Chapter VI: Nick Carter’s Fine Work

Chick Carter was not long in coming to a conclusion concerning the two letters Nick had submitted to him.

“By Jove, the writing appears to be identical,” said he, after a careful inspection. “If this one in French is a forgery, Nick, it’s a mighty clever one.”

“Don’t overlook something,” said Nick, smiling a bit oddly.

“What’s that?”

“You already have sized up Pauline Perrot as a clever crook.”

“That’s true,” Chick admitted. “In proof of it, assuming this Gordon letter to be genuine, it shows plainly that she has involved him in some kind of a desperate situation, so desperate that he evidently consented to elope with her, despite that he closes by intimating that he might attempt to kill her.”

“Obviously,” Nick agreed.

“Has he done it?” Chick glanced at the bloodstained hat, jacket and handkerchief. “Did he really go the limit and execute his threat? These things certainly point to that. Combined with all of the other circumstances, Nick, it establishes an almost sure case of murder.”

“One that, in case Gordon cannot be found, would convince a court and jury?”

“Surely.”

“Suppose the body should not be found?” suggested Nick.

“I think the case still would stand,” Chick replied. “A jury would surely convict on such circumstantial evidence as this.”

Nick smiled again.

“That’s why I have dug into it for all I am worth,” he said dryly. “I will show you a few points that you fail to detect.”

“You mean?”

“These few hairs, Chick, to begin with,” said Nick, taking them from a scrap of paper on which he had placed them. “Mrs. Lord told me that Pauline Perrot had stolen a brush and comb. That suggested something to me.”

“What was that?”

“A hairbrush cannot be entirely cleaned of all the hairs it takes in among its bristles. I reasoned that Pauline Perrot decided that it was much easier to steal the brush than to clean it, and less dangerous than to leave it in her chamber. That set me to hunting for hairs on the rug and carpet. I found these. The devil always leaves a gapway open.”

“What about them?” Chick questioned, a bit perplexedly.

“Use my lens,” said Nick. “Observe that they are exceedingly dry, having none of the oily gloss and pliability of hairs fresh from one’s head. Notice, also, the tiny speck on the end of the longest one. It looks like the root of the hair.”

“I see.”

“But it is not,” Nick quickly added. “It is much too hard and brittle.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Instead of a root, Chick, it’s a speck of glue.”

“By Jove, that is significant,” Chick muttered. “In that case, then, Pauline Perrot probably wears a wig.”

“Gee! it’s a cinch,” declared Patsy, from the opposite side of the table.

“Have you other reasons for thinking so, Nick?” Chick questioned.

“Yes.”

“Namely?”

“Notice these undergarments and stockings,” said Nick. “All of them are new, or very nearly so. I am convinced that none of them have been worn.”

“Why are you so sure of it?”

“Here are Pauline’s button boots,” Nick went on. “Compare the size with the size of the stockings. The stockings are two sizes larger than the boots. Who ever heard of a girl buying hosiery larger than her shoes?”

“By Jove, you are right,” said Chick, carefully inspecting both.

“It was a mistake she made--another devil’s gapway.”

“And you infer from this that she has worn none of the other garments?”

“I am sure of it.”

“But why, then, did she have them in her possession?” Chick demanded, racking his brain to fathom it. “Why did she leave them in her bureau drawer?”

“She can have had only one logical reason, Chick, consistent with all of the other circumstances,” Nick replied. “She did not buy them to wear. Though she wore feminine outside garments, she preferred another kind next to her evil skin. She left these in her bureau, Chick, only that persons having occasion to seek her, or investigate her conduct, might not for a moment suspect that Pauline Perrot is--not a woman.”

“Not a woman!” echoed Chick, with a gasp of surprise.

“That’s what I said,” Nick nodded.

“But you don’t for a moment suspect her of being a man?”

“That is precisely what I suspect.”

“Nonsense! Remember that she has for several months been employed as Gordon’s stenographer, and that she----”

“Wait a bit,” Nick interrupted. “We quite frequently know of women masquerading as men. Take the case of Murray Hall, who for a quarter of century wore only male attire, blinding all with whom she associated, and the secret of her sex was not discovered until after she died.”

“I know about that, Nick, but----”

“I know what you would say,” Nick again interrupted. “But given the right type of man, Chick, the reverse subterfuge would be just as feasible--a man with an effeminate, mobile, and beardless face, a man with medium figure and consistent voice, together with the subtle art required for such an assumption. We have met just that type of man, Chick, both of us.”

“I cannot recall him,” Chick declared. “Whom do you mean?”

“The man of whom Wilhelmina Strickland has been living in fear since he, by this same artifice, made his escape from a prison hospital,” Nick replied. “The man of whom, though unidentified when she saw him in female attire, she felt an immediate aversion and dread--that is, upon first seeing Pauline Perrot.”

“H’m, I see!” Chick muttered.

“Mina Strickland’s sensitive nature and feminine intuition were more keen than her eyes,” Nick added. “They were far more keen than the eyes of Arthur Gordon. The man I mean, Chick, is a past master of the art of personal disguise and character assumption, and so clever and versatile a crook that for years he eluded the European police and----”

“Oh, I’ve got you,” Chick interrupted. “You mean Mortimer Deland.”

“Exactly.”

“He and Pauline Perrot are one and the same.”

“As sure as you’re a foot high.”

“This French letter, then, is a forgery?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Nick. “Deland is an expert penman. We long have known that. He is wanted in Paris for forging the signature of the prefect of police, a trick by which he escaped from brief custody.”

“Also the letter sent to Miss Strickland?”

“A forgery, Chick, surely.”

“You may be right, by Jove, though it seems almost incredible,” said Chick.

“We shall find I am right,” replied the detective confidently.

“My money goes on that, chief,” declared Patsy.

“But what’s the game, aside from the robbery?” Chick questioned, pointing to the bloodstained articles. “What’s the meaning of these?”

“That’s what we must discover, as well as the present whereabouts of Deland and his confederates,” said Nick. “Arthur Gordon undoubtedly is a prisoner in their clutches. He knows nothing about the robbery, nor about the case, as we now see it.”

“You reason----”

“That he was in some way trapped by the supposed Pauline Perrot, and it’s up to us to discover how,” Nick went on. “This evidence has obviously been planted only to denote that Gordon has killed his supposed female stenographer. Deland’s deeper game is, I suspect, to subsequently bleed wealthy old Rudolph Strickland out of more money, by approaching him in some crafty way with an offer to produce Gordon and positive evidence of his innocence.”

“Gee whiz! that looks dead right to me,” put in Patsy. “Mr. Strickland would give up handsomely for the sake of his niece and Mr. Gordon.”

“Undoubtedly, under such circumstances,” Nick nodded. “He would, moreover, be a very easy mark. By the way, Chick, did you verify Beckwith’s statements by talking with Dayton?”

“Yes, of course,” said Chick. “He corroborated what Beckwith had told me.”

“And he is the one man, the only one, who saw Gordon departing with a suit case, eh?”

“What do you make of that?” questioned Chick, noting Nick’s subtle intonation.

“Another devil’s gapway,” Nick dryly declared. “It was thought necessary by Deland to have it appear that Gordon carried away the money and bonds in a suit case.”

“Ah, I see, now.”

“With that object in view, Pauline Perrot artfully detained him in his office until all others had gone. If Gordon knew nothing about this foul business, however, it is safe to say that he had no suit case when he left his office. We know that he had none when he arrived here, or Miss Strickland would have informed us.”

“Holy smoke!” cried Patsy. “In that case, then, Dayton must be one of Deland’s confederates.”

“That’s the very point, Patsy,” said Nick.

“By Jove, he should be watched, then,” said Chick. “There would be something in that.”

“I think so, too,” Nick quickly agreed. “You return to town, therefore, and try to pick him up before he leaves his office. Get on his trail by some means, if possible, and don’t lose sight of him.”

“Leave him to me, Nick.”

“In the meantime, with Patsy to help me I have other fish to fry.”

“You mean?”

“The man with a dog--Ginger.”

“Henley?” questioned Chick. “Why do you suspect him?”

“First, because this evidence, if planted, was discovered so quickly after the seeming murder,” said Nick, pointing to the bloodstained articles. “It’s long odds that, in a genuine case of murder, it would not have been found within a few hours of the crime.”

“That’s true,” Chick quickly admitted.

“Second, because Henley is the man who found it, and he don’t look good to me,” Nick added. “He has a bad eye. Besides, he has been very careful when speaking of the discovery to attribute it to his dog, which convinces me that he fears suspicion, if he takes it upon himself.”

“Gee! I thought of that,” declared Patsy. “You have hit the nail on the head, chief, for fair.”

“I think that these crooks, in order to expedite matters and create a general belief that Gordon has murdered Pauline Perrot, planted this evidence and probably more, and immediately started Henley with it to inform the constable, aiming to get in their work on old Mr. Strickland as soon as possible. I saw that Henley was a bit set back when he discovered my identity and that I already was at work on the case.”

“I noticed that, too, chief,” put in Patsy.

“Henley decided to seize the bull by the horns, however, pretending he wanted to aid me, and I think he now has something up his sleeve,” Nick added. “I’m going to give him a chance to show his hand.”

“How so?” Chick questioned.

“I’m not yet sure what I shall frame up. Be that as it may, Chick, you hike back to town and get after Dayton. It’s dollars to fried holes that he has a hand in this game. Use your own judgment as to the best course to shape, and leave Patsy and me to tie knots in this end of the string. That’s all for the present.”

“Enough said, too, Nick,” replied Chick, seizing his hat. “You have pulled off a clever bit of work, remarkably clever, and we’re now right in line to deliver the goods. Leave Dayton to me. I’ll get him.”

Chick did not wait for an answer. He hurried out of the house and started for town in the taxicab.