In less than a quarter of an hour the other two will come, for all that coughing must have been simply to tell them that the coast is clear.
"That fellow came from Irving place, so the others will come from the avenue.
"I would like to get a good look at them, and if I can manage to meet them under that light—hello! there they come now."
Nick started out from his hiding-place quickly, and staggered forward like a drunken man.
The next moment he was sorry that he had been so hasty, for the couple who were approaching, instead of being two men, were a man and a woman.
"Guess I've made a mistake this time," thought Nick; "but I can't hide again, until they get out of the way."
He drew nearer, and managed to meet them directly under the street light.
"Say, boss," he said, stopping suddenly, "will yer help a poor cuss wid a nickel?"
"You seem to have all the load that you can carry now," said the man, as he tossed a nickel toward Nick. "Go home and sleep it off."
"I will—thanks. I'm kinder lost, though, somehow, see? I've been lookin' fur Broadway fur two hours, an' I ain't found it yet."
"You will have to go the other way," said the woman.
As she spoke, Nick caught a look at her face as the light shone in it for one instant.
Then he leaned helplessly against the lamp-post, muttering his thanks, while the twain continued on their way.
"By Jove! what a beautiful face!" was his mental comment. "All the same, I'd stake a good deal this nickel was given me by the amiable Dr. Quartz."
A moment later he started away in the same direction, and not more than a hundred feet behind them.
The reader already suspects that the two persons whom he had encountered were Dr. Quartz and Dema, and, of course, they entered the very house where so much had happened.
Nick staggered on past the house.
He continued to play his part, for he half-suspected that Quartz would send somebody out to ascertain if he was a genuine drunk.
He was not mistaken.
Bouncer Bob was sent out at once, with instructions to keep his eyes on the "drunk," until he was housed, and then report.
Bob was a good shadow.
Had he been a poorer one, he would have done better, but as it was, Nick being on the lookout for him, quickly found that he was followed.
When he reached Union square, he turned toward Fourteenth street, for he knew where he could find a policeman that he knew, and a sudden idea had come to him, by which he could rid himself of the troublesome "shadow," without creating any suspicion.
Suddenly he saw the policeman of whom he was in search.
"There's Frank," he muttered.
Then he lurched ahead, and presently with a swagger greater than the others, he fell full against the officer, nearly tumbling him over.
"I'm Nick Carter," he whispered, quickly. "Have a row with me, and take me in."
"What's the matter with you?" exclaimed Officer Frank Carroll.
"Oh, dry up!" replied Nick.
"Dry up yourself, or I'll run you in."
"Run nothin' in."
"Come, move on now."
"Oh, go to—"
"What's that?"
"Rats."
"Move on now, or I—"
"I won't move on, an' you ain't man enough to make me, either."
"I ain't, eh?"
"No, you ain't, eh? I kin lick a waggin-full o' blue-coated cops like you. Say, d'ye—"
The officer seized him and whirled him round.
Nick pretended to struggle, and the officer pretended to tap him a couple of times with his stick.
"I'll fix you," he said, and, seizing Nick by the arm, he marched him off toward the station-house.
"What's up, Mr. Carter?" he said, as soon as they were at a safe distance.
"There was a fellow on my track that I did not care to have suspect me. I could have lost him easy enough, but if I had he would only suspect the more. By this way, he will be satisfied that I was a genuine drunk, and that's what I want him to think. He's gone now. Just wait here a minute, and I'll rejoin you."
In two minutes Nick again stepped to the officer's side, having reassumed the character of the tough in which he had first appeared that night.
"You beat the devil," exclaimed Carroll, with genuine admiration.
"I've got to," replied Nick, "in order to beat the man I'm after now. Good-night, Frank, and much obliged."
It did not take Nick long to reach his own house, and, notwithstanding the hour, he seated himself in his study and lighted a cigar.
Suddenly he laughed aloud.
He was thinking, and we are permitted to read his thoughts.
"Quartz never once tumbled to the fact that he was followed, until I ran up the steps of the very house where he is living himself," he mused.
"He tumbled, then, mighty quick. But it is funny to think that I actually got his front door open before he knew it, and right before his eyes at that.
"The merry doctor means business, though, and no mistake. If I had not seen his arm move, and so jumped aside, that knife would have gone into me sure.
"Bah! I see the whole game now, as plain as day.
"Here it is in a nutshell.
"Quartz has come here under an assumed name, and his tastes won't permit him to play anything but the respectable act.
"The girl passes as his daughter, or niece, or wife, or ward, and the fellow who followed me is probably a servant.
"They were both in the basement, watching for the return of the ragpicker, and that is why he went down the street on the other side end crossed in full view of the basement window.
"He didn't know that he was followed, and, if I had kept on my way, I could have passed him, and seen him enter his house, and he would never have been any wiser.
"The trouble is, I gave him credit for being sharper than he really is, and in seeking to dodge him, went up the steps of the very house which he was about to enter himself, by way of the basement.
"He knew that I didn't belong there, and in an instant realized that I was a detective and had followed him.
"Knowing me to be a detective, it followed that I must be Nick Carter, and the opportunity was too good to be lost—hence the knife.
"He did not enter the basement, and those who were waiting for him stole out to see what was the matter, or, perhaps, they heard my feet on the stone steps.
"At all events, one of them was behind me when I fired, and it must have been the girl, for if the man had struck me with a sandbag, I would not have come to as quickly as I did.
"She hit me with the bag, and the servant struck at me with the dagger.
"It was not the girl, for she would not have had time, and it was not the doctor, because he would not have missed.
"By the way, I guess I'll have a look at that wound."
Investigation showed that the dagger had pierced his vest, and then, having struck against the buckle of his suspender, had glanced and only slightly scratched his side.
"A close call," he mused; "but then, a miss is a miss.
"What I don't understand is how I missed the doctor when I fired.
"Ah! I have it. My aim never misses, and the sandbag did not hit me soon enough to spoil it.
"What then? Why simply that the bullet hit the mark: but did no damage.
"Why? because the doctor wears something to protect him from just such an occurrence.
"Good! I'll profit by the lesson. I've got a very nice little jacket that is made of steel links myself, and while these fellows are looking for my gore, I'll wear it.
"One more point, and then I'll go to bed.
"Quartz knows me, and he also knows that if I had had the least idea that the house I tried to enter was the one in which he was living, I never would have acted as I did. Therefore, he believes that I am as much in the dark as ever."
NICK CARTER had just finished his breakfast on the following morning, when two events occurred which possessed unusual interest for him.
The first was the receipt of a telegram from Chick, which read simply:
"Seven fifteen this evening."
There was no signature, but the detective knew that it was from Chick.
He was turning over in his mind the many reasons which might account for Chick's sudden and unexpected return, when a caller was announced.
Nick availed himself of the peep-hole through which he always took a good look at unknown callers before entering their presence, and he was somewhat astonished to see the same beautiful face which had glanced at him for an instant from beneath the gas-light in Sixteenth street, when its owner was clinging to the arm of Dr. Quartz.
"Another act of the drama," he muttered. "Perhaps she is only here to find out how seriously I was hurt last night."
He called his faithful servant to him.
"Go to the lady," he said, "and tell her that I have met with an accident, and that I cannot see her unless her business is of great importance."
The servant returned soon, and reported that the lady would like to see him, if it were possible.
Nick donned a dressing-gown, wrapped his head up in a towel, and stretched himself upon the couch in the room where he then was.
"Show her in here," he said.
A moment later and Dema, the confidant of Dr. Quartz, was ushered into the room.
"What is your business with me, madam?" asked Nick, abruptly, pretending to be in great pain. "You see I am helpless from an injury that I received last night."
"I am very sorry; how did it happen?"
"I was run over by a. brewer's wagon in Sixteenth street."
A faint smile dawned for an instant upon Dema's face.
"In Sixteenth street; why, that is where I live."
"Will you tell me who you are?"
"My name is Dema Dorrance. I am a niece of Dr. Quartz."
Nick was puzzled, but he did not show it.
He remained silent, and presently Dema continued:
"You know Dr. Quartz?"
"Yes."
"You know that he has escaped from prison in California?"
"Yes."
"And that he is now in New York?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember that he swore to take your life?"
"Perfectly."
"He is living in Sixteenth street."
"Is he?"
"Yes; under the name of Paul Dangerfield."
"Ah!"
"He has organized a band of men, each of whom has sworn to take your life, and I have come here to put you on your guard, lest you fall a victim to his cruelty."
"Why do you do this?"
"Because I hate him. When he was in prison, I was happy. Now that he is free again, my life is a continual torment."
"Who are the men that he has engaged to kill me?"
"I do not know; there are thirteen of them in all."
"Where are their headquarters?"
"They have none. They met once and separated, each to work on his own account for the common end."
"My death."
"Exactly."
"Do you know their plans?"
"Only one."
"What is that?"
"To-morrow night they are to attack you here—"
"What, here? In this house?"
"Yes."
"The whole thirteen of them?"
"Yes—all of them."
"When is it to be?"
"To-morrow night."
"Yes—I know—but at what hour?"
"Between two and three in the morning."
"Ah!"
"You cannot only save yourself, but you can capture them all, by filling your house with policemen."
"How shall I repay you for this warning, Miss Dorrance?"
"By capturing Dr. Quartz."
"Or killing him."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"That would be even better."
"You are very kind."
"No—I am selfish. I came here with a different plan, but this one will do, I think."
"What was your other?"
"I came here to propose that at a certain hour to-night I would admit you to the house in Sixteenth street where we are living.
"I would first have managed to administer an anaesthetic of some kind to the doctor, and having got him into a sound sleep, I could admit you and the policemen you might choose to bring, when you could easily capture your man and take him away. It was a beautiful plan."
"Beautiful, indeed."
"Are your injuries so severe that it is totally impracticable?"
"Quite so. I can barely walk across the room. In fact, I am helpless. A severe blow upon my head and another in my side have effectually laid me up for a while, I fear."
"It is too bad; I am very sorry."
"Thank you."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, suddenly, after a moment's thought. "I have an idea."
"What is it?"
"Your assistant, havent' you one?"
"Yes."
"Why not send him to do the work to-night?"
"He is unfortunately in California."
"In California! that is too bad."
"You see, I am reduced to waiting for the whole thirteen of them to come here to-morrow night. I can fill my house with men from Inspector Byrnes' office, and when the gang comes, they will be captured. You are very kind to warn me, otherwise I would have been murdered in my bed, for I haven't the strength of a boy."
She rose to go.
"I would like to tell you a secret," she said.
"Do so; I hear a great many."
"I have another motive for wishing to rid myself of my esteemed uncle."
"Indeed!"
"Yes—when he is gone, his fortune will be mine."
"Ah! You are sure, then, that he does not suspect that you would betray him to his enemies?"
She laughed heartily.
"No danger of his suspecting that," she cried. "I don't know what you think of me, Mr. Carter, for what I have done. I am very wicked, am I not?"
"Yes," said Nick, smiling, "you are very kind, very beautiful, and just a little wicked; and," he added, under his breath, "an awful liar."
With a gay laugh, she bade the detective good-morning and departed.
As soon as she was out of the house, Nick rang the bell.
"Peter," he said, "stand there; I want to borrow you for a few hours."
"Borrow me!"
"Yes, You will be Nick Carter, and I will be Peter, see?"
Nick lost no time in effecting the change that he had decided upon, and he very soon left the house, looking the exact counterpart of his servant Peter.
His first call was upon Inspector Byrnes, for he knew if his own house was watched by any of the "Thirteen," they would expect him to send his servant to police headquarters at once.
Nick was not at all taken in by the plausible story told by Dema Dorrance, and he saw through the scheme as thoroughly as though he had been told its ins and outs in every detail.
Dema had called there for the express purpose of ascertaining if he had really been killed or disabled in the melee. Her plans had been carefully laid, and she had offered the suggestion of admitting him to the house of Dr. Quartz that night, as a ruse under which he might betray the fact, if he was not hurt so badly as he appeared to be.
She had played her part very well, indeed, and by seeming to betray a plot which was to be worked the following night, she had meant to throw him entirely off his guard for that night, if by chance he had heard any thing at the meeting of the "Thirteenth," which led him to suspect that he was to be attacked.
The doctor knew that Nick had shadowed him; he knew that the detective had been somewhere in the vicinity of the meeting in Rivington street, but he did not know how much or how little Nick had heard of their plans.
When Dema said that the entire Thirteen were coming to his house to murder him the following night, he knew at once that they were really coming twenty-four hours earlier, and he set about making his preparations to receive them.
He did not remain very long with the inspector, nor did he tell him what was about to happen.
He did reveal the fact that he was on the track of Quartz, and he told about the organization of the "Thirteen."
Just as he was leaving, he made this statement:
"Inspector, unless I am very much mistaken, I will deliver the whole thirteen, and possibly two extras, over to you to-morrow."
"That will make fifteen."
"Yes, and one of them is a beautiful woman."
"Indeed! how many men do you want to help you?"
"None."
"Eh? none! Do you mean to say that you are going to capture the whole fifteen, Quartz included, alone and unaided?"
"Chick will be here to-night."
"Well, even so; you will, then, be only two against fifteen."
Nick laughed.
"I was once one against twenty-one, and I did them up," he said.
"True."
"There is one thing that I do want."
"What is it?"
"Do you know the president of the United States Electric Lighting Company?"
"Very well, indeed."
"I want a letter of introduction to him. I am thinking of having my house lighted by electricity."
"You are incomprehensible, Nick."
"Even to you?"
"Yes, even to me."
"Will you give me the letter?"
"Certainly."
The letter was soon written, and with it Nick at once sought the interview that he desired.
As soon as the president read the letter, he said:
"I am at your service, Mr. Carter."
"I want a good deal, and I want it right away," said Nick.
"Tell me what it is."
"You have a wire which runs past my door, have you not?" and he mentioned the house by which he sometimes entered from the street adjoining the one where his real residence was.
"Yes."
"I want you to send me a force of men at once, with about six or seven hundred feet of heavily insulated wire, and I want a loop put in from your main wire, to run through the house, and into the one back of it which fronts on the other street. I want a governor, by which I can regulate the current of electricity; also about fifty incandescent lights."
"What in the world are you going to do with all that?" asked the president.
Nick explained in a few words all that was necessary to enlist the sympathies of the president, and after making out a list of just what was wanted, he hurried home.
The force of men from the electric lighting company soon followed and the loop was quickly put in so that the main wire which carried a current strong enough to kill a man was led into and through the house.
Nick directed the work himself, for he knew exactly what he wanted done.
Every man has his weakness, and Nick's was the fear of fire, and so when he had built the house in which he lived, it was rendered as nearly fire-proof as possible.
The balustrade and spindles were made of nickled iron; the stairs were of the same material, and the floors were tiled.
He had but to cause the carpet on the stairs to be removed, and to connect the electric light wire with them and a perfect circuit was formed.
It was, however, doubtful if the whole thirteen would be upon the stairs at once, and the wire was connected with door-knobs, and, in short, with every metallic substance which the house contained between the front door and the bed where Nick slept.
Overhead, along the ceiling, the fifty incandescent lights were arranged, and a button for the purpose of regulating them was placed where Nick could reach it from the bed.
The governor of the current was set, so that it allowed all the electricity which a man could bear without losing consciousness to pass into the house.
When the arrangements were complete, Nick's house was turned into an electric battery.
It was late in the afternoon when everything was in readiness and the electricians withdrew, and Nick, having turned off the current in the governor, went over every thing and carefully inspected it.
At five o'clock, still in the guise of Peter, he went out and purchased two pairs of heavy rubber-gloves and thick-soled rubber shoes.
Returning, he looked over his stock of handcuffs, of which he had an enormous supply.
He selected fifteen pairs of extra strength, and placed them where they would be handy.
Then, with a quiet sense of extraordinary satisfaction in his heart, he partook of a good dinner, after which he lighted a cigar, and sat down to read the evening papers, and wait for Chick.
It was 8.30 P. M. when Chick arrived, for his train was somewhat late.
He wrung Nick's hand with genuine affection.
"Have you dined?" asked Nick,
"Yes."
"What brought you back so suddenly?"
"My trip was for nothing."
"Eh? How so?"
"Bertha had left San Francisco before I got there."
"Left, eh?"
"Yes."
"Where had she gone?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you try to find out?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"What was the use?"
"I don't understand you."
"She left a note for me."
"Oh!"
"In which she said she was going away, because she did not think it best for us to meet again."
"Indeed! When was the note written?"
"Just a week before I got there."
"About the day that Quartz escaped?"
"The day after."
"Indeed! and you swallowed it."
"Swallowed what?"
"The note."
"No; I've got it here."
"Oh! have you? Chick, I believe that you are getting stupid."
"Perhaps I am. It's enough to make a fellow stupid. I traveled three thousand miles to ask Bertha Mortimer to marry me, only to find that she had run away in order to avoid me."
"Exactly. Have they any lunatic asylums out there?"
"Oh, come, Nick; you know that she is no more mad than I am!"
"Nor half as much. It is on your account that I asked the question."
"I don't understand."
"You should have applied for admittance to one."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Bertha Mortimer did not run away."
"What then?"
"She was carried away."
Chick jumped to his feet.
"By Dr. Quartz!" he exclaimed. "I see it all now. Oh, what a fool I am! I'll start back there to-morrow."
"Perhaps I'll go with you."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
"What of Quartz? is he here?"
"Yes."
"Whereabouts is he?"
"He's coming here to-night."
"To this house?"
"Yes."
"Not to give himself up?"
"Something very like it."
"What do you mean?"
Nick reached behind him and touched the button of the electric governor just sufficiently to send a small current over the wires.
"Just step into the hall, and shake the balustrade for me, will you?"
Chick looked at his chief in wonder, but obeyed without question.
The next instant he leaped several feet into the air, and uttered a yell that would have done credit to a Comanche Indian.
Then Nick explained the whole plot.
"I shall give them about four times as much current as you got," he concluded; "enough so they won't be able to let go, after they have once come in contact with it, and we will keep our friend Quartz in that position until he tells us all that he knows about Bertha."
Chick was delighted.
The two detectives passed the evening in playing chess, and nobody would have thought from their appearance that they were awaiting the coming of thirteen determined assassins, who had sworn to take the life of one of them, and would not hesitate to murder both.
At midnight, Nick turned off every light in the house, except that in his study, where he and Chick still continued their games.
"They will not show up before two, and probably not until three," he said; "but we may as well be prepared. Besides, they are probably watching the house, in order to know that the coast is clear."
"WHERE do you want me to be stationed?" asked Chick, when the clock struck two.
"Down stairs in the parlor. Take the rubber shoes and gloves, and put them on. They are thick enough so that you will not feel the current."
"What am I to do?"
"You will find a string hanging from the chandelier. Station yourself where you can see as much as possible. Count the men as they pass, and when you are satisfied that the thirteen are on the stairs, pull the string; I will do the rest."
"Suppose they leave somebody outside to watch?"
"If they do, it will be either the woman, Dema Dorrance, or Quartz's servant, the fellow who tried to stab me the other night."
"Do you believe that the whole thirteen will march up to your room?"
"Yes."
"I don't."
"I'll tell you why. Quartz is a queer sort of character. He likes to produce deep impressions. He believes that I am practically helpless. He believes that you are away. He thinks that the only persons with whom he will have to contend will be my wife and Peter."
"I haven't tumbled yet."
"Your trip has made you stupid. Quartz will attempt something theatrical, like marching the entire crowd into my room, surrounding my bed, and waking me by flashing thirteen bull's-eyes into my face at once.
"I may be mistaken, but that is my idea. If I am right, we will catch the whole lot without the slightest trouble."
Chick grinned.
"See you later," he said, and then he hurried down the stairs to his post in the parlor.
Silence reigned throughout the house.
It was fifteen minutes past three when Chick heard a slight noise, which made him think that the moment had arrived.
It was the grating of a key in the lock of the front door.
Several keys were tried, but they did not work.
Then came the sound of boring, and by and by Chick could dimly see that the door was swinging back on its hinges.
A moment later and a bull's-eye lantern flashed into the parlor, but Chick was behind the door out of its reach.
Then the man who carried it turned back.
He uttered a little sharp signal and waited, having closed the slide of his lantern.
In a moment several forms came through the door.
They came without a sound, seeming to materialize out of the darkness.
Presently the door was pushed shut again, and one of the men lighted a sulphur match, evidently for the purpose of ascertaining if his entire force was there.
Chick improved the opportunity for the same purpose.
He counted thirteen men.
Then the match went out, and they began the ascent of the stairs.
Not a word had been spoken, even in a whisper.
They had evidently received their instructions before-hand.
Chick could see just enough to tell when the last man was on the stairs.
They began the ascent, breast to back, silently, methodically, and very determinedly.
Chick was wondering what the outcome of it all would be, if the electric current should fail to work.
As the thirteenth man seized the balustrade, Chick pulled the string.
A second passed, and then—
A chorus of wild yells, screams, groans, curses, shouts for mercy, and growls of agony filled the house from basement to roof.
It seemed as though bedlam had suddenly broken loose on Nick Carter's staircase.
In the midst of the uproar, the hallway and stairs were flooded with a brilliant light that at once revealed the entire situation. What a picture it was!
Thirteen men ranged along the stairs from the bottom to the top; every one of them contorted into all sorts of agonizing shapes; every one screaming, cursing, groaning, and yelling with pain; every one clinging with a death-like grip to the iron balustrade, and endeavoring with might and main to release the grasp which would not be released.
Every one dancing or trying to dance; some almost standing upon their heads; others crouching and twisting, and all alike held by that invisible hand, which would not let go, and which was stronger to retain them prisoners than a cable-chain.
At the top of the stairs stood Nick, with a smile of genuine enjoyment on his face; at the bottom. Chick leaned against the wall convulsed with laughter.
Dr. Quartz was at the top, nearest to Nick.
He neither yelled nor groaned, but the spasms of the muscles of his face showed how he suffered.
"Good-morning, doctor," said Nick, genially. "You see I prepared a reception for you, worthy of your extreme prominence. You seem to be enjoying yourself, so we will leave you for the last to be released. It is sometimes best to begin at the bottom, you know."
In two leaps, Nick reached the parlor floor, protected as he was from the effects of the terrible current by the rubber shoes and gloves.
Then began the work they had to do, and it was but a small undertaking for two such powerful men as Nick Carter and Chick.
The little Italian, Dominick, who was possessed of the poisoned stiletto, was the first, Shorty came next, Long Tom third, and so on.
The men were so weakened by the agony that they had endured, that they made no resistance when Nick and Chick wrenched them loose from the charged balustrade and stairway, and provided them with handcuffs on their wrists and ropes upon their ankles.
One by one they were stretched in the parlor, until twelve were there, and then the two detectives approached the last and the leader of the mob, Dr. Quartz.
"Dr. Quartz," said Nick, coldly, "you are held where you are by the hand of God, and with every instant He makes you feel the error of your ways.
"The power is given to me to release you from your agony, which you bear with seeming fortitude, but I will not release you until you tell me what you have done with Bertha Mortimer, and where she may be found."
The doctor tried to smile, but the expression was changed by his pain into a horrible grimace.
"You will never find her," he managed to groan.
"Then you will remain where you are until you die. I have no pity for such as you," returned Nick, coldly.
But the doctor's strength was giving way.
Muscle and nerve could not withstand such a terrible strain for long.
Nick waited without speaking, and when nearly five minutes had passed, the doctor groaned;
"I will tell."
"Tell then."
"Release me first."
"No."
"She is in an asylum."
"Where?"
"At San Jose."
"There is no asylum there."
"Yes—a private one—kept by my brother."
"What is his name?"
"Felix—Quigley."
"Are there others there who are detained wrongfully?"
"Yes?"
"How many!?"
"Several. I—am—dying—release me—release me."
Nick made a sign to Chick.
In another moment Dr. Quartz was as firmly handcuffed and bound as the others.
Then Nick telegraphed to the nearest police station.
Officers were sent to his house, and the thirteen prisoners were soon tightly locked in cells from which there was no escape.
As soon as they were gone, Nick and Chick started for Sixteenth street.
But they were too late.
Dema Dorrance and Bouncer Bob had made good their opportunity, and escaped.
Probably they were outside of Nick's house when the commotion occurred, and thus took the alarm.
Nick did not wait to look for them.
He went with Chick to San Francisco at once, and thence to San Jose.
The place kept by Felix Quigley was found, and Bertha Mortimer and the several others who were wrongfully detained there were released.
Then Chick would brook no delay.
He insisted upon being married at once, and Bertha did not demur.
So Bertha Mortimer became Mrs. —. Reader, you have never yet learned Chick's last name.
The fact is, he had none until he began to think of matrimony, and then such an appendage seemed rather necessary.
A consultation was held, and it was decided what name he should bear.
The courts were applied to, and plain "Chick" was transformed into Chickering Carter.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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