Chapter LIII: An Attack on Nick’s Home

When the detective and the reporter were left alone, Nick said to the latter:

“I almost regret that you fired that shot, old man.”

“Why?” asked the other.

“Because, Billy Young alive might have proved of great service to me in clearing up this case. Of course, I know you did it for the best.”

“Maybe I can help you on this case, Nick.”

“You might, but I cannot accept your help just at the present time.”

“Oh, I see,” said the reporter; “you do not want any of the papers to get to work on the case until you are ready for the grand finale.”

“Correct you are,” laughingly replied Nick.

“I hope that you will give me the first show at it, so that I can get a scoop.”

“You may rest assured, my friend, that you will be the first one who will get the news when I have solved the triple identity, or Mystery 47. You will, of course, make a story out of what happened to-night?”

“Well, you just read to-morrow morning’s paper, and you will see a cracking good account of what has transpired to-night. Good night.”

“Good night,” responded Nick.

As Nick went up the stairs of his house, he felt that he had earned a good night’s rest. He went to bed, and slept for about three hours in a restless sort of way.

Suddenly he awoke, with a feeling of uneasiness and apprehension. He glanced at the clock on his dresser. It was nearly four o’clock, and in a short time would be daylight. He turned over, and tried to sleep again, but his restlessness only increased.

“This certainly is strange,” muttered Nick. “I never felt this way before; it must be indigestion. I will get up and take a little drink of brandy; that may help me.”

On a table near the bed was a small pocket flask filled with brandy. He swallowed a small drink, and got back into bed. It was impossible for him to sleep, however, as the feeling of uneasiness which had attacked him before returned, even more strongly than ever.

Nick jumped out of bed, and, going to the window, looked out into the back yard. Suddenly his gaze penetrated the shadow of an old cherry tree. He detected a movement in the shadow. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw the figures of three men. They were gazing intently at his window.

At first he thought they were burglars. A closer examination disclosed the fact that two of the men were his late assailants, who, when Billy Young had been shot, had made their escape.

The third man bore a strong resemblance to Wright, the Brooklyn crockery dealer, as also did he to Jack Weeden, the Astoria automobile repairer. Besides the revolvers that the men carried, each was armed with a long, murderous-looking knife.

“It is very evident,” murmured Nick, “that I am too hot on the trail of the Astoria horror, and that gang intends to murder me, if they possibly can. I will give them a warm reception if they try to get into my room.”

Nick stole silently to the bed. He lifted one of the pillows. There lay two automatic revolvers, each one fully loaded. Then he crept back to the window, and in the shadow of the curtain watched the men.

It was evidently their intention to enter his room and murder him while he slept.

Nick could hear what the men said.

The following is a part of what he heard:

“And so Billy’s done for,” said the man who resembled Weeden.

“Yes,” was the reply of one of his companions. “He was shot by a cursed newspaper man.”

“Well, I will see to it that he don’t write any more interesting stories.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will kill him!” hissed the man.

“He killed Billy Young, and I will kill him. ‘Blood for blood’ is my motto.”

“Well, what about that fellow up there?” said the second thug, pointing to Nick’s window.

“We will settle him right away. He has been the cause of Billy Young’s death, Hall and Meloy’s arrest, and a few other things that I shall tell you of later.”

“Well, then, we had better do it now, because it will be daylight pretty soon.”

“The lightest man can climb up the trellis and finish him in the room, while the others wait down here, ready to give him a hand if necessary.”

“I would like to go up and fix him,” said the more slender of Weeden’s companions. “I owe him one, and want to pay it as soon as I can.”

“What has he done to you?” asked the other man.

“Nothing”--sullenly--“but he was the means of sending my brother up for twenty years. The poor boy went to that prison, and the treatment that he received was so harsh that he died in less than three years. It broke my mother’s heart, and it wasn’t long before she followed. You can understand now why I want to be the one to end the life of that cursed detective, Nick Carter.”

The man started toward the trellis.

“I am off,” he said, clambering up the trelliswork and taking hold of the vines.

“And you will get as warm a reception as you ever had in your life!” muttered Nick.

He intended to let the would-be assassin enter his room, and then thrash him within an inch of his life. Nick went to his closet and picked up a heavy oaken walking stick.

The man was coming up the trelliswork slowly.

Suddenly there was a crashing sound, a yell and a volley of oaths. The trelliswork and vines had given way underneath the man’s weight, and he went crashing down into the yard.

An old gentleman who lived next door had seen the men in the yard, and when the man fell he thrust an old musket out of his window and fired point-blank at the man.

The gun had evidently not been fired since the Civil War. It knocked the old gentleman senseless by the force of its recoil and alarmed the whole neighborhood.

The men at once scaled the fence and got away. The old gentleman suffered from a lame shoulder for weeks.