Chapter XVIII: A Mysterious Bullet

It was ten o’clock when Nick Carter walked into the People’s National Bank, halted at the cashier’s window, and asked for Mr. Hepner.

The cashier knew all the customers of the institution, and the sight of a strange face prompted him to put a question on a matter that was uppermost in his mind:

“Are you Mr.----”

“Yes,” interrupted the detective. “I am Mr. Nicholas, the man you are looking for.”

The cashier gave a start and looked at Nick blankly for a moment.

Then his face cleared.

“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “I understand. I will go in and tell Mr. Hepner you are here, Mr. Nicholas.”

“Just a moment. I would like a look at the vault before I talk with Mr. Hepner.”

“Very well, sir.”

The cashier opened the door of the cage, and Nick stepped in, throwing a critical glance about him as he walked to the wrecked doors of the strong room.

Brown soap lay thick on the edges of both doors.

He passed inside the steel chamber, the cashier accompanying him.

“Made a pretty clean sweep, did they?” Nick asked, looking keenly around at the evidence of pillage.

“They seemed to know just what they wanted, Mr. Car--er--Mr. Nicholas.”

“That’s a way they have--sometimes. Did they make off with any specie?”

“Both specie and bills.”

“I see. Now I believe I will talk with Mr. Hepner.”

The cashier took the detective to the president’s door and announced him.

“When did you get in, Mr. Carter?” asked the president, after greeting his caller.

“I would prefer to have you allude to me as Nicholas, Mr. Hepner. Cut out the Carter, for the present.”

“All right, Mr. Nicholas. When did you reach town?”

“Last night.”

“I have been looking for you to call for two hours or more.”

“I was too busy to call before. Just how much more than five thousand dollars did the thieves make way with, Mr. Hepner?”

The president flashed a quick glance into the detective’s face.

“What leads you to believe that they got any more than that amount?” he asked.

“Several things. You would not have wired me to take this case on my own terms for a mere bagatelle of five thousand.”

“Possibly not.”

“And yeggmen with the experience of those who made this haul are not running the risk for so small a figure. They timed their operations so as to catch the vault with plenty of the ready inside.”

“A simple case of deduction, by George!” exclaimed Hepner. “The reporter for the papers here, however, believed the cashier’s statement as to the amount of our losses.”

“A reporter is not a detective, although occasionally a reporter will do good work. Generally, though, they do more harm than good. How much are you out, Mr. Hepner?”

“About seventy-five thousand. Twenty thousand was turned in here on a demand certificate of deposit, at almost closing time, Monday.”

Nick brought his eyes suddenly in line with the president’s.

“Did you see the man?”

“Yes; I was at the cashier’s desk at the time.”

“Please describe him.”

“Short, thickset and prosperous looking, as a man would naturally be who had that amount of money.”

“What name did he give?”

“Leonard Martin.”

“How did he impress you, Mr. Hepner?”

“He impressed me as being a Westerner.”

“Good!” exclaimed Nick. “I am especially interested in Westerners, one in particular, whom I’d give a good deal to lay my hands upon. But tell me more about this fellow?”

“Well, he had an easy, independent way with him, and when he talked he used a vernacular only to be found beyond the Missouri.”

“He was a stranger in town, you think?”

“I don’t think anything about it--I know. He is one of a party of four who are touring New England in an auto car.”

“Still in town?”

“Yes, and liable to be here for a few days, I guess.”

“Why do you guess that?”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the president, suddenly. “It can’t be possible you suspect this man of--of----”

The president paused.

“It is immaterial to you whom I suspect, Mr. Hepner,” said Nick, coolly, “so long as I run down the thieves.”

“Of course, of course! But you’re far afield, Mr. Nicholas, if that is the point you are driving at.”

“Which is your opinion,” commented Nick. “What makes you think that Mr. Leonard Martin and his party are liable to be in Latimer for a few days?”

“Because their chauffeur is sick and the Red Spider cannot proceed without a man to run it.”

“The auto is named the Red Spider?”

“Yes.”

“Where is Mr. Martin staying?”

“At the Central House.”

“He feared to have so much money with him, and left it here for safe-keeping, I suppose?”

“That’s it. A very breezy, genial gentleman he is, too, Mr. Nicholas. I assure you of that.”

“Breezy enough, I dare say,” returned Nick, carelessly.

“You gave a peculiar name to these robbers, a moment ago,” said the president. “What was it you called them?”

“Yeggmen.”

“And what is a yeggman?”

“Originally he was a hobo. Association with professional criminals, either in prison or ‘on the road,’ has taught him a knowledge of high explosives--how to extract nitroglycerin from dynamite, and how to use nitro in blowing open safes, and so on. The methods of the ‘yeggs,’ as compared with the old-time, skilled cracksman, are simple and labor-saving.”

“That is quite interesting. It has been a mystery to all of us how our safe was blown open. Will you explain, Mr. Nicholas?”

Nick complied, very briefly, and then, after a little more questioning, arose to go.

“If I can aid you in any way, Mr. Nicholas,” said the president, rising to accompany the detective to the door, “do not fail to call on me. As for your bill----”

“You can consider the bill when I turn it in,” answered Nick. “There is only one way in which you can help me, Mr. Hepner.”

“How is that?”

“I presume there are several auto cars in this town?”

“Quite a number. I haven’t one myself, but Clarkson, one of our directors, has a very swift machine.”

“If I need that machine will Mr. Clarkson let me have it?”

“Certainly. He will go with you himself and operate it for you.”

“I will operate it, and will stand responsible for any damage I may do. I would like to have the machine held in readiness for instant use.”

“Where are you staying, Mr. Carter?”

“I registered at the Holland Hotel.”

“Then I will have Clarkson send the machine to the Holland Hotel stables, subject to your order.”

“I would prefer that you have the auto sent to the Central House barn, Mr. Hepner. I think of changing my location.”

“Very good. It will be some time, I suppose, before we can hope for any results?”

“Perhaps not so very long,” answered Nick, and took his leave.

Going at once to the Holland Hotel, he paid his reckoning, took his grip and had himself driven to the Central House.

“James Nicholas, Montpelier, Vermont,” was the way he inscribed himself on the register.

Turning away, he lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair by one of the office windows.

The Central House, in point of location, was anything but “central.”

It was situated on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood at once quiet and exclusive.

For fifteen minutes or more Nick sat in the comfortable armchair, smoking and thinking.

He was sifting the evidence so far secured and wondering what Chick’s investigation would lead to, if anything.

Presently, the bell boy came up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Nicholas,” said he, “you are wanted at the telephone.”

“Where is it?” asked Nick, getting up.

“This way, sir.”

The detective was conducted to the rear of the office, some distance back of the counter.

The telephone box was under the stairway, side by side with a ground-glass window overlooking a court.

So close was the side of the box to the window that the glass in the box and in the window were scarcely more than a foot apart.

The receiver was lying on the top of the phone, and Nick took it down and held it to his ear.

“Is this Carter?” called a voice.

“Who is this?” queried Nick.

“Call me the man from Montana. I’m the pal of poor old Ramsay whom you bagged the other day. I’m the only man left of the Western swindlers, and you want me badly. You’re Nick Carter?”

“My name is Nicholas.”

“By thunder, you can’t fool me, Mr. Sleuth!”

“What do you want?” asked the detective.

“Simply wanted to get you into the telephone box. Right here is where you connect with your finish, and----”

The words were lost in a sharp report and a crashing of glass.

Nick felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and, as he reeled backward and dropped the receiver, he heard a mocking and triumphant laugh come over the wire.

“Great heavens!” he cried; “I’m shot--killed!”

The next instant he burst out of the telephone box and fell into the arms of the chief of police, the latter having arrived at the hotel but a moment before.