The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter

by Jean Petithuguenin

  “I’m going to try, but you’ll have to help me. If she’s awake, I’ll talk to her, and if she lowers her revolver, one of you come quickly and take it from her. However, I won’t do that except on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You must promise me not to maltreat the prisoner.”

  “Oh! Oh! Why’s that?”

  “Well, I don’t like that. Besides, I promise to make her tell who she is.”

  “In that case, we won’t need to beat her,” Jenny growled.

  “Good. Two of you pick up the lanterns. When I open the door, raise them so that the light shines into the cell.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We must be able to see immediately whether she’s asleep or if she’s awake, and so that we may be ready for anything. It’s possible that she’ll receive us with revolver shots.”

  Ethel King put her hand on the latch. The two women holding the lanterns had placed themselves behind her, trying to be sheltered in case the prisoner should open fire.

  The detective brusquely pulled the door open wide.

  Complete Victory

  The prisoner was not asleep. Pale, but resolute, she was standing in the middle of the cellar, holding her revolver pointed at the gang.

  “Don’t come any closer!” she shouted. “The first one who moves, I’ll blow her head off.”

  “Stay calm, Miss,” Ethel King answered. “Do you care so much about staying in this cell where you’ll finally die of hunger?”

  The young girl trembled.

  “You won’t do that! A human being can’t be capable of such cruelty.”

  “We’ll give you your freedom immediately if you tell us who you are,” Jenny Burde shouted.

  “At no price. I suspect that you’re hatching some plot against my father and I won’t do anything to help you carry it out. I won’t answer.”

  “It’s not at all a matter of a plot. We just want to get a ransom to give you your freedom,” Jenny insisted.

  “I don’t believe you. I know that you are capable of anything and you wouldn’t hesitate to commit murder.”

  “You’re right,” Jenny Burde sneered.

  “You can tell your name, Miss,” Ethel King said. “I promise you nothing will happen to your father.”

  The tone of her voice seemed to calm the young girl’s fears, because she lowered her revolver and answered:

  “If only that were true!”

  “You can believe me.”

  “If I trust you…”

  The young girl didn’t finish her sentence. Jenny had jumped on her like a tigress and snatched the revolver from her. The old woman brandished the weapon with a gesture of triumph. Her three accomplices rushed toward the unfortunate girl and dragged her brutally into the other cellar.

  The young girl was elegantly dressed. She wore a white plume boa and an expensive hat, which in the scuffle fell with her loosened hair onto her neck. Ethel King vigorously pushed back the shrews, who were trying to beat the prisoner.

  “What did you promise me? Don’t touch her any more. I’m going to talk to her and she’ll tell me who she is.”

  The poor girl had fallen down on a bench. She had clasped both hands to her nervous breast and was looking around her in terror. If she was capricious, inclined to extravagant behavior, nothing more of that now appeared. She was only a weak, defenseless woman. All her arrogance, all her pride had vanished. The unfortunate seemed to still have some confidence in Ethel King. She was looking toward her. But Jenny shouted:

  “We’re not asking you for your opinion, Mary. That stubborn girl will be severely thrashed if she refuses any longer to tell us her name and anyone who wants to take her away from us will have their brains blown out.”

  While she was talking, she was waving around her revolver, but her astonishment was great when Ethel King suddenly grabbed the weapon on the fly.

  “If such are your intentions, it would be better for you not to have the revolver,” the detective said.

  The venom of anger rose to Jenny’s face.

  “Give me back that weapon, immediately!”

  “That’s not my intention.”

  “Be careful! You won’t leave here alive if you refuse to obey me!”

  “I will keep this revolver and I’ll leave here alive. Do you imagine that I’m afraid of your threats?”

  The other women intervened.

  “Let Mary alone,” they exclaimed. “You can see she’s very clever and that she can help us. Don’t quarrel with her right off.”

  “She has to give me back the revolver.”

  “I’m keeping it,” Ethel King replied coldly.

  “Then keep it. But you won’t keep us from punishing our prisoner if she persists in not telling us her name.”

  The young girl, pale and trembling, had witnessed that scene.

  “Give me my freedom,” she said. “I promise to have $1000 in cash sent to you.”

  “A thousand dollars,” Jenny exclaimed. “You believe we are stupider than we are. No, my dove, we require $40,000, $10,000 for each of us.”

  “Scoundrels!” the young girl cried out, trembling.

  “This is the last time that I’ll ask you. Who are you?” Jenny Burde screeched.

  There was a moment of silence; then the prisoner answered in a firm voice:

  “And I tell you for the last time. You will never know my name.”

  “Think about it! It means your liberty, your life.”

  “Nevertheless, I’m determined not to answer you.”

  Ethel King was standing beside Charley. She signaled to him furtively and the young man took advantage of a moment of inattention of the four old women to slip out.

  “Listen to me,” Jenny Burde continued. “You’re not the first one whose stubbornness we have overcome. If you haven’t answered me in one minute, you’ll die.”

  “Murder me then, if you dare!”

  Jenny’s eyes flashed with cruelty.

  “Don’t take it so lightly. Do you really think it’s pleasant to die?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  Then Jenny took out a long knife and the three others followed her example. The harpy then went to a corner of the cellar and stamped her foot on a tile.

  “Do you know who is buried here? A young girl like you who at first refused to tell us her name. When she finally did, she didn’t want to write to her parents to ask them for the ransom. We killed her. We took out our knives as we are doing now and we plunged them into her breast.”

  The prisoner, frozen with fear, looked around with haggard eyes at her tormentors.

  “Who are you? What’s your name? What’s your father’s address?” Jenny repeated.

  “I won’t tell you. My poor father must not become your victim.”

  Jenny Burde then turned to her accomplices.

  “We can’t hesitate any longer. Kill her.”

  The furious women raised their knives. Jenny was the first to rush forward to strike the livid prisoner. But she suddenly stopped, as did her accomplices, and looked with stupor at Mary, her new recruit.

  “Get back, you scoundrels!” the detective shouted. “Get back! Surrender! I’ve come to put an end to your atrocities. Surrender! It’s Ethel King speaking to you.”

  The effect of these words was extraordinary. The name of Ethel King obviously inspired great terror in the gang. The criminals stood petrified, unable to say a word.

  “Don’t move,” the detective continued. “Here, Maud Sutter, take this revolver and be careful. If one of these rascals makes a suspicious movement, don’t hesitate to blow her brains out!”

  “You know who I am!” exclaimed the young girl. “Oh! Miss King, how can I ever thank you?”

  She took the revolver and stood up resolutely. She was no longer afraid.

  “Get over into that corner!” Ethel King ordered the harpies.

  Jenny Burde didn’t move, but the three others obeyed, trembling.

 
; “You too, Jenny Burde!”

  At that the criminal cried out in rage and made a movement as if to throw herself on Ethel King, but she had already fired. Jenny, wounded in the right hand, dropped her knife and fell back, moaning. On another order by the detective, she joined her accomplices in the corner, but it could easily be seen that she was in a fierce rage.

  A few minutes later, Charley Lux reappeared, bringing policemen who proceeded to arrest the four women and put them in handcuffs. Jenny cursed and insulted Ethel King and the police agents. Ethel King had Inspector Golding called, and, with him and the policemen, she proceeded to investigate the cellar. In the spot Jenny had pointed out, they found a cadaver under the tiles. Research established that the victim was a young English woman that the gang had stabbed after having tried in vain to get a ransom from her.

  Mrs. O’Beering visited the cellar and recognized the place where she had spent such horrible hours. As for Maud Sutter, she was metamorphosed. The terrible day she had passed among the human beasts put an end to her outrageous behavior. Tom Kensing, or rather Sam Workman, to use his real name, was the accomplice of the four harpies. He was the one who had clubbed the O’Beering chauffeur and taken his place at the steering wheel while Jenny Burde was hidden inside the car.

  Jenny Burde was condemned to death and executed as leader of the gang. The three other women were given 20 years of hard labor. This was not the first time Sam Workman had been condemned and he also had to renounce liberty for many long years.

  9. TRAGIC RIVALRY

  The End of an Artist

  “Mrs. Howard! Mrs. Howard!”

  A beardless young man with a likeable appearance and a pleasant face surrounded by beautiful brown curly hair had shouted that name. It was the great violinist, John Eryson, the renter of the widow Howard, an affable old lady who took a great deal of interest in the artistic career of her lodger. He occupied a corner room of the little house situated at No. 56 Seneca Street in Philadelphia.

  Evening was coming on, twilight was darkening the outside when the artist came down the stairs into the vestibule. The door to the living room opened and Mrs. Howard appeared on the threshold.

  “What is it, Mr. Eryson,” the lady asked.

  The young man came into the room and held out a letter.

  “Look! I’ve been offered the position of Director of the Harrisburg Conservatory. I am to assume the position as of April 1st.”

  Mrs. Howard’s face lit up.

  “I wholeheartedly congratulate you, Mr. Eryson. You’re already famous at the age of 32 and I must say you deserve your rapid advancement.”

  “I’m very happy,” the violinist declared. “To tell the truth I didn’t hope to get that position when I posed my candidacy. When I was told I was in the running, I still couldn’t believe that I would succeed, because I was competing with older candidates.”

  “Yes, but nevertheless the choice has fallen on you. Most certainly it will be painful for me to lose a lodger who has become almost a son to me, but I hope we’ll see each other from time to time, Mr. Eryson.”

  “That goes without saying. I’ll come to Philadelphia often and I’m also counting on you to visit me sometime in Harrisburg.”

  The artist was beaming with joy. He sent the maid to get some bottles of good wine to toast his nomination with his landlady and a young friend who had come to congratulate him.

  After supper he picked up his violin and played some concert pieces with virtuosity and incomparable charm. His mood influenced his playing. He was overflowing with enthusiasm; he could never have played a sad note.

  Until that time, John Eryson had earned his living appearing as the soloist in major concerts. He always received large fees and each time brought away a triumph. Nevertheless, the young man had finally thought about getting a permanent situation. Concerts were becoming rarer and, then, Eryson intended to marry and start a family. He had therefore placed his candidature to the Harrisburg Conservatory and had beaten his competitors.

  The party remained in the living room until midnight. The modest virtuoso then accompanied his friend to the door, before going upstairs to his bedroom. Mrs. Howard went to her bedroom, which was on the first floor. The windows at the back opened onto the garden. The night was pleasant and the widow opened the casement window to get a breath of air. Upstairs John Eryson had also opened a window. The beauty of the night was not without making an impression on the young man. He again picked up his violin and began to make the instrument sing. At such moments, John Eryson would have drawn tears of admiration from the most insensitive. It seemed his whole soul vibrated with the cords.

  Mrs. Howard, leaning on her window sill, listened, plunged in a gentle reverie. She could imagine nothing more marvelous than to contemplate the starry heaven while divine music reached her ears. She trembled momentarily. The enchanting melody had been interrupted by a loud discordant screeching. A moan sounded in the night; the sound of a fall suddenly resounded. The old woman remained petrified with terror. She was agonized by the impression that something awful had happened.

  “My God! What’s happened,” she stammered.

  She remained motionless for a long time listening for noises, but she didn’t hear anything else. She leaned out the window in order to see outside. The casement window in the corner was still open. The oil lamp, still burning, threw clear reflections on the tree leaves.

  “Could I be mistaken? Could Mr. Eryson have simply stopped playing because he’d had enough of holding the bow? That isn’t his habit.”

  She called out several times in a loud voice:

  “Mr. Eryson! Mr. Eryson!”

  She got no answer. If the young man had been in his room, he surely would have heard his landlady’s call. Something unusual had happened. Perhaps the violinist had gone out. Mrs. Howard went to her door to call out the name of the artist in the stairway. But she didn’t receive an answer any more than she did the first time. She felt more and more worried. She went up to the third floor to awaken the manservant and the maid. The sound of her voice betrayed so much anxiety that the two servants hardly took the time to dress.

  “In the name of heaven, Mrs. Howard, what’s happened to you?” the manservant asked.

  “Mr. Eryson must have had an accident,” the old lady replied. “Let’s go up quickly.”

  A minute later, Mrs. Howard knocked on the violinist’s door and called out, still with no answer. She lifted the latch, but couldn’t open it; the door was locked or bolted on the inside.

  “Go get the police!” Mrs. Howard instructed. “We have to force the lock. But come back immediately. I’m dying of fright.”

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes at the most,” the servant said. “The Commissioner’s office isn’t far from here.”

  He ran down the stairs. The widow and her maid stayed in front of the bedroom door. Mrs. Howard listened, hoping in vain that Eryson would finally give some sign of life.

  It was two minutes after the manservant had left that the maid cried out:

  “I hear some noise! It sounds like footsteps. Yes, someone is walking about,” she said.

  She knocked again and called out:

  “Mr. Eryson! Mr. Eryson! Answer us, please. You’re making us mortally worried.”

  At that moment someone opened the lock from inside the room. They pushed the door open so hard that Mrs. Howard was knocked over by the force and she began to cry out in fear. The maid herself let out a terrified cry and dropped the lamp she was holding in her hand. The light went out; the stairway was plunged into darkness.

  A very tall man had come out of Eryson’s bedroom. He was dressed in a long black cloak. A wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his forehead. His features were hidden by a piece of black cloth wrapped around his face.

  He rushed past the women and went down the stairs four at a time. Mrs. Howard had fallen behind the door and had not seen the stranger. She got up trembling.

  “But, My God! What’s happened?�
�� she moaned. “Mr. Eryson, why did you open the door so hard? Elise, why have you dropped the lamp?”

  The maid was stretched out unconscious beside the broken lamp. The door to the house opened suddenly; then it slammed noisily.

  The widow felt around her automatically, pushed open the door to the bedroom, and stumbled over the body of the maid. She was shaken by trembling; a groan came from her lips. She had no matches on her.

  “Light...I need some light!” she whispered.

  She groped her way downstairs to look for a lamp and some matches. Terror was paralyzing her. A terrible foreboding distracted her. She never knew how she had made it downstairs. She went into the first room she came to and found a lamp. It took her some time to light it because, in her anxiety, she still could not locate any matches. When she finally got back to the landing, the lamp in her hand, the male servant had returned bringing policemen. She let out a sign of relief on hearing the men’s voices, and called out;

  “Come quickly! Come up, gentlemen. I fear that my house has been the scene of an awful misfortune.”

  The servant showed the policemen the way, and Mrs. Howard came behind with her lamp. At the threshold of the bedroom door, the little troop found the maid unconscious among the debris of the lamp in a big pool of oil. When the manservant pushed open the door, he saw there was no light in the bedroom. When the rays from Mrs. Howard’s lamp fell into the room, the old lady and the policemen heard a cry of horror. The manservant still had the presence of mind to take the lamp from his mistress. Without that, she would surely have dropped it. A policeman caught Mrs. Howard in his arms and placed her in an armchair, where she remained prostrate, unconscious. The spectacle the policemen saw was terrible.

  The body of the young artist was stretched out under the window, his violin beside him, his bow in his clinched hand. He had received a well-placed stab from behind which had pierced his heart. A large pool of dark blood had formed underneath the unfortunate man. His eyes were wide open in his pale face. He must have rolled over in his last convulsions. His cheek was bathed in his own blood. His hair was in disarray. It appeared that nothing had been touched in the bedroom. Everything seemed to be in its usual place.