Chapter VII: Nick Carter’s Doings

It now is obvious, of course, that Chick Carter lied to Mr. Morris Garland--which was entirely warranted by the circumstances, since knavery can be successfully met only with its own weapons.

Nick Carter had turned only the nearest corner after leaving the quarters of the loan company, when he was overtaken by Chick, who, in reality, had been there only to note what followed Nick’s visit with Waldmere, and to watch any move that either Garland or Hart might afterward make.

It so happened, however, owing to an unexpected opportunity afforded Chick, that their own respective designs were reversed.

“Well, what was doing?” Nick immediately questioned, when Chick hastened across the street and joined him. “I saw Hart talking to you through the window.

Chick hastily informed him, and Nick’s face underwent a decided change.

“That does settle it,” said he. “We have given them a fright, and now have them on the run. It’s dollars to fried rings, now, that my suspicions are correct. It is necessary only to clinch them and nail all of the culprits involved in the game.”

“What game?” asked Lord Waldmere curiously. “I’m jolly well mystified by this. Why----”

“Don’t question,” Nick interrupted. “Be patient, Waldmere, until I have got in my work. I then will answer all the questions you care to ask.”

“But, hang it, old top, I----”

“You must do what I say,” Nick cut in. “Time never was more valuable. One minute’s delay may queer all of my work.”

“What next?” Chick tersely asked, when Waldmere subsided.

“We’ll change mounts,” Nick replied pointedly. “Go ahead and keep the appointment with Garland. Meet him, as directed, though he’ll not be likely to show up there for some little time, providing I rightly anticipate what’s coming.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him who I am,” Nick directed. “Give it to him straight, in your own way, but only what will be consistent with your assumed character. Got me?”

“Dead to rights,” Chick nodded.

“Be off, then, and I’ll do the rest,” said Nick. “I have left Patsy in the office, in case of sudden need. Call him up yourself, if occasion requires it.”

Chick responded with another nod and hurried away.

“Now, Waldmere, you return to your lodgings,” said Nick. “You will only be in my way, if you remain. Wait right there until I come.”

“But----”

“Don’t stop to question, dear fellow,” Nick interrupted. “Every minute is of value.”

“By Jove, I’m all at sea, don’t you know, but here goes!” exclaimed his lordship, seeming suddenly to realize that he was indeed in the way.

He smiled with the last, nevertheless, and hurried across the street, presently vanishing around the nearest corner.

Nick Carter stepped into the corridor of a near building. The janitor, with a broom and a pail of rubbish, the result of his morning’s cleaning, was just approaching a small storeroom under the rise of stairs.

Nick overtook him at the open door.

“One moment, janitor,” said he, stepping into the narrow room. “I am Nick Carter, the detective, and I’m on a rush case. Hang onto this cane and disguise until I call for them, will you? I then will make it worth your while.”

“Sure, sor, I’m glad to do it,” cried the janitor, eyes lighting. “Who don’t know Nick Carter?”

“Good on your head,” Nick nodded. “I want to reverse my trousers and coat, also, which will take but half a minute.”

“Go ahead, sor. The room is yours for the asking.”

Nick emerged from it in precisely thirty seconds, so changed in looks and attire, the latter expressly made to be quickly reversed, that he bore not even a remote resemblance to the man who had entered it. Then wearing no facial disguise, he again thanked the janitor and hurried away from the building, retracing his steps to Fifth Avenue.

Not more than five minutes had passed since he departed from the loan company office, when, from a doorway on the opposite side of the avenue, he was in a position to cautiously watch the place.

He had returned none too soon. He scarce had turned his gaze in that direction, when Garland came from the loan office in company with a handsome, flashily dressed woman of twenty-five, whom Nick had seen at a typewriter through the partly open door of Garland’s private office.

“Garland’s stenographer,” he muttered. “I thought I recognized her, though she sat with her face averted. Vera Vantoon, eh? I have seen her with Stuart Floyd, of whom Chick was speaking last evening. She may be a connecting link in this chain. By Jove, they are off at a canter, for fair. On the run is right.”

Garland and Vera Vantoon, a pronounced brunette with a striking face and figure, were hurrying up Fifth Avenue, evidently on as important a mission as the detective had been led to suspect.

Nick immediately followed them, though on the opposite side of the avenue.

They had covered less than two blocks, however, when an approaching taxicab swerved to the curbing and a man sprang out, who evidently had seen them from within the conveyance.

“By Jove, there’s Stuart Floyd himself,” thought Nick, stepping into a near doorway to watch them. “He was bound for Garland’s office, as sure as I’m a foot high. I have forced the game, all right, plainly enough.”

The last was occasioned by the earnest conference at once begun by the three, Garland doing most of the talking, and presently slipping a small cloth parcel into Floyd’s coat pocket--a move undetected by Nick because of the intervening taxicab.

Floyd was an erect, splendidly built man with a smoothly shaved, clean-cut face, with regular features of an almost classic cast, an intellectual brow, and remarkably keen and expressive gray eyes. He was scrupulously well dressed and in strict accord with the dictates of fashion. He would readily have passed, as Chick had stated, for a millionaire or a prominent figure in the Gotham smart set. He was very well known, too, from Harlem to the Battery, though for more and varied reasons than any was yet led to suspect.

Nick saw plainly that he could not wisely undertake to overhear what the three were discussing so earnestly, nor did he attempt to do so. He knew very well, or thought he did, and was content to await what followed.

Nick had not long to wait. After an earnest conference lasting about five minutes, Garland and the woman entered the taxicab, which sped rapidly away, while Stuart Floyd walked briskly down the avenue.

“What’s the meaning of that?” Nick asked himself. “They may have gone to make sure the abducted woman is still in safe keeping. Be that as it may, it’s long odds that Floyd will rejoin them sooner or later. I have no course but to stick to him. I’ll head him off, by Jove, and see what he will say for himself.”

Nick did not immediately do so. He shadowed Floyd, instead, to one of the leading jewelry firms, who were large importers of diamonds and other gems, and through one of the broad plate windows he saw Floyd speak to the senior member of the firm and then retire with him to his private office.

Half an hour passed before Floyd emerged. He paused and shook hands with the merchant, bowing and smiling as if he had not a care on his mind, much less a burden, and he then left the store and walked briskly to a near hotel, entering the barroom and buying a drink.

Nick suspected what he was doing all the while, but he was not absolutely sure of it, and he continued the espionage. Passing through the hotel office to keep an eye on his quarry, he suddenly came face to face with Floyd in the adjoining corridor, the latter having just left the barroom.

It was an opportunity for which Nick had been waiting. He stepped directly in front of the man, saying familiarly:

“Hello! You’re just the man I want to see, Mr. Floyd. Give me half a minute, will you?”

Floyd knew Nick Carter by sight. If he had seen a ghost, he would not have turned more pale for a moment. That he was a man of extraordinary nerve and self-possession, however, appeared in that, aside from his momentary paleness, not a feature of his clean-cut face evinced a sign of fear, or even secret perturbation.

“You are Mr. Carter, I believe,” he replied, looking Nick straight in the eye.

“Yes.”

“Why have you stopped me? What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what you know about the Imperial Loan Company,” said Nick, straight from the shoulder.

Floyd heard him without a change of countenance.

“All that I know may be told with a single word--nothing,” he replied.

“You know of the concern, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the managers?”

“Yes.”

“Well acquainted?”

“So well acquainted, Mr. Carter, that I am not inclined to discuss them with any detective, not excluding yourself, before knowing the purpose of his inquiries,” Floyd said coldly.

“If you know only good of them, Mr. Floyd, a detective is the very man with whom you should be most willing to discuss them,” Nick retorted.

“I will not argue the point,” Floyd said, flushing slightly.

“There is no occasion,” said Nick. “Do you know anything about the inside workings of this loan company?”

“What do you mean, sir, by inside workings?”

“The methods they employ.”

“I already have said, Carter, that I know nothing about them, aside from a personal acquaintance with the two managers,” Floyd stiffly asserted. “Mr. Garland is a gentleman. Mr. Hart is another. That is all I can tell you.”

“All that you will tell me, Mr. Floyd, is what you mean,” Nick said pointedly. “You should have learned, nevertheless, that reticence is equivalent to----”

“Stop a moment,” Floyd interrupted, with lips curling. “What’s the big idea? What’s it all about? Do you suspect the loan company of anything wrong?”

“Frankly, Mr. Floyd, I do,” Nick nodded.

“Of what?”

“Of having abducted, or caused to be abducted, a woman known as Mrs. Archie Waldron. Did you ever hear of her?”

“Never! Permit me to add, Carter, that I never heard of anything more absurd.”

“Than what?” questioned Nick, still sharply regarding him.

“Such a suspicion,” snapped Floyd, his eyes dilating. “What earthly motive could they have for abducting a woman, or for any other breach of the law? Both are married and have families. Both are men of eminent respectability, of sterling integrity, and they manage a very profitable business. What earthly incentive could they have for committing crime? That’s absurd, utterly improbable. You detectives go over the traces much too often, Carter, in your still-hunts after victims. You are worse in a way than the crooks, for you smirch the reputation of honorable men, while crooks get only their purses. Good morning, sir. That is all I have to say.”

Floyd apparently had worked himself up to a state of righteous indignation, and none could better feign any sentiment he chose. He drew himself up and turned to go, but Nick detained him with a gesture.

“One moment,” he replied. “You have said considerable, Floyd, for one who knew nothing about the Imperial Loan Company. I should be blind, indeed, if I did not see that. You extol them in order to divert my suspicions. But the fact that you think it is necessary to do so proves quite conclusively, not only that you know much more than you have stated, but also that my suspicions are correct. I could logically go even a step further, Floyd, and suspect you of being in their game.”

Floyd’s thin red lips parted scornfully, revealing a double row of sharp white teeth. It gave him for a moment the vicious expression of a dog about to bite. Instead, he vented a cold and mirthless laugh, as cold and mirthless as the ring from rapiers crossed in mortal combat.

“You go to thunder, Carter,” said he, sneering contemptuously. “I would not lower myself by even denying your slanderous insinuations. In their game, or in any game--bah! You disgust me! Go to thunder!”

And Mr. Stuart Floyd, with the air and aspect of one who felt that he had squelched the famous detective, turned on his heel and entered the hotel office.

Nick Carter smiled and passed into the barroom.

“That will keep you going, all right,” he said to himself. “That’s all I want of you. I’ll get you hands down at the finish.”