CHAPTER IV.
AN EARLY-MORNING CALL.
It was a custom of Nick Carter to take a brisk walk by himself in the early morning when he had been able to get to bed at a reasonable hour the night before. In accordance with this habit he was out of the house and on his way to Madison Square before seven the day after his visit, with the Benthams and Mrs. Morrison, to the home of Ched Ramar, in Brooklyn.
The grass looked and smelled fresh at that hour, for it was a bright morning, and there had been a light shower of rain during the night, which had freshened the verdure and flowers, and brought out their fragrance more than usual. The detective enjoyed a stroll about the little park, and his thoughts were clearer than they would have been in a room. At least, he believed they were.
“Hypnotism!” he mused, half aloud. “That is the explanation, no doubt. But it doesn’t make everything clear. For instance, it doesn’t tell me who this Ched Ramar really is. I looked at him closely last night, and I couldn’t see anything in him that warranted my doubting him. Nevertheless, I do doubt him—from the top of his turban to the heels of his slippers.”
He took another turn up the path he had chosen for his stroll, in a rather retired part of the square, before he resumed his half-audible cogitations. Then he went on slowly:
“It is fortunate for society that the understanding of hypnotism rests chiefly in the hands of men who are to be trusted. Were its power to be wielded to any great extent by criminals, there would be many innocent tools of lawbreakers. It may be that Clarice Bentham is one of them. I hope not, but it looks suspicious.
“The greatest tragedy is that, while under the dominion of another’s will, the hypnotic subject has no realization of its doings, and, when consciousness returns, no remembrance. Well, if Ched Ramar is taking advantage of that young girl’s innocence of the ways of the world to make her do things she would shrink from under ordinary circumstances, I don’t think it will be well for Ched Ramar. In fact—— Hello! What’s the trouble now? Here comes Chick!”
Indeed, Chick came hurrying along the path at a pace that told he had something important to communicate—even if his face had not shown that he was excited.
“Telephone, chief!” cried Chick, as soon as he came within hearing. “It is Professor Matthew Bentham. Wanted to know if you could see him if he came. I told him you were out just then, but I believed I could find you.”
“Yes?”
“I also said that I had no doubt you would see him, and that he’d better come over from Brooklyn—that’s where he lives—and get to our house by the time you were there.”
“That was right. Did he say he would come?”
“Yes. He said he would come over in his motor car and be there in a few minutes.”
So well had Matthew Bentham timed himself that his car drew up in front of the Madison Avenue house just as Nick Carter and Chick walked up from Madison Square. The three entered the house together, while the chauffeur kept the car at the curb, to wait.
“It’s gone!” were Matthew Bentham’s first words, as soon as they were in the library. “I’ve just found it out.”
“You mean the package of papers sent by Andrew Anderton?”
“Yes. There are not many things would have made me trouble you at this time of the morning, so you can easily guess. I was tired when I got home last night, after that reception at Ched Ramar’s, or I would have looked then to see that the records were safe. But I went to the place where I had put them the first thing this morning, even before breakfast.”
“In a secret place?”
“Yes. The one I told you about yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you say nobody knew where they were but yourself? Think hard, please. You are quite sure you have never let it out to your daughter, for instance?”
“I told you yesterday that I have been careful to keep it from her—for her own sake. She has not the slightest idea where I kept those papers.”
“What is the name of the boy who does odd jobs about your house—and sleeps away?” asked Nick, with seeming irrelevance.
“Swagara.”
“Curious name. What countryman is he?”
“Japanese.”
Nick Carter started and looked hard at the professor. Then he smiled grimly, as he asked:
“Where did the boy come from? How did you get him?”
“An employment agency in New York. He had been a valet for a theatrical man before he came to me. But he didn’t like traveling, and he was willing to do the menial work I require rather than go on the road again. He wanted to stay in New York, so that he could study more conveniently. He is a bright chap, and he speaks German and French, as well as English and his own native tongue.”
“He brought good references, I suppose?”
“Unimpeachable,” was Bentham’s prompt reply. “He has been in this country three years, and there are many persons in Brooklyn who knew him before he went with the theatrical man, Goddard. They all speak well of Swagara. He attended a college there, studying languages, and everybody says he was marvelously quick.”
“I don’t doubt it,” was Nick Carter’s dry response. “However, please tell me all the facts of this case. Then we will see what we can do.”
“There is nothing to tell, except that the records sent to me by my friend Andrew Anderton, just before his death, have been stolen from my home since yesterday afternoon, when I last looked at them. The theft may have been committed while we were at Ched Ramar’s, or afterward, when we were asleep.”
“Who was in the house while you were at Ched Ramar’s? This Japanese of yours, Swagara?”
“No. Only the two maids—the cook and the general servant. They would never touch anything. We’ve had them a long time. Besides, I’ve seen them proof against all kinds of accidental temptations. They could have robbed me hundreds of times if they had been criminally disposed. You may as well cut them out of the list of possible thieves, Carter.”
“I have cut them out,” replied Nick.
“And Swagara, too?”
“Not yet. I should like to know a little more about Swagara. You are sure he was not in the house while you were away?”
“Quite.”
“How do you know?”
“He has proved an alibi—without trying to do so. He mentioned that he was visiting a fellow countryman of his who is employed at Yonkers, and that he did not get home till two o’clock this morning. This friend of his is in the service of a friend of mine, and I had him on the telephone just before I came out this afternoon. Swagara did not leave the house in Yonkers till one o’clock. He and his chum sat in the kitchen, talking till that hour. My friend happened to have company, and he did not go to bed till Swagara left. So he knows. I was home by one.”
“That settles that, then,” agreed Nick. “We must look elsewhere. By the way, have you ever heard exactly how Andrew Anderton died?”
“No. I was told that he died of heart failure. But from what I have heard about Sang Tu and the Yellow Tong, and of its hatred for Anderton, I am inclined to think that hideous Chinese organization was somehow responsible for his death.”
“It was responsible,” declared the detective. “Wait a moment. I want to show you something.”
He went to his iron safe, and, twisting the combination knob for a few seconds, opened the great door. Then, after using a key he carried on his key ring to open one drawer within another, he brought out a small tin box and placed it on the table.
“Don’t touch what I am about to show you, Mr. Bentham,” he warned. “It is dangerous.”
When he opened the box, he held it close to his visitor. Inside were two long, glittering needles, crossed and held together at the point of contact.
“Harmless-looking things, aren’t they?” asked Nick. “Yet it was these that killed Andrew Anderton. Well, not these exactly, but two needles of the same kind. They are poisoned, so that even a slight scratch with one of the points will cause instant unconsciousness, followed by death in a few seconds.”
“Who did it?”
“That has never been found out. Two men concerned in the murder have paid the penalty. But the one at the back of it all is still at large. We shall get him, but we haven’t done it yet. I only mentioned this to convince you that the power which put Andrew Anderton out of the world is not likely to hesitate at breaking into your house and stealing the records that were the cause of his assassination.”
“The crossed needles,” murmured Bentham musingly. “I have heard of them. But I did not really believe they were in use in New York. They are a cheerful feature of certain phases of life in China, I understand. I heard a guest of mine talking about them the other night. He was a Chinese professor from Peking, introduced by a member of the Oriental Association.”
“What was his name?” asked Nick casually.
“Upon my word, I forget. Something like Ning Po, though I don’t think that was it exactly.”
“Not Sang Tu?”
“No, indeed,” replied Bentham, with a slight smile, as he shook his head. “You don’t suppose I should receive the head of the Yellow Tong in my house without knowing who he was? This Professor Ning Po—or whatever his name was—did not look the kind of man to be connected with such an infamous organization. He was a very mild sort of man, blinking behind large spectacles, and a decidedly entertaining personage.”
“I should like to have seen him.”
“I think you would have found him worth while. He has made himself famous by his translations of ancient Chinese literature into English. I hope to see him again. I enjoyed his conversation very much.”
“Was Professor Ning Po, by any chance, alone in the room in which you have these records hidden, at any time, during that evening?” asked Nick, with one of those sudden changes of topic that he often indulged in when working on a puzzling case. “I don’t ask which room that was.”
“It was the library,” replied Bentham. “I was about to tell you that. In fact, I should like to show you the secret place where I kept the package of papers, if you can spare time to come with me.”
“I shall spare the time, of course. I could not give you much help, I am afraid, unless I had your entire confidence. That means that I want to see the receptacle from which the thieves took the papers. You have not breakfasted, I think you said?”
“No, I was too anxious. I just hurried right out, to see you, without thinking about breakfast.”
“Nevertheless, it is not well to work seriously without proper meals. Will you honor me by taking breakfast here?”
“Thank you, I will,” answered Matthew Bentham. “Now that I have confided the case to your hands, I am not so worried, and my appetite seems to be returning.”