Chapter VII: Mr. Pimlico

Nick Carter, though he never had seen the man, now knew where he had seen the face. He had trained himself never to forget the face of a crook, even though seen only as he had seen that of Baldy Gammon.

It was included in his rogues’ gallery, two excellent photographs, front and profile, on a Bertillon signaletic card sent to him from Scotland Yard about two years before.

The card contained also a description and the criminal record of one Jasper Gammon, nicknamed Baldy Gammon because of his bald head. There could be no mistaking this fellow, who had a notorious record as a confidence man, sneak thief, and all-around swindler.

“Baldy Gammon?” muttered Chick, not placing him. “Who the deuce is he?”

Nick quietly informed him, at the same time taking up the dictograph receiver and holding it to his ear. Every word uttered in the opposite suite could be distinctly heard, every sound that was made, in fact, and Nick whispered the interview to Chick while the scene in the suite across the hall was in progress. Minds as keen and perceptive as those of the two detectives could easily supply most of the following invisible details:

Sir Edward Chadwick closed the door and waved Baldy Gammon to a chair, taking one opposite his visitor.

“Well, you are on time,” he said approvingly, though his voice still had the hard twang that had grated on Nick’s ears and suggested the flinty nature of the speaker.

“Yes, Sir Edud,” replied Gammon, with a pronounced vernacular. “I allas makes it a point to be on time--allas, Sir Edud.”

“Well, skip all else and light upon the issue,” said Chadwick. “What’s the verdict?”

Baldy Gammon drew forward in his chair and announced, with manifest satisfaction, together with a leer in his coal-black eyes.

“We’ve got ’im, Sir Edud, got ’im foul and dead to rights. In other words, Sir Edud, we’ve got ’im just where we wants ’im.”

“I already know that, Mr. Gammon,” returned Chadwick bluntly.

“You does?”

Baldy Gammon looked surprised, and Sir Edward Chadwick proceeded to explain.

“I have called on Nick Carter and learned how the game was played and the stumblingblock removed,” he said pointedly. “I thought it wise to cover my tracks by seeing this American detective without delay. He does not suspect me, nor will he, now, and though he is at work on the case, he frankly admitted that he is all in the dark.”

“The which is a werry good place for ’im to be, Sir Edud,” Gammon dryly vouchsafed. “Don’t ’e know, then, as ’ow you ’ave been ’ere for nearly a week?”

“He knows nothing about me, Mr. Gammon, except what I saw fit to tell him.”

“Well, it’s safe to say, Sir Edud, as ’ow you’d tell ’im nothink worth knowin,” said Gammon, with a grin.

“Come to the point,” frowned Chadwick. “I did not employ you to comment upon my sagacity.”

“Werry true, Sir Edud; werry true, indeed.”

“Come to the point. Is it all over?”

Baldy Gammon shook his almost hairless head and appeared a little disturbed.

“Well, not quite, Sir Edud, not quite,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What do you mean, Gammon?” Sir Edward harshly demanded. “What do you mean by not quite? Hasn’t he been disposed of, put out of the way, out of existence?”

“Not yet, Sir Edud.”

“Why not? Hang it, why the delay? I inferred from what Carter told me that it was all over, that the infernal----”

“Now, ’old your ’osses, Sir Edud, ’old your ’osses,” Gammon interrupted, with as much suavity he could command. “It’s as ’ow it cawn’t be ’elped. I’ll tell you just ’ow it is, Sir Edud.”

“Do so, then, and lose no time about it,” Chadwick commanded, frowning more darkly. “I had hoped you brought me better news.”

“It’s precisely what I suspected,” Nick Carter murmured. “I’ll wager my reputation on it.”

“Looks so,” Chick tersely agreed.

Baldy Gammon, having broken the ice, came forth with his explanation.

“It’s like this, Sir Edud,” he began. “When I came over ’ere for this ’ere work, knowing as ’ow you soon would follow me, I ’ad in mind the werry man for a job o’ this kind. It don’t matter what ’is name be, nor would ’e like me to inform you.”

“I’m not at all anxious to know it.”

“I’ve knowed ’im for some time, Sir Edud, and I knowed ’e would ’ave the right ’elp and a ’ead to frame up the job in the right way. ’Ow well he did it, Sir Edud, goes without saying. We’ve got the man. We’ve got ’im where we wants ’im.”

“You know where I want him,” snarled Chadwick harshly. “You know what depends upon his death, and----”

“’Ear me out, Sir Edud,” interrupted Gammon pacifically. “It’s as ’ow we can turn ’im down at any moment.”

“Why in thunder hasn’t it been done, then? Why this needless delay? Delays are always dangerous.”

“It’s like this, Sir Edud,” Gammon proceeded. “This covey I speak of, ’im as run the whole blooming job, and who can be banked on to do ’is part when the time comes--this ’ere covey don’t feel dead sure of getting what’s coming to ’im.”

“The money you agreed upon? Is that what you mean?”

“That’s what I means, Sir Edud, and----”

“But couldn’t you convince him that the money would be forthcoming?” snapped Chadwick impatiently. “You should have made it plain that he will finally get it.”

“I tried to, so I did, Sir Edud, but it’s as ’ow the covey don’t feel that way,” Gammon replied, a bit dubiously. “You see, Sir Edud, ’e wants to be dead sure of ’is afore taking the risk of a chair what isn’t over-inviting. I could not tell ’im just who you are and all the facts, the which would be werry convincing. You ordered me not to do that, Sir Edud, and I allas act on the square. So the covey is ’olding off till sure----”

“Wait!” Sir Edward exclaimed harshly. “Where is this man? I must see him. I must talk with him myself. I can convince him that the money will be forthcoming. Send the man here to see me.”

Baldy Gammon stared thoughtfully at the carpet for a moment.

“I ain’t a bit sure as ’ow ’e’d come, Sir Edud, unless ’e comes in disguise,” he then replied.

“I don’t care how he comes, so be it he comes quickly,” snapped the other.

“That could be inside of an hour, Sir Edud.”

“I will wait here for him.”

“’E has a silvery-gray wig and a flowing beard, the which I’ve seen ’im wear at times,” observed Gammon. “I’m thinking as ’ow ’e would come in them.”

“Let him wear them, then.”

“And I will ’ave him use the same signal knock as I used.”

“Once, then twice.”

“Yes, Sir Edud.”

“Very good. I will remember.”

“To make dead sure,” added Gammon, “I will ’ave ’im mention ’is name as Mr. Pimlico. That’s no common name, Sir Edud, and you’ll be sure it’s ’im.”

“I understand you, Gammon,” Sir Edward said, with a growl. “Send the man here to-night. Tell him I insist upon seeing him.”

Baldy Gammon arose with a bow and gesture of assent, then hurriedly departed.

Nick Carter whispered a few words to Chick, then stole noiselessly out of the suite in which they had been listening.

It was half past eight when Baldy Gammon departed, leaving Sir Edward Chadwick to await the arrival of the said Mr. Pimlico.

Chick Carter made no move to prevent the departure of this London crook, nor to follow him. He remained seated in the darkness of the opposite suite, with the door still ajar and his gaze fixed upon that directly across the corridor.

Nine o’clock came and with it came Mr. Pimlico.

There could be no mistaking the man Baldy Gammon had described, with his silvery-gray hair and flowing beard, giving him the appearance of a man of seventy.

Chick heard him coming and saw Chadwick open the door in response to the signal knock. He surveyed the man a bit sharply, saying tersely:

“Well, sir?”

“My name is Pimlico,” said the other.

“Ah! Come in.”

The door closed behind the couple and Chick Carter seized the dictograph receiver.

Sir Edward Chadwick took a chair near the table, his visitor one directly opposite, saying, while he sat down:

“Gammon brought me word that you wish to see me.”

“I do,” Sir Edward said curtly.

“What need is there?” Mr. Pimlico demanded.

“Much need.”

“He said he told you just how matters stand.”

“So he did.”

“I am taking chances by coming here, sir, even in disguise.”

“There would have been no need of your coming, Mr. Pimlico, or whatever your name may be, if you had done what you had agreed to do,” Sir Edward said, quite sternly.

“I have taken all of the steps agreed upon except one--the last step,” Pimlico said, with ominous significance, but with unruffled calmness. “I am in a position to take that final step at any moment. But you have not forgotten, of course, there is another side of the bargain.”

“You mean----”

“The payment of the amount agreed upon,” Pimlico put in firmly.

“That will be paid when your work is completed, when I have positive proof that it is done.”

“What assurance have I of that?”

“My word of honor,” said Sir Edward, with a steadily deepening frown. “That ought to be sufficient under such circumstances.”

“Could there be more desperate circumstances?” Pimlico calmly inquired. “Bear in mind that you are a stranger to me, that I have taken the word of another for what I already have done, and to the effect that you are a responsible person and will make good. That is hardly enough, however, in view of the nature of the work and the risks involved. Before the final step is taken, ending the whole business, I must see the color of your money.”

Sir Edward shifted uneasily in his chair and eyed his visitor more darkly. Pimlico’s voice had a firmness that did not please him. He feared that he might find it impossible to move him, to prevail upon him to take that final step so essential to his knavish treachery. He feared that his designs might miscarry at this last moment. It was these fears that impelled him to go further than he otherwise would have gone--to the extent of confiding in his hireling.

He drew himself up, as if he suddenly came to that determination, saying with much less asperity:

“You mean, then, that you insist upon being paid in advance, Mr. Pimlico.”

“That is what I mean,” bowed Pimlico, deliberately stroking his gray beard.

“But I cannot comply with that demand.”

“Cannot, sir, or will not?” Pimlico pointedly questioned.

“Cannot,” Sir Edward said earnestly. “I would pay you on the spot, my friend, if it were possible for me to do so.”

“That’s the point. How do I know that it ever will be possible?”

“I can convince you of that.”

“In what way?”

“First tell me--if convinced of my integrity and ability to pay you later, will you complete the work you thus far have done so ably?”

“I will consider it, at least, and very possibly do it,” said Pimlico, after a moment.

Sir Edward drew nearer the table and rested his arms on it. Gazing intently across it at his hearer, he said, with augmented feeling, but with voice somewhat lowered:

“I will tell you just where I stand and why I have done this, something I directed Gammon not to confide to you.”

“Nor did he,” said Pimlico simply.

“Gammon is a man of his word. I happen to know that, my friend, or I would not have employed him for work of this kind. So am I a man of my word,” Sir Edward forcibly added. “I am a man of high standing in England, a man of character and ambition, in the way of which is the one barrier I now want removed. An earldom and a vast fortune await me when that is out of my way.”

“This man Waldmere?”

“Yes.”

“What is he to you?”

“I am his uncle. His father, the Earl of Eggleston, is my only brother. He is dying, if not already dead, and his title and vast estate will soon be mine, providing Waldmere is dead and out of the way. Can you doubt, then, that I will pay you the price agreed upon with Gammon?” Sir Edward forcibly questioned. “Why, man, I will pay even more liberally. I will double the amount, and it shall be paid when----”

“One moment,” Pimlico interrupted. “Has Gammon told you where Waldmere is confined?”

“No, he has not.”

“Or who I really am and where I hang out?”

“No, neither.”

“Have you any idea?”

“Not the slightest. I have left it all to Gammon. Nor do I care about that, Mr. Pimlico,” Sir Edward added. “If you will do what I require, if you will put this man away, if you will complete your work at once and contrive that positive proof of Waldmere’s death shall be found, I will do all that I have agreed to do and something more than that, as soon as----”

He stopped short.

A pencil with which Pimlico had been toying had slipped from his fingers and fallen to the floor.

Sir Edward Chadwick leaned over to pick it up and replace it on the table. When he straightened up and again gazed at his visitor--he underwent a change as if death had suddenly claimed him.

There had been an equally quick change in the other.

Mr. Pimlico had disappeared. His gray wig and flowing beard were lying on the floor. His right hand held a revolver, his left a pair of handcuffs, and the stern face that now met the gaze of the horrified Englishman was that of--Nick Carter.

It wore an expression far different from that seen by the designing Englishman in the library of the detective’s residence a short time before. He thought he then had played his cards well. He had succeeded only in sealing his own fate.

How he had been duped, by what means it had been accomplished, or how much more the detective knew than he had blindly told him--into none of these did Sir Edward Chadwick pause to inquire. With a half-smothered oath, with his great white teeth meeting with an audible snap, he started to rise and reached for a weapon.

Nick Carter was much too quick for him, however. His hands shot like a flash across the table. They closed with a viselike grip on those of the titled crook. There was a swirl of glittering steel around his brawny wrists, a quick snap of the double locks, and Sir Edward Chadwick was secured in manacles almost before he knew it.

“Take them off! Hang you, take them off!” he fiercely snarled, tugging vainly at them. “What’s the meaning of this? What----”

“Silence!” Nick sternly commanded, forcing the frantic man back in his chair. “You know very well what it means. You are under arrest, Sir Edward Chadwick, a would-be murderer by your own blind confession. You will answer to the law for conspiracy with intent to kill. Now, having got the mastery, I will take steps to secure the hirelings.”

The Englishman broke forth again with bitter oaths and imprecations, though his face had gone ghastly and his lips were as gray as ashes.

“Take them off! Take them off!” he repeated, striving vainly to break the steel bracelets. “You can do nothing. You cannot prove it. My word is as good as yours. There were no witnesses, no----”

“You are very much mistaken,” Nick again interrupted sternly. “I have all the corroboration the law will require. There is a dictograph behind this desk, and my chief assistant in the opposite suite has heard every word you have said. I will call him, that you may see for yourself and end your vain struggles.”

A cry failed to prove effective, however, and Nick stepped into the hall and threw open the door of the opposite suite.

It no longer was occupied.

Chick Carter had disappeared.

Nick wondered and waited--but waited vainly.

Chick did not return.

Nor did an hour bring any sign of--the genuine Mr. Pimlico.