CHAPTER VI.
TWO MEN WITH A WAGON.
Patsy Garvan was puzzled—more puzzled than at any time since he first saw the taxicab and its occupants, whom he had pursued undetected to a somewhat unsettled section of the Bronx.
Rounding a bend in a woodland road that was out of sight from any habitation, Patsy suddenly discovered that the taxicab, which had been briefly lost to view in the belt of woods, had stopped near one side of the road, some fifty yards in advance of him. There appeared to be no trouble with the motor, however, for the chauffeur had not alighted, nor either of the other occupants of the car.
"Gee! it certainly beats me," Patsy muttered, having hastily dismounted and found shelter back of some shrubbery on one side of the road. "What sent them out here, and why have they stopped? There seems to be nothing wrong with the car. I’ll be hanged if I can make head or tail to it."
Patsy waited and watched for nearly ten minutes. He could see only the back of the taxicab, of course, and could form no idea of what its occupants were doing. Curiosity and increasing suspicion, however, impelled him to make another move.
"I’m going to find out, by thunder, if it takes a leg," he said to himself. "I’ll hide the motor cycle and make a detour through the woods till I can get a look at them. They must be up to some kind of a game, or they would not remain there. I’ll have one look, at least, and ease my mind."
Patsy made his preparations with some little difficulty. The ground at the side of the road was wet and soggy, and only with repeated efforts could he force the heavy motor cycle over the damp earth and through the shrubbery, finally concealing it in a thicket some ten feet from the road.
Quickly picking his way through the belt of woods, Patsy then sought a point from which he could see the side windows of the motionless taxicab. He scarce had gained this vantage point, however, when another vehicle met his gaze.
It was approaching through a narrower road making off to the east, within a dozen yards of which the taxicab was waiting.
It was a covered wagon of medium size and much the worse for time and hard usage. Its leather top was faded and patched in places. It was drawn by an old gray horse, urged on by one of two roughly clad men on the seat, both of most sinister and suspicious aspect.
Patsy did not imagine at first that any relations existed between two such hangdog-looking fellows and the supposed refined and wealthy old gentleman in the taxicab. He felt a thrill of surprise, therefore, when the latter sprang down to the road and waved his hand to them, at the same time shouting to the driver:
"Turn in this direction, Mullen, and pull up alongside. Leave me room to pass you and drive on."
Patsy heard him distinctly, though some distance away. He stopped short, crouching back of some bushes, and continued to watch the scene.
"By Jove, it’s a rendezvous," he said to himself. "That’s why the taxicab has been waiting here. But what business has old Mr. Mantell with these fellows? Is he playing some underhanded game, as well as Goulard?"
Patsy had not long to wait to learn of what their immediate designs consisted.
Mullen, so called, turned the wagon from the driveway and came to a stop at one side of the motionless taxicab, directly between it and the watching detective.
Then followed a brief conference in the woodland road, unheard by Patsy, who did not think it wise to venture nearer.
Mullen’s hangdog companion then ran up the road as far as the bend, where he turned and waved his hand, plainly signifying that no observer was in sight.
Patsy then saw the other three men hasten to the door of the taxicab. He could see only their legs for a few moments, by gazing under the intervening wagon, but presently they appeared at the rear end of it, bearing between them—the lax form of the veiled woman.
"Thundering guns!" thought Patsy, when their designs became obvious. "They have come out here to get rid of that woman, or to transfer her to some place. She’s not dead, or her form would be rigid by this time. She must be drugged. But who is she, and what motive can old Mantell have for such conduct? Gee! it’s up to me to find out where they take her and what they intend doing."
Mullen had hurriedly raised the back flap of the leather top, and the woman was quickly placed on the floor of the wagon. The flap then was dropped and buckled, and Mullen hastened to mount to his seat, where his returning companion quickly joined him.
The taxicab sped away in the meantime, containing only the chauffeur and the solitary passenger, and within half a minute it had vanished around a corner of the woodland road.
"Let him go. I can nail him, by Jove, at any time," thought Patsy, now grim and frowning. "It’s up to me to look after the woman."
Mullen then was turning the wagon, and in another moment, he drove away through the diverging road with his ill-favored companion—and his senseless burden.
Patsy Garvan did not return to get the motor cycle. He knew it would be of no advantage in trailing a slow-moving wagon over a rough road. He stole down to the edge of the woods, gave Mullen a lead of something like fifty yards, and then he proceeded to follow him.
"The rear flap being down, the rascals cannot discover me unless they lean out and look back," he said to himself. "I’ll fool them in that case, even, by hugging the side of the road. If they see me, or give me the slip, by Jove, they shall have a medal."
There was one contingency, however, on which Patsy did not figure, and which was too remote to have appealed to the most farsighted of detectives.
The taxicab was returning, was speeding toward the city. It passed the crossroad several minutes after the wagon and its stealthy pursuer had departed. It sped on around the bend in the road—and the chauffeur then brought it to a quick stop.
The man within had undergone a decided change. His gray hair, his pointed beard, his gold-bowed spectacles, all had disappeared. Instead of the refined, venerable countenance that had deceived Patsy Garvan, even, there now appeared the malignant, hard-featured white face of Gaston Goulard.
"What is it, Fallon?" he cried, starting up from his seat. "Why have you stopped here?"
The chauffeur pointed to one side of the road.
"That caught my eye," he replied, with an expressive cant of his head. "It doesn’t look good to me."
"What do you mean?"
"That deep rut."
"What do you make of it?"
Goulard leaped down to the road, Fallon following.
"A motor cycle has been here," said the chauffeur. "It was here only a few minutes ago, too, or this soggy earth would not have retained the tracks so plainly. Here are the fellow’s footprints, too, left when he dragged the wheel out of the road."
Goulard’s hard face took on a terrible frown. He uttered an oath, crouching to examine the imprints; then added harshly:
"Can we have been seen? Can we have been seen, Fallon?"
"Followed, perhaps," suggested Fallon tersely.
"Followed—impossible!" Goulard snarled between his teeth. "Who could have followed us? Who could have had any reason for doing so?"
"Nick Carter himself, possibly, or——”
"Carter be hanged," snapped Goulard, interrupting. "Carter cannot possibly have learned of this job. Only Mullen and the gang knew I had it framed up. Carter cannot have got wise since we turned the trick—that’s out of the question."
"Unless Sadie Badger——”
"Sadie knew nothing about it until I went to warn her against the infernal dick," Goulard again cut in fiercely. "Blast him, is he out again to queer my game? Whether he is, or not, I’ll have him in my clutches as soon as he attempts it. I’ve got that fixed with Sadie, and well fixed, too. He’ll get his, all right, if he tries to pull off the stunt I think he has in view. I’m wise to it. I’m on to Carter, now, and his infernal tricks. He——”
"You’d better look into this, Goulard, instead of frothing over what the dick can accomplish," interrupted Fallon, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "We can find out, perhaps, who has been here. There are no tracks showing that the motor cycle was pulled back into the road."
Fallon parted the shrubbery and strode in through the underbrush and bushes, while speaking, Goulard following close behind him.
"Ah! I thought so!" Fallon suddenly exclaimed. "Here’s the machine. The fellow hid it in this thicket."
"He may be watching us, then, at this moment," growled Goulard, gazing sharply around.
"I guess not."
"You mean?"
"He had other reasons for hiding it so carefully," Fallon forcibly argued. "He could have watched all that took place after Mullen and Simp Sampson showed up, Goulard, without lugging that heavy wheel so far into the woods."
"You think he saw all that came off?"
"I’m dead sure of it."
"And now——”
"There’s nothing to it," Fallon cut in again. "He has gone in pursuit of Mullen’s wagon. He didn’t know how far he might have to go, nor how long it would take him. That’s why he hid that wheel so far from the road."
Goulard was not slow to appreciate this reasoning, nor in deciding what course he would shape. There was murder in his eyes when, dragging Fallon back to the road, he commanded hurriedly:
"Return to town alone, Bill, and follow the directions I have given you. Make sure there is no slip-up. If I’m in wrong again; if these infernal Carters are wise to my game and are out to thwart me, I’ll wipe one and all of them off the map! Leave me here, Bill, and return alone. I’ll soon find out, by thunder, who is after Mullen and the wagon.”