Chapter V: How Patsy Made Good

Nick Carter returned to his business office, where he found Chick and Patsy awaiting him. He at once proceeded to tell them what he had learned, in the meantime removing his disguise and displaying the printed letter received by the elderly banker.

“Gee! it looks like a cinch, chief,” commented Patsy, after Nick had concluded. “Kate Crandall has got in her work again, as sure as there’s juice in a lemon.”

“Undoubtedly, Patsy, and I’ll wager that she will not slip through our fingers as elusively as in the two previous cases,” Nick grimly predicted. “It was her boast, you remember, that she was too clever to be caught in the clutches of the law.”

“She will have slipped a cog this time, all right, if we can lay hands on her.”

“That is what we should set about doing, Nick, it strikes me,” Chick suggested. “We surely ought to be able to pick up her trail, or that of the woman who pretended to faint and gave you the name of Margaret Hanson.”

“That is precisely what we must do,” Nick agreed. “The two women were confederates. They accomplished the abduction by means of that trick, and the ease with which Kate Crandall could lure the Madden child away. It’s long odds that they had a motor car, too, for they would not have ventured undertaking to get away with her on foot. They must, in that case, have had a chauffeur, so we can bank on at least one man in the job, and very probably more.”

“That boy also must have been in it, chief, or he would not have bolted,” added Patsy. “He would have waited to find out whether the woman recovered, if he was on the level and really thought she had fainted.”

“Very true, Patsy, and there is one probable fact of which we can take advantage.”

“What’s that, chief?”

“The woman who fainted has auburn hair, the boy red hair,” said Nick. “It’s a safe assumption, then, that they are mother and son.”

“Gee! that’s right, too.”

“And there are comparatively few red-headed women with a red-headed son about ten years of age in greater New York, even,” Nick added. “Inquiries at each of the precinct police stations, therefore, may enable us to locate the couple. If they live in the city, which is highly probable, some patrolman should be able to identify them.”

“Why not start me on that trail, chief?” said Patsy. “It looks good to me.”

“That is what I intend doing,” Nick replied. “Take Danny and the touring car and cover the ground as quickly as possible.”

“Trust me for that.”

“Telephone me immediately if you make any discovery,” Nick directed. “I shall remain here until I receive a communication from David Mack.”

“You expect one to-day?” Chick questioned.

“I expect one at any moment. The crooks will not defer bringing their scheme to a head. Delay would be dangerous, and they will hasten to get in their work.”

“That does, indeed, seem probable,” Chick allowed.

“We will wait here, therefore, and learn what instructions Mack receives. We then can determine what steps we may take to the best advantage.”

“True.”

“But I’m to go at once, chief?” questioned Patsy, who had been hurriedly making his preparations.

“Certainly,” said Nick. “Incidentally, too, when in that locality, drop into the Carleton and see what you can learn about Clara Randall. She probably is known there by no other name. Find out how long she has been there and who has been visiting her.

“It is several months since we foiled her game against Cyrus Darling, and she evidently has thought it wise to use a fictitious name, her own having become somewhat notorious. Go ahead, Patsy, and let me hear from you.”

Patsy Garvan needed no additional instructions. Half an hour later, after brief calls at three of the precinct stations, where he left such directions as the circumstances required, Patsy sprang from the touring car a few doors from the Lexington Avenue apartment house, in which Clara Randall was said to have been quartered.

Entering in disguise, Patsy confided his identity and mission to the office clerk, who hurriedly responded to his inquiries after Nick Carter’s name had been mentioned.

As Nick had predicted, however, Clara Randall had vacated her apartments one week before, and her whereabouts was not known.

“How long has she been living here?” Patsy inquired.

“Nearly four months.”

“Alone?”

“Save when she had visitors,” smiled the clerk significantly.

“Give it to me straight,” said Patsy impressively. “Who has been calling on her?”

“Only two persons, a man and a woman, whom I have specially noticed,” said the clerk. “The man’s name is Jack Conroy, or that’s the only name by which we know him. He has been very friendly with her. I don’t know where he lives, however, nor anything more about him.”

“You know how he looks,” said Patsy, a bit dryly. “Describe him.”

“Oh, he’s a man of forty, a well-built chap, with dark hair and eyes and a short, pointed beard. He wears glasses and dresses fashionably, barring one feature that seems to hit his fancy.”

“What is that?”

“He nearly always wears a figured vest.”

“That’s worth knowing,” said Patsy. “Is that all you can tell me about him?”

“The whole business, Garvan, on my word.”

“The woman left no address for her mail?”

“None. She said there would be no mail for her.”

“Who was the other visitor, the woman you have mentioned? Do you know anything about her?”

“Only what I have seen,” replied the clerk. “She has stopped here frequently in an automobile, evidently her own car, and always with the same chauffeur. He’s a stocky chap in the twenties, smooth shaved and of light complexion. The woman is about thirty, or a little older. She dresses in style. She is about medium height and quite slender, with thin features and sort of brick-colored hair.”

Patsy’s eyes dilated. He had obtained a perfect description of the woman he was seeking, of Margaret Hanson, so called.

“You don’t know her name?” he said inquiringly.

“No.”

“Have you ever seen a red-headed boy with her?”

“No.”

“Or noticed the number of her car?”

“Yes, by Jove, I have noticed that,” said the clerk quickly. “It is 44120, New York. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Good on your head,” said Patsy. “That will help some, all right.”

“Glad of it. Sorry I cannot do more for you.”

“You can do a trifle more--keep all this to yourself,” said Patsy, with a smile.

“You can bank on that, Garvan,” nodded the clerk. “So long!”

Patsy already had turned from the desk and was hurrying out of the house. Ten minutes later he entered a public garage, where, in a New York license book, he found that the car bearing the number mentioned was owned by Andrew J. Duffy, No.---- Amsterdam Avenue, New York City.

“Gee whiz, Danny, that’s going some,” Patsy declared triumphantly, when he returned to the waiting car.

“Going some is right, Patsy, for fair,” Danny Maloney readily agreed. “It’s going to beat the band. Where next?”

“Hike me out to Amsterdam Avenue, and drop me a block from Duffy’s house,” Patsy directed, with increasing zest. “I’m to see what more I can learn.”

“Have you put the chief wise?”

“You bet! I phoned him from the garage.”

“Are you to make any arrests?”

“Not yet,” said Patsy. “We must first make sure of finding the Madden kid. Kate Crandall is tricky, in spite of the fact that we have picked up her trail so quickly. She could not figure, you know, upon Nick’s hearing and recognizing her voice when she telephoned to Madden, or supposed she was doing so. The chief played dead lucky in that, for it put him wise at once when Clara Randall’s name and conduct were stated. She knows where Amy Madden is, all right, but the kid may not be in the Duffy house, possibly not within miles of it. We must plan to clinch the whole business before arresting any one, or we might make a bad mess of it.”

“Sure thing,” said Danny. “I see the point.”

Twenty minutes served to land Patsy at his destination. He sprang from the car a block south of the Duffy place, still in disguise, and then directed Danny to return home with the car.

“I have no further use for it, and the chief may need it,” he added, lingering for a moment. “I’m to be guided by what I discover.”

Sauntering into a corner grocery store near which they had stopped, Patsy inquired where Duffy lived, merely to pave the way for further questions. He then learned, without incurring suspicion that Duffy was a dabbler in stocks, that he had no other business, that he had a wife and one son, Margaret and Jimmie, the latter a lad of ten years, also that the youngster had fiery-red hair.

“The danger hue. He’s in the peril zone, all right,” thought Patsy, sauntering out. “This is good enough for me. I’ll now find out who is in the Duffy house, if possible, and then I’ll phone the chief another pointer.”

Instead of approaching it from in front, however, Patsy walked round the square and viewed the rear of the dwelling.

It proved to be an attractive wooden house on a corner lot, somewhat back from the avenue and with a driveway entrance from the side street, leading to a stone garage and a cement yard in front of it. The garage door was open and the car gone.

“Gee! that looks a bit bad,” thought Patsy. “Windows all down and some of the shutters closed. No one at home but the cook, perhaps, and she is in the soup. No, by gracious, I’m wrong. There’s a woman heading for the front door.”

Glancing furtively through one of the side windows while he passed, Patsy caught sight of her skirts fluttering through the main hall. He timed his steps so as to pause at the corner of the house just as the woman emerged from the front door.

It was the woman he was seeking--Kate Crandall.

Closely following her came the woman with auburn tresses, tightly grasping the hand of a red-headed, freckled lad, then more neatly clad than Lucy Sloan had described, as was the woman herself. All three were clad for the street, in fact, and evidently were departing on an important mission.

As quick as a flash, the instant he caught sight of them, Patsy crouched back of a vine-covered trellis near the corner of the house. He could see them plainly through the drooping foliage, which effectively hid himself, nevertheless, and a single glance convinced him that he had found one retreat, at least, of the much-desired quarry.

“Duffy’s wife--Margaret Duffy, instead of Margaret Hanson,” he said to himself. “Little Jimmie Duffy, too, who made the abduction trick possible. They have entered him young on the criminal-trotting circuit, but I’ll nip him in the first heat and backtrack him. H’m, what now?”

Kate Crandall had stopped short upon reaching the front gate. Through the meshes of her dainty veil Patsy could see the gleam and glitter of her intense black eyes, and the peculiar pallor of her clear, velvety complexion. She spoke when turning, saying a bit sharply:

“You do what I have told you, Maggie, and you’ll make no mistake. We have framed up this job too perfectly for any slip-up to occur. You go out there with the kid and wait until we come. Gleason will take us out after the preliminaries are arranged. That done, we shall not be long in landing the coin. I know, Maggie; you can bet on that.”

“Well, I’m banking on your judgment, Kate, though I’m a bit skeery,” Maggie Duffy vouchsafed. “I’ll take Jimmie along, all the same, and wait until you come.”

“We’ll show up soon after dark,” Kate assured her. “I must be off, now, to phone to Conroy. He’ll be in the air by this time. I’m to join him later and go out with them in the car.”

“I know about that, Kate.”

“Get a move on, then, and look after the goods. There is nothing to fear, so don’t lose your sand. We’ll win out a mansion in Easy Street, Maggie, take my word for it.”

Kate Crandall turned with the last and walked rapidly away.

Maggie Duffy hurried the red-headed youngster away in the opposite direction.

Patsy Garvan paused only briefly to determine what he would do.

“Gleason must be Duffy’s chauffeur,” he quickly reasoned. “He is going to take this bunch of blacklegs somewhere in an automobile. I might find it impossible to follow them. I’d better trail the Duffy woman, then, since their destination is the same. Yes, by Jove, it’s Maggie Duffy for mine!”

Patsy broke cover with the last. He had no time to telephone to Nick, but he reasoned that he would do so later. He stole out of the yard, crouching to avoid observation, and then started in close pursuit of Maggie Duffy and her youthful Rufus.

They were heading for the nearest subway station.