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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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ABOUT the freight house of the Southern Pacific Company in San Francisco, a crowd had gathered.
They were only a few of the people, who that morning had heard a strange and remarkable rumor, and they were there to see for themselves if the report was true.
Told in a few words, the rumor was as follows:
A box, supposed to contain a piano, had stood unclaimed in the freight house for just one year.
It had the name of "Weber" stenciled upon it, was shaped after the manner of the boxes which are made for the shipment of upright pianos, and in every particular save one, was exactly like other boxes of the kind.
The one point of difference was its size.
While not noticeably mammoth in its proportions, it had nevertheless been found to be just one foot larger each way, than an ordinary piano-box.
It was consigned to Basil Barrington, San Francisco, and was billed at fifteen hundred pounds for freight charges.
As no address had been given, other than the name of the city where Basil Barrington was supposed to live, no effort had been made to deliver the box.
It had simply been stowed away in the freight house, "to be kept until called for."
But Basil Barrington had never appeared.
The box and its contents had never been claimed.
Thus a year had passed since it arrived in San Francisco, and no claimant having appeared, the company had made preparations to dispose of the piano for the freight bill and storage.
The box was opened.
Then those who had torn the covers away, met with a startling surprise.
There was no piano in the box, and yet it weighed, as it had been billed, close upon fifteen hundred pounds.
The box was nothing more than a portable residence, if the term may be employed, for instead of a piano, it contained the fittings of an elegant apartment.
It was padded, several inches thick on every side, with hair, beautifully upholstered with satin and gold-braid trimmings.
There were little squares in the upholstering, which could be removed from the inside.
Beneath them were little miniature port-holes, also practicable, but so finely fitted that they could not be seen from the outside of the box, while they could be opened and closed at will by the occupant of the tiny apartment, thus admitting light and air, when the box was traveling in a freight car, or awaiting transportation at some depot en route.
At one end of the box the entire section of the padding swung upon hinges.
Upon being thrown back, it was discovered that the wood-work was arranged in the same manner, the door thus created being fastened by numberless little bolts, which held it so firmly in place that detection from the outside was impossible.
By this device, the occupants of the queer little residence could leave their palace at will, and they probably availed themselves of the privilege during the transit across the Continent, for the piano (?) had been billed from New York.
The box was double.
That is, it had first been made of oak, which had been covered by pine boards thoroughly cleated, so that it presented the exact appearance of the hundreds of like boxes which the railroad transported every year.
The oak served two purposes.
It added greatly to the strength of the contrivance, besides going far toward furnishing the desired weight.
That was fully attained by the use of lead, and the ingenuity with which the soft metal had been employed, was one of the most remarkable circumstances connected with the discovery.
After creating his box of hard wood, and thoroughly strengthening it with heavy iron braces, the person who had manufactured it, had covered the entire surface with sheet lead, a quarter of an inch in thickness.
Over that, he had screwed the pine boards and cleats which formed the outside of the box.
Then he had doubtless weighed it, for several extra sheets of lead were found beneath the padding on the floor of the box.
There was a small mirror in a plush frame, sewed fast to the satin at one end of the compartment.
In the box were found two waxen-tapers made in coils, half-burned away; a satchel containing an empty flask, four gentleman's collars, size sixteen and a half, two hair-brushes, two combs, two tooth-brushes, five handkerchiefs, and three cigars; three hair-pins, an empty cologne-bottle with Hazard's label, Fifth avenue and Twenty-fourth street, New York, a half-dozen novels, and an empty bon-bon box from Huyler's in New York.
There were also four blankets of the finest texture, two small and handsome Persian rugs, and four sofa-pillows, covered with silk.
A delicate lady's wrapper and a gentleman's smoking-jacket were neatly folded and placed in one corner of the box.
That was all. Everything was in perfect order, demonstrating the fact that whoever had occupied the box, had left it in a leisurely manner.
No expense had been spared by the manufacturer of the box to render it, both comfortable and elegant.
There were straps so placed that the occupants of the box could cling to them when the contrivance was being moved by the freight handlers, and there were guys, by which every movable object in the box could be fixed immovably in its place.
There was absolutely nothing to reveal how the strange travelers had lived, or in what manner they had procured their necessary food and drinking-water.
Altogether, the discovery was a remarkable one.
It attracted much attention, and was fully commented upon by the newspapers.
The box was sold at auction, and purchased by the proprietor of a dime museum.
The San Francisco police made a cursory investigation, but discovered nothing more than has been told here already.
The subject was widely discussed for a time, and then, in a measure, forgotten.
But the proprietor of the museum who had purchased the box, did not forget it.
He was shrewd and far-seeing.
He believed that there was a mystery connected with the affair, which, if solved, would net him a handsome profit on his purchase.
Imbued with the idea, he consulted several San Francisco detectives, but without accomplishing anything.
Knowing of Nick Carter, the great New York detective, by reputation, he finally decided to employ him and to that end wrote a letter.
A correspondence ensued between him and Nick, with the result that the latter ultimately went to San Francisco, arriving there just two months after the box had been opened.
The museum proprietor, whose name was Jeremy Stone, met the detective at the Palace Hotel, and together they talked the matter over.
It was very plainly to be seen that the box in its transit across the Continent had been occupied by two persons—a man and a woman, but for what purpose the strange method of reaching the city of the Golden Gate had been adopted, was the mystery which required solving.
Having detailed the facts already related, Mr. Stone paused.
"What color is the lady's wrapper that was found in the box?" asked Nick.
"A very delicate shade of blue."
"And the satin with which the box is upholstered?"
"Is also blue."
"About the same shade?"
"Yes."
"What color is the smoking-jacket?"
"Wine, or amber."
"Did you save the hair-pins?"
"Certainly."
"Are they of the common kind?"
"No; they are gilded."
"Ah, such as a lady would use whose hair was golden."
"Yes."
"You preserved the hair-brushes?"
"Of course."
"Have you examined them?"
"Yes."
"With what result?"
"None."
"What? Were there no stray hairs clinging to the bristles?"
"Not one."
"Humph! It follows, then, that they took careful pains to avoid the possibility of their complexions and the color of their hair being known."
"It does—yes."
"Judging from the hair-pins and the color of the wrapper, the natural conclusion would be that the woman was a blonde, would it not?"
"I think so."
"And the wine-colored jacket would indicate that the man was dark."
"Yes."
"I will go with you now and examine the box itself."
They soon reached the museum, where the strange box was placed at Nick Carter's disposal.
He spent three hours in his examination.
"I have found one long, golden hair," he said, when he had finished, "and I know several things that were not known to me before?"
"What are they?" inquired Mr. Stone.
"The man who occupied the box in its transit was not more than five feet six inches in height."
"How do you know that?"
"Very simply. There was a cane crowded in behind the padding that you failed to discover, and it was of the requisite length for a man of that size. Here it is."
"Ah!"
"He was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and very muscular. He wore a mustache, waxed at the ends, and was not a man who smoked."
"Will you explain, Mr. Carter?"
"Certainly. A man five and a half feet high, who wears sixteen and a half collar is either very fat or very muscular."
"Yes."
"This man was not fat enough to fill the measurements, because a man so built would never undertake the laborious task of creating that box."
"I see."
"Not being fat, he was muscular."
"Exactly."
"The jacket was made for a man who was very broad in the shoulders."
"Undoubtedly."
"If cut upon the usual method of a New York tailor, as it probably was, I am then made positive that the man who was measured for it was extraordinarily deep in the chest. It is a very easy deduction."
"Yes, if one thinks of it."
"That is my business—to think of things. Being only five feet six, and having that jacket made to fit him, proves that the man was long-bodied and short-legged for one of his height."
"You make me feel like a fool, Mr. Carter."
"Why?"
"Because I ought to have reasoned all this out myself. It is all very simple."
"Every man to his trade. To proceed: I found two hairs beneath the buttons in the upholstery, which must have fallen from his mustache, or from his brush, when he cleaned it. Both were black, and one was still sticky with the cosmetic that had been used upon it. Do you follow me?"
"Admirably."
"The next point is, he was not a smoker. Don't you see how I decide that point?"
"No; I should have said that he was."
"There were cigars found in the box?"
"Yes."
"They are of an excellent and expensive quality."
"Yes."
"Well, first, a smoker would never have left such cigars behind him, no matter how well able to buy more. Second, if he used cigars, he would have smoked in the box at some time, certainly to the extent of lighting his cigar there, or of carrying it in and out, while in the process of consumption. In either case, a particle of cigar ashes would have fallen upon the satin, and I would have discovered its traces. There were none such, nor was there the slightest odor of tobacco smoke in the box. Had there been, I would have detected it in the rugs and blankets.
"Another thing; I judge that the man is past forty years of age, for a younger man would never have employed such careful method in his preparations and departure."
"To sum up, as a lawyer would say," continued Nick, after a short pause, "we have the following description of the man who manufactured your strange box, and who traveled therein with a companion from New York to San Francisco, three thousand miles by freight."
"Height, five feet six; broad-shouldered; deep-chested; long arms—"
"Where did you get that point?"
"A deduction from the other facts. Dark eyes; black mustache, and upward of forty years old."
"Now, for the woman. What have you decided concerning her?"
"She is much younger; not yet twenty, I should say."
"For goodness sake, how do you know that?"
"Because an older woman would not have undertaken such a journey under any circumstances. If a crime is back of this thing, she would rather have faced Inspector Byrnes himself than have undergone what to her would have been the 'horrors' of such a trip.
"Imagine the jolting of a freight train; the almost ceaseless delays to which it is subjected; the interminable hours when it is 'side-tracked;' take yourself in fancy from the house where the supposed piano was packed, and go through the tortures which the two people who were inside the box must have endured when the box was loaded upon a truck, and taken to the railroad, until it was finally loaded upon a car. A woman past twenty, or twenty-five certainly, could not have been persuaded to do it, while one under twenty, say, seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen, would have exclaimed, 'Oh, how nice, how romantic!'
"Again, supposing the incentive sufficiently strong to prevail upon a woman of twenty-five or more to take such journey, the tasteful elegance of the box would have given place to solid comfort.
"Instead of satin, the upholstering would have been of canvas, jean, or even linen.
"The Persian rugs would have given place to others, equally useful but of a cheaper quality, inasmuch as they would have to be abandoned at the end of the trip. The blankets would have been heavier and less expensive, and the silk-covered sofa-pillows would have been linen or coarse worsted.
"An older woman, who was obliged by circumstances to face such an ordeal, would have studied comfort and utility only, and elegance not at all.
"To her there would have been nothing romantic in the undertaking. She would have paid little or no attention to the real work, but would have given full directions to her companion, which he would have followed out as nearly as possible.
"But he would have made serious blunders if left to his own devices in the fittings, and she, only viewing the work when completed, would have 'put up' with what she found.
"This box shows the handiwork of a woman at every point, and of a young and romantic woman at that.
"She stood near by, most of the time when he was employed in the manufacture of this box, and gave her directions and suggestions at every point.
"She selected the satin, and did most of the upholstering herself; she bought the silk for the pillows, for no man, unless he were a dry-goods clerk, could have matched the shades and colors that are there, so that they would harmonize so perfectly.
"This man was not a dry-goods clerk, because he would not then have possessed the ability for the other work he had to do.
"Talents so widely at variance are not the rule in summing up the abilities of one man.
"Here we have another reason for deciding that he is upward of forty and she about twenty, or less, for had he been younger, he would have avoided the useless expense, in spite of her protests, and they would, in all probability, have quarreled.
"Being twice her age, he was, in a measure, a slave to her caprices, and he took delight in so being."
"You are a wonderful man, Mr. Carter."
"Not at all; I only follow a simple process of reasoning, because I have trained myself so to do.
"The young lady, who travelled in the piano-box, is not over twenty, rather petite (a large woman, young or old, could never have been induced to enter it, neither would she be one-half so romantic), she has golden hair and dark blue eyes—"
"Why, dark blue?"
"Because light blue eyes are usually watery; they are not good at discriminating color, and are gifted with cunning rather than courage, while this expedition required lots of genuine nerve."
"You're right, it did."
"Assuredly. Dark blue eyes, therefore, and a very evident fondness for finery of all kinds."
"Why!" ejaculated Mr. Stone, "one can almost see the man and the woman both, after listening to your description of them, and it all sounds so simple when you tell it, that it seems as though any fool ought to have reasoned this all out long ago."
"Exactly, the simplest things are often the hardest to accomplish. For instance, if you were working on this case, what would you do next?"
"Give it up, by Jove!"
Nick laughed heartily.
"Well, that is exactly the thing that I shall not do. I will leave you now, Mr. Stone; I will bid you good-day now, and when I have anything to report, you will see me or hear from me."
When Nick left the museum, he went at once to the freight depot where the piano-box had been received.
After careful inquiry he found the man with whom he wished to converse. There is a marvel in one particular line, connected with nearly every business enterprise, and this particular freight depot was not an exception.
There was one old man there who had charge of the incoming freight, who possessed a prodigious memory for all details connected with his department, and Nick was finally directed to him.
His name was Phineas Doane, and the detective found him seated upon a dry-goods box, surrounded by a flood of tobacco juice, which he was engaged in steadily augmenting.
"Mr. Doane, I believe," said Nick.
"Yep. That's me. Phin Doane. Got some freight here?"
"No; I want some information from you."
"About what?"
"The mysterious piano-box."
"Oh, I'm pumped about dry on that subject!"
"But not quite, eh?"
"Mebby not."
"Do you smoke, Mr. Doane?"
"Phin's my name. Yep—nights."
"After business hours, eh, Phin?"
"That's it."
"Here are some very fine cigars as advance inducement for you to give me the information I want. When we get through with our talk, I'll give you something more substantial."
"Right! What's your name?"
"Nicholas."
"Correct, Nick; fire away."
"You remember the box?"
"Rather."
"Remember when it came?"
"Yep."
"Remember the car it came in?"
"Yep. Looked it up this mornin'. Thought I recollected, but wasn't sure. I was right, though. Phin Doane allers is."
"Good! What car was it?"
"Eastern Star Transportation Company, No. 1321."
"How did you happen to remember it this morning?"
"Because the same car arrived here then. I recollected it right off. Yesee we sometimes don't see the same car twice in years, an' then again sometimes they'll turn up very soon."
"The car is here now, then?"
"Yes; tain't unloaded yet, though."
"When will it be empty?"
"This afternoon sometime."
"Do you remember when the piano-box arrived?"
"Yes. It was bigger an' heavier than most uprights."
"You often have unclaimed freight here, do you not?"
"Always; sometimes more, sometimes less, but always some."
"Was there any other unclaimed freight in that particular car?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"Three boxes and a barrel, I think."
"To whom were they consigned?"
"Hold on; come into my caboose here where my books are handy. You've stumped me already."
They adjourned to the little office, to which Doane had referred, and, presently, he read from one of the books as follows:
"One box crockery to Gentian Smelzer; one box merchandise to D. J. Murphy, & Son; one box to Homer, Iliad & Co., and one half-barrel of wine to Seaman & Knapp."
"Good! Now, what became of those things?"
"They were sold."
"When?"
"Same day as the piano."
"Were they opened before they were sold?"
"No; we never do that, unless any fool could tell what was in the box by its shape, as in the case of a piano."
"But you read out what one of the boxes contained."
"Because it was billed that way."
"Thanks. Now, who bought these three boxes and the barrel?"
"Dunno."
"Is any record kept of such sales?"
"No."
"Who auctioned them off?"
"Sam Kearney; he has an auction-room in the city."
"Thanks; don't you think that car No. 1321 is empty by this time?"
"Mebby; we'll go see."
He led the way to the yard, and the car was soon found.
The contents had all been removed, and Nick entered.
Phineas Doane watched him with very apparent astonishment.
"What in blazes are ye lookin' for, anyhow?" he asked, presently.
"Nothing," replied Nick, laconically.
"Well, I guess you'll find it."
"Thanks."
He continued his search, and, at last, beckoned Doane to approach.
"Do you want to see what I was searching for!" he asked.
"Yes. I do."
"Well, what is that?"
The old man put on his glasses, and leaned forward.
"Looks like 'M. B.,'" he said.
"It is. Now, what do you see here?" pointing to another place.
"That's 'M. B.,' too."
"Sure. Now, look here. Can you make this out!"
The old man studied for a long time. He was getting interested.
"That was done with the point of a pin," he said.
"Yes, and then scratched out with the same instrument. Can you make it out?"
"I don't believe my old eyes are good enough."
"Follow me now. When that was scratched out, the pin-point was drawn in straight lines, first one way and then another, so what we want to follow are the curved lines, eh?"
"Yep. Nick, ef that's your name, you're a hummer."
"Thanks. The first letter is very plainly the letter 'J.,' and, by looking carefully, it is easy enough to read the others, and we find the name Jack."
"Now, I want to examine one more point about this car."
"WHAT now?" asked the old man.
Nick did not answer, but he took a large jack-knife from his pocket, and began making the round of the inside of the car, tapping upon the boards, and every now and then pausing to particularly examine some point.
"Ain't got 'em, have you?" queried Doane, in amazement.
"Not yet," replied Nick.
"Well, when I was younger and drank more'n I do now, I used to look for 'em jest that way sometimes. They're green when you find 'em."
"So I have been told. Come here a moment, will you?"
"Sure."
"What do you suppose caused all of those little holes in the edge of that board?"
"Looks as though they were made with the p'int of a knife."
"The other boards are matched."
"Yes."
"This is not."
"No."
"Count from here, seven of these boards."
"Yes."
"Then you find another one that is not matched, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Each board is three inches wide, and seven times three are twenty-one."
"They be."
"An opening in the side of this car, twenty-one inches wide, would be big enough for a large man to pass through, sideways."
"Sure."
"Now, look down there at the bottom of these boards. Do you see those two spots?"
"Yes."
"What are they?"
"Dunno."
"They are bits of bread, moistened, rolled into little balls, and pressed in there. They are just about the color of the wood, you see, and would not be noticed, unless somebody like Phin Doane looked for them."
"Sure. You're a Jim Dandy, you are."
"With the point of your knife, dig out those bits of dough and see if you don't find a small screw-head."
He did.
Nick had a small screw-driver in his combination jack-knife, and the screw was soon removed.
The other bit of dough was dug out, and then two at the top, and the four screws taken away.
"Now, Phineas," said Nick, "we have gone this far and you are very much interested."
"I be."
"Well, go out of the car, shut the door, and lock it; then I will show you something."
"What?"
"Do as I tell you and you will see."
Phineas left the car, closed the door, and locked it securely.
No sooner was he gone than Nick, pressed the point of his knife-blade into the board, and pried upon it gently.
The result was exactly what he had anticipated.
The seven narrow strips, or boards, came loose in his hands, revealing a very cunningly contrived means of entrance to and egress from the car.
Nick passed out, leaped to the ground, and walked around the car to where Doane was standing watching the door, as though he momentarily expected to see it fly open, in spite of the fact that he had securely locked it.
The detective slapped him soundly upon the shoulder, and the old man was nearly paralyzed with astonishment, when he saw who it was.
"Say!" he exclaimed, "you take the wind out o' my sails, you do! How in the devil's name did you get out here, eh?"
"Walked out."
"Did, eh?"
Nick showed him how the trick had been accomplished, bade him good-by, and hurried away in search of the auctioneer, who had sold the boxes and half-barrel.
"I am fairly well satisfied on two points," he mused. "One is that the fellow who built that piano-box was named Jack—at least, that is the name by which she called him, and the other is that her initials are 'M. B.'" He quickly found Mr. Samuel Kearney at his place of business.
"Mr. Kearney," he said, "I am in search of information regarding some boxes and a half-barrel that were sold by you at the same time that Jeremy Stone purchased the mysterious piano-box. Do you know anything about them?"
"All about them."
"Who was the purchaser?"
"A man named Joel Dent."
"Will you give me his address?"
"I wish I could."
"Why?"
"He bought the boxes at the sale, paid me for them in cash, and asked me to have them brought here, where he would call for them. I did so, and he has never called yet."
"Will you sell them to me?"
"How can I? They're not my property."
"Did you see this Joel Dent yourself?"
"I did."
"Describe him."
"In a word, he looked like a prize-fighter who had turned gentleman."
"Ah! Was he tall, or short?"
"Rather short than tall and very dark—swarthy like a Spaniard."
"Was he smoking when you saw him?"
"No, I think not."
"Did he wear any beard or mustache?"
"No, he was shaved clean."
"Can you give me any particular point by which I would be apt to recognize him if we should meet?"
"Not more than I have already. I meet so many men—"
"Yes, I know. Good-day, Mr. Kearney."
"Good-day."
"I know what he will find in the boxes," thought Nick, as he walked away.
"In the box of crockery, he will find a lot of dirty dishes that were used by the pair en route; in the others he will find a lot of empty cans which once contained provisions, and I will wager that the half-barrel of wine is considerably shrunk.
"The man Jack was a schemer. He first laid his plans with great care, and then carried them out to the letter.
"He found that he could send the piano on a through car, and he either went himself, or sent somebody to see that the boxes and the barrel went in the same car. Once in the right place, he was fixed.
"He afterward arranged things in the car to suit himself, and cut out the door by which they could get light and air when moving across the plains, or steal out for a pail of water whenever the opportunity offered.
"On second thought, I will go to police-headquarters, and get them to have the contents of the boxes investigated; then I will wire Chick to take up the trail in New York."
He attended to both matters at once.
The telegram was sent first, and it was a long one, giving full and specific directions to his assistant Chick, what to do in the matter.
He then proceeded to police-headquarters, where he was soon closeted with the chief of the detective bureau. A few words sufficed to introduce him there.
"I wish you were looking for a job, Carter," said the chief, after they had shaken hands.
"Why so?"
"Because I have got one that I would like to give you. It has puzzled and baffled every man I've got, and I am reduced to the point of waiting for something to turn up."
"What is it?"
"Murder."
"When?"
"Four weeks ago to-night."
"Who was killed?"
"A woman."
"Do you know who she was?"
"No; we don't know anything."
"Nobody identified her, eh?"
"Yes, a dozen; but they were all fakes."
"Old woman?"
"No—young; beautiful, too, and judging from her clothing, refined and well-to-do."
"You have her picture?"
"Yes; I sent copies everywhere, but without result. Here is one now."
Nick took the card in his hand.
He saw a beautiful face, exquisite even in death.
"Light or dark?" he asked, mechanically.
"Light. She had the most beautiful golden hair I ever saw."
"Did you save one of her hair-pins?" inquired Nick, suddenly manifesting much more interest than he had heretofore shown.
"Eh?" said the chief. "Hair-pins? No. We saved such articles of clothing as might sometime be of aid in identifying her, but hair-pins—"
"Get her hair-pins, chief."
"My dear Carter, what the devil do you want of her hair-pins?"
"Never mind, I want one. Perhaps when I see it I will take your case."
"I will see what can be done."
"Very good. How was she killed?"
"Strangled."
"With a cord?"
"No, with hands; big and muscular ones too."
"Where was she found?"
"That is the queerest part of the whole thing. The corpse was left here."
"Here! at headquarters?"
"Yes. A hack drove up about ten o'clock one night and stopped right before the door. A minute later, it drove away again, and five minutes later the body was found on the sidewalk in front of the door."
"Where was your doorman?"
"Giving some information to a man, who had just begun to question him."
"That looks as though the murderer had an accomplice."
"Yes."
"Still, I do not think so. I would prefer to call it a coincidence, or the result of careful watching. If the murderer was driving the hack himself, he watched his opportunity and did the act when the doorman's attention was given in another direction."
"There is a strong objection to that view."
"What is it?"
"The girl had been dead only a few moments when she was found. The body was still warm, and, at first, it was thought that life was not extinct."
"Did you find the hack?"
"Yes,"
"The driver?"
"No."
"What became of him?"
"We found the man who should have been on the box if he had attended properly to his duty, but it seems that a stranger had asked him to take a drink about nine o'clock that night. He was not one of the total abstinence kind, and accepted the invitation, with the result that he was drugged and his hack stolen. It was found just about daylight the next morning, it having been abandoned, and the horse, realizing that he was free, having wandered to the stable."
"How does the driver describe the man who drugged him?"
"As short and thick-set, and he can go no further. He does not remember whether he was light or dark, bearded or shaven. Neither does the bartender where they drank. They went into a place where there is a great deal of custom of the hap-hazard kind, and the only thing that could be recalled there was that the driver got paralyzed drunk and had to be laid away in a back-room to sleep it off."
"Short and thick-set," mused Nick. "The driver is positive about that much, is he, chief?"
"Yes."
"If you will get me a hair-pin from that girl's hair, and it proves to be like one in my possession, I will take the case."
"Wait, I'll send for the matron."
The woman was sent for, and made her appearance promptly.
"Mrs. Craddock," said the chief, "do you remember the golden-haired girl, who was strangled four weeks go?"
"Yes, chief."
"You attended to her when she was brought in, I think."
"I did."
"Did you notice her hair-pins?"
"Yes, sir."
"I wish we could get one. If you had only thought to save a few—"
"I did, sir."
"Good; bring me one."
"Yes, sir."
It was soon brought, and one glance told Nick that it was exactly like those found in the piano-box.
Of course, there were doubtless thousands of just such hair-pins in existence, and yet the coincidence was striking enough to satisfy the detective that the girl who was strangled four weeks before, and the one who had traveled three thousand miles in a piano-box, were the same.
"CHIEF," said Nick, presently, "do you remember the incident of the empty piano-box?"
"Very well."
"The girl, whose murderer you want to find, is the same one who came to San Francisco in that box, and her murderer was her companion on that trip."
"How do you know that?"
"Simply by a chain of circumstances."
Then Nick, in detail, recounted all that had occurred since his arrival in the city.
"My call here to-night was for the purpose of asking you to have those boxes at Kearney's examined," he concluded.
"Do you think the man who came in the piano-box is the one who bought them at the sale?" asked the chief.
"Yes."
"What would be his motive?"
"There might be several."
"For example?"
"One, the simple desire to gain time before they were opened, and so avoid having them connected with the mystery of the piano-box at all."
"Yes."
"Two, one of the boxes may contain something that he does not care to have seen at all, and, in that event, he will call or send for them when time enough to suit his ideas of safety has elapsed."
"Very likely."
"Three, one of the boxes may contain something wanted by his companion, and she, insisting upon having it in her possession, has forced him to make the purchase."
"Hum! I will give you a line to Kearney, and you may go and examine the things yourself."
"Very well."
The note was written, and then, just as Nick was leaving, he asked:
"Chief, was anything suggestive of initials, found upon the murdered girl's clothing?"
"Nothing."
"I have reason to believe that the girl who came three thousand miles by freight, owned to the initials, 'M. B.,' and that she called her companion 'Jack.' Of course, I'm not positive, however. I will see you again in a few days."
Nick went at once to his room at the hotel, and sat down to think.
On the following morning, immediately after breakfast, he went to Kearney's auction-rooms, and, after the chief's note had been read, he was conducted to a back room where the boxes were stored.
They were carefully opened, beginning with the one supposed to contain crockery.
The contents were found to be precisely what Nick had suspected; an assortment of dishes, plates, etc., which bore every evidence of having been used.
The second box was examined, and in it were found many cans filled with gravel, dirt, and particles of coal, showing that the matter had been taken from the road-bed, when the freight car had been motionless at some point en route to the West.
The cans were such as had once contained vegetables and meats, and for variety they presented quite an assortment.
Then came the third box.
It was opened with great difficulty, and was found to be lined with sheet lead, rolled much thinner than that employed in the construction of the piano-box.
When the lid was pried off and the lead cut, the spectators started back with horror.
Well they might.
It contained the body of a woman.
The body had evidently been first thoroughly embalmed.
Subsequently the legs had been severed from the trunk, in order to make the box accommodate it.
It was well preserved, and there was, no doubt, that the woman, in life, had been young and beautiful.
Her hair was also golden, and in stature she must have been about a counterpart of the one who had traveled westward in the piano-box.
In fact, the resemblance in the two faces must have been plainly noticeable in life.
The half-barrel contained wine which had been thoroughly watered. That is, it had been reduced so that it would serve the purpose of drinking-water, while the presence of wine rendered it palatable.
The most forcible point about the whole thing to Nick was the character of the man who had engineered the scheme.
His cold calculation, clear foresight, and reckless daring, were all alike astounding.
But for the enterprise of the proprietor of a dim museum in his eagerness for sensations, the two crimes might have remained forever undiscovered and their perpetrator unpunished.
Now, there were two murders plainly chargeable to the same man, and that man was, without doubt, the one who had manufactured the mysterious piano-box, in which he had been transported from New York to San Francisco.
Both murders were unquestionably carefully premeditated, and each presented features of cold-blooded cruelty and deliberation which were horrible, even to a man as accustomed to the vagaries of criminals as Nick Carter.
The autopsy upon the body found in the box revealed the fact that the woman had died from a dose of prussic acid.
A photograph was taken of her face, and when compared with that of the girl who had been strangled, the resemblance was even more noticeable than before.
Several hours after the opening of the boxes, Nick and the chief were again together in the latter's private office.
"Well, Carter, what do you think of it?" he asked. "Will you work on this case?"
"Yes. It is really the same case that I am following for Jeremy Stone, but I feel much more interest in it now than formerly. I would like to make a few suggestions."
"What are they?"
"The first is, that nobody but ourselves and Kearney be permitted to know anything of our discovery."
"Certainly. I have already given directions to Kearney to that effect. The box, which contained the body, has been nailed tight again, and is just the same as before, with the exception that it now contains sand instead of the remains of a human being. They will all be left at Kearney's rooms, and if the man 'Jack' calls for them, he will be permitted to take them away without immediate hindrance."
"Good."
Five minutes later, just as Nick was leaving, a sergeant brought in a letter to the chief, which had just been left by the postman.
He broke the seal and read; then started and flushed angrily.
"Read that!" he said, passing the letter to Nick. "For a daring scoundrel, that fellow beats anything in my experience."
The letter was neatly type-written, and read as follows:
"You doubtless deem yourself to be exceedingly brilliant, but you are the only one who does. You, perhaps, likewise consider me to be a fool. You are welcome to that opinion, and cordially invited to prove it. Pray do not imagine that I will call for the stuff at Kearney's; I am not quite such an idiot. Practice, I have heard, renders one perfect in any branch, and I have had so much practice at killing that I now make no mistakes. I alone am responsible for the death of both of the girls whose bodies you have found so strangely, but as the last one makes the ninth that I have put to death, you will readily understand that I am not without experience.
"This letter is written to convince you that although you deem yourself so wise, I am wiser. You cannot find me; you cannot identify the two bodies, or either of them; you cannot convict me if you do find me, while, as a matter of fact, I shall be under your very nose much of the time.
"One word more. You will show this letter to Nick Carter, who travels upon a reputation for phenomenal sagacity. I know that he is here. I know that he was engaged by Jeremy Stone; I know that he is as great a fool as yourself. I owe him an old grudge, and although my murders have thus far been confined to girls who were young and beautiful in life, I am now seriously considering a departure from my rule to the end of making him my next victim, and I wish to delicately suggest that you may be number eleven.
"Imagine me as laughing at you both, and for the sake of preparation, lay your plans for finding the murderer of Nick Carter.
"Remember, my dear chief, and you also, Mr. Sagacious Carter, that where I am concerned, you are not in it.
"I would take especial delight in looking over your shoulders when you read this letter, but that pleasure is, alas, denied me.
For the sake of brevity, I sign myself JACK."
"Did you ever see the like of it, Carter?" asked the chief.
"No; I never did. This fellow evidently has an excellent education, and is expert in the use of a type-writer."
"What do you think of his threats?"
Nick laughed.
"If threats were deadly, I would have been buried years ago, chief," he said. "He may try to carry this out, and I hope he will."
"Why?"
"Because, then, I will catch him."
"He may succeed, and so do you up, Carter."
"I am willing that he shall have a try at it, anyhow. We are practically at a standstill for a time, but I will hear from New York in a day or two, and Chick will have discovered something."
"Will he be thorough?"
"I would as soon trust the investigation to him as to attend to it myself."
"All right. When will you be in again?"
"Whenever there is anything important enough to bring me."
"Very good."
Nick left the headquarters, and sauntered carelessly away.
His thoughts, of course, dwelt upon the case in hand, but he had no especial destination in view, and so walked on for the exercise, while he mentally went over the facts of the piano-box mystery again.
Evening was just falling, and he turned his steps toward the aristocratic portion of the city. He had walked about two miles, when he was suddenly startled by hearing the clatter of an approaching carriage.
His first thought was that the driver was either dangerously reckless, or drunk.
Then he decided that it was a case of runaway.
The idea became certainty a moment later, when he saw a magnificent span of grays coming toward him on a dead run.
He had only time to realize that there was no driver upon the box, and that the landau, which was imminently threatened with annihilation, contained one person only, and that a female.
Then he leaped into the middle of the street, directly in front of the maddened horses.
On they dashed, furiously, terrifically.
The woman, whose life was in such danger, seemed to be literally paralyzed with fear.
She sat with folded hands, and did not utter a sound, nor make an effort to escape.
Maddened with fright, the horses did not see that a man had leaped in front of them to stop their terrific career. As soon as they came within his reach, Nick, with a mighty bound, leaped at their heads.
AS Nick leaped toward the horses, he seized the bridle of the nigh steed, in such a manner that the impetus with which they were going, threw him into the air.
He retained his hold upon the bridle, however, and thus threw himself firmly upon the horse's back.
There Nick was perfectly at home.
Leaning forward, he seized the reins in his giant grasp, and then began a struggle which could end in only one way.
With the short purchase gained upon the steeds by reason of his position on their backs, they could not long withstand the strain which the detective put upon their mouths.
Soon they began to slacken their terrific pace.
Slower and slower they went, until, at last, they came down to a slow trot and then to a walk.
Presently they stood still, and Nick leaped to the ground.
He remained at the horses' heads, rubbing their noses and talking to them, until they forgot their fright, and although trembling still from their exertions, were as docile as thoroughbreds ever are when once completely mastered.
In the meantime a crowd had gathered, and Nick, having asked one of the men to hold the horses, went back to where the occupant of the landau was still seated, dazed with terror.
He saw that she was young and beautiful.
Her hair and eyes were as black as night, but her face, owing to the experience she had just undergone, was as white as death.
"The danger is past," he said to her. "Your driver has not appeared, and if you will give me your address, I will drive you safely home."
She gave it, still in a manner dazed with fright, and Nick mounted the box and took the reins.
Fifteen minutes later he drew up before the door of an elegant mansion, and, leaping to the ground, assisted the young lady to alight.
"If you will send some one here to take the horses, I will care for them in the meanwhile," he said, kindly.
"Oh, sir; how can I thank you for what you have done?" she exclaimed, at last realizing from what he had saved her.
"Please do not speak of it," he replied.
Tears leaped into her eyes, but she was still so overcome by the ordeal through which she had passed that she dared not speak.
But murmuring a request that he would wait a moment, she turned and darted into the house.
A moment later a gentleman and lady appeared hastily.
They were followed by a servant, who relieved Nick from the care of the horses.
The gentleman was past sixty and very feeble, so that he tottered as he advanced toward Nick.
"How can I thank you for saving my child," he cried. "I—"
He gasped, tried to speak again, but in the effort, staggered toward Nick, and would have fallen to the pavement had not the detective caught him.
Lifting the old man—for he seemed much older than he really was—in his powerful arms, Nick bore him into the house.
The others followed, greatly alarmed.
As Nick entered the house, he passed through the first open door that he found.
It admitted him to the parlor, and he laid the old man gently upon a sofa and bent over him.
Trained as he was, he saw then, at a glance, that the old gentleman was dead.
The woman, who was much younger than her husband, was weeping hysterically and wringing her hands helplessly.
"What is it? What is the matter? Is he dead?" she cried. "He had not walked so far without help, for months. The shock of Bertha's accident has killed him. I know it has, I know it has!"
"Calm yourself, madam," said Nick, somewhat coldly, and waving back the servants who had clustered around them. He had but little sympathy for hysterical people, and was always angry at himself, because he had not.
"Who is the family physician?" he asked of one of the servants, who looked more intelligent than the others.
"Dr. Quartz," was the reply.
"Go for him, then, quickly."
The servant hastened to obey, and while Nick busied himself over the body of the man, in which, despite his own judgment, he hoped there might still be life, the woman sank helplessly into a chair and moaned and sobbed as though thoroughly prostrated with terror.
A few moments later there was a rustle of a woman's garments, and the young lady whom Nick had rescued, entered the room.
Her face was still pale, but it was composed and firm.
"What is it? What has happened to my father?" she asked in a low tone, going hastily toward the form upon the sofa.
One glance at her face convinced Nick that hers was a character strong enough to bear up under a heavy shock.
"I fear that your father will never speak again," replied Nick, sadly. "A servant has gone for the doctor, and he will doubtless soon be here."
She had fallen upon her knees beside her father while Nick was speaking, but when he finished she sprang to her feet again, and faced the detective.
"What doctor?" she asked, calmly, but in a voice that was hard and cold with suppressed emotion.
"Dr. Quartz was the name, I think " replied Nick.
Then she laughed, and under the circumstances, beside the lifeless body of her father, there was something horrible in the sound.
"Dr. Quartz," she murmured, in a voice that was scarcely audible.
Then turning, she pointed toward her father's body.
"There lies my only friend, my father, and he is dead, dead!" she exclaimed with genuine agony in her voice, "and this man for whom you have sent was his worst enemy and mine. God help me!"
Then, without a sound, without warning of any kind, she sank in a heap upon the floor, rendered unconscious by a death-like swoon.
Even a detective may be surprised at times, and Nick Carter was certainly astonished at the peculiar chain of circumstances which had formed the incidents of his walk. He sprang to the side of the unconscious girl, and raised her from the floor where she had fallen.
"Madam," he exclaimed to the mother, who was still weeping, "if you could forget your first sorrow long enough to avoid another, equally great, it would be well for your daughter to receive some attention. She has fainted."
The elder woman, thus adjured, sprang up and hastened to Bertha's side.
Presently consciousness returned, and just as she opened her eyes, the doctor entered the room.
He nodded to Nick, and at once bent over the old man.
"Dead; quite dead," he said, a moment later, in a cold, business-like way. "How did this happen, Mrs. Mortimer?"
"It was Bertha's fault," replied the woman, weakly, and Nick turned in astonishment toward the girl he had saved from death.
He saw a bitter smile sweep over her face, and tears start to her eyes, but she said nothing.
Nick thought it time for him to speak, and in a few words he related all that had taken place.
Dr. Quartz listened attentively and politely, but with the suggestion of a sarcastic smile playing about the corners of his mouth all the time that Nick was speaking.
"May I ask who you are?" he asked, when the detective ceased speaking.
Nick wore the same disguise in which he had journeyed to San Francisco to take charge of the piano-box case for Jeremy Stone.
It was that of a man between forty and fifty.
"John Nicholas," he replied. "I am a stranger in this city."
"Indeed!"
The doctor's manner seemed to suddenly change and become more affable.
'May I inquire where you are from?" he continued.
"New York," answered Nick, laconically. 'And now, if I can be of any assistance to you here, I will be happy to act. If not, I will go."
He did not like Dr. Quartz; he knew that at once.
There was a mixture of the snake and the tiger about him.
His motions suggested the twining grace and dexterity of a serpent, while his voice, though deep and eminently masculine, was soft and purring. By way of reply to Nick, the doctor turned and placed his hand gently upon Bertha's shoulder, where she was kneeling beside the body of her father.
"Come, my child," he said; "he is past all sorrow now, and too much grief will only undermine your own health. Go to your room now and take your mother with you."
"I beg that you will remain yet a little while," he continued to Nick.
Bertha got upon her feet.
She did not reply in words, but the glance of withering contempt that she cast upon the physician was such that he could not help seeing it.
However, he made no sign, unless it was the faint suggestion of a flush that stole for an instant across his forehead, and a quick glitter like the glint from a steel blade which flashed in his eyes, but was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
"Poor child," he said. "Go, now, go, and take your mother with you."
Bertha had already reached the door.
She did not even glance at her mother, whom Nick thought much too young-looking to bear that relation toward her.
Both ladies left the room, but Bertha paused upon the threshold and turned to Nick.
"I thank you, sir, for all your kindness," she said, "and yet, it would have been much better for us all, if you had let the horses kill me. Good-night, Mr. Nicholas."
A sob rose in her throat, and she closed the door after her and was gone.
As soon as they were alone with the dead man, the doctor rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
"Ladies cry so when death walks into a house, that I always get rid of them at the first opportunity," he said.
Then, with those same cat-like motions, he began blustering about.
He rang the bell, and gave quick and decisive orders to the servants who appeared in response thereto.
Nick noticed that they all seemed to stand greatly in awe of this strange physician, acting as though they both feared and disliked him.
There was absolutely nothing for the detective to do, and twice he attempted to leave, but he was met each time by a request from Dr. Quartz to wait.
"Now, Mr. Nicholas," said the doctor, at the end of a half-hour, when he had attended to everything, "if you will excuse me one moment while I ascertain if either Mrs. Mortimer or her step-daughter require any attention, we will walk out together."
"Really, doctor, I am in some haste, and if you will excuse me—"
"No—no. I will not be a moment, and I would like to ask you a few questions, if you will oblige me."
Nick consented to wait, and Dr. Quartz left the room.
He had scarcely closed the door behind him, however, when another one opened.
Nick turned and found himself in the presence of Bertha Mortimer.
He stepped forward hastily, wondering why she had returned, and fully expecting to see her hasten to the side of her dead father.
But she came straight toward him.
"Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "I saw Dr. Quartz try to cast his spell over you, and I have come here to warn you against him. Beware of that man! Beware of him!"
For a moment Nick thought that grief had stolen away the girl's reason.
She seemed to divine the thought that came to him, for a sad smile flitted over her face, as she said:
"I am not mad, sir; I am fully in possession of my senses."
She stepped quickly toward her father's body, and, placed her right hand over the heart that would never throb again.
"My father is dead." she said, slowly, "and say what you will, he was murdered by that fiend who calls himself a doctor. When he first came here, two years ago, my father was as well and as strong as you are now, and I was happy. To-day, he is a corpse, the victim of the greatest scoundrel that ever lived.
"Dr. Quartz rules this household with a rod of iron, and has, ever since he first appeared here, two years ago.
"Ah, sir, I see that you doubt me; you think me demented. But let me tell you this, over the dead body of my father. I know the character of Dr. Quartz thoroughly, and I saw that in his demeanor toward you to-night which compelled me to come here and say to you, beware of that man!"
Bertha Mortimer's manner was so earnest and yet so simple and straightforward, that the detective was thoroughly impressed by it.
"Won't you tell me more about this?" he asked, kindly.
"No—no; not now; there is not time; he will return," she replied, casting a frightened glance at the door through which he had passed.
"And if he does, what then?"
"I will suffer for it."
"Not while I am here, Miss Mortimer."
"No; not while you are here, that is true. His voice would be like velvet, the touches of his hands like eider-down. He has never spoken harshly to me—never injured mein any palpable way. His manner is always as you saw it to-night. It never changes, whether I happen to be alone with him, or in the presence of others."
"But in that case—"
"Ah! I know what you would say; it has been said to me so often by others. Dr. Quartz is an expert in the infliction of mental tortures. If I cross him, I suffer for it, and then he pretends to sympathize with me.
"Two years ago I had a mother, and in one month after the advent of Dr. Quartz, she was buried. One year ago this very month, my brother, fifteen years of age, followed her to the grave. Six months ago, and after my father had become an invalid, and so had fallen entirely under the influence of this human fiend, he married the woman who is now Mrs. Mortimer, and who, in spite of her tears to-night, is secretly glad, I think, that my father is dead; and now, he lies there, a corpse, and I am alone, alone."
She paused an instant, and then, taking a step nearer to Nick, she continued:
"Dr. Quartz throws out delicate suggestions that my mind has become unbalanced by so much sorrow. I wonder that it has not; I wish that it had. But do you know why he does that?"
"No."
"Because he has determined that my ultimate destiny shall be the mad-house, unless—"
"Unless what?"
"Unless I become his wife. Not one, but a thousand mad-houses would be preferable to that, only—but I did not come here, sir, to detail my sorrows.
"Listen! I must leave you now, and I have this yet to say. Dr. Quartz greeted you to-night as he would have done any stranger whom he had chanced to meet, but suddenly he recollected you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that he has met you before; that he knows you if you do not know him; that for some reason best known to him, he hates you; that he means to do you harm. Either your face or your name when you uttered it brought the matter to his mind. I know him so well that I know you are in danger. I would rather hear a hyena growl, than see Dr. Quartz smile.
"Now, sir, I have done my duty. Over the dead body of my father, I assure you that I am sincere."
She turned to go.
"Stop," said Nick.
Then handing her one of his cards, which bore the name of 'John Nicholas, Palace Hotel,' he added:
"Take this, and if you need it, do not hesitate to use it." She accepted the card, however, and was gone.
"Well," thought Nick, "this is what one might call a night of incidents. I think, now, that I will see it through, and hear what Quartz has to say.
"The girl talks rather crazy, and yet she is in deadly earnest. I wonder if Quartz is the scoundrel she paints him, or if she really is just a little out of her head?
"By Jove! If I didn't have my hands brimming over full, blessed if I wouldn't look into this thing. I'll just give the chief a pointer as it is.
"Hello! here comes the doctor."
Dr. Quartz entered the room without a sound.
His green-gray eyes wore an expression of deep concern which was either real, or perfectly assumed.
"I am sorry that I left you so long alone, Mr. Nicholas," he said, shrugging his massive shoulders and reaching for his hat.
"How did you find the ladies?" asked Nick, politely.
"Oh, fairly; that is, one of them. I could not find Miss Mortimer. Did she return here to weep over her father's body again?"
"No," said Nick, shortly, and he felt that he spoke the truth.
"I am greatly troubled about that young woman," continued the doctor, shaking his head.
"Indeed!" ventured Nick.
"Yes. There has-been a great deal of trouble in the family during the last two years, not to mention a serious disappointment in love with which she met recently. She is of an exceedingly nervous temperament, and the consequence is that her mind has become unbalanced.
"Sad, very sad. I don't know what effect her father's death may have upon her."
"It may send her to a lunatic asylum," said Nick, coldly, and with just a trace of irony in his voice.
"Very likely," replied the doctor, calmly; "although, I should be very sorry to see her meet with such a fate. Bertha is a beautiful girl."
"And rich, too, is she not?"
"I believe so, yes."
They walked on in silence for a few moments.
"Where are you stopping, Mr. Nicholas?" inquired the doctor, suddenly.
"At the Palace."
"Will you remain in San Francisco long?"
"A week or two."
"I have a patient at the Palace. I may look you up when I an there."
"Thanks."
The doctor took two cigars from his pocket.
They were exactly alike, and yet for one moment he examined them attentively before passing one to Nick.
"Are you a smoker?" he asked.
"An inveterate one."
"Then try one of my cigars."
"Thanks, but I do not care to smoke now. I shall take a car at the next corner."
"Ah, yes; well, do me the favor to smoke it at your leisure. These cigars are of an especial brand which I have manufactured for my particular use. You will notice a peculiar flavor to this when you light it, but that it will give you infinite pleasure, I am positive."
In his suave, oily way, Dr. Quartz forced the cigar upon the detective. Then he calmly bit off the end of its companion and lighted it.
"We all have to confess to some weakness," he murmured, with that tiger-like purr of his, "and mine is tobacco.
"Ah! we part here? I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Nicholas. Good-night."
And so they parted. As Nick boarded the car, he felt something of the sensation that is experienced when one has been looking through a glass partition at a coiled and venomous serpent.
There was something decidedly snake-like about Dr. Quartz, and yet the man's demeanor was perfect.
"Ah, well!" thought Nick, "I am out of it at all events. I certainly have enough on my hands now to occupy all of my attention, without bothering myself about this physician and his ways.
"Blowed if I think that Bertha Mortimer is any more insane than I am, though. If so, there is certainly a great deal of method in her madness."
At the hotel entrance, he met the chief, and at once approached him.
"I am going to adopt a new character in the morning, chief," he said, "and so it does not matter if I am seen in conversation with you by our friend 'Jack.' The fact is, I want to ask a few questions."
"All right; let's sit down, then. Come into the smoking-room and try one of my cigars."
Nick smiled, remembering the doctor's special brand.
He accepted the chief's cigar, however, and they were soon seated in an obscure corner.
"Fire away, now," said the chief.
"I will. Do you know Dr. Quartz?"
"Dr. Quartz! Certainly; everybody knows him."
"Indeed! Why?"
"Principally because he is wonderfully skillful."
"Yes."
"And has an immense practice, I am told. He is certainly very prominent in medical circles."
"And respected also?"
"I believe so. I have the impression, however, that he is not—er—er—"
"Generally loved by his patients."
"Exactly."
"He inspires fear, rather than affection, does he not?"
"Precisely. But why—"
"Excuse me, chief. Let me finish. My questions have only to do with an incident that happened to me to-day. Do you know of a man named Jacob Mortimer?"
"Very well, indeed. He was formerly a prosperous banker here."
"And rich?"
"Very. There is quite a romantic story connected with him."
"Will you let me hear it?"
"Certainly. Told in a few words, his health began to fail a couple of years ago. He was a widower, and decided to marry again, but his daughter opposed the scheme so strenuously that he finally went quietly to a minister and was married to the woman of his choice without his daughter's knowledge.
"But the old man did a strange thing first."
"What was that?"
"He transferred every dollar's worth of property that he had in the world to his daughter, by deed of gift, reserving only the use of it, to himself, for life, and rumor has it, that when his wife found that out, she threatened to leave him. The deed having been made before her marriage, she, of course, would have nothing for her dower when he died.
"To placate her, he persuaded Bertha to retransfer one hundred thousand dollars to him, and he then made a will, bequeathing that amount to his wife."
Nick was interested.
"Jacob Mortimer is dead," he said.
"What!" exclaimed the chief.
"He fell dead in my arms this evening."
"Well—well—well."
"His daughter is now very rich."
"I should say so."
"How rich?"
"Several millions."
"Whew!" whistled Nick. "Is Dr. Quartz a bachelor?"
"Yes—or a widower; I don't know which."
"Thanks. Now, I have a strange fancy."
"What is it?"
"I have seen and talked with this doctor less than two hours ago. Nevertheless, I would like to hear you describe him just as you would a man who was wanted."
"Anything to please you, Carter, though, why the devil—"
"All right, chief. Give me the description just the same."
"Certainly. Medium height, broad and fat—"
"Is it fat, or muscle?"
"Fat, I should say. Medium height, say five feet six or seven, broad and fat, though not portly; small hands, very white; small feet; smooth face; aquiline nose; coal-black hair; gray eyes; lips rather thin; teeth very white and even; wears an habitual smile; has a habit of twitching the fingers of his right hand as though to grasp an imaginary cane; walks with a quick, gliding motion; splendidly educated, and speaks in a low tone always. That is Dr. Quartz."
"It is, surely. Thanks, chief."
"Now, whats' up?"
"Nothing—yet."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply and solely this. If I did not have a murder case on hand I would make a character study of Dr. Quartz."
"It would be interesting I admit; but why would you do it?"
"Because I believe that he is playing a deep game for the Mortimer millions, and I fear that he holds all the winning cards.
"Bertha Mortimer—"
The chief laughed, and tapped his forehead significantly.
Nick nodded.
"That's the doctor's trump card," he said, calmly, "and I do not believe that Bertha Mortimer is any more mad than you are.'
"It is current rumor in her set."
"Is it? Let me tell you something. One of three things will happen."
"Well?"
"Either Bertha Mortimer will go to an asylum for the insane, or she will become the wife of Dr. Quartz, or—"
"Well? Or what?"
"Or Nick Carter will take a hand in the game, and play the thirteenth trump himself. Good night, chief," and Nick rose abruptly and departed.
AFTER leaving the chief, Nick went at once to his room.
The hour was still early, and, having settled himself comfortably, he sat down to read the morning papers, after having partaken of a light supper, which he caused to be brought to him there.
Then it was that he took from his pocket the cigar that Dr. Quartz had given him, and lighted it.
"Strange," he thought, "that such a preposterous idea should strike me so suddenly and so forcibly. I wonder if I am getting to be a back-number at this business.
"But there are some remarkable coincidences."
Nick leaned his head back, took the cigar from his mouth, and yawned.
"I believe I'm getting sleepy, and midnight hasn't struck yet," he murmured aloud, as he replaced the cigar between his lips.
"Coincidences," he went on, in thought. "Ah, yes! The height is the same, and the build is about the same. Both are men of wonderful ability. Both are as unscrupulous as keen. Both are thoroughly educated. The studied yet easy polish of manners, which is the doctor's chief characteristic, was written in every line of the letter. If Dr. Quartz were a criminal, who was wanted by the police, he would take infinite delight in defying them, just as 'Jack' has done."
Nick yawned again, even more emphatically than before. "Both are dark, or, at least, might be so described"— yawn—"although the peculiar pallor in the face of Dr. Quartz, reminds one of a corpse."
Another wide yawn.
"By Jove! I wonder what makes me so sleepy all of a sudden? Quartz's hair is as black as coal, except now and"—yawn—"then a white one"—yawn—"but they are not frequent."
He stretched his arms over his head, leaned back, and yawned again and again.
"The mustache," he continued, drowsily, still in thought, "might have been shaved off, or"—yawn—" might have been false."
Another yawn, and then another.
"I'll have to see Kearney in the morning and get another cigar—no! I mean description—whew! By Jove! I'm too"—yawn—"sleepy"—yawn—"to see."
He hurled the cigar he was smoking into the cuspidor, and staggered to his feet.
Yawns followed yawns in rapid succession, so that his jaws were constantly distended.
His eyes were blurred.
He could scarcely see across the room.
He started toward the bed, groping with outstretched arms like one who is walking in the dark, and yet the room was brilliantly lighted.
There was a strange, benumbed sensation of his brain, and an intense drowsiness to which a man, less strong than the "Little Giant," would have succumbed long before.
"Must be something that I have eaten," he murmured, for something that I have—"
He paused suddenly.
Like a flash, he saw it all.
"That cigar," he exclaimed aloud. "Dr. Quartz has poisoned me. It is another coincidence. 'Jack' said—what did 'Jack' say? Ah, yes; that Nick Carter would be his next victim. He has kept his word. I—"
His head sank upon his breast, and he pitched forward, nearly falling to the floor.
But he recovered himself, and seizing the back of a chair in his grasp, struggled valiantly for a moment against the influence that was overpowering him.
"Not yet—not yet!" he muttered, gritting his teeth and fighting the unseen foe with all his strength. "I must not die yet. I have one more thing to do."
He tried his best to suppress the yawns, which followed each other incessantly.
He started toward the table, grasped a sheet of paper and a pencil.
He could scarcely see either, but he managed to write, in a hand which looked strangely unlike his own bold chirography.
Chief; I am poisoned—perhaps dying—can't say. Dr. Quartz poisoned me. He is Jack. Look out for him! I only smoked half of the cigar. Take my body to headquarters. Maybe save me. Keep Quartz—
He could write no more.
Three times the pencil had dropped from his grasp.
His head fell forward on the table.
He snored, then gasped, then straightened up again.
"One thing more—only one," he gasped. "I must do it. I will."
With a mighty effort he scrawled "N. C." at the bottom of his abrupt epistle, and, seeing an envelope, thrust it inside.
Then, realizing that he must address it legibly and seal it, he stuck a pin deep into his arm, and followed that heroic action by leaping up and down several times like a madman.
Suddenly he seized the envelope again and sealed it.
Then, while he still had wit enough left to act, he addressed it to the chief.
"Now," he muttered, "if I can reach the—hotel—office—I—yes, yes—I—will—try."
He stumbled across the room. He reached the door, opened it, and passed out into the hallway.
There he paused.
"Yes—yes," he muttered, swaying as he stood there, "I will turn—out—the—gas."
The letter dropped from his nerveless grasp to the floor of the hall, but he did not know it.
Laughing softly, like one who is demented, he again entered the room.
As he passed the threshold, he staggered, grasping at the door for support.
But he only succeeded in striking it a blow, which forced it shut so that it latched.
He did not notice what he had done.
Recovering his balance he staggered to the chandelier.
Only two of the burners were giving out light.
One after the other he seized them, and turned the cocks.
Instantly the room was in utter darkness.
He turned to find the door again, but he did not know where it was.
Then he staggered forward, groping.
Suddenly, he pitched headlong to the floor, helpless, unconscious, insensible, a victim of that terrible lethargy which he had fought so valiantly.
The door was closed; the lights were out; nobody thought of looking into that room.
His letter was upon the floor in the hallway.
Would it be swept up and forgotten? Would somebody find it, read the address and deliver it?
Nick snored like one under the influence of ether, stretched upon the floor midway between the table and the door.
There he would lie until somebody should find him.
There he must await the fate so craftily plotted by his would-be destroyer.
And by way of a travesty of fate, down stairs in the midst of a group of friends, the chief still sat smoking and chatting, with no idea of the horror that had swept over his friend.
A half-hour after Nick fell to the floor, unconscious, the chief left his friends, and went to his home.
IN the morning, shortly after daylight, a chambermaid was passing through the hall where Nick Carter's room was situated.
She saw the letter upon the floor, and picked it up.
Noticing the address, and thinking that the letter might be of importance, she went at once to the office and delivered it to the clerk.
He acted promptly, for he at once suspected that bug-bear for which landlords are always upon the lookout.
A messenger was dispatched at once with the letter to the chief.
Then calling a porter, the clerk went immediately to the room before the door of which the letter had been found.
He rapped upon the door with his knuckles.
There was no response.
Then he rapped again.
Still no answer, and he turned the knob.
The door was not locked, and he quickly opened it.
Before him, at full length upon the floor, was the body of a man.
Leaping forward, the clerk bent over the prostrate form.
"He is dead," he exclaimed to the porter. "The body is warm yet, but he does not breath."
"Shall I go for a doctor?"
"Or the coroner. Yes, get a doctor; any one; the first one you can find."
The porter darted away, and the clerk, wishing to keep the matter quiet, started at once for the office, closing the door behind him and locking it.
He wished to inform the manager at once.
At the bottom of the elevator shaft he met the porter returning.
Beside him stood Dr. Quartz.
"The porter tells me that you have a case of suicide here," he said.
"I fear so, yes. Will you come up?"
"Yes. I have just been visiting a patient in the next street."
The clerk sent the porter to find the manager, and then led the doctor to Nick's room.
The physician made a hasty and seemingly careful examination.
Presently he looked up.
"The man is dead," he said.
"But how?" asked the clerk.
"Heart disease, I should say, although it is impossible to tell as yet."
"Then why—"
"Well?" queried the doctor, raising his brows a little.
"Nothing," replied the clerk, who suddenly decided that he would say nothing of the letter to the chief.
"It is not suicide, then, is it?" he added.
"Evidently not, and yet it may be," and the physician looked keenly at the clerk for an instant.
Between them they placed Nick upon the bed.
"Are you positive that he is dead?" asked the clerk.
"Quite. "
"Then I must notify the police."
"Yes."
At that moment there was a summons at the door, and the chief entered. One glance around the room, and he took in the situation thoroughly.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he inquired, assuming the utmost astonishment.
The clerk related rapidly, all that had occurred, but still did not mention the letter.
"Mr. Nicholas was a friend of mine. He was going away this morning," said the chief, "and wrote to me to call upon him. I came and find him dead. It is awful. Doctor, is there nothing that you can do for him?"
"Nothing."
"Is he dead?"
"Quite dead."
"Do you think that he killed himself?"
"Perhaps; I am not certain. It may be heart disease."
"I am glad that one so skillful as you are was near at hand."
"I was just returning from an early call upon a patient when the porter met me."
"Ah!"
Through the magic of the chief's authority the preliminaries and red tape proceedings were quickly gotten over, and an hour later Nick Carter was carried to the home of the chief, while Dr. Quartz went his way, still wearing that serene smile which was omnipresent on his pale face.
The papers that evening contained a notice of the death of John Nicholas, of New York.
Late that same afternoon, Dr. Quartz entered the office of the coroner, and spent half an hour in a general conversation.
As he was leaving he paused near the door, and said:
"By the way, what did you decide about that case at the Palace?"
"Heart disease."
"I thought so. Past all help, when I saw him."
"Undoubtedly."
"I suppose the body will be sent East?"
"I suppose so."
When the chief was leaving the Palace Hotel with Nick's body, he paused long enough to whisper an order to the manager.
It was that the room that Nick had occupied must not be entered by anybody, under any pretense, until he gave permission.
In the afternoon he returned, and went to the room.
He was there five minutes and then went away, but he carried in his pocket a cigar which had been half-consumed.
That same night, about midnight, three of San Francisco's most eminent physicians quietly left the chief's house.
They paused upon the next corner, where they were to part.
"Remarkable case," said one.
"Very," commented another.
"Lucky thought of yours, doctor," said the third, addressing the first.
Then they said good-night, and parted.
An hour later, that is, about 1 A.M., the chief's door-bell rang.
He went to the door himself, and found a young woman, closely veiled, standing there.
"Is he dead?" she asked, eagerly, as she followed him into the parlor.
"Is who dead?" inquired the chief.
"Mr Nicholas."
"Dr. Quartz pronounced him dead this morning."
"Dr. Quartz killed him."
"Indeed! Who are you?"
"Bertha Mortimer."
She threw back her veil.
"People say that I have lost my reason, sir," she said, "and yet I warned Mr. Nicholas of this."
"How did you know of it?"
"I saw it in the face of Dr. Quartz."
"Ah!"
"I can read murder there."
"Perhaps you can."
"Oh, sir, will you not believe me?"
"I do believe you."
Her eyes brightened.
"Was he poisoned?" she asked, eagerly.
"Yes."
"By smoking a cigar?"
"Yes."
"Where is he? Where is he? Oh, thank God!"
"What do you mean, young lady?"
"He saved my life, and now I can save his."
"Indeed! How?"
"He is not dead. It is a stupor so closely resembling death that physicians do not know the difference. I know the antidote. I once overheard Dr. Quartz when he told it to my step-mother, months ago. Let me go to him! I can save him!"
"He is saved, Miss Mortimer."
"Saved? saved? Thank God!"
The reaction was too great and she fell forward in a dead faint.
When she opened her eyes, Nick Carter was before her.
He looked pale and weak, but she recognized him instantly.
"You see, Miss Bertha, I am not dead yet, but very much alive."
"Oh, I am so glad!" she murmured.
"The chief thought he could save me. He had me brought here, and one of the physicians that he called was versed in poison. He had had a long experience in India. Thinking he recognized my symptoms, he tried the antidote, and I awoke."
"NOW, Miss Bertha, continued Nick, "I wish to ask you a few questions."
"And I have much to tell you, " she replied. "I was to have been sent to an asylum in the morning, unless I became Dr. Quartz's wife forthwith. I have heard the whole story of villainy and depravity to-night, for I did not hesitate to listen to them without their knowledge."
"Who are 'they?'"
"Dr. Quartz and my step-mother."
"She is in the plot, then?"
"Yes. She is evidently an adventuress, who has been associated with him for years."
"Of what were they speaking when you overheard them?"
"Of many things; of you, I thought, only they called you Nick Carter."
"Yes."
"The doctor told how he had given you the cigar to smoke, and how you had become its victim."
"Yes."
"They rehearsed the plot by which they were about to become the possessors of my property, and in horrible detail revealed the entire deadly machinations of which they have been guilty.
"It has been a plot from the first. My mother, my brother, and my father were victims of subtle drugs, and one after another they died.
"The only thing that surprised them was that my father lived so long, and that I had escaped. But I know the reason."
"Tell me."
"For a year I have suffered with thirst, unless I could procure water to drink elsewhere than in the house. Tea and coffee I have not touched. At every opportunity I kept the medicines away from my father, which Dr. Quartz had left for him."
"Ah!
"He was always better when I did that."
"Without doubt. Did they speak of a piano-box?"
"Yes."
"Good—good! What was said?"
"Very little, and that I did not understand. They laughed over it a great deal."
"Did they mention any names while talking on that subject?"
"Yes."
"What were they?"
"Jeremy Stone, Oscar Burns, and Minnie and Sadie Burns."
"Good. 'M. B.' is Minnie Burns, and Sadie was the one in the small box."
Nick was on the point of asking another question when the door-bell rang again.
The chief went to the door.
"Be you the chief?" inquired a tramp, who stood upon the doorstep.
"I am."
"Well, I was told to give you this ere letter, see?" and he handed an envelope to the officer.
By the light of the hall-lamp, the chief broke the seal, and read:
"I am Chick, and I am looking for Nick. Where is he?"
"Come in," said the chief, smiling, "and I will give you an answer."
Chick entered at once.
"Whew!" exclaimed Chick, as soon as he had shaken hands with his master. "I am tired, but I am here."
"Why didn't you telegraph?"
"Knew the man was here; thought you would want me; thought it best to come."
"All right, Chick. Now, tell me what you know."
"O. K. Box was made at 135 West Twenty-eighth street by a man named Jack Quigley, short, broad, black-waxed mustache, handsome teeth, stouter than Lawson, and slid around instead of walking; laughed a good deal. Police are looking for two young ladies, twins, who have disappeared. Names, Minnie and Sadie Burns. Brother of girls instituted search. Brother's name, Oscar. Oscar and Quigley great friends. Quigley disappeared suddenly; two girls lit out at same time. Oscar thinks Quigley took 'em away. In my opinion, Oscar knows all about it."
"Why?"
"Big fortune left to Oscar; obliged to pay sisters big annuity; sisters extravagant and fast. Oscar wanted to get rid of them; plotted with Quigley; Quigley did it for boodle."
"Humph! Did Quigley live in West Twenty-eighth street?"
"No, in Forty-eighth. Found his rooms. Landlady had lots of scraps of a piano that he had left behind him."
"Ah! he cut it apart piecemeal, and carried it away in sections. Did you find young Burns' rooms?"
"Yes."
"Any choice cuts of piano there?"
"Lots."
"Good. Oscar is in it.
"He is."
"Well, proceed; you know something more, don't you?"
"Yes. Quigley married one of the girls, Minnie. Don't know what he did with the other. Marriage took place at a little church in Fordham. All legal."
"I see it all now," exclaimed Nick. "He told the girl some wild story of a romantic nature by which she was induced to enter upon the piano-box project. He selected Minnie for that. Then he murdered Sadie, embalmed her body, and packed it as we found it. Minnie traveled to San Francisco with him in the box. He did not murder her en route, as he probably first intended, perhaps because he liked her. He brought her here, but she stood in the way of his schemes and had to die. Then he adopted the bold plan of disposing of her body. He was paid well by Oscar for the job, and does not fear him, because Oscar does not know his real character, and would never look for him as a prominent physician here. He is the greatest villain I ever knew. Now, Chick, how did you know he was here?"
"Knew there was no piano in the box; concluded he must have traveled in it with the two girls; found that piano came here via Eastern Star Transportation Company's car, No. 1321, through car."
"You have done well, Chick. Now, if you will let the chief take you somewhere where you can transpose yourself from a tramp to Chick, I will introduce you to Miss Mortimer."
Just as day was breaking, three men left the chief's house, and, walking rapidly, did not pause, until they reached the magnificent residence of Dr. Quartz.
One of them was the chief; another was Chick, and the third was Nick Carter, still in the character of Nicholas. The first two were disguised.
At the top of the doorstep, Nick stretched out at full length while Chick rang the bell.
Presently a voice inquired through a speaking-tube what was wanted.
Chick answered.
"A friend of ours has fallen in a cataleptic fit. Will you see what you can do for him?"
A few minutes later the door opened, and they were told to carry the man into the office.
"The doctor will be down in a moment," added the servant.
Nick was stretched at full length upon a sofa.
The doctor soon came in.
The chief silently pointed his finger toward Nick.
Dr. Quartz drew near, and bent over him.
Then he uttered a sharp exclamation, straightened up, and placed his hand suddenly upon his pocket.
But Chick was upon him before he could draw a weapon.
Nick leaped up to give aid, and the chief also took a hand.
For a moment the struggle was terrific.
So powerful was Dr. Quartz that even the combined strength of Nick Carter and Chick were hardly a match for him.
But he was overpowered at last, and three sets of handcuffs were placed upon his wrists behind his back.
"Doctor," said Nick, with a smile, when the wily physician was finally lodged in his cell. "You see that Nick Carter is not dead yet."
"Yes," replied the doctor, rubbing his manacled hands, with that same soft smile which he never forgot, "but he is never safe until Dr. Quartz is dead. If I live to escape from here, friend Carter, I will do you the honor of killing you in a most scientific manner."
The doctor's accomplice, who was known as Mrs. Mortimer, was also arrested.
There was no difficulty in proving the crimes against the physician, and both the woman, who called herself Laura Mortimer, and Oscar Burns were convicted as accessories.
And thus was the mystery of the piano-box revealed.
Out of his strange venture Jeremy Stone is said to have acquired a fortune.
One more remark is needed.
When the two detectives bade adieu to the chief before taking their departure for New York, Chick stole away for an hour.
He reached the depot just in time to catch the train, as it was drawing out of the station.
"Nearly got left, Chick," said Nick Carter. "Where have you been?"
"I didn't get left, though. I never do."
"You do not seem to refer to the train."
"I don't."
"To whom or what, then?"
"To Bertha."
"Oh!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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