CHAPTER II.
THE MAN WITH THE SCARS.
When Nick Carter went out of the home of Andrew Anderton, he stood for a moment in the shadow of the front entrance, looking sharply about him. Particularly his gaze rested upon the blackness of the park on the opposite side of the avenue, and he tried to make out whether anybody might be lurking in the deep obscurity of the shade trees.
It was his experience, as a detective, that where there had been an unusual crime committed, some of those concerned were pretty sure to linger in the vicinity. Always they were anxious to know what direction suspicion would take.
“I believe I see something moving over there,” muttered Nick.
With an abrupt turn to the left, as he walked off the stone steps of the mansion, it seemed as if he were going to make his way on foot down the avenue, notwithstanding that a taxicab was waiting for him half a block up the thoroughfare. But this was only a ruse. As he got to a dark spot, where big trees overshadowed the roadway, he suddenly darted across to the other side.
“I thought so,” he remarked, behind his closed teeth. “But he’s inside the park railings. By the time I got to a gate he’d be far away, and the fence is too high to climb over—unless there were an absolute necessity. Even if I were to climb, it would take me too long to get that fellow.”
Nick Carter continued his stroll toward downtown, in the hope of deceiving the watcher, whoever he might be. Then, swinging around, he ran back. So sudden was this move, that he actually got to the railings and found himself close to the eavesdropper before the latter had time to get away.
As the detective reached the spot, he turned on a strong white light from his electric flash lamp, full on the lurking figure inside the park.
He saw a man in the blue blouse, loose trousers, and felt-soled slippers of an ordinary Chinese laundryman. But he could not see the man’s face. It was obscured by the shrubbery, and the fellow was cunning enough to keep it there while the light was turned on him.
“Who are you?” demanded the detective sharply, in the Chinese tongue.
The man was taken aback at hearing a Caucasian address him in his own language, and he blurted out a Mongolian oath of dismay.
Nick Carter took no notice of this—although he understood its purport well enough. Instead, he asked the Chinaman if his name wasn’t Pon Gee. This was the first name that came to his tongue, and he merely wanted to get the fellow into conversation.
But the wiles of the Chinese coolie have been proverbial ever since—and before—Bret Harte wrote his famous poem. The man did not reply. He put up one arm, so that the long, hanging sleeve of his blouse completely covered his face, and ran away into the blackness.
Nick Carter could not follow him with the light, and he knew it would be waste of time to hunt in the park for such an elusive object as a Chinese laundryman. So he shut off his flash and walked thoughtfully across the road to his waiting taxi.
“I knew it was the work of the crossed-needles gang, anyhow,” he reflected. “That fellow was only a look-out. The Yellow Tong has hundreds of such men in New York—fellows who do not understand what they are doing for the organization, or why. He was told to watch Anderton’s house, of course, and to report if the murderers of my poor friend were interfered with. Poor Anderton! He was too good a man to be done to death in that ghastly fashion.”
Andrew Anderton was a bachelor. He never had had time for marriage, he said. His explorations in foreign countries would not have fitted well into married life, either. So he had lived his own life in his own way, and, being a wealthy man, had been able to go where he would, and study with every advantage at his finger ends.
“I waited for you, Mr. Carter,” remarked the driver of the taxi, as the detective stepped in. “I knowed you’d want to go home some time. Where to, now?”
“Home!” replied the detective laconically.
This taxi driver was a man who often was employed by Nick Carter, and who never made any comment on what he might see or hear. The detective had many such assistants about New York. More than once this particular driver had helped him out of a tight place, by putting on speed, without asking questions, and without delay. Incidentally, it may be explained that he was always well paid for his services.
Once in his own comfortable library on the second floor of his Madison Avenue home, Carter told his principal assistant, Chick, to give him volume ten of the “International Records.”
“Anything on, chief?” asked Chick, as he brought out the book from the steel-lined, fireproof closet. “I heard what you said at this end of the telephone, you know.”
Chick was an alert young man, and was so thoroughly in the confidence of the great detective that he was privileged to ask this kind of question.
“I was called to Andrew Anderton’s house by Doctor Miles,” replied Nick, opening the book and turning to a certain page. “Mr. Anderton is dead.”
Chick started and an expression of mingled sorrow and horror came into his face. But he said nothing, and Nick Carter continued:
“He was killed by the Yellow Tong.”
“The crossed needles?” gasped Chick.
“Exactly. He was found dead just as that man was in the lodging house. What was his name? Brand—something or other.”
“Brand Jamieson,” supplied Chick. “He had been a deck hand on a tramp steamer in the China trade, and found out too much about the tong. But Mr. Anderton? How did they get at him? He never goes out without somebody with him, and he has enough people in his house to keep strangers away from him.”
“All that is true enough, Chick,” returned Carter. “But the men in the Yellow Tong are not ordinary rascals. They have some of the brightest minds in the world among them. You know something about the Chinese, Chick. You have been with me on more than one case among those people. They are not fools, whatever else may be said against some of them.”
“Fools?” ejaculated Chick. “I should say not! I’d back a chink—especially an educated one—against any other citizen on this round earth, when it comes to plain, natural smartness—and cussedness.”
“Here it is,” broke in Nick Carter, running his finger down the close typewriting on the page he had picked out in the large volume. “‘Yellow Tong. Death method—crossed needles. Poisoned. Poison a secret mineral, brought from the country bordering on the Yellow Sea. Very deadly. Object of tong—to establish gigantic criminal and political organization in United States, which may eventually even terrorize American government.’”
“Gee!” broke in another voice. “That’s great hokum. As if chinks had any show to pull off such a scheme as that.”
“Never mind, Patsy!” said Nick. “We won’t question whether they can do it. We’ll only take care they don’t.”
It was Patsy Garvan, Nick Carter’s second assistant, whom he addressed. Patsy had been in the room all the time, but he had been busy at his particular desk, and the detective had not disturbed him. The young man was entirely in the confidence of his chief, however, and Nick was quite ready to answer any questions he might put.
“Andrew Anderton killed,” murmured Chick. “It seems impossible. Why, it was only two days ago that I went up there to see him about this Yellow Tong, and he laughed at the bare idea that he was in danger from the organization.”
“Anderton was a brave man,” commented Nick Carter.
“Three parts grit, and the rest of him nerve,” added Patsy.
“If we could only get our hands on Sang Tu,” mused Chick, half aloud. “That fellow is as slippery as a greased pigtail.”
“He is in New York, I know,” declared Nick. “I have no doubt he was close behind this murder of Anderton. But nobody has seen him here. The last glimpse of him I had was at Shanghai, and then only for a moment. He was coming to America then, I feel sure, but I never was able to trace him.”
“That’s proof enough that he’s a smooth guy,” interjected Patsy soberly. “If he hadn’t been slicker than most men, he wouldn’t have got away from you then.”
“Well, there’s nothing more to be said just now. “But I want you two to get to work on this case.”
“Good enough,” ejaculated Patsy, grinning his delight. “What am I to do, chief?”
“Find me a laundryman with a burned finger on his right hand and a white scar on his right ear. Looks as if he had been burned at some time. That is all the help I can give you, except that the man is middle size, and I should judge him to be about thirty years old, from his shape and movements. I did not see his face.”
“You’ve told me enough,” responded Patsy. “I reckon I’d better put on some clothes that will make the chinks think I’m all right. I don’t know whether I can make a good Chinaman of myself.”
“It isn’t necessary,” answered Nick Carter. “A Chinese disguise is always difficult, especially when you want to deceive Chinamen with it. They are very likely to see through it, unless you are in a rather dark place. You can put on a rather shabby suit of clothes of a sporting cut, and wear a soft hat pulled well down—the sort of hat most young men are wearing just now. The idea is that you are a gangster, and are used to going among Chinamen.”
“I get you,” interrupted Patsy. “I’ll show up some time in the morning, and I hope I’ll know where this chink is that you want. Got his name?”
“No. If I had, he would be easy to find, and I might not have to send you at all.”
“That’s so,” acknowledged Patsy, as he left the room.
“Now, Chick,” went on Nick, when the door had been closed, “I’m going to look through Andrew Anderton’s room. You come with me to the house, talk to the butler, and tell him he is to show you all about the premises. At least—no, you needn’t do that. I’ll tell him. His name is Ruggins. He was the person who found Mr. Anderton dead. Come on.”
The taxicab in which Nick had come home was waiting in front of the house. In less than fifteen minutes it had carried Nick Carter and Chick to Andrew Anderton’s house, and both were inside. The taxicab went away.
“Is Doctor Miles here?” was the detective’s first question, when Ruggins met him at the door.
“No, sir. ’E waited till the coroner came, and then the doctor went, after showing ’im the body of Mr. Anderton.”
“You mean, after showing the coroner?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Anderton ’as been taken out of the study, sir, and ’e’s lying on his own bed. The coroner ’ad that done. The inquest will be ’eld in the morning, sir.”
“Very well. I’m going to the study. See that I’m not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, yes. Wait a moment. You know me, don’t you?”
“Certainly, sir. You’re Mr. Carter, the detective—one of those gentlemen from Scotland Yard. I mean, the New York Scotland Yard.”
“Well,” continued Nick, smiling slightly at Ruggins’ explanation. “This is Mr. Chickering Carter, my assistant. You will let him go where he wants to in the house, and you will show him anything he may ask to see. Also, answer his questions. We are trying to find the murderer of Mr. Anderton.”
“I ’opes you’ll do it, sir,” was Ruggins’ fervent response, as Nick Carter went upstairs to the study.