Chapter XI: The Fugitive

“Now where am I to go?”

Morton Parks asked himself this question as he sat down on a fallen tree to rest.

He had rubbed the dust of the road on his face and had considerably altered his whole appearance by tearing rents in his clothing and pulling the crown out of his hat.

He looked like a tramp, and it was in this character he hoped to escape the vigilance of the police who were now scouring the country for him.

“I would like to get back to New York,” he mused, “and yet I daren’t show up as Doc Helstone, and nobody knows Morton Parks.

“Stop! I had forgotten Gilmore and Geary, the high-power burglars. They know me in both characters. But they have left New York by this time. When I saw them last they were making arrangements for a big bank robbery in Chicago, and I remember they said they were going to bore into the vault with an electric drill.

“I laughed at the scheme, but I hadn’t any intention of joining them then. Why shouldn’t I get to Chicago and give Gilmore and Geary a hand? Yes, by jingo, that’s my plan.

“I’ll have to beg or steal my way there, but I ought to know how to do that.”

* * * * *

“Talk about nerve!”

“What is it now, Mr. Smith?”

“Burglars!”

“What, again?”

“Yes, last night, at my residence.”

Mr. Chester Smith, the wealthy Chicago banker, threw himself into an easy-chair in the office of the chief of police, and looked decidedly ugly.

“What did they get?” asked the chief.

“I’d like to know what they didn’t get,” was the excited reply, “and I was at home every minute of the time, too.”

“Well?”

There was a quiet smile on the chief’s face as he sat looking at his excited friend.

“They entered my house while I was at home,” continued the banker, “ransacked every room in it, took my watch and pocketbook from under my pillow, and my revolver from a table drawer near the bed.”

“You were right in calling them nervy,” said the chief.

“But that isn’t half of it. They went from my room to the kitchen, and what do you think they did there?”

“Surely they didn’t find much there.”

“Well, they lit a fire and cooked breakfast. Then they went to the cellar and tapped my wine.”

“And no one heard them?”

“Not a soul.”

“Go on.”

“Then they rigged themselves out in my clothes and put their own old duds in the clothes press. But the worst is yet to come, and for iridescent audacity, it breaks the record.”

“Proceed.”

“Last week I bought a bulldog, whose sole duty it is to watch the premises. This morning I found him shut up in the coalhouse, with a heavy rubber band around his jaws, and a tag tied to his tail. The tag reads as follows:

“‘We didn’t take yer purp, ’cos we thought mebbe as how he wos raised a pet, an’ you might be fond of him.’”

The chief laughed heartily for a moment, and then his face grew grave.

“We are having a great deal of trouble with burglars lately,” he said, “and I am often at a loss what to do.”

“And nearly all recent burglaries are unusually daring and successful, are they not?”

“They are all daring, and I am sorry to say that nearly all are successful.”

“You’ll have to send to New York for Nick Carter.”

“I can’t always get Nick Carter.”

“Well, we ought to have a few men like Nick on the Chicago detective force.”

The chief smiled.

“There is only one Nick Carter,” he said.

The banker gave a few additional details regarding the burglary at his residence, and went away.

* * * * *

John Mitchell, returning to his residence on Boston Avenue one evening, saw that he was being followed by several men, and started off on a run.

It was quite dark, but Mitchell could see the men plainly every time they came to a street lamp.

He started to run.

They did the same.

At last he came to the steps of his own residence.

Then the toughs seemed to understand that they were likely to lose their prey, and one of them darted forward and dealt him a stunning blow on the side of the head.

When Mitchell fell, he went through the door of his home, and landed in the hallway.

He was partially stunned, but grappled with his assailant.

The struggle which followed attracted the attention of two men who resided in the family.

But the highwayman was a desperate fellow, and seemed to be fighting for his life.

With the full weight of the three men upon him, he still struggled to his feet, shaking the men from his back as a huge dog throws off water.

Then he made for the door. His companions had disappeared, and the patrolman on the beat had been attracted to the spot by the noise of the combat.

The robber sprang past the officer and went, panting, up a dark alley.

Pursuit soon died out, and the fellow stopped to rest in the shelter of a cluster of stables.

His clothes, though of good material, were of the cheapest, and in shocking condition.

His broken shoes were soaked with mud and water, and his crownless hat afforded little protection from the weather.

When, occasionally, the light of a street lamp shone upon him, it revealed a countenance haggard and worn, yet it was the face of Morton Parks.

In all the city of Chicago that night there was probably no more piteous object than the escaped criminal. For lack of money this leader of criminals had become a common highwayman.

Dodging here and there through the semi-deserted streets in the banking and real-estate district--for it was now after ten o’clock--the fugitive at length entered a prosperous-looking oyster and chophouse and asked for the proprietor.

The waiter looked at the disreputable figure in amazement for a moment and then pointed toward the door.

Then a handsomely dressed fellow with a long, drooping mustache and flowing side whiskers of the Dundreary type, stepped into the room.

A signal passed between the robber and the keeper of the restaurant, and the two men were soon closeted in a private room.

“Now, Parks, explain.”

“It’s easy, Gilmore. I was on the road to Sing Sing. I escaped. I only had a dollar or two, that I stole from the detective.”

“Go on; don’t worry about the details. We can fill them in afterward. How do you come to be here in this plight?”

“My New York gang had been run in. I knew you had come to Chicago. I became a tramp, got in with a lot of thugs and finally landed here because it’s the only place where I expect to meet a friend.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Gilmore, brutally. “Nobody likes to have an escaped criminal on his hands.”

“How about your own record?” asked Parks.

“That’s nothing to do with the case. Who sent you to Sing Sing?” he asked, suddenly.

“Nick Carter.”

“The keenest sleuth alive!”

The restaurant man walked up and down the floor for a moment with a heavy frown on his face.

“How do you know Nick Carter did not follow you here?” he finally asked.

“I saw him last at Detroit,” was the calm reply.

“Then you think he is after you?”

“I am certain of it.”

“And yet, you come here?”

“I told you before I had no other place to go.”

“I’ll murder you if he follows you to my place.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well here,” said Parks.

“No man with my police record--as you hinted--can do well anywhere,” was the angry answer.

“I noticed a bank next door,” said Parks. “I presume this place is a starter for the electric-drill scheme you once spoke of.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” said Gilmore. “I have decided to have nothing to do with that scheme.”

“It is strange that you should locate a place like this--next door to a bank, then. There can’t be much money in the trade you get here.”

“There is money enough here if the sneaks of the profession would only let me alone.”

Parks sprang to his feet.

“Another word like that,” he shouted, “and I’ll give you dead away to the police. You can’t talk to a man of my stamp in that fashion.”

“But suppose Nick Carter follows you here, and recognizes me? I’ll be pulled in, too.”

“Have you any idea that Nick Carter knows where you are?” asked Parks.

“I don’t think he does.”

“Drop Nick Carter. Lend me some money. I need a complete outfit, and something to buy food and drink with.”

“I won’t give you a cent.”

Parks started for the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Gilmore.

“To the police.”

Gilmore opened the door.

“I don’t care how quick you go,” he said.

As Parks stepped out, a waiter walked up to the door of the room.

“Did you ring?” he asked.

Gilmore turned him away with an oath, and pulled Parks back into the room.

“You see how it is,” he said.

“See how what is?”

“That is a detective.”

“Who hired him?”

“I did.”

“Knowing him to be a detective?”

“Of course not. I found that out just now.”

“How?”

“By his coming here and asking that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There is no bell to this room. He came here for the purpose of spotting you.”

Parks threw himself back into his chair with an oath.

“We can’t afford to quarrel,” he said, “if that is Nick Carter, or one of his assistants.”

Parks pondered for some moments.

“Help me out,” he said, “and I’ll get rid of the fellow. Then we can put up the electric-drill burglary, and make enough money to get out of the country.”

“Have you tried to turn any tricks since you came here?” Gilmore asked.

Parks hesitated.

He had once been a leader of crooks, and disliked to mention the incident on Boston Avenue.

At last, however, he explained just what had taken place, and was roundly cursed by Gilmore for coming to his place after having attempted so daring a crime.

“You will be sure to be tracked,” Gilmore said, “if you remain in your present condition, and that will endanger my place. How much cash do you want to fix yourself up with?”

“Fifty dollars will do for the present. It’s a change for Morton Parks to be begging a paltry fifty-dollar bill, but my luck has turned--that’s all.”

“And you will help me to get rid of these people, and also assist in the electric-drill scheme?”

“So you are into that, after all,” said Parks. “I thought so all the time. Yes, I will help you all I can in both directions if you stake me now.”

Gilmore counted out the sum named, and handed it to his companion.

“Now,” said Parks, “tell me about this electric-drill scheme.”

Gilmore took a folded paper from his pocketbook and spread it out on the table. It was nothing more nor less than a carefully drawn plan of the buildings surrounding the bank which adjoined the restaurant.

“Here is the bank vault,” explained Gilmore, “and here is my place. The plan is to break through the cellar wall under this floor, and cut through the granite and steel walls of the bank with an electric drill. It can be done in two hours.”

“But won’t you strike too low in the vault?”

“No. The vault is two feet lower than the floor of the bank above, and we shall strike it just about right.”

“Where does your power come from?”

“Oh! I put in a patent electric motor for a dishwasher, and contracted for electric fly fans for next summer. So that is all right.”

Parks laughed heartily, and declared that it was a great scheme.

While the men were figuring over the plan, the sound of breaking crockery came from the front end of the place.

They both dashed out, for it was quite evident that there was serious trouble in the main dining room.

“One of the waiters threw a server of dishes at a customer,” explained an employee.

“Where is that waiter?” thundered Gilmore. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I don’t know, sir,” was the reply. “He was here a moment ago.”

“Where is the customer?”

“There on the floor, sir. He was knocked down.”

The proprietor stepped forward and lifted the fallen man’s head.

It was Geary, his rascally partner in the electric-drill scheme.

“They had some words, sir,” continued the waiter, “and the customer tried to grab the waiter.”

Geary was revived, and the three men went back to the private room together. There a new surprise awaited them.

The plan they had been examining was not there, although Gilmore and Parks had left it on the table when they rushed out.

There was a movement by the door, and Geary turned, to see the man who had struck him stealing out of the room.

“There’s that detective again,” he yelled. “Grab him.”

“Don’t allow him to escape,” roared Gilmore. “He has the missing paper. Shoot him down.”

The proprietor drew a revolver as he spoke, but Geary caught his hand in time to prevent the shot.

“Do you want the police down here?” he said, with an oath.

“I don’t want him to escape,” said Gilmore, making a dive for the young man, who was just passing out of the doorway.

The burglar was a powerful man, but he was little more than a baby in the hands of the man he sought to detain.

He was whirled from his feet in an instant, and thrown against his two companions, who were now advancing to assist him.

Before the three men could do anything more to keep the young man from leaving the room, he had closed the door with a bang and darted through the restaurant to the street.

When Gilmore opened the door the fugitive was out of sight.

“Why didn’t you catch him?” demanded the proprietor. “The man is a thief, and the racket out here was nothing but a scheme to steal some private papers from my room.”

“He went through like a flash,” explained the cashier.

“Nixon followed him,” replied a waiter.

“I am glad that one employee has some sense,” growled Gilmore. “When Nixon comes back, send him to my room.”

Nixon was an old crook, who had been brought on from New York to keep track of things in the restaurant.

“I told you he was a detective, didn’t I?” demanded Gilmore of Parks, as soon as the door of the private room was closed.

“How did you know that?” asked Geary.

“Because he stood in front of the door when I opened it a few minutes ago. Then, to account for his presence there, he asked if I had rung for him.”

“Well?”

“Well, there is no bell in the room. He was there listening.”

“I spotted him when I came in to-night,” said Geary, “and accused him of trying to pick my pocket. He threw the dishes at me, and I made a grab for him. That’s all I know about it. He strikes a hard blow, whoever he is.”

“How long has he been here?” asked Parks.

“Only two days,” was the reply.

“Then he followed me here, and spotted this place the first thing, knowing that I would be likely to come here,” said Parks.

“But what did he dodge into the room for as soon as we left it?”

“To find out what we were up to; and he found out, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Gilmore, lifting a piece of paper from the floor as he spoke.

The paper was the missing plan, which the intruder had undoubtedly dropped in the scuffle.

“So the electric-drill scheme is safe for the present, at least,” said Parks, “but there is no knowing how long it will remain so, for the man just in here was Chick, Nick Carter’s assistant.”

“Then you make a skip,” said Geary, “and don’t come here again. We can communicate by letter.”

Parks did not move, but stood pointing toward the now open door.