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THIS line has become famous for its excellent stories of the detection of crime. Of late, it has taken truly remarkable strides in the public’s favor. The reason for this is, that every book is a marvel of its kind. They are high-class tales, not of the “blood and thunder” order, but with plausable plots which hold the reader fairly captivated with breathless expectation. Among these are the stories of the adventures of Nick Carter and his clever assistants; of “Old Spicer,” the clever private detective, whose exploits are among the most remarkable ever performed by any detective. If you are in search of good, interesting matter, a decided change from that to which you have been accustomed, purchase a few of these titles. They will not only please and interest you, but will give you a clear insight into the methods of the various classes of criminals.

The Radium of all Humor

Comical
Confessions
of Clever
Comedians
By F.P. PITZER
- EDITED BY -
DEWOLF
HOPPER

SEARCH the world over and you cannot find more genuine, original humor than that contained in “Comical Confessions of Clever Comedians.” This little volume has been compiled after the fashion of a continuous performance. There is an All-Star Cast, or we might say a regular “Whoop-De-Doo,” introducing such well known comedians as DeWolf Hopper, Francis Wilson, Lew Dockstadter, Frank Daniels, Dave Warfield, Joe Weber, and others. Just imagine what there is in store for the reading public when a glance at the title page reveals the fact that DeWolf Hopper, the hero of “Wang,” is the editor or manager of this All-Star Vaudeville Company.

Issued in a very attractive cloth binding. Price, 75c. postpaid.

Street & Smith, Publishers, 238 William St., New York City

A CIGARETTE CLEW;

OR,
“SALTED” FOR A MILLION
BY
NICHOLAS CARTER
AUTHOR OF
“In the Gloom of Night,” “The Ruby Pin,” “A Scientific Forger,”
“Trapped in His Own Net,” “A Mysterious Graft,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Copyright, 1905
By STREET & SMITH
A Cigarette Clew

A CIGARETTE CLEW.

CHAPTER I.
WANTED: TWO MEN.

“Well, Chick, it’s good to strike little old New York again.”

Nick Carter jumped down from the railroad car and shook himself like a huge dog as his feet touched the stone flagging of the Grand Central Station.

“You’re not more glad to see New York than New York is to see you,” piped a shrill voice, and Patsy, Nick’s younger assistant, darted forward to greet his chief and Chick, who were elbowing their way through the crowd on the arrival platform.

The great detective had been out West on a puzzling case in which he had to run to earth a combination of Montana swindlers. Nick and his chief assistant had done splendid work, but there were still two members of the swindling gang to be accounted for.

Patsy’s first question as they jumped into a cab was:

“What’s the latest from Montana?”

“We landed all of the crooks but two,” said Nick. “They took fright a month ago when they heard we were to take the case and it has been reported that they have come East. In that case, Patsy, you may have a chance to bag the men who slipped through my hands.”

“Nothing would please me better,” was Patsy’s retort, and Nick laughed at the boy’s eagerness.

“I bet Patsy will strike the fellows before you can say Jack Robinson,” put in Chick, with a grin.

“You win your bet,” said Patsy, coolly. “I think I can put you on the trail of at least one of the men you want. The other fellow will have to stand till I look around a little.”

“What!”

“What!”

The word leaped from the lips of both Nick and Chick.

It was Patsy’s turn to grin now.

“When you boys stop jollying,” he said, “we will get down to business.”

“See here, Patsy, you’ve got news,” cried Nick. “Out with it.”

“Well, the truth is I have just come from an interview with a man who is trying to get back his senses after a cold plunge in the Sound. The cold plunge was not of his own choosing. He was thrown in at midnight, and the man who flung him in was a Westerner. Now are you interested?”

“But there are more Westerners than one in the world,” objected Nick.

“Yes, but this one was called Yasmar.”

“Singular name for a Westerner; but that don’t help us any. The man we want is a fellow called Ramsay.”

“And Ramsay spelled backward is Yasmar,” added Patsy.

“By Jove, you’re right! I never thought of that.”

“No,” retorted Patsy; “it’s a good thing you have a man of brains on your staff.”

“Let that pass,” said Nick, smiling. “Any old way, this is bully information. The report was true, then, and Ramsay and his pal have really come East and are at their tricks again.”

“Don’t know about the pal, but I think we have come up with Ramsay all right. The man he attacked is waiting for you at the office.”

“Great Scott, Patsy; that’s the most important piece of information you have brought us.”

“And I kept it till the end for a good reason.”

“The reason?” demanded Nick.

“Oh, simply that the man himself is in no great hurry, and, besides, he’s a good deal better off in Nick Carter’s study than anywhere else I can think of. You will say the same when you hear his story.”

“Well, you need not go into the details since you have the man at home, but what are the outstanding facts in the matter?”

“They’re not hard to tell. This man, his name is John Lansing, was on board a Fall River boat bound from New York to Boston, when he was attacked by Ramsay—or Yasmar as he calls himself now—and was flung over the side. He escaped with his life and came to New York to give you the story.

“I told him you were expected back in town by this train, and he said he’d wait till I came back with you. He’s had a pretty close shave and he was just a bit hysterical, but I quieted him down and I guess you will find him quite rational when you reach home.”

* * * * * * *

Half an hour later Nick was closeted with the man who had narrowly escaped death in the waters of the Sound.

Mr. John Lansing he found to be a young man hardly more than out of his teens.

His face was pale and on his left temple there was a large patch of court-plaster.

“My younger assistant has told me something of your startling adventure,” said Nick, “and I am especially interested in the matter, for I suspect that your assailant is a man who escaped me in the West.”

“You mean Yasmar?”

“Yes, or rather Ramsay, to give him his right name. Since coming East he has seen fit to spell his name backward—the thinnest kind of an alias conceivable. But please let me have your story from the beginning.”

“First let me ask, Mr. Carter, have you seen a copy of the evening paper?”

“Yes, I glanced hastily at one, and noticed your case.”

“That is what I wanted to know. What do the papers say about me?”

“Not much; they simply print a dispatch from Boston, saying that Mr. John Lansing has disappeared.”

“Any other particulars?”

“Oh, yes, the usual gush about your being such a good man and all that. They mentioned, by the way, that you left New York on a Fall River boat Monday night with Mr. Yasmar, and that the last Mr. Yasmar saw of you was on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Yes, I supposed he was spreading such a report,” said Lansing, “but the truth is, Mr. Carter, the last this man Yasmar saw of me was off the Long Island coast at midnight Monday, when he threw me overboard; and that brings me to the matter about which I wanted your help. You are the only man living who can help me; the question is will you do it?”

“Tell me your whole story first and then I will answer you.”

“I will be as brief as I can,” said Lansing.

“My parents are dead, and my sister Louise and I live with our uncle, Horace Montgomery, on West Forty-fourth Street.

“Mr. Montgomery is our guardian, and is the trustee of certain funds which were left to us.

“Between us, Louise and I have some five hundred thousand dollars on interest with a trust company.

“This man Yasmar came from the West, a month or more ago, and has interested my uncle and some Boston men in a Montana mine which he calls the Royal Ophir.

“Mr. Montgomery, in spite of my objections, is determined to invest this five hundred thousand in Yasmar’s mine, but I am sure that the whole thing is a swindle from start to finish.”

“How long have you felt sure that Yasmar was a swindler?” interposed Nick.

“I have had a feeling that he was crooked ever since my uncle first introduced him to me.”

“Just a ‘feeling.’ No other evidence prior to what happened on the Sound steamer Monday night?”

“No. But the fact that Yasmar hit me on the head and threw me overboard is proof that he considered me a menace to his plans and wanted me out of the way.”

“Of course. And then his spreading the report that you disappeared from Boston is another convincing detail.”

“Why did he spread that report? Why didn’t he say that I committed suicide by jumping from the boat?”

“That would have led to awkward questioning. Not only that, but if you were dead your money would be tied up in the probate court, and your uncle could not invest it.”

“I see. That had not occurred to me before. What a consummate villain that man Yasmar is!”

“If he is the fellow I am looking for,” said Nick, bluntly, “I may tell you there isn’t a more cunning scoundrel alive. But how did he manage to get the better of you on the Sound steamer? Put in all the details of the occurrence. They may help in working your case.”

“Well, Mr. Carter, it happened in this way. I met Yasmar on board, and we sauntered around the deck, talking pleasantly about general affairs. All went well till about midnight. Maybe it was ten or fifteen minutes after. But just about that time we got down to business. Yasmar and I were sitting on a bench in the narrow passage between the side of the boat and the cabin, well aft where it was shady.

“There was a full moon, the sky was cloudless, and the surroundings were almost as plain as day. But nobody seemed to care anything for the beauty of the scene except Yasmar and myself.

“We were not, however, vastly interested ourselves in the moonlit coast line or the white-topped waves that surged past.

“We had other things to think of just then, and I will confess that I was giving him a piece of my mind in reference to that mining affair.

“As we talked, both of us became excited and we rose and faced one another. In a sudden flash of anger Yasmar, who is a taller man than myself, made a jump for my throat.

“Then he bent me backward over the steamer rail.

“For a moment he held me in that position, glaring at me like a tiger.

“‘Be a little more temperate in your speech,’ he hissed, ‘or something will happen.’

“‘You’d kill me!’ I gasped, as he withdrew his hands.

“‘Well, something will happen,’ he repeated, threateningly.

“‘Why don’t you kill me?’ I said, with a sneer, ‘then you could have everything your own way.’

“‘Will you be reasonable?’

“‘I am reasonable,’ I replied. ‘You come from the West, Yasmar, and those knockdown-and-drag-out Western methods of yours won’t go in the East.’

“He muttered something under his breath.

“‘I am armed,’ I continued, threateningly, ‘and if you lay a hand on me again it will be at your own peril.’

“‘Don’t give me any cause to lay a hand on you, and you’ll be safe enough.’

“‘When I tell you I think you are trying to swindle my guardian on this Royal Ophir mine deal, I am stating what I believe to be a fact.’

“‘Swindle is a hard term, young man.’

“‘It’s the only term to use—sometimes.’

“‘This is not one of the times. Everything in this transaction is open and above board.’

“‘That is, it seems so.’

“‘It is so.’

“‘I have a feeling in my bones that my guardian is being tricked,’ I said.

“‘Poppycock!’

“‘Sneer if you like, but it is my sister’s money and mine my guardian is putting into the deal; not yours or his.’

“‘Your guardian is safeguarding your interest in every possible way.’

“‘I don’t care if he is. You’re shrewd enough to pull the wool over his eyes, and I think you’re doing it.’

“‘There’s no possible chance to pull the wool over anybody’s eyes. It’s a straight, legitimate proposition.’

“‘I tell you I have a feeling that it is not.’

“‘You’re a man—don’t be so childish.’

“‘Childish! Is it childish to wish to keep for my sister and myself what money was left to us?’

“‘You’re a weak-kneed fool, Lansing!’

“‘Now you are using strong language,’ I answered, and I shouldn’t be surprised if my voice trembled with anger. ‘I give you fair warning of what I am going to do.’

“‘What are you going to do?’

“‘I’m going to hire the best detective in America to look into this mining proposition and see whether it’s as straight as you say it is.’

“‘You’re going to put a detective on my trail, are you?’ he hissed.

“‘That’s my intention.’

“‘I see your game! You’re going to fake up some sort of evidence to prove me dishonest and queer this mining deal!’

“‘If you are honest you have nothing to fear. If dishonest, you’ll be unmasked and a million will be saved to these New York and Boston investors.’

“‘Who are you going to hire?’

“‘Nicholas Carter, if I can get him.’

“‘Carter!’ When I spoke your name, Mr. Carter, it leaped fiercely from Yasmar’s lips, and was followed by a muffled oath. ‘You’re going to get Nick Carter to dog me about New York?’

“‘If he’ll take the case.’

“‘Then you really think I’m dishonest?’

“‘I think you’re a confidence man, Yasmar; a swindler, a ——’

“Like lightning, his hand, which had been thrust into his pocket and stealthily withdrawn, shot toward my temple.

“The hand was armed with a set of murderous knuckles, and the blow laid me half over the rail, silent and motionless.

“I was as nearly unconscious as I ever want to be, but I still had some feeling left, and I, as I hung there, half over the boat, I can remember Yasmar looking round to see if the coast was clear.

“Quickly he lifted me and pushed me over the rail.”

CHAPTER II.
TO THE CREDIT OF THE CATBOAT.

“The moment I struck the cool water it brought all my senses back with a rush.

“I kept myself afloat, and was picked up by two young men in a catboat. These young men were members of a fishing club that had a boathouse on the Sound, and were out for an all-night sail.

“They were close at hand when the steamer passed, and I was hurled into the water.”

“I see. You do not want your uncle to invest your money in the mine, and he is determined to do it.”

“That’s it. Yasmar is a glib talker, and uncle Horace is entirely carried away with him.”

“Could you not get a restraining order from the court and thus prevent your uncle from using the money?”

“Under my mother’s will, Mr. Carter, my guardian has a free hand. I will do Mr. Montgomery the credit of saying that he has gone into the matter in good faith, and he is usually level-headed. In this instance, however, he is playing directly into Yasmar’s hands.”

“It was Monday night when you were picked up by the young men in the catboat. This is Wednesday morning. Where have you been in the meantime?”

“At the boathouse on Long Island, where I gave a fictitious name.”

“You wish to make it appear to Yasmar that you are dead?”

“Yes. I feel that I can fight him better in that way.”

“That’s rather clever in one way, Mr. Lansing. In another way, however, it may be a very foolish move.”

“How so?”

“If you went to your uncle and told him how the villain had attempted your life, you would at once convince him that the Western man was a fraud, and thus prevent the investment in the Royal Ophir.”

“You do not know my uncle, Mr. Carter. He is investigating the mining proposition, and, if he is satisfied with the result of his investigations, the money will be invested.”

“Headstrong, is he?”

“Yes, sir; very much set in his way.”

“How did you happen to be on the same steamer with Yasmar?”

“I was going to Boston to interview some capitalists there, who are also intending to put money into the mine. By chance, he was on the same boat.”

“How is your uncle investigating the Royal Ophir mine?”

“The Boston men sent an expert in whom they have the utmost confidence to Montana to take a sample of ore from the Royal Ophir.

“That sample was not out of the expert’s hands, day or night, from the moment it was taken until, in a sealed bag, it was deposited in a New York bank.

“The Boston men and my uncle, accompanied by the expert, will call for the ore this afternoon, take it to an assayer, and have it assayed.

“On the result of that assay hangs the investment of a round million of dollars.”

“Who is to do the assaying?”

“Cruse & Cupell, near Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street.”

“Who is the expert?”

“Orlando G. Bates.”

“I know Bates, and he’s as straight as a string. The assayers are all right, too. Will Yasmar be present during the assaying?”

“No; no one but Mr. Bates, my uncle and the Boston men. Will you take the case for me, Mr. Carter?”

“It’s hardly a ‘case,’ Mr. Lansing. You want me to prove to your uncle that the Royal Ophir mine has been ‘salted,’ as the saying is.”

“That’s it. I’m sure the mine has been ‘salted,’ and I’m also sure that neither the expert nor my uncle nor the Boston men are clever enough to discover it. You are the only one who can do that, Mr. Carter.”

The detective smiled at the young man’s confidence.

Before he could answer Lansing’s question, another rap fell on the door, and the servant handed in a card bearing the following name:

“Adolphus Yasmar.”

CHAPTER III.
A FAMILIAR FACE.

“Bring him up,” said Nick, to the servant.

When the servant had gone, the detective opened the door of an adjoining apartment.

“You will have to step in here for a few minutes, Mr. Lansing,” said he. “Your man Yasmar has come to see me.”

“Yasmar!” exclaimed Lansing.

“Yes. Step in, quick. Be quiet, and do not come back until I open the door.”

“But what can he want?” murmured the astounded youth, passing into the other room.

“I shall find out very soon.”

Nick closed the door, and was seated at his desk, writing, when his second caller entered the study.

“Mr. Carter?”

Nick dropped his pen, whirled around in his chair, and got up.

He saw before him a man of forty, or thereabouts, tall, muscular, smooth shaven and wearing a long frock coat, dark trousers, patent leather shoes and a flowing necktie.

In his left hand he held a black “slouch” hat. His right hand was extended and an amiable smile wreathed his face.

Nick took the extended hand, and was surprised to find the palm hard, as though roughened with manual labor.

For a “promoter,” dressed as this man was, the fact might have been significant.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Yasmar?” asked Nick, when they were both seated.

“I have a case, and there is no one in the city, except yourself, whom I desire to handle it.”

“Excuse me a moment while I finish this letter, and then I will give you my attention.”

Yasmar nodded, picked up the paper Nick had recently laid down, and the detective touched a bell.

“Send Patsy to me,” he said to the servant.

He scribbled away for a few seconds, folded the sheet and put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope and wrote the following:

“Look at this man well. He may be Ramsay, but I’m not sure. Shadow him.”

Patsy stood beside the desk when Nick faced around, the letter in his hand.

“Here’s a letter, Patsy, which I wish you to deliver immediately. You know the party, I think?”

The assistant studied the writing on the envelope.

“No, Nick,” he answered, “I don’t know him; but I know the address.”

“You’ll attend to it?”

“Sure.”

Patsy left.

“Now, Mr. Yasmar,” said Nick, “I’m at leisure for a few minutes.”

“I only read this morning that you were expected back from your trip West, and I hate to trouble you, but the matter is very important. Have you seen to-day’s paper?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you recall my name in connection with the disappearance of young John Lansing.”

“Oh! Are you the Adolphus Yasmar mentioned in that account?”

“I am. And it is in relation to John Lansing that I have called on you this morning.”

“You want me to find the young man?”

“Yes. I want you to go to Boston by first train and begin a search for him. Lansing’s sister and uncle are very much worked up over the young man’s disappearance, and I told them I would call here and put you on the case—providing I could get you.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Nick, “but I could not take the case for two or three days. As you say, I have just returned from the West, and you can easily understand how work has accumulated during my absence.”

“You will be well paid——”

“That is a minor consideration. In two or three days, if you like, I will——”

“That will be too late. In cases of this kind, as you perhaps know, little time should be lost.”

“Exactly. For that reason it is strange that you allowed Tuesday to pass without coming to me.”

“I knew you had not returned home, sir; and, besides, I was in Boston Tuesday, Mr. Carter.”

“There are detectives in Boston—good ones.”

“But Nick Carter doesn’t live in Boston,” said Yasmar, with a flattering smile. “The police there are doing their best. Still, the young man’s relatives would feel better to know that you had taken the case.”

“That is out of the question, unless you wait for two or three days.”

“Would not a large retainer tempt you to lay aside your other work and give your immediate attention to this matter?”

“No, sir.”

Yasmar got up.

“Then I suppose there is nothing else for it but for me to wait.”

“Or get some one else,” added Nick.

“Who shall I go to?”

“The New York chief of police.”

“I’ll think about it. Good-morning, Mr. Carter.”

He left.

When the front door had closed, the detective admitted John Lansing from the other room.

“The infernal scoundrel!” cried Lansing. “He dared to come here to you to get you to look for me—a man whom he believes he murdered.”

“He’s a pretty smooth rascal,” said the detective.

“Will you help me out in the mine matter, Mr. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Good! My sister’s money and mine is as good as saved. I thank you very much, and your bill will be met as soon as presented.”

“That will come later. For the present, carry out your present policy—keep in the background, and don’t go about the city very much. Do not even communicate with your sister. Leave that part of it to me, and I will see that she does not worry about you. Where will I be able to communicate with you?”

Lansing wrote his address on a card.

Then, after thanking Nick again, he left the house.

The detective lighted a cigar and threw himself into a chair.

“He certainly had his nerve with him, to call on me as he has done,” thought Nick.

“It’s plain that he wants to get me out of town, and at once.

“I wonder if he knows Nick Carter never forgets a face?

“I have seen his face before—but whether that is the face of the tough-looking Westerner called Ramsay, who is ‘wanted’ in Montana, I can’t say for certain.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE ROLL-TOP DESK.

On leaving Nick Carter’s house, Yasmar walked rapidly off down the street.

At the first corner he passed a typical East Side tough, leaning against a lamp-post, rolling a huge cigar between his teeth.

Stepping out into the street, Yasmar hailed an open electric car.

As he got aboard, well forward, the tough jumped on the rear and took one of the seats reserved for smokers.

At Canal Street the Western man changed to a cross-town car, getting off again at Vestry Street.

He had not looked behind him, or displayed any nervousness whatever.

But, nevertheless, it seemed as if he had an idea he might be followed.

Vestry and Canal meet at an acute angle, forming a “V” shaped point.

Yasmar walked down Vestry Street for a few doors, then hastily turned to the right, mounted a short flight of steps and vanished through a dingy doorway.

The tough was close after him.

Passing through a long, dark hall, he made an exit through a door opening on Canal Street.

The tough, apparently, did not come out of the building.

The man who did follow Yasmar out onto Canal Street looked more like a laborer than he did like a tough.

The Westerner, walking leisurely, made his way to the next block and halted in front of a four-story building.

There was a moving van backed to the curb in front, and at the very top of the building two men were engaged in rigging a block and tackle.

Yasmar came to a halt before a door leading into a hallway, and from there, for the first time, he took a survey of the street behind him.

The laborer, his hands in his pockets and a corncob pipe in his mouth, was watching the riggers at work on the roof.

There was nothing suspicious about the laborer, and Yasmar passed into the building and started upstairs.

When he reached the head of the first flight, the laborer was in the doorway.

Something had been shouted by one of the men on the roof.

“All right,” the laborer called back, “I’ll bring it up to ye.”

Thereupon Patsy—for, of course, the supposed laborer was none other than Nick Carter’s assistant—rushed upstairs with a coil of rope.

He passed Yasmar on the second flight.

At the top of the third flight, he waited and listened until he heard the Westerner start up from the foot.

That was Patsy’s signal to make for the narrow passage leading to the skylight and the roof.

“There ye are,” he said, as he tossed the coil of rope to the riggers.

Then, without loss of a moment, he returned to the fourth floor.

A door was just closing down the hall as Patsy stepped out of the passage.

The detective was too late to see the man who entered the room, but he was fairly certain it was Yasmar.

Proceeding noiselessly to the door, he halted and listened.

Voices, pitched in a low key, reached him.

It was impossible to distinguish the spoken words, although Patsy strained his ears in the attempt.

He was anxious to overhear something which would make it absolutely sure that he was on the right trail.

Stooping, he tried the old-fashioned trick of looking through the keyhole, but found that a hat had been hung from the knob inside, effectually covering the small aperture.

Raising himself erect, Patsy made a quick survey to left and right.

Instinctively, he came to the conclusion that the door to the right of the one before which he was standing was more promising than the one on the left.

He went to the door and tried it, but found it locked.

A skeleton key admitted him with very little trouble, and he found himself in an empty room.

A door led from this room into the one which Yasmar had entered, but it was closed and probably fastened.

Again Patsy tried to look through the keyhole, but this time he found the opening stuffed with paper.

“It’s dead sure they do things in that room they don’t want people to get onto,” thought Patsy, “and that proves, in a way, that my man is there. Still, I’d like to get a fair and square look at him.”

Sinking down on his knees, he laid his ear against the crack at the edge of the door.

The talkers were still guarded in their tones, and he could hear nothing.

He remained on his knees, however, and presently he heard a movement as of some one rising.

Steps crossed the floor.

“This is getting infernally tiresome,” said a voice. “Gillman is slow in keeping his appointment.”

“Something has happened to detain him,” said another voice.

“Let’s go out and get a drink. Probably he’ll be here by the time we get back.”

“I’m with you, old man.”

Some one else arose and crossed the floor.

Then the door was unlocked, opened, closed and locked again, and steps could be heard passing down the hall.

Rising quickly, Patsy went to a window overlooking the street, raised it, and looked down.

He was rewarded by seeing Yasmar come out, accompanied by a short, thickset man with an iron-gray mustache.

The second man looked like another Westerner.

“Bully!” exclaimed Patsy, withdrawing and closing the window. “When Gillman gets here, I must be in that other room.”

He went back to the door communicating with the other room.

A few moments’ work with a knife blade sufficed to pick out the paper, and a skeleton key did the rest.

After closing and locking the door from the other side, Patsy carefully replaced the paper in the keyhole and turned for a look at the room he was then in.

It was almost as bare as the apartment he had just left.