Chapter IX: The Last Trail

There was a very good reason for Chick Carter’s disappearance from the suite in which Nick had left him. The designs of the latter in leaving, after hearing with the dictograph the interview between Chadwick and Gammon, must be perfectly obvious. It was a simple thing for Nick to hasten home and return in a disguise such as Gammon had described.

Nick also had in mind, of course, to arrest the genuine Mr. Pimlico the moment he put in an appearance.

The instinctive caution of Stuart Floyd, however, when venturing out of haunts in which he felt comparatively safe, prevented this second design of Nick Carter, or briefly postponed and transferred it to another quarter, and also occasioned the sudden disappearance of Chick.

For Floyd did not take the elevator after entering the Oriental Hotel, nor did he enter the house through the front door. He came in through a side door, then stole up the stairs to the third floor, seeking the corridor and door to which Gammon had directed him.

He came so quietly that Chick Carter did not hear him until the rascal was nearly to the door of the Englishman’s suite--and at the same moment Floyd caught sight of a slender wire glistening on the threshold.

There was no need to tell Stuart Floyd what it was, nor did he stop to learn whither it ran.

He turned like a flash and darted toward the main stairway of the hotel, down which he fled at top speed, tearing off his disguise while he sped down the stair and thrusting it into his pocket.

Chick Carter had caught sight of him, however, and instantly guessed the truth.

“He’s wise, by thunder, and knows we’re on his trail,” flashed through Chick’s mind. “But in getting him, I must get the others, also. I’ll take the other course.”

Chick did not stop to inform Nick what had occurred. He rushed to the side stairway at the end of the corridor, and flew down each flight at record speed, bent upon picking up Floyd when he emerged from the front of the house.

Though he came near being too late, his tremendous efforts proved successful. He caught sight of Floyd running across the avenue on which the house fronted, and then darting into a cross street leading toward the East Side.

“I’ll get you now, by Jove,” Chick muttered, with eyes alert. “If you give me the slip this night, you shall have a medal.”

Floyd, seeming to feel reasonably safe when well away from the hotel, slowed down in order not to attract attention. Several times he looked back, however, but could discover no one following him.

Chick was steadily gaining on him, nevertheless, and before a block had been covered he met a policeman.

“Here, Grady, one moment,” he said sharply.

The officer recognized him instantly, for Chick had removed his disguise.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Carter,” said he, touching his helmet.

“Yes,” said Chick quickly. “I’m on the track of a crook, Stuart Floyd.”

“The deuce you say!”

“I may need you and others to pull a gang. Follow me at a short distance and pick up help as you come along. Don’t lose sight of me.”

“Not on your life,” said Grady, with eyes beginning to glow.

“Join me at once, if you see me wave my arm.”

“I’ve got you, sir.”

There had been only a momentary stop, and Chick had not for an instant lost sight of his man.

Floyd was fifty yards ahead of the detective, and on the opposite side of the street. He no longer was hurrying greatly. He seemed to feel that he had got safely away.

Chick crept on after him, steadily gaining.

Grady had a constant eye on Chick and cautiously followed him. Presently he picked up another policeman, and a moment later a plain-clothes man from the precinct station.

All followed Chick, hugging the buildings they were passing.

Five minutes later, Chick saw Floyd stop suddenly in front of an old wooden house. It was that in which Hogan dwelt with his wife.

Floyd, when about to enter, heard a terrible crash in the rear yard, and then a window thrown open and a roar from Baldy Gammon.

Instead of entering the house, Floyd rushed through the alley and into the little back yard.

Hogan and Gammon came tearing down a back stairway and joined him.

“What’s wrong? What the devil’s wrong?” Floyd demanded, yanking a search lamp from his pocket.

“A spy! A spy at that window,” cried Hogan, pointing. “He’s fell through this door and gone into the cellar.”

Chick Carter, waving his arm, had to wait only thirty seconds for his three assistants to join him. He knew that he had rounded up his game.

“One of you watch this front door,” he directed, in whispers. “The others follow me. Guns ready!”

Chick did not wait for an answer. He plunged through the alley, the policemen after him, and arrived in the yard, a veritable rat trap, just as Floyd switched on the electric light.

“Hands up!” Chick cried. “We’ve got you covered, Floyd. You, too, Gammon! You’ll be dead ones if you show fight.”

The policemen were not idle while Chick spoke. Both bored in upon the three cornered crooks, and Floyd and Gammon found themselves with revolvers at their heads.

Hogan uttered a groan, and threw up his hands.

Patsy Garvan came crawling out of the cellar at the same moment, only a bit bruised by his fall. He also had a gun in his hand--and that settled it.

The arrest of the entire gang was easily made, and thirty minutes saw all except Sir Edward Chadwick locked in the precinct station. Word then was sent to Nick, who then turned his man over to the police, and the case was practically ended.

For Lord Archie Waldmere was found confined in an ice box in the Hogan cellar, not much the worse for his distressful experience, he having been lured away and overcome precisely as Nick had deduced from the surrounding circumstances.

It would be vain to attempt describing his gratitude to the Carters, as well as that of his wife, or the amazement with which he learned of the treachery of his uncle and the altered sentiments of his dying father. It opened the way for him to a new life in England, or to a renewal of the old, and he took it later with the willing consent of Lady Waldmere.

But neither ever forgot the Carters, or failed to visit them when in the States.

Stuart Floyd went back to prison and died there six months later.

Others engaged in the conspiracy were punished in accord with the law, and are behind prison bars to this day.

THE END.

“The Edge of a Crime; or, Nick Carter’s Trail of Mercy,” will be the title of the long, complete story which will be found in the next issue, No. 142, of the NICK CARTER Stories, out May 29th. You will also find the usual interesting serial, short stories, and useful bits of information.

Where’s the Commandant?

By C. C. WADDELL.

(This interesting story was commenced in No. 140 of NICK CARTER STORIES.
Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the
publishers.)