It was early evening when Nick Carter arrived home after his interview with Kate Crandall. He found Chick awaiting him. On the office table lay a small plaster cast, not there when Nick departed with Harriet Farley that morning, concerning whose mission and what since had occurred, Chick was, of course, entirely ignorant.
“Well, by Jove, you’ve had a long outing,” he remarked, when Nick entered and removed his coat and hat. “Have you been equally busy?”
“You know me,” replied Nick pointedly.
“None better. What’s doing?”
“A case for the young lady who prevented me from going with Mallory this morning.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Harriet Farley. She is the only child of the late Archibald Farley. She is worth four or five millions—and then some.”
“That ought to keep the wolf from the door, at least,” said Chick, smiling. “What’s the case?”
Nick briefly informed him, covering all of the essential points and immediately adding:
“Have you heard from Patsy?”
“Not a word.”
“There must be something doing, then, or he would have found time to telephone a message of some kind. How long have you been here? What’s this?”
Nick had caught sight of the plaster cast on the table. He took it up and examined it.
“One result of my trip with Mallory,” said Chick. “It’s mighty strange, Nick, how circumstances sometimes dovetail together in this big and busy world.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have not forgotten Mallory’s letter about a dead man up in Harlem?”
“Certainly not.”
“We went up there,” Chick said, more earnestly. “The address proved to be a miserable house in one of the outskirts. It appeared to be unoccupied, so we forced an entrance, though very little force was necessary, as far as that goes.”
“You found?”
“A miserably furnished place, Nick, with indications of poverty on all sides. There was evidence that a man and woman have been living there, and so some of the neighbors informed us; but the woman has removed all of her belongings and left only the body of the man. We found the body in a dismal back room on the second floor. He has been dead about two days.”
“Murdered?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean by not exactly?”
“Violence, but not murder,” said Chick. “The cause of his death was obvious. It resulted from a bullet wound in his left shoulder. It had not been properly treated. Blood poison had ensued and sent him over the dark river.”
“H’m, that’s strange!” Nick remarked. “There must be something back of it. Could you identify him?”
“Easily.”
“Who?”
“The very man, Nick, of whom we were talking with Mallory when Vallon arrived with that letter—Jim Nordeck, the yegg cracksman, the crook suspected of having been one of the gang that robbed that Westchester savings bank.”
“The devil you say!”
“There was nothing to it,” Chick added. “There was no mistaking him.”
“You probably are right,” Nick replied, with a nod. “One of the gang is known to have been wounded during their hurried get-away.”
“The man was Nordeck.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“That occurred a week ago,” Chick went on. “He evidently has been lying ill and in a bad way since then. There was convincing evidence of that. Furthermore, according to the neighbors we questioned, no physician was called and nothing definite is known about the couple. They have occupied the house nearly a month. They probably did not dare to call a physician, lest the wound might lead to an exposure of Nordeck’s identity and his part in the Westchester burglary.”
“That undoubtedly explains it,” Nick agreed. “Nordeck took a chance of recovery without the help of a surgeon. His negligence proved fatal. The writer of the letter must have been his daughter, Nancy Nordeck, whom I saw on a Harlem train a month ago.”
“That’s right, too,” Chick said. “The woman seen by the neighbors answers Nancy Nordeck’s description. She took care of her father till he died. Then she bolted, sending Chief Mallory that letter and a fifty-dollar bank note for funeral expenses.”
“It shows plainly enough that I was right.”
“In attributing the burglary to a gang including Nordeck?”
“Exactly. That bank note was part of the plunder,” said Nick. “Nordeck evidently got his share of it. He must have been dead broke before the burglary, however, or he would not have been living in such quarters as you describe. You searched the house, of course.”
“Every nook and corner.”
“What did you find?”
“Only what I have stated. There was nothing to show where Nancy Nordeck has gone, nor any trace of the stolen money. She bolted with that, all right, or as much of it as Nordeck derived from the job. Mallory took charge of the body and will have it decently buried.”
“If we are to judge from the sentiment expressed in her letter to Mallory, the better part of the girl must have been deeply stirred by the death of her father,” Nick observed. “She wanted him to have a cloth-covered casket with silver grips, you remember, also a prayer said for him.”
“She is not entirely bad, then, after all.”
“His death may have hit her hard, Chick, and possibly will reform her. Let’s hope so for her own sake. Where did you get this cast?”
“From one of the footprints in the back yard,” said Chick. “I thought it might be needed later, perhaps, and so I sent Danny after some plaster and made a cast of the footprint. It was Nancy Nordeck’s, all right, for no other woman has recently been in the yard. She was——”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “By Jove, Chick, you are right. Circumstances do dovetail strangely sometimes.”
“You mean——”
“This is a facsimile of one of the imprints I found under Maybrick’s library window.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positively. Here is the run-down heel, the mark of a patch on the sole, and the size is exactly the same.”
“Great guns! that seems almost incredible,” said Chick, with a puzzled expression. “It cannot be that Nancy Nordeck was one of the women you suspected of having been watching Maybrick.”
“On the contrary, Chick, she certainly was,” Nick insisted.
“But what motive could she have had? A clergyman is about the last man on earth in whom Nancy Nordeck would have any interest. Her whole career has been a vicious one.”
“True.”
“It must be that you are mistaken, then, and that the shoe of some other woman corresponds exactly with hers.”
“Wait a bit!” said Nick. “Let me consider all of the circumstances. I know I am not mistaken. Be quiet while I stir up my gray matter and dig out the solution of this problem.”
Nick was not long in finding it, or in framing up a theory that seemed consistent, at least, with all of the known circumstances. His thoughtful face suddenly lighted. He straightened up and exclaimed, gazing again at Chick:
“By Jove, I think I have it.”
“The answer?”
“Yes.”
“Good!”
“If I am right, however, the outlook is bad—deucedly bad at that.”
“Bad for whom?”
“For the rector, Maybrick—and for Nancy Nordeck herself.”
“Why bad for her?” questioned Chick perplexedly. “I don’t get you. What do you make of it?”
“Listen.” Nick drew forward in his chair. “As sure as you’re a foot high, the veiled woman who visited Maybrick on Tuesday evening was Nancy Nordeck. Her inferior attire, the likeness of this plaster cast to the footprint under the library window, together with all of the other circumstances, convince me that she was the woman.”
“But why, if she went there to visit him, did she look through the library window?”
“To learn whether he was at home and alone. That would have been a perfectly natural step for her to have taken.”
“True, Nick, as far as that goes,” Chick allowed. “But why on earth did she visit Maybrick? What business can a crook of her class have had with a clergyman?”
“That is suggested, at least, in the letter she sent to Mallory.”
“You mean?”
“The sentiment I detected between the lines,” said Nick. “That girl, Chick, for she’s little more than a girl, was so deeply affected by the death of her father that she resolved to reform. There’s nothing else to it. She went to Maybrick and told him about the burglary, and she offered to turn over the plunder to him that he might restore it to the bank officials.”
“Oh, hold on!” Chick exclaimed incredulously. “You are overlooking no end of contradictory points. How, to begin with, did Nancy Nordeck come in possession of the plunder?”
“That is easily explained,” Nick replied. “We know that Jim Nordeck has been repeatedly buncoed and cheated by his pals, and he may in this case have insisted upon taking charge of the plunder until it could have been equally divided. The gang would have consented to that, of course, for they could not have cracked the vault without his assistance. He was the big squeeze in that part of the work.”
“That’s very true,” Chick allowed.
“If I am right, then, Nordeck took it to the house in which he died, or hid it somewhere else, perhaps, expecting to recover from his wound and soon whack up with his confederates, who, evidently, were not living with him and Nancy in the Harlem house.”
“Surely not, Nick, or they would have been seen by the neighbors.”
“Instead, however, Nordeck died, and the girl experienced a change of heart. I now feel dead sure of that, Chick, and it’s not the first time that death has brought about such a reformation.”
“But why did she not, in that case, take the plunder directly to the bank officials, or turn it over to the police?”
“For two reasons, perhaps,” Nick pointed out. “She may have feared arrest, or knew that she would be watched and would be prevented by other members of the gang.”
“Possibly.”
“The fact that they did not go to the Harlem house and force her to give up the plunder, moreover, convinces me that Nordeck had hidden it somewhere, and, that after his death, Nancy alone knew where it could be found.”
“I see.”
“She did not dare to go and remove it, however, lest she should be seen and waylaid by the gang. She went to Maybrick, therefore, and told him all of the circumstances. It would have been perfectly natural for her to select him, for his charitable work among the criminal classes is widely known, and she would have felt sure that she could rely upon him.”
“That goes without saying,” said Chick.
“This theory is further confirmed by the fact that Maybrick left home the following night with two empty suit cases,” Nick argued.
“In which to bring home the plunder?”
“Exactly.”
“But why did he draw five hundred dollars from the bank?”
“H’m, let’s see,” Nick said thoughtfully. “It’s obvious that Nancy Nordeck is nearly penniless, aside from the bank funds. She may have refused to take any more of the stolen money, yet may have insisted upon having funds with which to leave the country. She is wanted for several petty crimes, you know.”
“True.”
“Maybrick must have drawn his own money to give her, knowing he would afterward be reimbursed by the bank officials. There is a reward of ten thousand dollars for the recovery of the funds.”
“The girl could have got that,” said Chick.
“If she has had the turn of heart that the circumstances lead me to suspect, she would not accept the reward,” Nick replied. “That is a woman’s way of doing things.”
“I begin to think you are right Nick, after all.”
“I feel pretty sure of it.”
“But how do you account for Maybrick’s absence and his——”
“That’s the worst feature of the case,” Nick put in.
“You mean?”
“That he’s in bad, most likely, as well as Nancy Nordeck.”
“I don’t quite get you.”
“Suppose I am right,” said Nick. “Suppose this theory is correct. It’s a copper-riveted cinch, Chick, in that case, that the gang that committed the burglary has been stealthily watching Nancy Nordeck and——”
“By thunder, I see the point!” cried Chick, more gravely. “You think they have got both her and Maybrick, and also have landed the plunder.”
“It certainly looks so. Furthermore—wait! There’s my telephone bell. We may hear from Patsy.”
Nick turned quickly to his desk and took up the instrument.
“Hello!” he said quietly.
No answer.
He called again a bit louder:
“Hello! hello!”
Still no answer.
Nick’s brow clouded.
Then, suddenly, there fell upon his listening ears a quick, intermittent tapping. He listened even more intently. His countenance lighted, then clouded again, darker than before. He seized a pad of paper and a pencil and began to write, listening all the while.
Three minutes passed and Nick then hung up the receiver and sprang to his feet.
“Bring Danny and the car as quickly as possible,” he cried. “We’ve got to make a record run, if ever we made one. Guns on your hips, Chick. Patsy in the hands of the gang.”