“What’s the trouble?”
The inquiry came from Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s chief assistant, when Nick arose from his swivel chair and hurriedly closed his roll-top desk.
“A murder has been committed, or said to have been,” he replied.
“A murder—where?”
“Columbus Avenue,” Nick said tersely. “Arthur Gordon is under arrest for the crime. The woman’s body was found by—but we’ll get the details later. You had better go with me. Luckily Danny is at the door with the touring car. We will lose no time.”
Both detectives were leaving Nick’s Madison Avenue residence when the last was said, hurriedly putting on their overcoats while entering his powerful motor car. In another moment both were seated in the tonneau and speeding north through the crisp air of the October morning. It then was nine o’clock.
Nick had hurriedly given Danny, his chauffeur, the Columbus Avenue address of the house in which the murder was said to have been committed, and he remarked, a bit grimly to Chick, while they settled back on the cushioned seat:[Pg 3]
“By Jove, it’s strange how Gordon repeatedly gets into trouble.”
“I should say so.”
“He certainly is up against it good and hard. It’s less than a year since we pulled him out of that scrape in which he was suspected of having killed his stenographer—that double-dyed rascal, Mortimer Deland, who fooled him so completely in female attire.”