The Mask of Death by Nick Carter - HTML preview

CHAPTER IX.
 IN THE NICK OF TIME.

It fell to the lot of Nick Carter, as frequently occurred, to be a sort of connecting link between his two assistants, so uniting the result of their work as to form the complete and unbreakable chain that helplessly shackled the outlaws they were seeking.

It was after six o’clock when Nick, returning to his Madison Avenue residence, learned that neither of them had arrived, nor any definite message been received concerning their movements.

“Both men have picked up a trail worth following, and are so engaged, or they would have sent in a report of some kind,” Nick reasoned, taking the swivel chair at his desk. “They must have accomplished more than I, in that case, since I was banking quite heavily on what I could learn from Archer, the real-estate agent, concerning his relations with Deland. It was bad luck, indeed, that he was out of town on this particular day. I’ll try his residence. He may have returned by this time.”

Nick had been trying in vain, in fact, to get in communication with Mr. John Archer, who had had charge of the Barker residence during its owner’s absence. He now found, with much satisfaction, that he had met with success.

The servant who answered his telephone call informed him that Mr. Archer had arrived home and would talk with him in a moment. Scarce more than that had elapsed when Nick heard the agent’s voice over the wire.

He at once informed him of what had occurred in the Barker residence, and he then began to question him. He soon found, however, that Archer could add but little to what already had been learned; that he had permitted Deland to occupy the house because of a letter containing those instructions from its owner, brought to him by Deland, and that he had not communicated with Colonel Barker in regard to it, believing the letter to be genuine and Deland entirely trustworthy.

“Did you recognize Colonel Barker’s writing, or is the letter typewritten?” Nick inquired.

“It is typewritten on paper bearing a cut of the Berlin hotel in which Colonel Barker is living,” was the reply.

“Did you recognize the signature?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Carter.”

“It is a forgery, nevertheless.”

“That seems almost incredible,” Archer protested. “I am very familiar with Colonel Barker’s signature. I have had charge, of both of his places at times during many years.”

“Has he two places?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the other?”

“It’s the old homestead, out Fordham way,” said Archer. “Colonel Barker grew up there and still spends part of each summer on the old place. It is outside of the town and somewhat isolated. Nearly all of his family are entombed in the old cemetery in that section.”

“Has Deland, or Vaughn, ever been out there?” Nick inquired.

“I think not, though we have talked of the place. There is nothing more I can tell you.”

“I wish to see that forged letter,” said Nick. “I will call at your Broadway office to-morrow morning.”

“Very well.”

“I then will go with you to the Barker residence.”

Nick’s face wore a frown when he hung up the receiver. He was thinking, not of what he had just heard, but of the stolen Strickland treasures.

“The rascals may have taken them to that old homestead,” he muttered, gazing intently at his desk. “Still, there would have been that same danger that the undertaker’s wagon would be seen. The only really consistent place to which they could have driven it is a graveyard. But that, on the other hand, in view of its contents, seems utterly absurd and——”

Nick stopped short. His eyes suddenly lighted. He was hit with an idea that had not occurred to him before.

“Entombed out there!” he muttered. “A tomb! By Jove, that may call the turn.”

Nick seized the telephone again and got the Fordham telephone exchange. He learned after a few inquiries just where the old Barker place was located, and that the sexton of the cemetery mentioned was one Jason Dexter.

“He has a telephone in his house,” said the operator. “I will connect you with him.”

“Do so, please,” Nick directed, then waited until he heard the sexton’s voice.

“Hello!”

“Is that you, Mr. Dexter?”

“Yes.”

“This is Mr. Vaughn talking—Gerald Vaughn,” said Nick, proceeding in a roundabout way to get the information he wanted.

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Dexter returned. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing whatever. I merely want to thank you again for having opened the Barker tomb for me this morning, and for your kind attentions.”

“Well, well, that is quite needless, Mr. Vaughn, I assure you. My duties require no less of me.”

“I wanted to thank you again, nevertheless, and I feel very grateful. Good night, sir.”

Nick did not wait for an answer. He hung up the receiver, shouted to Joseph, the butler, and then hastened to don a woolen cap and a thick reefer, into the pockets of which he thrust three revolvers.

“Have Danny here with the touring car as soon as possible,” he commanded, when Joseph appeared at the office door.

The touring car, with Danny Maloney at the wheel, was at the curbing outside five minutes later.

Thirty minutes later it stood in front of the small wooden dwelling in which Jason Dexter resided, a few hundred yards from the old rural cemetery of which he had charge. One of the front rooms was lighted, denoting that the sexton still was at home.

“Put out the headlights, Danny,” Nick directed, while he sprang from the car. “There is no danger of a collision in this lonely section. The rascals might see our lights in front of this house, however, if they were to arrive to transfer their hidden booty. We’ll take a back road, which I happen to know flanks the farther side of the cemetery.”

“Out they go, chief,” returned Danny, the glare of the lamps on the lonely road suddenly vanishing.

Nick entered the front yard of the house and rang the bell. It was answered by the sexton himself, a somewhat bowed, gray man well into the sixties.

It goes without saying, of course, that he was more than surprised when Nick entered and introduced himself, telling him what had occurred and what he suspected.

It then appeared that Deland had called on the sexton two days before, stating that he was a relative of Colonel Barker and then was occupying his Fifth Avenue residence. He further stated that his aunt had died suddenly that morning, and that he wanted to place her remains in the Barker tomb for a few days, until arrangements could be made to take her body to Virginia, her native State, for burial.

“You suspected nothing wrong, I infer,” said Nick.

“Certainly not, Mr. Carter. Mr. Vaughn appeared to be a perfect gentleman,” Dexter assured him, with rather rustic simplicity. “I consented, of course, supposing he had a family right to use the tomb. I told him Colonel Barker had a duplicate key, but he said he did not know where to find it. Colonel Barker is abroad, you know.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I then told Mr. Vaughn that I would open the tomb for him with my key when he came with the body. He said that was just what he wanted, and I did so quite early this morning. I do remember, now, that he would not permit me to aid the undertaker and his assistant in handling the casket and boxes of flowers, all of which were put in the tomb.”

“You now know why, of course,” Nick said, a bit dryly. “You would have detected that the boxes did not contain flowers. Let me see your key to the tomb.”

The sexton hastened to get it, and Nick examined it with his lens.

“Just as I suspected,” he exclaimed, almost immediately. “An impression was taken of this key while you were at the tomb. It was taken in putty, or some ingredient containing oil. There are traces of it on one side of the key.”

“Well, well, this is most amazing.”

“Get your hat, Mr. Dexter, and show me where the tomb is located,” Nick said abruptly. “I have an assistant outside. The crooks undoubtedly will come to-night to remove their plunder. We can catch them in the act, and—well, that will be their finish.”

It did not take them long, all three, to arrive at the door of the Barker tomb, nor long for the sexton to unlock and remove the iron door.

Nick shot the beam of his search lamp into its gruesome depths.

“Great Scott!” cried Danny impulsively. “The treasures are gone, chief.”

“Not all of them,” said Nick, mystified for a moment. “Here is the box which must have contained some of them. Unless empty, it——”

Danny uttered a shriek, and Nick recoiled involuntarily.

A groan from within the box had fallen with startling effect on the ears of all. Then came a fierce kicking against the top of it.

“By gracious!” cried Nick, quick to guess the truth. “The rascals have been and gone. But they have entombed either Chick or Patsy.”

He sprang into the tomb, shouting quickly and thumping on the long box:

“Keep cool! We’ll have you out in half a minute.”

It was done in less time, in fact. For Nick found that he could thrust his fingers under one corner of the cover, and, with the strength of a giant, he tore it off in an instant.

Patsy Garvan sat up in the box, in the glare of Nick’s searchlight, with his face wearing a look of relief that words could not possibly describe.

“By Heaven!” Nick muttered. “Those curs shall pay dearly for this.”

“Gee! that was some glad sound, chief, when I heard your voice,” said Patsy, after he had been liberated and the tomb relocked. “The rascals got me—but now we’ll get them.”

“Tell me what occurred,” said Nick.

Patsy informed him with half a dozen breaths, adding quickly:

“They have been gone less than ten minutes. They are returning to Margate’s place. We can reach there by the other road and without being seen long they arrive.”

“Come on, then,” said Nick. “That’s the proper move.”

Their run to the Margate place was made in twelve minutes. The car, with lights extinguished, was concealed in a near, vacant lot. Returning to the front of the old house to watch for the wagon, the three detectives scarce had concealed themselves under a low wall, when a taxicab put in an appearance and stopped in front of the house.

“Some of the gang, Patsy,” Nick murmured. “Follow me and we’ll take them in at once.”

He strode out just as the chauffeur sprang down from his seat to aid two women to alight.

“Stop a moment, chauffeur,” said Nick, reaching for his revolver. “Who are your passengers and where did you——”

The chauffeur burst out laughing.

“Thundering guns!” he cried, removing his disguise. “Is it you, Nick?”

The chauffeur was Chick Carter, in the coat, hat, and goggles of Mullen, with whom Chick had easily planned the subterfuge before the coming down of the two much-wanted women in suite 710.

Five minutes later, Nell Margate and Fannie Coyle were in irons and locked in a closet in the house, pending the arrival of the male members of the gang.

When that occurred, some twenty minutes later, and the four crooks alighted from the wagon containing the stolen treasures, four detectives stepped into the driveway and confronted each, with a revolver ready, if needed.

It was not needed, however, for the arrest was easily and quickly made.

Ten o’clock that evening saw every culprit locked in the Tombs, the first step toward the punishment awaiting them.

It appeared later that Nell Margate had discovered the feasibility of the robbery, that she had communicated with Fannie Coyle, then in London, and that the latter then had rung Deland into the job, the latter going to Berlin and cultivating the acquaintance of Colonel Barker, and successfully laying his plans, as have appeared.

They were as successfully perverted by Nick Carter and his assistants, and the gratitude and joy of Mr. Rudolph Strickland, when he saw his cherished treasures being returned to his house, as Nick had promised, may be far more easily imagined than described.

It was a fixed habit of Nick Carter, however—that of keeping a promise.

END