CHAPTER IX.
A PLOT WELL FOILED.
The next day Tambourine Jack came to Nick with a budget full of news.
He had been shadowing Elmer Greer and had seen him with Louise.
“Good!” said Nick Carter. “Where did the fellow lead you?”
“Well, me and the bloke put in yesterday in Wall Street,” answered Tambourine Jack; “the night before we were at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, he was inside and I was outside. Last night we visited a chap that is a friend of mine. He keeps a crib down near the Thirty-fourth Street ferry.”
“Jack Shea?”
“You’ve hit it the first jump,” said Jack. “This morning he and I, and the gal, took a run down to Flatbush. I got a job from him helping to carry furniture into their house.”
“You are certain you can find this house in Flatbush?” remarked Nick Carter.
“Oh, that’s easy, it’s No. —, Bay Street,” replied the youth.
“Did you see anyone at the house but the man and woman?”
“Yes; there were four or five plug-uglies there. One chap’s name is Luke—leastways, that’s what my gentleman called him.”
It was now late in the afternoon, and when Nick Carter and Tambourine Jack reached Flatbush it was dark.
They turned up Bay Street, but Nick had not gone above a hundred yards when he saw three men approaching, one of whom he recognized by his voice.
That one was Elmer Greer.
The detective’s first impulse was to seize his prey, but he thought better of it.
“There is something new afoot,” he muttered, “and I will discover what it is before I land my fish.”
“Mr. Carter,” whispered Jack, “that chap on the outside is Jack Shea.”
“I tell you everything is easy,” the detective heard Greer say; “there will not be the slightest hitch.”
“We had better bring tools along,” suggested Jack Shea.
“It is unnecessary,” said Elmer, “I know the combination; it is 10-50-75.”
“There may be some slip up,” persisted Shea; “I don’t go unless we have tools.”
“Have it your own way,” said Greer; “where are we to get tools?”
“Don’t worry about that,” replied Jack, “I have a fine set at my place.”
“I will meet you then at the corner of Broad and Wall Streets at ten.”
“No, you won’t, Greer,” said the fellow, who up to this time had not spoken, “you will go with us.”
Nick Carter crept from tree to tree of the large elms that lined the avenue, and not a word uttered by the rascals escaped him.
He knew what they contemplated—the robbery of Tom Smith’s safe.
The two took a car, and Nick Carter boarded the next one.
“You are out rather late, mother,” said Elmer Greer to an old Irish woman, who presided over an apple stand on the corner of Broad and Wall Streets.
“I’m not your mother, I’m a decent woman,” replied the fruit vendor.
“You will get your death out in this cold.”
“Begorra, then, I’ll give you an invitation, now, to me funeral.”
“How much is your stock worth?” Greer asked, ramming his hands in his pockets and rattling some silver.
The old woman was all smiles as she bustled around the stand and took an account of stock.
“I suppose you don’t want to buy the stand itself?”
“Well, no; only the fruit.”
“Let me see,” resting an elbow on one hand while she began to fondle her chin with the other, lost in the mazes of a mathematical calculation.
“I should say twelve shillings.”
“Will you go home when you’re sold out?” Greer asked.
“Where else?”
Elmer threw a dollar and a half on the stand, saying:
“You may have your stock to begin business with in the morning; I don’t want it.”
The old woman was considerably surprised at the gentleman’s generosity, but she managed to mumble loud enough for him to hear:
“God bless your honor.”
“Go home now,” said Greer, as he walked toward Pine Street.
He had not gone far when the apple woman dumped her goods, stand and all, into the gutter.
“You are becoming generous, Elmer Greer,” she said, flinging the money he had given her also into the street. “Some poor devil, I hope, may find that.”
The apple woman, keeping in the shade of the buildings which lined Broad Street, closely followed Greer.
At Pine Street the rascal was met by Jack Shea and two others.
The building in which Smith had an office was but a few steps away.
To open the main door was but the work of a few moments for such an experienced cracksman as Jack Shea.
The door of Smith’s office was forced with still greater ease.
The building was an old one; it did not contain many offices, and the janitor did not reside on the premises.
All this was well known to Elmer Greer.
The old apple woman had taken off her shoes and followed the villains upstairs.
She stood behind the door where she could conveniently see all that took place without herself being seen.
The old apple woman was Nick Carter.
He had Elmer Greer now with no chance of escape.
Villain as the fellow was, there was one thing about him that won even the detective’s admiration, and that was his courage.
Surrounded by dangers, as Elmer Greer knew himself to be, he had the hardihood to remain in the metropolis, when ninety-nine men out of a hundred, if placed in a similar position, would seek safety in flight.
He was no common criminal, but a cool and unscrupulous villain, and he cared not for the quicksands that environed him.
Nick Carter, when he thought of poor, wounded Mignon Field, felt like shooting the rascal down, and he certainly would have done so had he not promised the girl not to injure Elmer until her father had been found.
Two of the party had dark lanterns, and the rays of both were directed against the safe knob, while Greer worked at the combination.
“I am sure,” he said, “that the lock is set on the numbers 10-50-75. I saw Smith open it the other day, and, of course, he did not know I got onto it.”
“Perhaps he changes it daily,” remarked Shea. “I’ve heard of chaps doing that, and I should say that it must be a good idea, where there are many fellows coming into an office.”
Nick Carter smiled at the futile attempts of Elmer to open the safe.
“Luke, the drills,” said Shea; and the party addressed produced half a dozen fine steel drills and a small sledge hammer.
It was but a few moments before a hole large enough to insert a small saw was made.
Next, a large sectional jimmy was brought into use.
The safe was of old-fashioned make, and the cracksmen ripped through the top of it as easily as if it was made of cheese.
There was an iron money box inside, and this was broken into.
It was filled with bonds and money, which the thieves drew out in handfuls until it was empty.
“I should say this was a rake!” remarked Shea. “It is the biggest haul I have seen since that bank up in Vermont. The shares will be larger here, because there were fifteen in that mob.”
The rascals began to stuff the money into their pockets, when Nick Carter sprang into their midst, revolver in hand.
He placed a small whistle to his mouth and blew a shrill blast, whereupon footsteps were heard coming up the stairs.
“The apple woman! Nick Carter!” exclaimed Elmer.
“Gentlemen,” said the detective, “escape is impossible. A dozen policemen are now coming up the stairs.”
Greer edged toward the window, and, suddenly raising it, he sprang out.
The fall was a fearful one.
“That man is dead,” said Nick; “if either of you choose to follow his example and commit suicide, I shall not prevent you.”
They were trapped; but neither of them felt inclined to run the risk of having their brains dashed out on the flags many stories below.
“There are your prisoners,” said Nick Carter, addressing the sergeant in command of the squad of police that the detective had kept in waiting outside.
When Shea and his two pals were handcuffed, Nick went to the window; he could see on the flags below the motionless form of Elmer Greer.
“Well, he has gone to his last account,” muttered the detective. “Perhaps it is better so; his blood is not upon my hands.”