CHAPTER I.
An Intricate Case.
A gentle tap sounded at the door of the inspector's private office in police headquarters in the city of New York.
“Come!” exclaimed the inspector.
The door opened and a sergeant entered. “Someone to see you, chief,” announced the sergeant.
“Who?”
“Says his name is Jingle. He's a countryman.”
“Show him in.”
The sergeant departed; but two minutes later he returned accompanied by an unmistakable specimen of the Connecticut farmer.
“Take a seat, sir,” said the inspector.
Then, as soon as the sergeant had withdrawn, he added:
“Now, what can I do for you?”
“The question is, what can I do for you,” was the reply, in the unmistakable tones of Nick Carter, the great detective.
The inspector's face changed. He smiled broadly.
“Bless me!” he exclaimed. “Why did you assume a disguise in order to come here, Nick?”
“Oh, I happened to be rigged out when I received your message, so I came along just as I was.”
“Then you are busy now?”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry that you are not free.”
“Why?”
“Well, I had a matter on hand that I wished you to take in charge. Is this case, upon which you are already engaged, important?”
“It seems to be.”
“What is it?”
“A disappearance. A beautiful girl, just of age, rich, accomplished, about to be married to the man she loved, is missing from Philadelphia.”
“Who engaged you in the matter?”
“The man she was to marry.”
“How long has the young lady been among the missing?”
“About a month.”
“And they have just begun the search?”
“So it seems. I gather from the facts as they were related to me, that not much importance was attached to her disappearance at first.
“She was or is a girl who was or is singularly independent in her actions, and—Well, the young man has finally made up his mind that there has been foul play, and engaged me to find out the truth.”
“Give me the story.”
“It is short. Sara Varney was left an orphan and an heiress at the age of sixteen. At twenty-one she came into full possession of her property, which was partly in real estate and the balance, about $58,000 in cash, in bank.
“She reached her majority six weeks to a day before her disappearance, and had drawn about four thousand dollars from the bank, by checking against her account.
“Since her disappearance three checks, which either bear her signature, or are very expertly forged, have appeared. Each is for fifteen thousand dollars. The first two were paid, and the third, by my advice, was pronounced a forgery and held.
“She disappeared just a week before her prospective wedding day.
“A messenger came to the house where she lived on Chestnut street, soon after dark. She read the message, and ordered her carriage at once.
“She was driven to the Pennsylvania depot. There she told her coachman to return home, and added that she would not be back until the following day, or perhaps even later. She has not been seen since.”
“Looks as though she went away of her own accord, does it not?”
“That was my first idea.”
“And you have since changed your opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I began just as she did.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“Why, I started from her house in the same carriage that she used, and was driven to the Pennsylvania depot.”
“But my dear Carter why—”
“One moment. I have found that the best way in which to think out a difficulty is to begin at the beginning and follow the footsteps of the person in whom I am interested just as far as I can. While I am on what I call 'certain footing,' I have a good chance to think.
“I stood in her room, where, with the help of Sara Varney's friends, I had already made a thorough examination of her effects.
“I discovered, for one thing, that she had not taken her check-book—that is, the one which contained the stubs which represented the four thousand dollars already drawn from the bank.
“I found, in her escritoire, a letter proposing marriage to her. It was signed 'George Hatfield,' and was written in unmistakable terms of passion and fervor.
“I also found a letter that she had written in reply, but which she had evidently decided not to send, for it was torn into four parts. I put it together and read it through. I never saw such biting scorn embraced in a few words, as she managed to incorporate in that reply.
“The blotter that she had used was also in the writing desk, and by subjecting it to a very powerful magnifying glass I found not only the greater part of the letter I had already perused, but a sentence like this: ' Mr. George Hatfield: The proposal made by you is peremptorily declined with scorn. Sara Varney.' To the point, wasn't it?”
“I should say so.”
“I asked Grayling—”
“Who is he?”
“The man to whom she was engaged, Arthur Grayling. I asked him if he knew Hatfield. He replied that he had heard of him, but had never seen him.
“Then, to be consecutive in my account, I ordered the carriage. When it came to the door I entered it, and was driven to the station. On the way I began to think, of course.
“The first thing that occurred to me was that I would like to know what was contained in the message that called her away from home so suddenly.
“Women are proverbially careless with their letters. It occurred to me that she might have lost that particular one in the carriage.
“I found two tiny scraps that had been crowded down between the cushions, and each one bore a part of a word. On one I found the letters 'Ar——' and on the other 'rk.' ”
“Not much clew in that.”
“Considerable, I thought.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, 'Ar——' are the first two letters of the name Arthur, and 'rk' are the last two letters of New York.
“The date of Sara Varney's reply to George Hatfield's proposal was two days before her disappearance.”
“Well, what had that to do with—”
“Excuse me. I returned at once to the house and found Grayling still there.
“'Mr. Grayling,' I said, 'where were you at the very hour when Miss Varney was last seen?'
“'In New York,' he replied. “I had expected the answer, and without questioning him farther I set about reading the character of George Hatfield.”
“But—” “My dear inspector, Hatfield wrote a letter asking for Miss Varney's hand in marriage; she declined with scorn; that was two days before she received a message which was the cause of her disappearance. Grayling, whom she loved, was in New York; he sent her no message at that time. Sara Varney drove to the depot just in time to catch an express train for New York. Since Grayling sent her no message, who did? Without knowing anything whatever concerning Hatfield, let us suppose him to be a villain. He knew that Sara loved Grayling; he knew that Grayling was in New York; he had received a note which made him furious; he acted upon impulse, perhaps, and sent word to Sara that Grayling had met with an accident; he asked her to come at once, and she started without a word. He, or someone who represented him, met her in Jersey City, and she was seen no more.”
“Quite a romance, Nick.”
“Wait. I thought this all out while in the carriage; believed that the theory was good, if Hatfield's character upheld it.”
“And you find—”
“Nothing to make me think that he is incapable of such a crime, and I must confess, nothing to convince me that he would commit it. Since that time I have made Hatfield's acquaintance, and I have found out nothing. There are a good many smaller details, such as tracing the checks, etc., but as the case stands, I believe that Sara Varney came to New York, and that Hatfield knows what became of her. Now, we will return to this subject later, if you like, but I would, in the meantime, be glad to hear why you sent for me. Perhaps, between Chick and me, we can manage both cases.”
“This of mine is entirely different.”
“What is it?”
“A number of yachts have lately been robbed by river-pirates, and I want you to run them down and break up the gang. The finishings, the pictures, plate, and in short, everything transportable, have disappeared, and there is no doubt in my mind that it is all the work of the same gang.”
CHAPTER II.
Folio XI—G.
“H'm! Tell me about the case which you have principally in mind.”
“Are you acquainted with Jasper Gregory?”
“I know who he is.”
“He owns the schooner yacht Twilight. She is a beauty. She cost Mr. Gregory over a hundred thousand dollars all told.
“About a week ago the river pirates got at her.
“They took away everything of value that they could find; in fact, about fifteen thousand dollars will be required to replace what was stolen.”
So much?”
“Yes. Gregory does not mind the loss of all that so much as he does the disappearance of a small steel casket, which was in one of the cabin lockers.”
“A small steel casket?”
“Yes, and of chilled steel at that. Gregory says the robbers cannot break it open with anything short of dynamite. As soon as he discovered the loss he advertised in the Herald, offering five thousand dollars for the return of the casket and no questions asked.”
“And received no reply?”
“On the contrary, he did!”
“Ah! What was it?”
“The writer said that the casket would be returned to the owner if he would pay the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars for it; that he would wait fifteen days for a reply, and that at the end of that time if Gregory did not agree, the casket would be sunk in the middle of the East river.”
How was Gregory to reply?”
“In a curious manner. He was simply to wear a blue ribbon in his buttonhole.”
“Has Gregory taken any notice of the letter?”
“No.”
“How many days have elapsed? I mean, when did he receive the letter?”
“It will be one week to-morrow.”
“And then he came to you?”
“Yes. He came yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“That he would give ten thousand dollars to the man who would return that casket to him.”
“It can be done, inspector.”
“Will you do it?”
“I will take charge of the case and give it as much personal attention as I can.”
“Very good; that will be satisfactory.”
“Did Gregory say what the casket contained?”
“He said the contents could make no difference in the search for the casket itself, and would form no clew to the matter, and added:
“I am not ready yet to say just what my little strong box did contain. If the knowledge becomes necessary, we will make use of it. '”
Rather odd, that.”
“Yes. Gregory is a queer fish, but a very good fellow.”
“He is rich?”
“Very. A million or two.”
“He described the casket?”
“He did better, for I have a photograph of it.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. He thought that some such necessity as this one might arise, and he had the casket photographed a year or two ago.”
“Did you ask him how long the casket had been in his possession?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Five years.”
Nick was silent a moment. “Inspector,” he said, presently, “how long have you known Gregory?”
“Several years.”
“Has he always lived in New York ?”
“No, I believe not.”
“When did he come here?”
“A few years ago.”
“Then his record must be in this office.”
“True.”
“Let us glance at it.”
“Certainly; though why——”
“Simple curiosity. I like to know for whom I am working. Byrnes, when he was inspector, was very particular to take the pedigree of everybody who interested him. His system of notes was the most perfect I ever saw.”
At that moment the sergeant appeared at the door.
The inspector glanced at a small book, which he took from his desk; then, looking up, he said to the sergeant:
“Bring me 'Folio XI—G.'”
The sergeant in a moment re-entered with a volume in his hands that looked like a huge scrapbook.
On the back were letters “XI—G.” The inspector spent several moments in turning over the pages.
Suddenly he said: “Here we have it.”
“Read it aloud,” replied Nick.
“'Gregory, Jasper,'“read the inspector; “'mem. May 1, 1887. Age, 46. Height, 6 feet 1 inch. Dark, muscular, smooth face, big hands, walks like a soldier, rich. Made his money in Nevada, mining. Worth a million or more. Hails from Nye County. Once a cowboy, prospector and miner. Struck it rich. Came to New York to settle down, April, 1887. (Above, his story.)'
“That's straight enough, Nick.”
“Yes, read on.”
“'Mem. from Nevada. Known as “Jap” Gregory and “Big Jap.” Known here ten years or more. Quiet and mysterious; feared somewhat. Super of mine in Smoky Valley; bought interest in the mine. Partners quit suddenly in '85. Big Jap operated the mine. Early in '87 said he had made his pile, sold out and left. But little known concerning him.
“'There is a rumor concerning him as follows, which, however, has not been substantiated. Said to be an ex-convict who came to America from Australia. Rumor comes from a half-crazy fellow who worked in the mine. Note:The only suspicious thing concerning J. L. G. is the mystery which surrounded him. T.B.'
“That's all,” added the inspector, looking up. “Thanks! I'll just copy that, if you will permit me.”
“Can't do that, Nick. Learn it by heart, if you like. Here,” and he passed the book to the detective.
Nick spent three or four minutes in reading over the memoranda, and then returned the book to the inspector.
“Got it?” asked the chief. “Yes,” and then Nick repeated the notes word for word, just as they had been ready to him.
“You're a wonderful fellow, Carter,” murmured the inspector, with undisguised admiration. “Now, tell me what you make of all this?”
“Not much—yet.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that while I am looking for the steel casket, I shall make an effort to find out something more concerning Mr. Jasper Gregory.”
“How? Byrnes probably exhausted every resource.”
“I have one that he could not use.”
“Ah!”
“Chick came from Nevada. He was a boy there, in this same neighborhood, when I picked him up. He has continued some of his friendships of the old days, and—Well, I will talk with him a little before I say more.”
“All right.”
“By the way, is Barney engaged now?”
“No.”
Barney was one of the attaches of the central office. A little, thin, weasel-faced individual, who never had an original idea, and whose entire ambition was summed up in the word obedience. Given an order, and he would obey it with the unswerving determination of a machine. As a shadow, he had no superior, but he had never in the world been guilty of advancing a theory upon any case in which he was engaged.
Taken originally to the scene of a crime, or asked to unravel a mystery, he was as helpless and incompetent as a schoolgirl; but let someone direct him, tell him what to do, and how to do it, and he had no equal for methodical tenacity and slyness.
Nick sometimes made use of him, and now he said:
“Keep him free for a day or so, inspector; I may want him.”
“I will.”
Nick left the central office, and repaired at once to his own home where he found Chick.
“I want you, lad,” he said. “Ready—always ready,” and the younger man followed his master to the little study.
“Chick, have you finished the Morrison case?”
“No, not quite.”
“Much more to do?”
“Nothing but shadow work. I know the culprit. It only remains now to catch him spending some of the money.”
“Patsy can do that as well as you. Put him onto it.
“I've got two cases on hand now; both important.
“I have made a few notes regarding one of them. Here they are,” and Nick passed several slips of paper to his assistant.
“Read them in the order in which you find them, Chick,” he continued. “Read them aloud.”
“'Sara Varney,' began the assistant in the monotonous tone always assumed by one who is reading data, 'twenty-one years old, five feet three inches; one hundred and forty pounds; dark, beautiful teeth, all sound, gray traveling dress, no jewelry except watch with monogram in diamonds; watch No. 55,555, made by Jerguson. Gold chain, with hollow guard shaped like a pear. Guard contains—-”
“What does the guard contain?” asked Chick, looking up.
“Read on,” was the response. “'—orphan, wealthy, money and estate left by father who accumulated same in the West, presumably in mining, etc.'”
Chick laid aside the first slip of paper, and passed to the second.
“'Arthur Grayling,' he read, 'thirty-two, prospective husband of S. V. Good character. No fortune, but good salary from employers. Engaged by A. G. to find S. V.'”
Chick laid the second slip aside.
“I have left the remainder of that page blank for you to fill up for me,” said the detective. “Read the next.”
“'George Hatfield, thirty-five, tall, dark, no fortune, no visible means of support; always supplied with money. Ran away to sea when a boy; spent much time in South America; came back to Philadelphia in '84. Presumably a gambler. Man of strong character for good or evil. Would hesitate at nothing determined upon. An athlete, drinks moderately, but never too much. Sometimes seen in questionable company. Spends much time in New York. Frequently disappears for two or three days, and always when in New York. Affects yachting—”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Nick, suddenly interrupting the reading.
“Eh?” said Chick, looking up. “Nothing. Go on.”
“'Owns a sloop yacht called the Mystery. Sometimes sails in her between P. and N. Y.'”
Nick was rubbing his hands together with an air of such intense satisfaction that Chick again paused in his reading and looked up.
“Continue,” was all that the detective said, and the assistant complied:
“'Belongs to several clubs in N. Y. and in P.,' continued Chick. 'Is not popular, though nothing tangible against him. Rarely gambles at the clubs. Never talks about himself. In love with S. V. Proposed to her by letter. Rejected with scorn. Was playing billiards at club when letter reached him. Read it between innings, and continued play unmoved. Have found four specimens of handwriting of G. H. No two alike; fact worth remembering. Never was known to pay for anything by check. Always uses cash. Bills usually new, and evidently fresh from bank.'”
Chick laid aside that slip and passed to No. 4, which was a system of points numbered with Roman characters, as follows:
“'I. Theory of voluntary flight. No cause assignable except insanity; not tenable.
“'II. Theory of abduction for purposes of extortion.
“'A. Supported by the checks for $15,000, but not tenable, because of expressions used by S.
V. to coachman.
“'B. Abduction might have taken place en route to N. Y., but that gives rise to
“'III. Theory of detention—viz.:
“'A. Letter written by person unknown containing false information. S. V. met in N. Y. and conducted voluntarily but unwittingly to place of detention. Compelled to sign checks perhaps by threats, etc. Letter probably referred to A. G.
“'B. A.G. in N. Y. at time. Might have written decoy himself. May know where S. V. is now. Motive for such theory—none found.
“'C. G.H. in N. Y. at time. Might have written decoy letter. If so, is aware of fate of S. V. Motive for such theory. Revenge for scorned proposal; desire to force S. V. to become his wife by fair means or foul; scheme to become possessed of her fortune—that is, a. by making her wife; b. by securing her signature for purposes unknown; c. by putting her effectually out of the way—that is, murder—and then forging signature, etc., which lead to—”
CHAPTER III.
“Rough On Rats.”
The note came to a close so suddenly that Chick looked up in astonishment.
“Why didn't you go on?” he said.
“Well, the next theory is embraced in that one.”
“Murder?”
“Yes.”
“Humph!”
“What do you think of it all?”
“Decoy letter written by Hatfield. Girl detained somewhere—probably on yacht Mystery—”
“The Mystery has been searched.”
“Well, somewhere.”
“That's the point—where?” Chick looked up with a quick smile. “When I mislay anything,” he said, “I stop and try to think of all the most likely places where I might have placed it.
“Then, before beginning my search I think of all the most unlikely places.
“And I begin with the unlikeliest of the unlikely, see?”
“Yes.”
“On the theory that if I had placed the article in a likely place it would not have been lost.”
“Exactly.”
“Hatfield is a shrewd fellow, I take it from your notes.”
“Very.”
“Let us suppose that he is the guilty man.”
“Very well.”
“If he is responsible for the disappearance, where would he have hidden her?
“In the most unlikely place for her friends to search without doubt.”
“Go on, Chick; I'm proud of you.”
“Where does he keep his yacht?”
“Just below Erie Basin on the Brooklyn shore.”
“How long has he owned the yacht?”
“Two or three years.”
“Where would be the most likely place for him to conceal his prisoner?”
“Answer the question yourself, Chick; you're theorizing now, not I.”
“Well, then, on board the Mystery.”
“Good!”
“She is not there.”
“No.”
“Where then is the most unlikely place?”
“You answer again.”
“Why, the answer is plain enough to my mind, and so it is to you, I believe.”
“Never mind me; I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Very well. Let us go back again a little.”
“As you please.”
“Hatfield has no visible means of support; always pays with greenbacks and new ones—by the way, is there any suspicion of counterfeiting?”
“No.”
“Then he gets his greenbacks from a bank.”
“Probably.”
“He keeps an account and gets his own checks cashed; he is a gambler, but he doesn't get all his money in that way, or he would not be so particular about keeping the place of his account a secret.”
“Right. Go on.”
“It follows that he's engaged in some crooked work.”
“Very likely.”
“Which accounts for his frequent disappearances.”
“Probably.”
“I'd like you to answer one question.”
“What is it?”
“What impression as to his destination is created among his associates at the clubs, etc., when he is missing?”
“The yacht.”
“I thought so. Now, what reason do they give?”
“A quiet spree.”
“Does he go to the yacht?” Yes.”
“And stay there?”
“No.”
“You have found out that much?”
“Yes.”
“Then we return to my original question. If he is the man we suppose him to be, he is mixed up with a gang of crooks, of which he is probably the king pin. Those crooks are either burglars, counterfeiters, confidence men, forgers, or—or— what else shall I say, Nick?”
“Suppose you include river pirates.”
“Good! Let us drop the others and cling to that.”
“Why?”
“Well, I've read the papers, and the wharf- rats are gnawing big holes just now.”
“Right.”
“Let us say that he's a river pirate.”
“Very well.”
“River pirates are mostly of the class known as wharf rats.
“Where do wharf rats live? Why, beneath wharves, mostly, I believe.
“To return: If Hatfield is a river pirate he is a wharf rat. If he is a wharf rat he is a king among his fellows. If he is king pin, he has got a place somewhere that is fitted up for his especial benefit where he can hide without fear of discovery, and where he can interview the other rodents without trouble. Again, if he is in that business the most unlikely place for us to search for Sara Varney— not being aware of Hatfield's profession—would be at the same time the most likely place for him to conceal her.”
“Well?”
“The most unlikely place for us to search,” continued Chick, “is underneath the Brooklyn wharves; and by the same token if we are right in our surmise regarding Hatfield, the most likely place for him to conceal her is—underneath a Brooklyn wharf in some den that he has fixed up for his own accommodation.”
“Well?”
“I've got through.”
“Oh! You don't go any farther?”
“No.”
“Then we will drop this subject and take up another.”
“Correct.”
“Forget, for the moment, all that has passed.”
“My mind is a blank.”
“I have just returned from an interview with the inspector. He is bothered with rats.”
“And he wants you to transform yourself into 'rough-on-rats,' and exterminate them.”
“Exactly. A man named Gregory lost a steel casket from his yacht Twilight.”
“By Jove! You mean Big Jap Gregory, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“I know him. He's from Nevada. Knew him when I was a kid. He's a bad egg, if I'm not greatly mistaken. I worked for him once.”
“Tell me what you know about him.”
“Almost nothing in fact, and considerable in theory. He was 'super' of a rich mine, and his partners suddenly disappeared. Things seemed all right enough, but I always thought that he laid 'em out, see?”
“Yes. Any reason for thinking so?”
“No. If I had known as much then as I do now, I'd have better reasons or none at all for my suspicions. I was a kid then. Big Jap was a terror, and as a matter of fact, he's walking through the world to-day believing that he killed me.”
“Tell me about that.”
“I was in his cabin asleep one day just about nightfall. It seems he came in while I was sleeping, and something was said or done which he didn't want me to know.
“The first thing I knew I was shaken by the shoulder, and Big Jap stood over me with a bowie in his hand and a scowl on his face as black as a thunder cloud.
“'How long have you been here, you young coyote?'“he growled.
“'Since five,' I answered.' “'Were you asleep?' he continued.
“Now, as a matter of fact, I had been as sound asleep as a church in the middle of the week all the time, but thinking he was mad I thought I'd lie out of it, so I said no.
“'Not at all?' he demanded.