‘Mine is a Palgrave,’ the physician informed Nick, in response to the latter’s question.
‘Humph! That made it easy for Grantley,’ remarked the detective; ‘but it won’t be so easy for us. The Palgrave is the favorite car for renting by the week or month, and there are numerous places where that particular machine might have been obtained. We’ll have to go the rounds.’
Nick and his assistants set to work at once, with the help of the telephone directory, which listed the various agencies for automobiles. There were nearly twenty of them, but that meant comparatively little delay, with several investigators at work.
A little over an hour after the search began, Chick ‘struck oil.’
Grantley, disguised as Doctor Lightfoot, had engaged a Palgrave town car of the latest model at an agency on ‘Automobile Row,’ as that section of Broadway near Fifty-ninth Street is sometimes called.
The machine had been engaged for a week – not under Lightfoot’s name, however – and Grantley had furnished the suit of livery. The car had been used by its transient possessor for the first time the night before, had returned to the garage about eleven o’clock, and had not since been sent for.
The chauffeur was there, and, at Nick’s request, the manager sent for him.
The detective was about to learn something of Grantley’s movements; but was it to be much, or little?
He feared that the latter would prove to be the case.
VII
The detective had revealed his identity, and the chauffeur was quite willing to tell all he knew.
He had driven his temporary employer and the woman in nurse’s garb to the Yellow Anchor Line pier, near the Battery. Grantley – or Thomas Worthington, as he had called himself in this connection – had volunteered the information that his companion was his niece, who had been sent for suddenly to take care of someone who was to sail on the Laurentian at five o’clock in the morning.
Both of the occupants of the car had alighted at the pier, and the man had told the chauffeur not to wait, the explanation being that he might be detained on board for some time.
The pier was a long one, and the chauffeur could not, of course, say whether the pair had actually gone on board the vessel or not. He had obeyed orders and driven away at once.
Neither the man nor the woman had carried any baggage. The chauffeur had gathered that the person who was ill was a relative of both of them, and that the nurse’s rather bewildered manner was due to her anxiety and the suddenness of the call.
That was all Nick could learn from him, and an immediate visit to the Yellow Anchor Line’s pier was imperative.
There it was learned that a man and woman answering the description given had been noticed in the crowd of people who had come to bid goodbye to relatives and friends. One man was sure he had seen them enter a taxi which had just dropped its passengers. When interrogated further, he gave it as his impression that the taxi was a red-and-black machine. He naturally did not notice its number, and no one else could be found who had seen even that much.
A wireless inquiry brought a prompt reply from the Laurentian, to the effect that no couple of that description was on board, or had been seen on the vessel the night before.
It was clear that Grantley had made a false trail, for the purpose of throwing off his pursuers. It had been a characteristic move, and no more than Nick had expected.
The detective turned his attention to the taxi clue. Red and black were the distinctive colors of the Flanders-Jackson Taxicab Company’s machines. Consequently, the main garage of that concern was next visited.
Luckily, the man at the pier had been right. One of the company’s taxis had been at the Yellow Anchor Line pier the previous night, and had picked up a couple of new passengers there, after having been dismissed by those who had originally engaged it.,
Nick obtained the name and address of the chauffeur, who was off duty until night. He was not at home when the detective called, but, after a vexatious delay, he was eventually located.
A tip loosened his tongue.
‘I remember them well, sir,’ he declared. ‘The man looked like a doctor, I thought, and, if I’m not mistaken, the woman had on a nurse’s uniform under her long coat. I couldn’t see her face, though, on account of the heavy veil she wore. She acted queer – sick or something. The fellow told me, when they got in, to drive them to the Wentworth-Belding, but when I got up to Fourteenth Street, he said to take them to the Metropolitan Building. I did, and they got out. That’s all I know about it. I drove them to the Madison Square side, and they had gone into the building before I started away, but that’s the last I saw of them.’
‘Well, we’ve traced them one step farther, Chick,’ Nick remarked to his first assistant as they left, ‘but we haven’t tracked them down, by a long shot. Grantley doubtless went through the Metropolitan Building to Fourth Avenue. There he either took the subway, hailed another taxi, or – hold on, though! Maybe there’s something in that! I wonder –’
‘Now, what?’ Chick asked eagerly.
‘You remember Doctor Chester, one of the six young physicians who was mixed up with Grantley in that vivisection case?’
‘Of course I do,’ his assistant answered. ‘He has taken another name and given up his profession – on the surface, at least. He’s living on East Twenty-sixth Street –’
‘Exactly – a very few blocks from the Metropolitan Building!’ interrupted his chief.
‘You mean –’
‘I have a “hunch”, as Patsy would call it, that Grantley has taken Helga Lund to Chester’s house. Chester has rented one of those old-fashioned, run-down bricks across from the armory. It’s liable to be demolished almost any day, to make way for a new skyscraper, and he doubtless gets it for a song. He can do what he pleases there, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Grantley had been paying the rent in anticipation of something of this sort. They undoubtedly think that we lost sight of Chester long ago.’
‘By George! I’ll wager you’re right, chief!’ exclaimed Chick. ‘The fact that we’ve traced Grantley to the Metropolitan Building certainly looks significant, in view of Chester’s house being so near to it. It’s only about five minutes’ walk, and a man with Grantley’s resourcefulness could easily have made enough changes in his appearance and that of Miss Lund, while in the Metropolitan Building, to have made it impossible for the two who entered Chester’s house to be identified with those who had left the Wentworth-Belding an hour or so before.’
‘That’s the way it strikes me,’ agreed the detective. ‘And, if the scoundrel took her there last night, they are doubtless there now. I think we’re sufficiently justified in forcing our way into the house and searching it, and that without delay. We don’t know enough to take the police into our confidence as yet; therefore, the raid will have to be purely on our own responsibility. We must put our theory to the test at once, however, without giving Grantley any more time to harm the actress. Heaven knows he’s had enough opportunity to do so already!’
‘Right! We can’t wait for darkness or reinforcements. It will have to be a daylight job, put through just as we are. If we find ourselves on the wrong scent, Chester will be in a position to make it hot for us – or would be, if he had any standing – but we’ll have to risk that.’
‘Well, if Chester – or Schofield, as he is calling himself now – is tending to his new business as a commercial chemist, he ought to be away at this hour. That remains to be seen, however. I imagine, at any rate, that we can handle any situation that is likely to arise. If time were not so precious, it would be better to have some of the other boys along with us, but we don’t know what may be happening at this very moment. Come on. We can plan our campaign on the way.’
A couple of tall loft buildings had already replaced part of the old row of houses on the north side of Twenty-sixth Street, beginning at Fo
urth Avenue. Nick and his assistant entered the second of these and took the elevator to one of the upper floors, from the eastern corridor of which they could obtain a view of the house occupied by young Doctor Chester, together with its approaches, back and front.
The house consisted of a high basement – occupied by a little hand laundry – and three upper stories, the main floor being reached by a flight of iron steps at the front.
Obviously, there was no exit from the body of the house at the rear. There was only a basement door opening into the tiny back yard, and that was connected with the laundry.
The detective decided, as a result of their general knowledge of such houses, not to bother with the back at all. Their plan was to march boldly up the front stairs, outside, fit a skeleton key to the lock, and enter the hall.
They argued that, owing to the fact that the basement was sublet, any crooked work that might be going on would be likely to be confined to the second or third floor to prevent suspicion on the part of those connected with the laundry.
Therefore, they hoped to find the first floor deserted. If that were the case, it was improbable that their entrance would be discovered prematurely.
There was, doubtless, a flight of steps at the rear of the house, leading down to the laundry from the first floor; but they were practically certain that these rear stairs did not ascend above the main floor. If they did not, there was no way of retreat for the occupants of the upper part of the house, except by the front stairs, and, as the detective meant to climb them, it seemed reasonable to suppose that Grantley, Chester & Company could easily be trapped.
Nick and Chick returned to the street and made their way, without the slightest attempt at concealment, toward the suspected house.
They met no one whose recognition was likely to be embarrassing, and saw no face at the upper windows as they climbed the outer steps.
They had already seen to it that their automatics were handy, and now Nick produced a bunch of skeleton keys and began fitting them, one after another.
The fifth one worked. They stepped into the hall as if they belonged there – taking care to make no noise, however – and gently closed the doors behind them.
The adventure was well under way, and, technically speaking, they were already housebreakers.
VIII
The house in which Nick and Chick found themselves had been a good one, but it was now badly in need of repair.
The main hall was comparatively wide for so narrow a building, and a heavy balustrade fenced off the stairs on one side.
The detectives paused just inside the door and listened intently. The doors on the first floor were all closed and the rooms behind them appeared to be untenanted. At any rate, all was still on that floor. Subdued noises of various sorts floated down to them from above, however, seemingly from the third floor.
They looked at each other significantly. Evidently, their theory had been correct – to some extent, at least.
They approached each of the doors in turn, but could hear nothing. Under the stairway they found the expected door leading down to the basement, but, as it was locked, and there was no key, they paid no further attention to it.
Instead, they started to mount the front stairs to the second floor. The stairway was old and rather creaky, but the detectives knew how to step in order to make the least noise. Consequently, they gained the next landing without being discovered.
Here they repeated the tactics they had used below, with a like result. The sounds of voices and footfalls were louder now, but they all came from the third floor. The second seemed to be as quiet as the first.
The doors on the second floor, like those on the first, were all closed, but Nick ascertained that at least one of them was unlocked.
That fact might be of great advantage in preventing discovery, in case anyone should start down unexpectedly from the third floor, for the halls and stairs offered no place of concealment.
The detectives noiselessly removed their shoes before attempting the last flight, and placed them inside the unlocked room, which they noiselessly closed again.
They were now ready for the final reconnaissance.
By placing the balls of their stockinged feet on the edges of the steps, they succeeded in mounting to the third floor without making any more noise than that produced by the contact of their clothing.
A slight pause at the top served to satisfy them that the noises all proceeded from one room at the front of the house. They were already close to the door of this room, and they listened breathlessly.
Words were plainly audible now, punctuated at frequent intervals by loud bursts of laughter.
It sounded like a merrymaking of some kind. What was going on behind that closed door? Had they made a mistake in entering the house and wasted precious time in following a will-o’-the-wisp, when Helga Lund might be even then in the greatest danger?
Nick and his assistants feared so, and their hearts sank heavily.
But no. The next words they heard reassured, but, at the same time, startled them. The voice was unmistakably Grantley’s.
‘That’s enough of pantomime,’ it said, with a peculiar note of cruel, triumphant command. ‘Now give us your confession from The Daughters of Men – give it, but remember that you are not a great actress, that you are so bad that you would be hooted from the cheapest stage. Remember that you are ugly and dressed in rags, that you are awkward and ungainly in your movements, that your voice is like a file. Remember it not only now, but always. You will never be able to act. Your acting is a nightmare, and you are a fright – when you aren’t a joke. But show us what you can do in that confession scene.’
Nick and Chick grew tense as they listened to those unbelievable words, and to the heartless chuckles and whisperings with which they were received. Apparently there were several men in the ‘audience’ – probably Chester and some of Grantley’s other former accomplices. .
The meaning was plain – all too plain.
The proud, beautiful Helga Lund was once more under hypnotic influence, and Grantley, with devilish ingenuity, was impressing suggestions upon her poor, tortured brain, suggestions which were designed to rob her of her great ability, not only for the moment, but, unless their baneful effect could be removed, for all the rest of her life.
She, who had earned the plaudits of royalty in most of the countries of Europe, was being made a show of for the amusement of a handful of ruthless scoffers.
It made the detectives’ blood boil in their veins and their hands clench until their knuckles were white, but they managed somehow to keep from betraying themselves.
The employment of hypnotism in such a way was plainly within the scope of the new law against unwarranted operations or experiments on human beings, without their consent; but it was necessary to secure as much evidence as possible before interfering.
To that end Nick Carter took out of a pocket case a curious little instrument, which he was in the habit of calling his ‘keyhole periscope.’
It consisted of a small black tube, about the length and diameter of a lead pencil. There was an eyepiece at one end. At the other a semi-circular lens bulged out.
It was designed to serve the same purpose as the periscope of a submarine torpedo boat – that is, to give a view on all sides of a given area at once. The exposed convex lens, when thrust through a keyhole or other small aperture, received images of objects from every angle in the room beyond, and magnified them, in just the same way as the similarly constructed periscope of a submarine projects above the level of the water and gives those in the submerged vessel below a view of all objects on the surface, within a wide radius.
Nick had noted that there was no key in the lock of the door. Taking advantage of that fact, he crept silently forward, inserted the wonderful little instrument in the round upper portion of the hole, and, stooping, applied
his eye to the eyepiece.
He could not resist an involuntary start as he caught his first glimpse of the extraordinary scene within.
The whole interior of the room was revealed to him. Around the walls were seated three young men of professional appearance. Nick recognized them all. They were Doctor Chester, Doctor Willard, and Doctor Graves, three of Grantley’s former satellites.
They were leaning forward or throwing themselves back in different attitudes of cruel enjoyment and derision, while Grantley stood at one side, his hawk-like face thrust out, his keen, pitiless eyes fixed malignantly on the figure in the center of the room.
Nick’s heart went out in pity toward that pathetic figure, although he could hardly believe his eyes.
It was that of Helga Lund, but so changed as to be almost unrecognizable.
Her splendid golden hair hung in a matted, disordered snarl about her face, which was pale and smudged with grime. She was clothed in the cheapest of calico wrappers, hideously colored, soiled and torn, beneath which showed her bare, dust-stained feet.
She had thrown herself upon her knees, as the part required; her outstretched hands were intertwined beseechingly, and her wonderful eyes were raised to Grantley’s face. In them was the hurt, fearful look of a faithful but abused dog in the presence of a cruel master.
Her tattered sleeves revealed numerous bruises on her perfectly formed arms.
The part of the play which Grantley had ordered her to render was that in which the heroine pleaded with her angry lover for his forgiveness of some past act of hers, which she had bitterly repented.
She was reciting the powerful lines now. They had always held her great audiences breathless, but how different was this pitiable travesty!
It would have been hard enough at best for her to make them ring true when delivered before such unsympathetic listeners and in such an incongruous garb, but she was not at her best. On the contrary, her performance was infinitely worse than anyone would have supposed possible.
American Sherlocks Page 9