CHAPTER V.
THE NAME ON A SIGN.
It was not in the least degree by chance, but by a very remarkably clever bit of detective work, that Nick Carter had succeeded so quickly in picking up the trail of the miscreants by whom Clara Clayton had been abducted.
Only one detective in a thousand, possibly only Nick Carter himself, would so quickly have suspected Pierre Toulon of actual complicity in the daring crime; much less been able, even though suspected, to have clinched his distrust of the treacherous waiter by any such artful methods as Nick had employed. It had required the discernment and subtlety possessed only by the celebrated detective himself.
Nick keenly realized, nevertheless, that he had been very fortunate in that the victim of the crime was so self-possessed and resourceful a girl, and that the trail of the veil had been of inestimable aid to him in showing plainly in which direction her abductors had fled. The clever ruse to which she had resorted had, indeed, stimulated both detectives with additional eagerness to trace and rescue her.
Nick hurried on after parting from Chick, listening vainly for a signal from him, seeking vainly for another scrap of the blue veil, and also the while with eyes alert for any other evidence that would serve his purpose.
None rewarded his efforts. The road was so cut up with wheel tracks and tire marks, that nothing definite could be deduced from them. Nick had covered nearly two miles through the woodland road, in fact, before he made any new discovery.
Then a break in the woods brought a river into view. He could see patches of it glistening in the early-morning sunlight.
Presently, in the far distance could be discerned the church spires of a town, the dwellings of which were lost under the intervening hills.
“It must be three or four miles away,” thought Nick.
“I’m blessed if I know what town it is. If I could run across some farmer living in these parts, I might get information that would aid me. Beardly—that’s not a common name. If I could find a man of that name—well, I think I would consider him open to suspicion, regardless of his looks.”
Another half mile brought a sharp turn in the road and a more open view of the river. Several scattered mills could be seen in the distance on the opposite bank, evidently sawmills, which derived their supplies from the surrounding woods.
As he rounded the turn, moreover, Nick suddenly came in view of a large, old wooden house and several outbuildings. They were some fifty yards from the road and well down upon the river bank. A swinging sign on a pole in the clearing near the front of the house denoted that it was a tavern, or a somewhat isolated road house.
“By Jove, I now am in a way to strike oil,” thought Nick, little dreaming just how he was to strike it. “Smoke is coming from the chimney. Some one in the house is up and doing. I’ll hunt him up, or her, as the case may be, and see what I can learn.”
Leaving the road, Nick glanced at the sign and read the name on it, then turned his steps toward the rear of the house, the door in front being closed, and the window curtains drawn down.
Before arriving at the rear corner, however, Nick brought up at the open door of a barroom of exceedingly primitive type, in which he found three men.
Two of them were rather roughly clad, dark-featured fellows of about thirty years of age, and both were seated at a round, bare table, each with a partly drank glass of ale before him.
The third was a brawny, red-featured man in his shirt sleeves. He was wiping the top of a dingy bar with a towel.
All looked a bit surprised when the detective’s imposing figure appeared at the open door. None evinced any deeper feeling, however, as Nick stepped in and approached the bar.
He ordered a glass of ale and remarked agreeably, with a glance at the two men at the table:
“Fine morning, gents. Drink yours down and have another.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said one, replying.
“Good enough. What town is that up the river?” Nick asked.
The man behind the bar informed him, while drawing the ale from a faucet in the wall, and Nick took a chair at a window overlooking the grounds back of the house and the broad curve of the river.
His view of it was partly obstructed, however, by the old stable and other outbuildings. A path near them led down to a narrow, wooden float, or landing, to which a motor launch was made fast.
“You are Mr. Dugan, I take it?” Nick remarked to the man who was serving him.
“That’s right,” was the reply, with a nod.
“I read your name on the sign.”
“I have run this place for a dozen years.”
“Some distance from town, aren’t you?”
“Not too far for my business,” said Dugan, returning to wipe the bar. “There are some houses above here a piece, but I get most of my coin from parties who drive out from town.”
“Sort of a road house, isn’t it?”
“That’s what.”
“You didn’t happen to hear a motor car go by last night, did you?” Nick asked carelessly.
“What time?”
“Between ten and eleven.”
“No, I didn’t,” Dugan vouchsafed, with stolid countenance. “The best road is on t’other side of the river. Did you, Morley?”
The last was addressed to one of the men at the table. He shook his head and glanced at his companion, replying readily:
“No, I heard none. Did you, Conroy?”
“What time did you say?” questioned Conroy, gazing. “I’m a bit deaf, you know.”
“Between ten and eleven,” said Nick, with voice raised.
“A motor car?”
“Yes.”
Conroy also shook his head.
“None went by at that time, sir, nor even later,” he said assuringly. “I was sitting out front till near midnight. I’d have been sure to have seen it. Here’s good luck, sir.”
And Mr. Conroy arose with his glass of ale and began to down it.
“Same to you,” returned Nick indifferently.
“Have you lost a car, sir?” questioned Dugan, gazing at him from over the bar.
“No. Some friends of mine are coming this way, and I wondered whether they had passed,” Nick exclaimed evasively. “They may stop here, perhaps, on their way. I’m tramping through these parts and they have my luggage in their car. It’s a big red one. You could not mistake it.”
“They have not been here yet,” said Dugan. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Oh, it don’t matter much,” Nick replied. “I’ll round them up in the next town. I used to know a man up this way named Beardly. Ever heard of him?”
“Not as I remember,” said Dugan, scratching his head.
“Beardly?” questioned Morley, still gazing at the detective. “I don’t know any Beardly in these diggings. What’s his front name?”
“Andrew,” said Nick, at random.
“I never heard of him. Did you, Jim?”
Conroy shook his head again, then finished his glass of ale and arose from the table.
“Sing out, Dugan, when breakfast is ready,” he requested, a bit gruffly. “I’m going to wash up.”
“Hold on, Jim,” put in Morley. “Wait till I get outside of this. I’ll go with you. So long, sir.”
The last was addressed to Nick, who responded with a nod, and the two men swaggered from the barroom and disappeared in a narrow, dimly lighted hall adjoining it.
Nick listened indifferently to their receding steps. There had been nothing in the conduct of either that seemed to warrant distrust, nor in the looks of either, aside from their rough attire and somewhat dissipated faces.
The same was true of Dugan also, and of his decidedly rustic and inferior road house.
Nick lingered briefly, apparently to sip his drink, therefore, and incidentally he tipped back in his chair until it touched the window casing. As he did so, glancing out, he made another discovery which most detectives would have overlooked.
Beyond a corner of one of the outbuildings, and brought into view by his change of position, he observed an old dwelling and a near building of moderate size some fifty yards upstream and on the opposite bank of the river. A sign on the building caught the detective’s eye.
The name on the sign was: “B. Ardley.”