Two days later Nick Carter received a telegram.
The message was signed by an assumed name, but Nick knew from whom it came.
That afternoon the great detective arrived in Norwalk, Conn., and within an hour was closeted in a room in a hotel with Tambourine Jack.
Crackers, of course, was also present.
The little fellow had done splendid work, and, incidentally, so had Crackers.
Jack related to Nick a long story, which, stripped of its details, was as follows:
No one of the gang had the slightest suspicion that Jack was not with them, heart and soul.
In company with a man named Rusty Owens, he had gone to Norwalk and to the very house where the banker was confined.
“Have you seen Mr. Field?” Nick asked, when the little fellow had concluded his narrative.
“No,” said Jack, “but Crackers had an interview with him, it seems.”
“Don’t joke; this is a serious matter.”
“I am serious.” Tambourine fished up a dirty piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to his friend. “I found that tied to Crackers’ collar this morning.”
Scribbled on the paper, with a lead pencil, were the words:
“I am confined in a house near Norwalk, known as Sophie’s; she is my son Wilbur’s wife. My life is in danger. To the person who gives this to a police officer I will pay ten thousand dollars.
“HILTON FIELD,
“Banker, New York City.”
“His son!” exclaimed Nick; “I never knew he had a son.”
“Nor me either, until I got that; although I have long known Wilbur,” remarked Jack. “He is a promising bird, and if I was his guvnor, I’d be proud of him.”
“And is he one of this infernal gang?”
“Well, he is and he isn’t,” replied Tambourine. “You can bet it was him that put up the job to have the old duck eloped with.”
“Poor Mignon!” thought Nick; “if she but knew who was her father’s jailer it would break her heart.”
“I know where the old gent is,” continued Jack, “even if I didn’t see him. They have him in a room in the garret that has no windows to it. I don’t know how Crackers got to him, but he did, that’s certain.”
“How many men are there?” the detective asked.
“Too many for you,” replied Tambourine. “There were only four there until up to midnight last night, and then two others came along. They were strangers to me, but Wilbur and Rusty Owens seemed to know them. Talking about Rusty—there seems to be bad blood ’twixt him and Skip, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would have it out before morning. They have been growling all day.”
“What about?” Nick asked, evincing a great deal of interest.
“Owens did not want Brodie to kill Moses.”
“Kill Moses!” ejaculated Nick.
“Yes. Brodie found out that Moses was the traitor and not Dell Ladley, and he killed the Jew last night.
“It seems that Rusty did not believe the Jew guilty.”
“I hope they do fight,” said the detective, as he and his little friend left the hotel and made for the house.
They hid themselves in an out-building and remained there for several hours, waiting for the villains to leave the field clear.
Wilbur and his friends were in the kitchen, and they talked so loud that Nick could hear them, although he could not make out what they were talking about.
Then came the sound of a heavy body falling on the floor, followed by a pistol shot, quickly succeeded by several more.
“I was right,” said Tambourine Jack; “I knew it would come to that. Hurry around to the front door; I will let you in.”
When Jack opened the door for him, he gave Nick a key, saying:
“Go right up to the top of the house; there is but one room in the garret, I believe; that’s the key.”
Removing his boots, the detective ran upstairs, while Tambourine slipped out the front door and entered the kitchen by the back.
His passage through the room had not been noticed, so deeply engrossed were the others in the general fight which was going on.
Nick had no difficulty in reaching the banker’s place of confinement; and giving Mr. Field his arm to lean upon, he hurried him downstairs.
The old gentleman was free!
Not waiting to put on his boots, the detective hurried his prize as fast as was possible across the frozen fields toward Norwalk.
The village lights shone clear, and no storm-beaten mariner ever saw a haven with more delight than did Hilton Field view those flickering lights.
They had all but reached the town when Nick heard the sound of hurrying footsteps behind, and knew they were pursued.
Their pursuers overtook them, and the detective determined to make a fight for it, although there were five against him.
The first of them he shot dead in his tracks, but before he could fire again the brave detective was knocked down by the blow of a club from behind.
“Finish him!”
It was Mackrell who spoke, and he raised his pistol to fire.
Another one cracked in some bushes close by, and the ruffian rolled over, a corpse.
The villains were frightened, but they did not leave Hilton Field behind them when they fled.
Rusty Owens threw the banker over his shoulder as if he was a bag of oats, and managed to keep up with his comrades.
Tambourine Jack had saved Nick Carter’s life.
Nick Carter’s wounded head caused him terrible suffering, and it was not until the gray morning light crept in at the window of his room, in the Norwalk Hotel, that he fell asleep.
It was yet early in the day when he was disturbed by a knock.
The door was not locked, and, without leaving the bed, Nick told the person to enter.
The visitor was Tambourine Jack, and the detective brightened at the sight of him.
Jack rammed his hands into his pockets and emitted a long whistle.
“What does that mean?” Nick asked.
“I just did that to relieve myself,” he answered; “the fat is in the fire.”
“Explain.”
“Well, seeing it is you and you are not dead, I will,” said Tambourine. “Above all things don’t forget you are dead.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Nick.
“That was what I said,” answered the little fellow, “and I’ve come to town to put a notice in the paper. Friends and relatives invited to attend the funeral, no flowers, and all that. I told my friends that you had lit out for another world and, as I was never known to tell a lie—why, of course, it must be so. Do you catch on?”
The detective laughingly said:
“It was not a bad idea, Jack, but I trust you won’t carry the matter so far as to bury me. What do you mean by saying the fat is in the fire?”
“Well, boss, we just stand in the same place we did the day after the old gent was carried off,” answered Tambourine.
“Oh, no,” remarked Nick, “we know where to look for him, and I will have the banker before night. I intend to raid the house, if the local authorities will give me help, this afternoon.”
“You won’t find Hilton Field there,” returned the little fellow.
“They have removed him?”
“Well, rather,” replied Jack.
“We can go to the place, no matter if it was on the other side of the Atlantic,” said the detective.
“Of course we can,” remarked Tambourine. “I’ve thought that myself, but first we shall have to find out the place.”
“What, you were there and did not learn where they intended taking the banker?” said Carter.
“No. I tried to find out, but could not,” answered the little fellow. “I asked Skip, and he said when they wanted me I would be sent for. I am to take Dell Ladley to New York this afternoon.”
“Which direction did they take?” Nick asked, very much chagrined at the removal of Mr. Field.
“Dick, Skip and the old fellow went off in a boat about two o’clock this morning,” replied Tambourine, “but I could not make out which way they headed. I know they did not return to Sands Point. They did think about doing so, but changed their mind.”
“Elmer Greer is not with them, then?”
“No, he took the first train for New York this morning,” said Jack. “I hardly knew him when he came downstairs. The whiskers, mustache and goatee are gone.”
“What train do you go on?” Nick asked.
“The two-forty.”
“Well, if you see an Englishman, wearing a red necktie and a loud suit, aboard, that’s I.”
Tambourine Jack, Dell Ladley and a man Nick Carter did not know, drove up to the depot just in time to take the train.
The man went into the smoking car, leaving his companions to shift for themselves.
When they reached the city, Tambourine Jack put his female companion into a street car and rejoined the detective.
“Did you get the slip of paper I dropped?” Jack asked.
“No, where did you drop it?”
“Just as we got on the cars,” he said; “it only had the name Wilbur on it.”
“I didn’t see it,” Nick remarked. “So that chap with you was the banker’s son?”
“That’s the sprig,” replied Tambourine. “Don’t look much like a thief, does he? He made quite a time when Skip took the old fellow away. I thought there would be bloodshed, but Wilbur weakened. Skip seemed to be possessed of a million fiends last night.”
“Does he know where the new hiding place is?” Nick asked.
“You can gamble he don’t, and, between me and you, I don’t think Greer does,” answered the little fellow. “They told him of a certain place, I guess, but my private opinion is, they will dump him unless he soon puts up some more money. They asked for some last night, but he had none to give them.”
“I don’t see where he can get any,” reflected the detective.
“Dick Denton,” said Jack, “spoke to Skip last night, about returning the old man. Field has offered them large sums, several times, to do so. They would have done it long ago, I am thinking, only for the oath that binds them to Greer. I am certain that if Rusty Owens got the old bloke away from them, that he would have given him for the reward, unless the other side paid more.”
“Well, now to work again!” cried Nick. “We must find the new hiding place!”