Nick Carter: The Crime of the French Café and Other Stories Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t the man take his cab? Because he wanted a drunken driver, who wouldn’t be sharp enough to get on to any queer business.

  “But he wouldn’t have tried to find a drunken cabman just by luck, and he wouldn’t have taken a sober one. Therefore he had seen Harrigan and hoped to find him in the same place.

  “That’s part of the plot. Now, then, you go to Chick, who’s watching the body of the woman. I’m going to take Gaspard uptown and have a look at that part of the city where Harrigan left his passengers.”

  Nick and Gaspard went to the Thirty-third street station of the Sixth avenue elevated road.

  They walked to the edge of the platform on the uptown end.

  Suddenly Gaspard gave a violent start. He uttered an exclamation of surprise and pointed across the tracks.

  “What is it?” cried Nick.

  “The man who was in room B!” exclaimed Gaspard. “I am sure of it!”

  At that instant a downtown train rushed into the station, cutting off Nick’s view.

  And a half-second later an uptown train pulled in on their side. Nick pushed open a gate before the train had fairly stopped. He dragged Gaspard after him.

  The gateman tried to stop them, but Nick pushed the fellow in the car so violently that he sat down on the floor.

  Then the detective pulled the other gate open, and, still dragging Gaspard, sprang down in the space between the tracks.

  The other train was just starting. Nick leaped up and opened one of the gates.

  Gaspard stood trembling. Excitement and terror rendered him incapable of action.

  Nick reached down, and, seizing the man by the shoulders, lifted him up to the platform of the car as if he had been a child of ten.

  “Look back,” cried the detective, pushing Gaspard to the other side of the car. “Is your man still at the station?”

  Two or three men were there, having, apparently, just missed the train.

  It seemed possible that the criminal—if such he was—had seen Gaspard point, and had been shrewd enough not to board the car.

  But Gaspard looked back and declared that his man was not there.

  “Good,” said Nick. “He must be on the train. We have him sure.”

  CHAPTER III. JOHN JONES.

  “I want you!” whispered Nick.

  How many luckless criminals have been startled by those words! How many have seen the prison or the gallows rise before them at the sound!

  In this case, however, the words seemed to produce less than the ordinary effect.

  The man to whom they were addressed turned suddenly toward the detective, but did not shrink or tremble.

  “I beg your pardon,” said he; “I didn’t quite understand what you said.”

  The man’s coolness made Nick even more in doubt about Gaspard’s identification.

  After boarding the train they had walked through it hurriedly, and in the car next the engine Gaspard had clutched Nick’s arm, whispering:

  “There is your man!”

  The person indicated was well-dressed, rather good-looking, and about thirty-five years old. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance.

  It would have been easy to have found dozens of such men on lower Broadway any day.

  Nick feared a mistake. But Gaspard was sure.

  “I never forget a face,” he said. “That is the man whom I saw coming out of room B. That is the murderer.”

  The man was standing up and holding on to one of the straps. His profile was turned to them.

  Nick waited until he turned and showed his full face. The detective was bound to give Gaspard every chance to change his mind.

  But he remained firm, and at last Nick approached the accused and suddenly whispered the terrifying words in his ear.

  Having done so, he was obliged to carry it through. Therefore, when the stranger asked Nick to repeat what he had said, the detective, in a low voice, inaudible to anybody else in the car, told him what the accusation was.

  “This is ridiculous,” said the man. “I read the story of this affair in the papers this morning, but I am not connected with it in any way. If you arrest me, you must be prepared to take the consequences.”

  “I guess we can manage the affair quietly,” said Nick, “and give you no trouble at all. I suppose you were going downtown to business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I will go along, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means,” said the man, and he looked much relieved.

  “I understand what your duty is,” he continued. “Since this imported French jackass has made this charge, of course you’ll have to look into it. Come down to the office and make some inquiries, and then go up to my flat. I was at home last evening after eight o’clock.

  “What did you do before that?”

  “I had dinner with my wife, and then put her aboard a train. She’s gone away on a visit.”

  “Where has she gone?”

  “No, sir; none of that. I don’t propose to have a detective go flying after her to scare her to death. She keeps out of this mess, if I have any say about it.”

  “But if you’re arrested she’ll hear about it and come back to the city.”

  “I’m not going to be arrested. You’re too sensible a man to do such a thing. I can see that.

  “Here we are. We get off at Franklin street. My place of business is just a little way up the street, toward Broadway.”

  They left the train. Nick was beginning to feel that a mistake had been made. This man’s easy manner and perfect confidence were hard to square with the idea of his guilt.

  “By the way,” said the suspect, as they descended the stairs, “I forgot to give you my card.”

  He handed it to Nick as he spoke, and the detective read this:

  Mr. John Jones.

  Allen, Morse, Jones,

  Electrical Fixtures,

  The “Sunlight” Lamp.

  “What did I tell you!” exclaimed Gaspard, who was looking over Nick’s shoulder. “It is the name that was on the register. He is the man.”

  But Nick took a different view. He was of the opinion that Mr. Jones had presented very strong evidence of his complete innocence.

  Anybody else might have signed himself “John Jones,” but the real John Jones, never!

  It would be mighty hard to convince a jury that a man meditating murder had recorded his correct name for the benefit of the police.

  The coincidence was certainly astonishing, but it was in Jones’ favor.

  They walked over to the office of Allen, Morse & Jones.

  Mr. Allen was there.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Allen,” said Jones, “My name has got me into trouble again.”

  “How is that?”

  “Did you read about that French restaurant murder last night?”

  “Well, I glanced at the story in one of the papers.”

  “This Frenchman here is a waiter in the place. He saw me in an elevated train just now, and told this other man, who is a detective, that I was the party who took that woman to the restaurant.

  “That was bad enough, but when they found out what my name was, they convicted me immediately. It appears that the visitor to the restaurant signed the very uncommon name of John Jones on the books.”

  “Why, what the devil!” exclaimed Allen, looking wrathfully at poor Gaspard, who was shaking in his shoes. “Don’t you know that this is a serious matter? What do you mean?”

  “He is the man,” cried Gaspard. “If I were dying, I would swear with my last breath that he is the man.”

  “But who’s the woman?” asked Allen, turning to Nick. “And what has she to do with my partner?”

  “That I cannot say,” replied Nick; “she has not been identified.”

  “Then you have absolutely nothing to go upon except this fellow’s word?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why, this is nonsense.”

  “Perhaps so,” said Nick, “but you will admit that I would be false to my duty if I did not make an investigation.”

  “Investigate all you wish,” laughed Jones. “But don’t bother me any more than you have to. This is my busy day.”

  “I’m going right away,” said Nick. “All I want of you is that you will give me your address, and meet me at your home in the latter part of the afternoon.”

  “Very well,” said Jones, and he scribbled on a piece of paper. “I’ll be there at half-past four o’clock.”

  Nick thanked Mr. Jones for his courtesy, and immediately withdrew. But he did not go far.

  In a convenient doorway he wrote a note to Chick, on the back of the scrap of paper which Jones had given him, and sealed it in an envelope.

  Then he sent Gaspard with it to Chick, who was on the lookout in the undertaker’s room, where the body lay.

  Having dispatched this message, Nick changed his disguise and kept watch over the establishment of Allen, Morse & Jones.

  Nothing of importance happened until a little after noon, when a reply came from Chick.

  Translated from the detective’s cipher, it read as follows

  “The address is that of a good flat house. Jones lives there with

  his wife.

  “They have been there only about two months. Nobody in the houseknows anything about them.

  “They had one servant, who was taken sick about two weeks ago and carried to a hospital, where she died.

  “Since then they have lived absolutely alone. There was nobody in

  the house who had seen Mrs. Jones’ face. She always wore a heavy veil.

  “The only description I could get tallied with that of the body. The principal point was the hair.

&nb
sp; “I have just found a woman who saw Mr. and Mrs. Jones go out yesterday afternoon. She remembers Mrs. Jones’ dress.

  The description agrees with that found on the corpse.

  “Jones carried an alligator-skin traveling-bag. Nobody saw either of them come back to the house, but Jones evidently slept there.

  “I shall take the woman who saw them go out to the room where the body lies.

  “Will send Patsy down with the result of this effort at identification. I believe it will show the woman to be Mrs. Jones.

  I send this that you may have warning.”

  “Chick.”

  Nick read this note and then glanced across the street toward the office of Allen, Morse & Jones.

  Through the window he could see Jones calmly writing a letter. Could it be possible that this man was guilty of so hideous a crime?

  Half an hour passed, and then came the second message, as follows:

  “Identified as Mrs. Jones.”

  CHAPTER IV. ALL SORTS OF IDENTIFICATIONS.

  “I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Jones, that the body of the woman murdered last night has been identified as that of your wife.”

  So spoke Nick, and this time Jones’ calmness was not proof against the surprise.

  “It can’t be possible!” he exclaimed, leaping from his chair.

  “I am so informed,” said Nick, “and I must place you under arrest.”

  “But there is some infernal mistake here,” said the accused. “I know that my wife is all right. This must be somebody else.”

  “A lady living in the same house with you has recognized the body.”

  “I don’t care if she has. Nobody in that house knows my wife.”

  “Is there anybody in the city who does know her?”

  “I can’t think of anybody.”

  “How about the grocer with whom you traded?”

  “Our servant attended to all that till she was taken sick. Since then I’ve done what little there was to do. We’ve eaten most of our meals at restaurants.”

  “What restaurants?”

  “Oh, all around. There’s the Alcazar, for instance, where we have sometimes dined together.”

  “Does the head waiter there know her?”

  “I suppose he would remember her face. He doesn’t know the name.”

  “All right. I’ll have him look at the body.”

  “But, man, you’re going to let me look at it, aren’t you?” exclaimed Jones. “That would settle it, I should think.”

  “I’ll take you there now, and we will try to get somebody from the Alcazar at the same time.”

  Nick took the prisoner at once to the Alcazar. The head waiter remembered Jones’ face. He had seen him dining with a lady who had beautiful light hair.

  The three went to the undertaker’s rooms.

  Nick watched Jones narrowly as he approached the body. He started violently at the first sight of it. Then he became calm.

  “The hair is wonderfully like,” he said, “but there is no resemblance between the two faces.”

  “That is true, gentlemen,” said the head waiter; “this is not the lady.”

  “On the contrary,” said a voice close beside them, “I believe that this lady was your wife, Mr. Jones.”

  All the color went out of Jones’ face as he turned quickly toward the man who had spoken.

  “Ah, Mr. Gottlieb,” he said, “I am surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Mr. Gottlieb is the grocer from whom the Joneses bought their supplies,” said Chick, who had advanced to Nick’s side.

  “I was not aware that you had ever seen my wife,” said Jones, looking searchingly at the grocer.

  “I never saw her plainly,” said Gottlieb. “She came into my store once or twice, but always closely veiled. So I cannot be sure; and, of course, if you insist that this is not your wife’s body, I must be mistaken.”

  “You are mistaken, sir,” said Jones, coldly.

  He turned to Nick.

  “Mr. Gottlieb has sealed my doom for the present,” he said, with a smile. “I am ready to go with you.”

  Nick took his prisoner to Police Headquarters.

  The detective had meanwhile sent Patsy in quest of Harrigan, the coachman.

  Jones was taken into the superintendent’s room, and a dozen other men were assembled there, waiting for the arrival of the cabman.

  Harrigan was very nervous when he appeared.

  “Youse fellies are tryin’ to do me out o’ my license,” said he; “but I’m tellin’ yer I was all right last night. I wasn’t half so paralyzed as youse t’ink I was. Show me your man and I’ll identify him.”

  Harrigan was led into the superintendent’s room. When he saw how many men were there he seemed to be a great deal taken aback.

  But he put a bold face on the matter, and promptly advanced, saying:

  “This is the man.”

  Nick made a gesture of disappointment, and then he laughed, and the superintendent with him.

  The man whom Harrigan had selected was Chick.

  It was evident that the cabman was going upon pure guess-work. Being sharply questioned, he confessed that he had no idea how his “fare” of the previous night looked.

  “I’ll give it to youse dead straight,” said he, at last; “I don’t know whether the mug was white or black. Say, he might have been a Chinee.”

  “I believe that fellow is faking,” said the sergeant to Nick, as Harrigan left the room.

  “No; he’s straight enough, I guess,” said Nick. “He’s not the sort of man who would have been let into a game of this kind.”

  Nick then proceeded to question the prisoner in the presence of Chick and the superintendent.

  His answers were straightforward enough, but they threw little light upon the affair.

  The only subject which he refused to discuss was the whereabouts of his wife. When questioned about her, he invariably declined to speak.

  “She’s gone on a little pleasure trip,” he said, “and I want her to enjoy it. This affair will be all over when she gets back. She’ll never hear of it, where she is, and that’s as it should be.”

  Nick returned to his house, where he was informed that a visitor was waiting for him.

  He found a gentleman somewhat under forty years of age, and apparently in prosperous circumstances, pacing the study floor.

  The visitor was evidently greatly excited about something, for his hands trembled and he started nervously when Nick entered.

  “Mr. Carter,” he said, anxiously, “can I trust you fully?”

  Nick laughed.

  “I shan’t do anything to prevent it,” he said.

  “Will you swear to keep what I shall tell you a secret?”

  “No, sir; I will not.”

  The man made a despairing gesture.

  “I supposed that your business was always strictly confidential,” he said.

  “So it is, but I take no oaths.”

  “I didn’t mean that exactly, but—but—”

  The man hesitated, stammered, and was unable to proceed.

  “Come, sir,” said Nick; “be calm. Tell me plainly what you want me to do for you.”

  “It isn’t for me; it’s for a—for a friend of mine.”

  “Very well; what can I do for your friend?”

  “He is accused of a terrible crime, of which he is entirely innocent. I want you to save him.”

  “I have been asked to do that many times.”

  “And you have always succeeded?”

  “Oh, no; in several cases the persons have been hanged.”

  The visitor shuddered violently.

  “I had heard,” he said, “that you never failed to find the guilty persons and to save the innocent.”

  “That is the truth. It has been my good fortune to leave no case unsettled.”

  “But you said that these innocent persons had been hanged.”

  “They were hanged,” said Nick, “but they were not innocent. Their friends assured me that the persons were entirely guiltless, but it was not true.

  “And therefore,” Nick continued, looking straight into the man’s eyes, “I should advise you to be very sure of your friend’s innocence before you put the case in my hands.”

  The visitor looked very much relieved.

  “I’m perfectly sure of it,” he cried. “My friend had nothing to do with this case.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Who is he?”