The wagon soon came and Nick accompanied the driver to the morgue, leaving Chick behind to supplement the work of Patsy.
At the morgue, in the course of time, the body was searched, and forty dollars in money, some letters from San Francisco, written by Goloff's wife, and several copies of a will were the only articles deserving attention that were found.
The copies of the will were submitted to Nick by the coroner, and, in an instant, the detective's mind took in their vital significance. Here was a find, indeed. There were four copies in all, and the wording of each was the same. The only points of difference—and they were slight—lay in the handwriting. Looking at and comparing them carefully, Nick's correct conclusion was that each copy was written by the same person and for the purpose of using one—the copy as perfected—as a model upon which to draft a purported genuine document. The reading of the words—the purport of the alleged will—revealed the object sought. And this is what Nick Carter read:
"This, my last will and testament, written by myself and without dictation, when, sound both in body and mind, disposes of all the property of which I may be possessed at the time of my death. I hereby declare that I am without wife or children, brothers or sisters, or any legal heirs at law. Therefore, I give and bequeath to the Soldiers' Home five thousand dollars; the Smithsonian Institute, five thousand dollars; and all the rest and residue of my property, real and personal, to Arthur Mannion, son of my deceased wife; and I hereby appoint my dear friend, Jackson Feversham, to serve as executor of my will, and desire that no bond shall be required of him.
"James Playfair."
"Washington, D. C., April 16. 19—."
For some time after he had handed back the papers to the coroner, Nick remained in a brown study. Soon his mind was made up as to his course of action. The finding of these copies must not be made public for a week. Much might be done in that time, perhaps the case might be ended.
Half an hour later the detective, the coroner, the local detectives, and secret service men, chiefs and subordinates were closeted together. To the assembled criminal-catchers Nick exposed his hand and outlined his plans.
"Mannion knows he is suspected," he said, "but blinded by the great pecuniary interest at stake, he may conclude to remain in the city for awhile. If he does he will be caught. If, however, this will business is sprung on him through newspaper publication he will understand that all is lost and that his life is not worth a candle."
"But, Mr. Carter," spoke up the coroner, "I don't understand what value as evidence against Mannion these copies of the will possess. They are evidently not copies made by James Playfair, for they would not have been found in the possession of a Russian criminal, an utter stranger to the old man. Looking upon them, then, as having been written by another man, Arthur Mannion, say, they reveal nothing more than a silly propensity to build castles in the air. If a will, worded as these copies are, should, however, be produced by the executor as a genuine instrument, or, what purports to be one, and which was found among Playfair's possessions, then I could see some point to your contention."
The coroner paused. Nick, who had listened quietly and with an impassive face, replied:
"I think I can satisfy your scruples. Will you kindly step to the phone, call up Jackson Feversham, and ask him to step around here? His office is not far away, and if he is in he will be with us in a few minutes."