Chapter VII: In the Gloom

All this darkness and mystery did not surprise Nick. He knew that Benton was a great man for hocus-pocus.

He had signs and passwords, and surrounded himself with precautions which looked childish.

There was a purpose in all this, however. By keeping a good many silly mysteries in motion he managed very often to cover up the real mystery and direct attention elsewhere.

Nick knew Benton for a desperate man at heart. Was he playing a deep game here?

It was just like him to collect the whole Helstone gang in the dark for no other purpose than to show them what a mysterious character he was. By and by he might bring a lamp, and then the business would proceed in the most ordinary way in the world.

But, on the other hand, he might have a deadly trap concealed in this gloom.

Nick wondered whether it was possible that he had been recognized. If so, he knew that Benton would never let him get out of the place alive, unless he couldn’t help it.

Presently the bell rang again. This time, by listening with the deepest attention, Nick made sure that Benton went to the rear door--the one by which Nick himself had been admitted.

Then Nick was sure that something out of the common course had happened. It would be hard to say just how he knew it. Only his great experience enabled him to interpret the faint sounds which he heard.

The caller, whoever he was, was not ushered into the room in which Nick sat. Of that Nick felt certain.

Benton, however, returned. By straining every nerve in the most rigid attention, Nick ascertained that.

Afterward it seemed to him that Benton had touched some other person in the room and was leading him out.

A second time this occurred, and then a third.

Nick began to be anxious. He made a sign which should have elicited a response from Chick if he had been present, but only silence ensued.

For the fourth time Benton entered the room.

Nick could not see him, of course. The darkness was as profound as ever. But by this time he had learned to recognize the old man’s stealthy tread.

Then dead silence ensued.

Nick listened intently. He seemed to know by instinct that Benton was listening also.

“Something has gone wrong, sure,” said Nick to himself. “I must act quickly or all is lost.”

He stirred his foot upon the floor so as to make a faint noise.

Then, for a second, he listened.

Surely Benton was creeping up toward him.

And another sound now began to be audible. It was the faint noise of impeded breathing.

Nick knew that sound. In the midst of that perfect darkness he recognized the person who was breathing as plainly as if he had seen the man by the light of day.

It was Pete, the negro.

Nick had known Pete for some years. The negro had a slight asthmatic affection, which made his breathing just the least bit more difficult than a healthy man’s.

He also had a peculiar habit of drawing in his breath with a faint rattling sound once in about two minutes.

These noises Nick recognized, and he grasped the whole situation instantly.

Pete had escaped. He had returned and had probably disabled Patsy.

Then he had informed Benton that Nick Carter had got inside the house disguised as Al Hardy.

The wily old man, on receiving this information, had quietly removed the other persons from the room in which Nick was, and had then come in with the negro to take vengeance upon the detective.

There was no time for delay. The two murderers were creeping down upon him.

Again Nick made a slight movement to attract their attention.

He set down his pocket lamp on the bench beside him.

This lamp was arranged to be used as a bull’s-eye or by removing the coverings from the sides it could be made to throw its light about as an ordinary lamp does.

Nick removed the side coverings. At that moment he could hear the two assassins very close to him.

Suddenly he pressed the spring of the lamp, and leaped to one side as agile as a cat.

The flame flashed up in the faces of his assailants.

It revealed the evil countenance of Benton, with his thin, cruel lips, and habitual sneer. It shone upon the brutal face of the negro.

Each of them held a knife in his hand. They were bending forward, and were just ready to strike.

The bright flame dazzled and confused them for an instant.

Then they turned toward the spot to which Nick had sprung.

The sight which met their gaze was not reassuring.

In each hand Nick held a revolver. There was death in the glance of his eye.

Neither Benton nor the negro could summon up the courage to stir.

Every crook in New York--not to go further--knows Nick Carter’s reputation as a pistol shot.

Probably there is not a criminal in the whole city who would dream of making any resistance if he found himself covered by a revolver in Nick’s hands.

It would be suicide and nothing else.

Ellis Benton ground his teeth, but he dared not move.

“Lay those knives down on the floor carefully,” said Nick. “Don’t make any noise or I’ll make a louder one.”

The two villains obeyed, Benton with hatred and chagrin visible in every movement, the negro with the alacrity of perfect submission.

Of Pete, at least, Nick felt sure. The man was an arrant coward, and Nick’s only wonder was that he had been induced to assist in murder.

Doubtless he had intended to leave the real work to Benton.

“Now hold up your hands,” said Nick.

These directions he gave in a low voice, which could not be heard beyond the limits of the apartment.

“Pete,” he continued, “face round.”

The negro obeyed, turning his back to Nick.

“Now walk straight to the wall and put your face against it. If you look round, you’re a dead man.”

“I’ll do it,” whined the negro, whose terror was doubled when his back was turned to the object of his alarm; “don’t you go for to shoot, an’ I won’t make no trouble.”

“Benton, come here,” said Nick.

The old man advanced, grinding his teeth.

Meanwhile Nick put one of the revolvers into his pocket, and drew out a pair of handcuffs.

As Benton held out his hands, Nick, for an instant, removed the pistol’s muzzle from a direct line with the other’s head.

Benton’s eye was quick to see this. Instantly he leaped forward to seize Nick’s hand, at the same time calling upon Pete to help him.

But the first word barely escaped his lips.

The hand in which Nick held the fetters leaped out and struck Benton on the point of his jaw, and he fell like a rag baby.

Pete turned at the sound of his name, but his head spun round again without any delay.

He saw Nick holding Benton’s unconscious form across his arm, as one might hold an old coat.

And Nick’s free hand leveled the revolver straight at Pete’s head.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’,” protested the negro. “Don’t trouble ’bout pointin’ that gun at me.”

“You behave yourself and you’ll be all right,” said Nick. “Keep those hands up.”

Assuring himself that Pete was thoroughly intimidated, Nick bent over the form of the “receiver” and fettered him securely. He added a gag, which would keep him quiet in case he should regain consciousness before he could be put in a safe place.

It was Pete’s turn next, and he was bound in a way which made a second escape impossible. He, too, was gagged.

“I believe, Mr. Benton,” said Nick, addressing the “fence,” who, however, had not sufficiently recovered to hear him, “that there is a cellar under this apartment.”

With little trouble Nick found a trapdoor which could be raised. He lifted it and discovered a ladder leading down into the darkness.

He lowered Benton down into this place with a piece of rope, and then steadied Pete so that the negro made the descent, although his hands were tied behind him.

Nick followed with the light.

The cellar was a damp and unwholesome dungeon, but it extended a long way in the direction of Sixth Avenue.

This was what Nick had hoped, for it gave him an opportunity to dispose of his two captives at such distance from the rooms which Benton occupied that their cries, muffled by the gags, could not be heard.

A partition divided the cellar, and there was a door in it. Nick made his prisoners secure on the other side of this door, and then he returned to the room in which he had captured them.

Here he speedily, but very carefully, disguised himself as Ellis Benton.

Then, extinguishing his light, he put it into his pocket, and made his way along the hall toward the rear door.

He passed out into the little yard, and thence to the alley where he had left Patsy.

The fate of his young assistant was a black problem in Nick’s mind. He greatly feared that Patsy had been murdered.

Therefore his satisfaction was great when, in the mouth of the alley, he found Patsy leaning against the wall.

Nick disclosed himself.

“They pretty nearly did me up, Nick,” said Patsy. “I guess they left me for dead. But I’m worth half a dozen dead men.”

“How did it happen, my boy?”

“I don’t exactly know. The negro must have crept up along the wall. The first thing I knew he was on top of me, and he got in a chance blow with a sandbag.

“Why it didn’t kill me I can’t understand. It lit fair enough. Is the game up, Nick?”

“I don’t think so. How do you feel?”

“Dizzy; but it will pass away.”

Nick examined Patsy carefully.

“You’ve had a narrow escape, my boy,” he said, “but you don’t seem to be much hurt. Do you feel well enough to go on guard again?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’ll let you do it, since the case is so desperate, but if your head troubles you too much, just push the bell six times as a signal to me and then drop into a carriage on the avenue and go to see Dr. Allen.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Nick,” replied the boy. “I’m only ashamed to have him get the best of me.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got him safe.”