CHAPTER III.
TRACING THE CRIME.
When Nick Carter had closed and locked the door of the study, he went to the table and turned up the green-shaded student lamp on the table. There were electric-light fixtures in the room, but Anderton had always preferred the softer light of an oil lamp when he was at work, or to read by.
The green shade kept the room in gloom except for the round space on the table illuminated by the lamp, and Nick switched on one of the incandescent lights.
“I’m not surprised that nothing seems to have been disturbed,” he murmured. “The men who were smart enough to get in here and put Anderton to death by the crossed needles would not be likely to leave obvious traces of their presence. Well, I’ll look into that later. First of all, let’s see whom poor Anderton was writing to when he was killed.”
Passing over the blank sheet, with only the date line, which lay immediately in front of the chair, Nick picked up another letter, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Evidently it had been finished just before the deceased had begun the other.
“‘Matthew Bentham, esquire,’” read Carter, with the envelope in his hand. “Ah! That’s the scientist and Orientalist. I did not know that he was a friend of Anderton’s. But it is quite natural that men having the same interests should be acquainted. I see Bentham lives in Brooklyn. I’ll take down that address.”
It was in an avenue near Prospect Park, and Nick carefully copied the superscription into his notebook. Then he opened the door of the study and called down the staircase to the butler Ruggins.
“Ask Mr. Chickering Carter to come here,” requested Nick.
In a moment Chick was bounding up the stairs. His chief handed him the letter addressed to Bentham.
“Mail this at once, Chick. You’d better take it to the nearest branch post office. I wouldn’t trust it to a mail box outside. I want to make sure it will be delivered in the morning.”
When Chick had departed with the letter, Nick again closed and locked the door and began his investigations in earnest. Turning on all the electric lights, and with his flash lamp in his hand, he examined the floor, in the hope of finding marks of feet on the polished floor or the costly rugs that would give him a clew.
“Ah, here is something!” he exclaimed, in a low tone. “But it only confirms what I already knew—that a Chinaman killed Anderton. Still, I did not know until now that the fellow wore the regular Chinese felt-soled slippers. This proves it, however.”
He was holding the light of his flash upon a certain spot on one of the dark-green rugs, and he could trace the shape of a broad foot—perfectly flat, without any gap for the instep that would be made by an ordinary heeled shoe—outlined in a gray dust. The dust was very indistinct, and if the detective had not had such a strong light to help him, he might have overlooked it altogether.
“Wood ash, I think.”
He wetted a finger, pressed it into the gray footprint, and put the finger into his mouth. It was salty.
“That’s what it is,” he muttered. “Ah, of course! From the fireplace. Anderton always would have a wood fire burning in his room, no matter what the weather might be.”
Indeed, there was a large, handsome fireplace, wide and high, with two great brass andirons, or firedogs, at one side of the spacious room. On the andirons were two logs of wood, half burned through, and the gray ash from them was scattered over the tiled hearth.
Nick Carter inspected the hearth carefully, and at last found a slight impression of a foot which was apparently that which had made the mark on the rug.
“He couldn’t have come down the chimney to get into the room,” he decided, after a glance upward. “It would be too hot. This fire is not as large as it was when Anderton was sitting here. No one could come down this way. But the foot? Why?”
He made a closer inspection, and then laughed at himself, as if ashamed of his own want of perspicuity.
“This foot is straight across the hearth, parallel with the fire. I see how it was. The man was walking past the fireplace, and accidentally one of his feet trod upon the ashes. Well, that is good, so far as it goes. It tells me where he was, and also the kind of footwear he had. But he didn’t come in by way of this flue, wide as it is.”
The room was at the back of the house, and heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. Nick Carter flung one of the curtains aside and peered out. He saw that there was a long balcony outside, which passed both windows, and he knew it had been arranged thus for a fire escape.
It was not like the ordinary contrivance of that kind, such as is seen on apartment houses and some business buildings.
It had been built by the owner of the house, and was of an ornate description, with no ladder leading to the ground. Instead, there was a rope ladder, with steel crosspieces, which could be let down if desired. The ladder was out of reach of any burglar who might get to the back of the premises and seek to get in by way of the study window.
The windows were both fastened with spring catches. These fastenings were heavy and of modern pattern. But Nick Carter smiled sadly, as he reflected how easy it would be for a professional cracksman to negotiate them. A thin-bladed knife would be the only tool required. The fellow who had murdered Anderton may not have been a professional burglar, but assuredly he would be ingenious enough to get one of these windows open, and close it again when he had finished his work.
The detective, flash lamp in hand, stepped out on the balcony. The floor was of painted steel, and solid. Most fire escapes have a railed floor, but this had been put up under the eye of the dead man, and he wanted it like the floor of a room.
Directing the strong, white light of his lamp on the floor of the balcony, Nick Carter did not discover anything that would help him for the first few minutes. Suddenly a low ejaculation of satisfaction escaped him.
“By George! Here it is! But what does it mean?”
He had found a slight smudge of wood ash at the very end of the balcony. It was so small that it might easily have been overlooked by any but the sharpest eyes. Even the detective had passed it over several times.
He knelt down and put the light close to it. Beyond question, there was a gray-white mark, but it bore nothing of the shape of a human foot.
“Well, I’ll have to try something else.”
He took from his pocket a powerful magnifying glass, and, adjusting the light properly, again stared hard at the ash mark. This time he was rewarded for his patience by a discovery. Clearly defined, was the shape of a foot. In the one place where the smudge was pronounced, as well as around it, the detective made out the impress. It was very indistinct over most of its area, but certainly was there, now that he had the magnifier to help him.
“So far, good! But how did he get up here, and again, how did he get away. If he didn’t get up from the ground below the balcony, which way did he come?”
Nick Carter still held his magnifying glass and flash in his fingers, as he reflected, his gaze fell upon the top of the railing at the end of the balcony.
“I see now, I believe!” he murmured.
The flash had thrown its light upon the railing, and quickly he brought his glass into play at the same spot. A smile of satisfaction spread over his keen features, and he carefully looked all along the railing.
“He stood on this railing. But apparently with only one foot. What does that mean? Where did he go? How did he get here? Hello! What are these splinters of wood? There has been a plank laid on the railing. Yes, here is some of the paint scraped off.”
He turned off his flash, and stood in the darkness, considering. The voice of Chick came from below:
“Hello, chief! Are you there?”
“Yes,” answered Nick guardedly. “What have you found?”
“Nothing much. But it may have something to do with the case that the next house to this is empty. The people who live here are away—gone to California for two months. Went a week ago. Ruggins told me.”
“Ruggins? Oh, yes—the butler. Well? Has anybody been seen in the house since the family went? I suppose there is a caretaker?”
“Yes. There is an old man who lives there by himself. But he hasn’t been seen for three days. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“Any lights in the house?”
“Yes. The light in the room the old man uses, in the basement, has been going to-night. Before that it was dark. Now it is dark again.”
“Come up here, Chick, to the study. I’ll open the door.”
Nick Carter went through the window, carefully closing it and pulling the heavy curtains back into place. Then he opened the door, and, as soon as Chick was inside, closed it again.
“The servants are kind of scared,” said Chick. “But I think that is only because they know Mr. Anderton is lying dead in his bedroom. Only Ruggins and one of the maids know he was killed, and they are keeping their mouths shut.”
“I hope they are,” remarked Nick coldly.
“You can depend on that. Ruggins is a close-mouthed fellow, and he has the girl hypnotized, I think. She has an idea he is the greatest ever, and he can make her do anything. I heard some of the other maids talking about Ruggins and Amelia going to be married next spring.”
Nick Carter smiled at this story of romance, which he regarded as a lucky thing, if it would have the effect of keeping the maid from talking. But he made no comment. He only asked Chick how he had found out about the house next door.
“Ruggins told me,” replied Chick. “Oh, yes. And he said something else. There is a tall Japanese professor, who used to visit there sometimes.”
“How do you know he was Japanese?” interrupted Nick.
“Ruggins. He said so. I told him Japanese men were not generally tall. He came back at me by saying this one was, so there was nothing more to be said. The professor’s name is Tolo. That’s all Ruggins could tell me—Professor Tolo.”
There came a knock at the door at that moment, and Chick, at Nick Carter’s request, opened it. He confronted Ruggins, who had come up with a card in his hand.
“Gentleman would like to speak to Mr. Carter,” he announced.
Nick looked at the name on the card. Then he started, as he told Ruggins to send the gentleman up.
“Chick,” he whispered, when the butler had gone. “Who do you think this is, wants to see me?”
“I don’t know. Who?” asked Chick.
“Professor Tolo,” was Nick Carter’s unexpected reply.