CHAPTER II.
PARTNERS IN CRIME.
Nick Carter was not disturbed in the least degree by the threats of Gaston Goulard. He had been threatened too frequently by crooks to pay any attention to their sinister predictions.
They had no weight with the detective, therefore, those of this whilom merchant who had wrecked the big department store in which he had been a partner, and who then had gone deeper into the criminal mire, mingling with crooks and gangsters, resulting in a murder for which he now was wanted by the police, whom he had eluded less than a month before in the manner described.
Aside from his surprise at beholding Goulard alive, the entire incident would have had no great weight with Nick Carter, in fact, except for one reason—the extraordinary episodes that immediately followed.
These alone, with their far-reaching results and because they exhibited from the first the remarkable discernment and versatility of the celebrated detective, made this night a noteworthy one in the record of his professional work.
Finding that immediate escape from under the stone steps was impossible, and that he could not at once pursue Goulard, Nick proceeded more deliberately to seek means to liberate himself. He knew that he could not have been overheard by any person in the house, having spoken only in whispers, while hardly a sound had been made that would have been audible ten feet away.
"The rascal must have been watching me, as he said, and contrived to intercept me in front of this house, probably having learned that this grille door was open, also that it could be quickly and securely locked. Securely locked, by Jove, is right!"
Nick had taken out his electric searchlight and was inspecting the grille door. He found that it had a strong Yale lock, to pick which was out of the question. It looked, in fact, as if it would be utterly impossible to open the door without a key.
"By gracious, I don’t half like this," thought Nick, pausing to consider the situation. "There is no getting out unaided by the way I entered. I can bang on this other door, of course, and raise some one in the house, who could come down and liberate me. That would necessitate a truthful explanation, however, and the story might leak out.
"It would be embarrassing, at least, to read in all of the newspapers that the famous New York detective was caught and cornered in such a hole as this by a midnight marauder. The sensational journals would feature it with red letters, for fair, and make the most of it. I don’t think I could stand for that.
"Instead of raising any one, therefore, I’ll try to quietly open this other door, which evidently leads into a basement hall. If I can enter unheard, I then can steal up to the main hall and out through the front door. None will then be the wiser, as far as I am concerned, and Goulard will not be fool enough to expose me. He will foresee, of course, that I shall keep my mouth closed. Let the crafty rascal alone to feel sure of that."
Having decided that to be the easiest way out of his dilemma, Nick turned his attention to the door leading to the basement hall. He found it had only an ordinary lock, and that the key had been removed.
"Well, well, this will be soft walking," he said to himself. "I can open it with a picklock in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. In a minute more, that done, I can slip out of the house unheard."
Fishing out a ring of keys on which he had the practical little implement mentioned, Nick quietly inserted it into the lock, and a moment later he noiselessly shot the bolt and opened the door.
Then began the series of sensational episodes that made his work of that night so noteworthy.
Nick stepped into the basement hall, then quietly closed the door, locking it with a key found hanging on a nail near the casing, and which he discovered by means of his searchlight.
He then paused and listened vainly for any sound from the floors above. Obviously, no one in the house had yet been disturbed.
"The way is open, all right, so here goes," he said to himself, after a moment.
A flash from his searchlight revealed the stairway leading to the main hall.
Nick tiptoed toward it and began the ascent.
The top of the stairway ended near the middle of the main hall, and under the rise of stairs leading up to the next floor.
Nick arrived at the top stair, holding his breath, treading as if on eggs, and feeling his way by means of the wall on one side and the baluster rail on the other.
Despite his exceeding care, however, the top stair creaked slightly under his weight.
The noise, though hardly perceptible under ordinary conditions, fell audibly on the surrounding stillness.
It was instantly followed by another, hardly more perceptible, but sufficient to make the detective doubly alert.
The sound came from a room across the hall, the door of which was open.
Nick waited, lest the stair might creak again if he stirred. Bending nearer the baluster rail, nevertheless, he could see through the open door of the opposite room.
It was the library of the handsomely furnished house.
With the exception of one part of the room, all was invisible, shrouded in inky darkness.
The exception was a circle of light shed upon an open desk—faintly revealing a figure crouching in front of it.
It appeared to be that of a man engaged in robbing the desk, or quietly forcing the interior drawers in search of something.
Nick waited and watched.
"By Jove, here’s a curious coincidence," he said to himself. "Have I stolen in here just in time to catch a crook? Apparently, however, I’m in his class. He may, on the other hand, be some one who lives in the house and who has some motive for stealthily searching that desk. No, by gracious, that’s not probable. He certainly is a crook."
The figure crouching at the desk had turned slightly and gazed toward the hall, as if under the impulse of sudden uneasiness, or that subtle sense which at times impresses one of the presence of another.
Nick then saw that the lower part of the man’s face was covered with a black cloth—convincing him that he was a thief from outside, rather than a resident of the house.
He turned, after listening for a moment, and resumed his knavish work.
Nick Carter’s first impulse was to arrest the thief then and there—but he did not do so.
Another and better move, in view of the greater possibilities it presented, quickly occurred to him.
"By Jove, this may be the opportunity of a lifetime," he said to himself. "It’s odds that the rascal is not alone, that he has one confederate, at least, who may be watching outside, probably in the rear of the house. I can fool this scamp and gather in both of them, I think, or even round up a bigger gang with which they may be identified. That surely would discount taking in only this fellow. I’m blessed if I don’t try it."
Nick had recalled his sinister make-up, also that he had several changes of disguise in his pocket. He deftly adjusted one over his already hangdog type of countenance, then glided quickly under the rise of stairs mentioned, crouching low against the baseboard in one corner.
The top of the basement stairs creaked again when he left them, precisely as he had anticipated.
The effect, moreover, was exactly what he was expecting.
The figure at the library desk started up as if electrified by the faint sound.
The circle of light from the flash lamp vanished instantly, leaving the room and hall in impenetrable gloom.
"He heard it," thought Nick, holding his breath. "He’s waiting and listening. He fears that some one is here, but he is not sure."
The waiting detective was right. He presently could hear the stealthy, catlike tread of the crook approaching the near door. It ceased after a moment, and Nick knew that the rascal then had reached the threshold and again was listening intently.
Nearly a minute passed, one minute of absolute silence and inky darkness.
Then a swift beam of light shot through the hall—but not under the stairs.
It was gone as quickly as it came, only to be repeated a moment later, leaping swiftly the entire length of the broad hall.
The crook saw no one, and he then stepped noiselessly toward the main stairway, where he paused once more to listen.
It was the move the detective had expected, and for which he was waiting. Rising noiselessly, Nick quickly glided nearer, then suddenly clasped the motionless black figure in his arms.
A thrill of amazement went through him from head to foot.
The form he had clasped, confining both arms and preventing the use of a weapon—was that of a woman.
Amazement, however, did not cause Nick Carter to lose his head. He held fast to the supple, writhing figure of the unknown female, who wriggled vainly to free herself and reach for her revolver, while the detective quickly whispered, in tones well calculated to dispel her fears:
"Whist! Keep quiet! I wa’n’t wise to your being a skirt. What’s your game here?"
Nick’s quietude also was assuring. The woman ceased struggling, but turned sufficiently to gaze at his face, as well as it could be seen in the faint light that came through the pebbled-glass panes of the front door.
Nick now could see the sharp glint of her eyes and the outline of her brow and cheeks above the bandage of black cloth that covered her mouth and chin.
"What’s your own game?" she questioned quickly, under her breath. "What sent you here?"
"I’m on the lift and——”
"You’re not a dick?"
"Dick be hanged! I saw the iron door under the front steps was open, so I picked the lock of the other to see what I could nail," Nick explained. "I piped you in yonder at the desk when I crept up the stairs. But I did not dream you was a skirt."
"Let me go, will you?"
"Sure—if you’ll keep your yap closed."
"Trust me for that."
"I’m not here to be nailed by a bull," Nick added.
"You can gamble that I’m not," muttered the woman. "Say, step in there with me. We ought to know each other better."
"That hits me all right—but walk on your toes."
Nick had released her, when requested, but the woman clung to him for a second, as if fain to express her relief with a momentary display of affection. Together they stole into the library, and she noiselessly closed the door.
"You’re not a dick, then," she remarked, in whispers. "Say, that’s some load off my mind. I thought sure I was a goner."
"Dick nothing!" Nick muttered derisively. "Have a peek. Do I look like a dick?"
He fished out his searchlight while speaking, throwing the beam upon himself. He then removed the disguise he had put on a few moments before, and displayed the sinister, make-up face beneath it.
It was a ruse that would have deceived the most suspicious of mortals. None would have supposed for a moment that he was there in double disguise—this man who now was pretending to be no less a crook than the woman herself.
She laughed softly and clasped his arm with both hands.
"Say, you’re all right, pal," she whispered. "Flash it on me. I’ll go as far as you have gone, since you sure seem on the level. Have a look at my mug."
She drew down the black cloth from her face, on which Nick flashed the beam of light, giving him still another surprise.
"Great guns!" he mentally exclaimed. "Sadie Badger, the queen of the old Badger gang."
Nick knew both her and the gang, all of whom had figured in the recent murder case against Gaston Goulard, and all of whom had been sentenced to prison, with the exception of Goulard himself, who was supposed to have been drowned, and this one woman against whom sufficient evidence to connect her with the murder, or show complicity after the crime, could not be found. She had been liberated, therefore, after the trial and conviction of the rest of the notorious gang, and she had not since been seen in her customary haunts.
Nick Carter’s surprise was the greater for that reason, when he now beheld her in the very act of robbing the house outside of which he had so unexpectedly encountered Goulard. That they were not confederates in this robbery was obvious to him, however, for he at once reasoned that Goulard would not have put the woman in danger of arrest, if he had known that she was in the house.
Nick now saw, too, that Sadie Badger was clad in a tight-fitting black jersey, under a loose dark coat, and that she wore knickerbocker trousers, black stockings, and rubber-soled shoes, all combining to give her the appearance of a youth under twenty, who might have walked the streets at almost any hour of the day or night without a challenge from the police.
Nick was quick to appreciate all that this signified, and to take advantage of the situation he had in part framed up, though his sinister face reflected none of his true sentiments and designs.
"You’re all right, kid, if looks count for anything," he said quietly. "We meet by chance, a dead queer chance, but there might be something in it for both. What’s your name?"
"What’s yours?" questioned Sadie circumspectly.
"Bosey Magee," Nick promptly informed her.
"Bosey?"
"That’s short for Ambrose," whispered Nick. "That’s my moniker. I hang out in Boston most of the time, but I blew in here last night and went broke in the stuss joints."
"I get you, pal."
"I held up a bloke an hour back and lifted a small wad. It was not enough, when I saw that the front-basement door of this crib was easy to get at. You can find out all about me from Jack Gleason, who runs the Orient House in Richmond Street, where I hail from," Nick added. "He’ll tell you Bosey Magee wouldn’t crab a game or squeal on a pal. That’s me, kid."
"And it listens good to me, all right," said Sadie, in approving whispers. "I’ll meet you on even ground. My name is Sadie Badger, and I’m out for the coin as you see me, or in any old way I can get it."
"That’s the right sort, Sadie, and you’re in my class. But you’re not cracking this crib alone, are you?" questioned Nick.
"That’s what, Bosey."
"Where are your pals?"
"I’m leary of pals just now," said Sadie. "I was in with a good bunch and in right, but an infernal dick got them a month back and sent them up the river."
"Tough luck," said Nick.
"I ducked the same dose by the skin of my teeth," added Sadie. "I have got no pals I would bank on now, unless——”
"Unless what?"
"I say, Bosey!" The woman’s low whispers took on a more sibilant eagerness. "Since you’re here after plunder, and fate has chucked us together, let’s run in double harness on this job. What d’ye say? Are you game? Will you be my partner in crime?"
Nick Carter did not hesitate for the hundredth part of a second. He saw more to be gained than by arresting Sadie Badger then and there. He grasped her extended hand, replying quickly:
"Will a duck swim? I’d be a fool, Sadie, if I wouldn’t take a chance with you. Partners in crime—that’s what?”