Chapter XXXVII: Fighting Against Odds

Did the man in the motor car fire the shot which had killed the driver of the ambulance? Nick was certain that it was so. It was useless to try to pursue the man on foot.

As Nick was about to reënter the morgue, Inspector Ward came out. His face was white with excitement.

“Did you see the man who fired the shot?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“I am positive that it was Weeden.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No, I didn’t. But from the man’s general appearance I could have sworn it was he. This is two murders that Weeden has been guilty of to-day. The first was poor Sweet; the second the driver of the ambulance,” said Nick.

“It was a mighty lucky thing for you that the driver stepped in front of you just as he did, or we should not have had the services of Nick Carter, the famous detective, at our disposal now.”

“Yes, the poor fellow saved my life,” said Nick. “The bullet evidently was meant for me.”

The doctor, having finished his work, bade the detectives good night.

After he had gone they walked slowly up the street. A taxicab was driving by the corner. Nick and Inspector Ward hailed the chauffeur. Having made a bargain with him, they directed him to drive them to Weeden’s shop.

He looked at them very hard. It was evident that he had recognized them, and had purposely thrown himself in their way. If they had seen the gleam in the chauffeur’s eye, as he made a motion to three men who stood in the shadow of a doorway on the other side of the street, they would have been on their guard.

They did not see it, however.

The vehicle was driven rapidly in the direction of Grant Avenue. The machine had not left the corner more than a couple of minutes when a taxicab surrey with drawn curtains drove up.

The three men who had been standing on the other side of the street jumped in and drove in the direction of the vehicle occupied by the inspector and Nick Carter.

Jack Weeden was not among the men who were following the detectives. Had he anything to do with them? They probably were his accomplices. Their following of the detectives boded no good to the men who were trying to solve “Mystery 47.”

Great masses of dark clouds obscured the stars; fierce gusts of wind howled dismally through the branches of the trees at the roadside; peals of thunder broke the stillness of the night; vivid flashes of lightning illumined the sky for an instant and made the roadway as light as day.

“I’m afraid this may upset our plans,” said Nick, as he looked out of the taxi window.

That instant a gust of wind blew his hat into the road. It fell into a pool of water. With an exclamation Nick shouted to the chauffeur to stop.

The man obeyed, and Nick sprang to the ground. As he did so, he saw the taxi that was following.

When the motor car stopped the taxi stopped also. Nick gave a glance at the chauffeur and saw that there was a diabolical grin on his face as he sat on the box looking down at him.

“That chauffeur,” Nick muttered to himself, “is Phil Meloy.”

The chauffeur of the motor car seemed to have grown nervous. He glanced back at the taxi, and, with a muttered oath, was about to drive on when Nick stopped him.

“What’s the matter?” asked the inspector, as he put his head out of the window.

“We are being followed,” replied Nick.

“By whom?”

“By that taxi with the four men in it. It is now waiting for us to go on.”

“How do you know?”

Nick quietly told Inspector Ward about the chauffeur, Meloy.

“He is one of the most desperate characters I have ever met,” said Nick, “and, as for him being a licensed chauffeur, that is all rot. That taxi probably contains Weeden and some of his pals. Let us go back and arrest Weeden and Young, if they are in the party.”

As they were about to start up the road the chauffeur of the motor car made a motion with his arm.

It was evidently a signal to the chauffeur of the taxi, as he suddenly threw in the clutch, and, turning around, dashed off in the opposite direction.

“Too late,” cried Nick. “They saw us and have skipped.”

Fifteen minutes later the motor car drew up at Weeden’s shop and the detectives got out. They found no one in the shop, which contained four rooms.

“There is nothing here,” said Nick; “let’s get back into the machine.”

The chauffeur had been watching their every movement. He peered anxiously up and down the road, by which he had come, expecting, no doubt, the arrival of his accomplices in the taxi.

Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet from the threatening clouds that swept furiously overhead, though the winds tore the branches from the trees.

“Now show me the exact spot where these bodies were found,” said Nick.

The inspector walked down the road.

“Who is that?” Nick asked, as his quick eye perceived the figure of a ragged-looking old man who sat by the roadside. His clothing was in tatters; his long hair was matted on his shoulders, and his torn shoes were tied with bits of cord.

In his right hand he carried a heavy staff.

He appeared to be either shortsighted or partially blind.

“Oh, that old fellow bobbed up here about a week or so ago,” said Inspector Ward.

“What is he?”

“Oh, I guess he’s a tramp; anyhow, he looks as if he had been on the road for forty years or more.”

“This is a peculiar neighborhood for him to be in. What is his business here?”

“Why, he’s begging here, I suppose.”

“Oh,” said Nick quietly.

It certainly was a peculiar location for a beggar to choose. Few people passed there, and those who did were not of the class who had money to give away, even to a poor old beggar, reasoned Nick to himself.

“The murders were committed right near this spot, were they not?” Nick asked, pointing to a place about ten feet from where the aged tramp sat.

“Precisely; the bodies were found right there.”

“What is the name of that old fellow?”

“They call him Benny the Bum.”

“He seems to be blind.”

“I believe he is, and deaf, too; at least that’s what they all say around here.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ll test him by asking him which he would rather have, a quarter or a dollar.”

Inspector Ward laughed.

Nick Carter was serious.

Perhaps Benny the Bum was not so blind as he would have people believe. He probably was like the majority of his calling, a fraud.

“I’m going to talk to him,” said Nick, as he crossed the road.

“Hello, Benny!”

Nick spoke in tones that an ordinarily deaf man could hear. The tramp answered at once: “Well, what do you want?”

“I’ve got a charitable friend with me who will pay you well if you will tell him what mark to put on his gate so the other tramps will see it and keep out.”

The beggar gave a hoarse chuckle. “Maybe he owns a bank; if he does, he can pay me well.”

“No, he don’t,” Nick replied, “but he will give you ten dollars if you will tell him.”

After the first few words the conversation had been conducted in ordinary tones. Nick had led the supposed tramp on cunningly. He had gained his point. The beggar was not deaf.

And he must have heard the sounds of the various murders committed so near him.

Was it possible that this tramp had had any hand in these ghastly acts?

“He is no more blind than he is deaf,” Nick muttered to himself. “I’ll bet he is an accomplice of Jack Weeden. I----”

Four men stole quietly into the road through a hole in the hedge.

They sprang forward with savage oaths.

They were the same men who had followed Nick Carter and the chief in the taxicab.

Before the detectives had a chance to draw their weapons they found themselves looking into the muzzles of four shining revolvers.

With an exultant cry the apparent blind beggar sprang to his feet cursing like a demon.