Chapter XX: The Men From Chicago

Presently the bell boy came up and found Nick stretched out on the bed.

The boy was a quiet little chap, and brought Nick a pitcher of water and a daily paper, and did a number of other things to make him comfortable.

The detective was reading the paper when the plain-clothes man presented himself.

“I was sent over here to take care of you,” said he.

He accompanied his words with a wink by way of informing the detective that he knew what was expected of him.

“Thank you,” said Nick. “What name?”

“Jerome.”

“Well, Mr. Jerome, may I trouble you to take a dollar out of my vest pocket and give it to this boy?”

The vest and coat were hanging over a chair, and Jerome secured the dollar and handed it to the boy.

As soon as the boy was gone, the detective sprang from the bed.

“You know your duties, do you, Jerome?”

“I’m going to pretend I’ve got you here, whether you’re here or not,” he grinned.

“That’s it; and you’re also to pretend that I’m a mighty sick man.”

“I’ll play the part O. K., sir. Don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t worry about much of anything, Jerome. It’s a waste of energy.”

“You don’t believe in crossing bridges before you get to ’em, then?”

“That depends on the bridge. What is the town of Latimer saying about an attempted murder, in broad daylight, in a great hotel like this?”

“People are talking less about that than they are about the ease with which the man who perpetrated the outrage managed to slip away.”

While Nick was talking with Jerome, he was changing his make-up.

Presently he stood forth a younger man than “Nicholas” by some twenty years.

The spreading “Dundrearies” were gone and a black mustache ornamented his upper lip.

His clothes were different, and he was utterly unlike “Nicholas” in manner as well as appearance.

“By Jinks!” exclaimed Jerome. “You’re a great hand at that sort of thing, Mr. Nicholas.”

“Charlie Gordon now,” corrected Nick.

“Mr. Gordon, then,” grinned the officer.

A rap fell on the door.

Nick motioned to Jerome to answer the summons.

The caller proved to be the chief, and he was at once admitted.

He looked at Nick in surprise, and then cast a quick look at the bed.

“Well, you’ll pass,” he said, as the truth dawned on him.

“What’s new?” asked the detective.

“I called to report on that telephone matter.”

“Good! The man you sent out must have been a live one to get back with a report as soon as this.”

“I attended to it myself.”

“Much obliged, chief. Did you experience any difficulty?”

“None at all. At central they told me that the call for Nicholas, at the Central House, came from a pay station in a drug store.

“I got the number of the drug store, and found that it is less than a block from here.

“At about the time you received your call, one of the clerks in the store remembered seeing a short, thickset man----”

“Short and thickset, eh?” interposed Nick.

“Yes, and with red hair and a full red beard. This man went into the box. When he came out he came in a hurry, and lost no time in getting out of the store and away.”

“That’s A-1, chief.”

“Have you a theory?”

“Regarding the bank robbers?”

“Yes.”

“I’m full of theories. I shall want your help in a few minutes. Will you wait here until I come back? I can promise you that I won’t be gone long.”

“I’ll wait.”

Thereupon Nick let himself quietly out of the room and descended the stairs to the lower hall.

Passing through the hall into the street, he re-entered the hotel by the office doors.

Going to the counter, he drew the register in front of him and began looking it over.

He finally found what he wanted, which was the following, written in an easy and flowing hand:

“Leonard Martin, Chicago.”

This entry had been made on the preceding Saturday, and Nick saw that Leonard Martin had been assigned to Room 13.

Directly following this signature were three names, as follows:

“Leslie Hibbard, Morris Markham and Emil Z. Schiffel,” all hailing from the same place that claimed Mr. Martin.

But there were check marks opposite the names of these three guests, showing that they had balanced their accounts and left.

“May I see the letters and telegrams?” Nick asked.

The clerk handed over a bundle, and the detective proceeded to look at them.

There was a letter for Mr. Leonard Martin, bearing a Chicago postmark; also a telegram for James Nicholas.

Nick slipped the telegram into his pocket, unnoticed by the clerk, and passed out through the doors again.

This time he reversed his tactics, re-entered by the hall, and made his way to his room on the second floor.

He read his telegram.

It was from Chick, and ran thus:

“Look out for a man with a mole on his right cheek, short,
thickset, named Clancy. Will come with Patsy. Important that I
should see you.”

“This short, thickset man is making himself pretty numerous,” thought Nick, putting the telegram away in his grip.

“What I want you to do, chief,” said Nick, approaching the officer, “is to wire the Chicago chief of police and ask for immediate information about a man named Leonard Martin. If the Chicago people know such a man, I’d like to learn his present whereabouts.”

“I’ll send the dispatch at once,” said the chief.

“Have the answer left with Jerome, when it comes.”

“Very well.”

The chief left the room and passed down the stairs.

Nick went out, a few moments afterward, but did not descend to the first floor.

On the contrary, he made his way along the hall to Room 13.

There was no one else in the passage, and he paused at the door and listened intently.

All was quiet inside.

Stooping, he peered through the keyhole.

The key was not in the lock, on the inside, so it seemed fairly certain that Mr. Martin was out.

With a final swift glance up and down the passage, Nick drew a skeleton key from his pocket and quickly opened the door.

To step inside and softly reclose the door was the work of only a moment.

The room was exactly like the usual hotel chamber.

There were two doors opening to right and left, so that, if desired, the apartment could be used _en suite_ with others adjoining.

On the bed lay an open satchel, its contents very much disarranged.

The owner had apparently left it in a hurry.

Nick went over to the bed and looked down at the contents of the grip.

The first object to catch his eye was a red wig with a false beard of the same color attached.

This interested him mightily.

There was a fat wallet in the satchel, and----

Just at that point the detective, steel-nerved though he was, experienced something like a shock.

A dresser stood at the end of the room, at right angles with the foot of the bed.

Out of the corner of his eyes Nick caught a glimpse of the glass, and in it was reflected the figure of a man.

The man had opened the door leading off to the left and was standing just within it, coolly eying the detective.

Furthermore, this man was short and thickset, and there was a black mole on his right cheek.

Not only that, but he had a revolver in his hand and was training it full upon the intruder.

In a flash Nick had made up his mind as to what he should do.

This man, of all others, must not take him for a prying detective.

It would be better for him to consider Nick as a common sneak thief.

So the detective set about to foster the latter impression.

Catching up the wallet, he slipped it into his coat pocket.

Then he began throwing the other contents of the grip aside in a seeming eagerness to find something else of value.

“There, my man, that’ll do!”

The voice came from the man in the doorway, and Nick sprang round, the very picture of trepidation and fear.