Transcriber’s Notes:

The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors which have been corrected.

For convenience, a table of contents, which is not present in the original, has been included.

CONTENTS

NICK CARTER STORIES

New Magnet Library

PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS

Not a Dull Book in This List

Nick Carter stands for an interesting detective story. The fact that the books in this line are so uniformly good is entirely due to the work of a specialist. The man who wrote these stories produced no other type of fiction. His mind was concentrated upon the creation of new plots and situations in which his hero emerged triumphantly from all sorts of trouble, and landed the criminal just where he should be—behind the bars.

The author of these stories knew more about writing detective stories than any other single person.

Following is a list of the best Nick Carter stories. They have been selected with extreme care, and we unhesitatingly recommend each of them as being fully as interesting as any detective story between cloth covers which sells at ten times the price.

If you do not know Nick Carter, buy a copy of any of the New Magnet Library books, and get acquainted. He will surprise and delight you.

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on account of delays in transportation.

SNARLED IDENTITIES

OR,

A DESPERATE TANGLE

BY

NICHOLAS CARTER

Author of the celebrated stories of Nick Carter’s adventures, which are published exclusively in the New Magnet Library, conceded to be among the best detective tales ever written.

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1916
By STREET & SMITH

Snarled Identities

(Printed in the United States of America)

All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.

SNARLED IDENTITIES.

CHAPTER I.
STARTLING NEWS.

Nicholas Carter, and his first assistant, Chickering Carter, had risen early that morning, but not for the usual reason. It was a very unusual occasion in the great detective’s household, for he and Chick were actually going away for two weeks’ vacation in the Adirondacks.

The train that was to carry the two to the Great North Woods was scheduled to leave shortly after eight o’clock, and many preparations had been deferred until that morning. Now, however, everything was practically ready, their trunk was packed, locked, and strapped, their suit cases were nearly filled, and they had time for a bite of breakfast and a glance at the morning papers, which had thus far been neglected.

Nick seemed to be the only one who was interested in the news. In fact, his assistant made a wry face when he saw his chief reaching for one of the papers.

“Can’t you forget that sort of thing?” he asked, in an injured tone. “I was hoping you would until we got well started, at least.”

“What’s the trouble?” Nick asked, in a bewildered tone. “Oh, I see what you are driving at! You are afraid I’ll see something interesting in the line of crimes and mysteries, and decide at the last minute to stay at home? Is that the idea?”

His assistant nodded gloomily. “Correct,” he answered. “I never know which way you are going to jump, or at what moment. When I’m trying to get you off for a holiday, especially, I feel the greatest responsibility. You have such a way of changing your mind, and, if you don’t, somebody usually bobs up with a case that you find irresistible. You’ve been working your head off for months, and you are run down; you know you are.” Chick grinned. “You are not exactly at the breaking point yet,” he went on, “but you are just a little stale, and that won’t do, you know. Any day something may break that will require your keenest brain work, and your last ounce of strength and agility. Of course, things will turn up; of course, you’ll have all sorts of calls every day, and if you allow yourself to read the papers, you’ll run across plenty of things that will prove fascinating to you. Can’t you cut yourself loose, though—absolutely?”

“I’ve done harder things than that, grandmother,” Nick answered, “but I really don’t see the necessity for that sort of total abstinence. If you think I’m going to cut out all newspapers for two weeks, you’re very much mistaken. I’ve promised to go, though, and I’m going—unless, of course, something turns up that is altogether too big to neglect.”

He opened the paper, whereupon Chick gave an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

“What is to be is to be, I suppose,” the younger detective murmured; “or, in more up-to-date form, she goes as she lays.”

It may be inferred, therefore, that he was far from surprised, when his chief gave a startled exclamation a few moments later.

“Well,” Chick asked pessimistically, “what have you struck now? We are not going away, I suppose?”

“Of course we are, you idiot!” Nick answered excitedly. “You’ll agree with me, though, I’m sure, that it would have been a calamity if we had missed this. It looks as if we had had our last tussle with ‘Green-eye’ Gordon.”

Chick’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Has Gordon died in prison?”

Nick nodded soberly. “He was burned to death last night in a fire that destroyed one wing of Clinton Prison,” he replied, his eye hastily running over the rest of the article.

Presently the paper was passed to Chick. This, in part, was what the latter read.

CHAPTER II.
“GREEN-EYE” GORDON.

“Shortly after ten o’clock last night fire was discovered in the laundry at Clinton Prison. The blaze spread with surprising rapidity, and as the laundry was in the basement of one of the main wings of three tiers of cells above it, the lives of many of the convicts were soon seen to be in danger.

“Under the circumstances, it is surprising that more lives were not lost, but the best information obtainable at the present time is that three of the inmates were fatally burned—including the clever and infamous Green-eye Gordon—that many were injured or temporarily overcome, and that one took advantage of the excitement to escape.

“As soon as it was seen that the fire was beyond control, so far as the prison’s fire-fighting facilities were concerned, and that there was danger of asphyxiation from the dense smoke, the cells of each tier in the threatened wing were unlocked simultaneously, and there was a general exodus of frightened prisoners. The scene defies description, for the delay in opening the cells had given the trapped men an opportunity to work themselves up into a frenzy, and, as a result, the guards were powerless to handle them.

“A general jail delivery might have followed if the convicts had realized their power, but fear had driven everything else out of their minds for the time being, and in consequence, only one man, Convict No. 9,371, made his escape. He is known to the world beyond the gray walls as “Shang” Libby, a yegg, who had made his headquarters at Buffalo. Libby must have followed one of the guards when the latter left the inclosure for help, and having waited until the door of freedom had been opened, he quietly struck the guard down and passed through. He was one of those who had hastily dressed himself in the prison uniform and unless he can manage to get other clothing there is no doubt that he will soon be rounded up.”

Then followed a long account of the fire, and references to those who had been killed or seriously injured. The article ended with the following:

“The death of Ernest Gordon, widely known as Green-eye Gordon, was the most ignominious one, and hardly in keeping with this notorious criminal’s career. There was nothing spectacular about it. Gordon might have been expected to play a conspicuous part at such a time—to rally the prisoners for a concerted attempt at escape, for instance—but he does not seem to have distinguished himself in any such way. Indeed, it would appear that his daring and initiative left him at the last, for there seems no very good reason for his death, when most of his fellow prisoners escaped.

“Of course, some accident must have happened to him, for he was found trodden to death by the others in their bestial rush. His face disfigured beyond recognition.

“Gordon hailed from New York, and those who know have long classed him as one of the cleverest and most dangerous criminals this country has ever produced. He came of a good family, and was well educated, but early showed a tendency to criminal pursuits. Apparently he reformed, however, and for several years was employed by one of the great detective agencies.

“In this capacity he showed himself to be very able and daring, so much so that he advanced rapidly, and long enjoyed the utmost confidence of his employers. In the end, however, it was learned that he had been using his position for his own ends, and had really never given up his career of crime. He must have known that a storm was brewing, for, as usual, he managed to get away a few jumps ahead.

“After that, thanks to the invaluable experience he had gained as a detective, he turned his attention to much more ambitious and lucrative pursuits, soon becoming one of the most troublesome thorns in the side of the police of this city and elsewhere. Gordon always was versatile, and handled many kinds of crime with remarkable success. Toward the last, however, he developed something approaching a specialty in the shape of blackmail on a large scale. He seemed to have an uncanny facility for learning the secrets of the wealthy and prominent, and using them for purposes of blackmail.

“Crimes of this sort are not easy to establish in a legal way, or to punish, for the victims seldom raise an outcry. Nevertheless, that lifelong foe of crime and criminals, Nicholas Carter, took up the trail, and finally brought Gordon to bay. The capture and trial of two years ago are doubtless fresh in the minds of many newspaper readers.

“Gordon acquired his nickname of Green Eye from the fact that he had a pair of peculiar, rather nondescript gray eyes, which were said to emit a green light when the man was angry or excited. In addition, his eyes showed an inclination to cross at such times, although perfectly normal at all others. In fact, it is claimed that these distinguishing characteristics more than once served to identify the clever rogue, whose remarkable histrionic ability and skill at make-up would otherwise have enabled him to defy detection.”

Of course, neither of the detectives read all of this. They did not need to, for they knew a great deal more about Ernest Gordon than any one else could have told them.

Chick followed his chief’s example in glancing through the article and getting the main points that were new to him. Then he looked up with an odd expression.

“Well, it certainly sounds final enough,” he remarked. “I find it hard to believe, though, that Green Eye is dead, and that he died in such a way.”

“It is somewhat difficult to credit it,” Nick agreed. “That’s the way things frequently happen, though. Fate isn’t always dramatic in its methods according to our theatrical standards. No, it seems safe enough to believe that Ernest Gordon won’t give us any more trouble, and I find a certain amount of relief in the thought. I’m willing to confess now that there were times when I doubted my ability to bring him to account. In other words, I felt myself nearer defeat at his hands than I had ever done in any other case.”

The detective pulled out his watch, glanced at it, and threw his napkin aside. “We must hustle if we are going to catch that train,” he announced.

Five minutes later he and Chick were whirled away to the station. Their well-earned vacation had begun, but they were far from carefree.

The thought of Ernest Gordon persisted in haunting their minds, and somehow it seemed to dull the edge of their anticipations.

CHAPTER III.
NOT SO DEAD, AFTER ALL.

Two days later a striking-looking, conspicuously well-groomed man presented himself at Nick Carter’s door.

He did not give his name, which is not to be wondered at under the circumstances, for the caller was Green-eye Gordon—not his ghost, but the man himself, substantial flesh and blood, escaped convict, and first-class criminal.

For once Chick’s intuitions had been keener than his chief’s. The younger detective had been inclined to question the validity of Gordon’s death in the absence of any more conclusive testimony than that given in the first accounts of the fire. Nick, however, had been in a mood to discourage such skepticism—perhaps because of that relief to which he had confessed.

The fact was that it was Green Eye who had escaped, and not the yegg from Buffalo. Gordon had stumbled over the latter’s body during that mad rush for safety. The yegg was by no means dead at the time, but had been overcome by the smoke, and, without a moment’s hesitation, Gordon had determined to profit by the encounter.

He had no definite plan, but it was characteristic of him that whereas the others were interested only in escaping the flames, he was looking for the opportunity to escape from the prison itself, and was prepared to profit by every promising circumstance.

It occurred to him at once that an exchange of coats would be to his advantage, and he proceeded at once to make the exchange, stripping off the unconscious man’s coat, and putting his own halfway on in place of it.

The reason for this may be easily guessed. The gray coats—for stripes are no longer in vogue in New York State—bore each man’s prison number, and, therefore, by such a simple exchange, identities could be shifted temporarily.

Gordon’s number was 39,470, and, of course, it was known to all the keepers and prisoners as standing for the identity of the formidable Green Eye. The other man’s number, on the other hand, had no particular significance, for the yegg was an ordinary criminal, of comparatively little intelligence, who had not made himself conspicuous in any way, either in or out of the prison.

Consequently, if there should prove to be later on any reason to believe that Libby was missing, his absence would not be likely to cause any great commotion, for it would be taken for granted that his capture was only a question of time.

Gordon had reasoned shrewdly, as usual, and had thus, by his own promptness and resourcefulness, put himself in the way of the luck that subsequently favored him.

He had feigned an injury, and had thrown himself down in the prison courtyard, after taking care to stagger close to the main gates, and a shadow of the projecting section of the wall. There he was ignored, for the flames in the burning wing were mounting higher and higher, and all the men were not yet out of it.

It was some minutes before Green Eye’s chance had come, but it did come, as he had felt sure it would. One of the guards rushed past him and approached a small door at one side of the big, double gates. Evidently the man had been sent on some important errand, which would take him outside the prison walls.

The keeper looked behind him with a wary eye to make sure that he was not followed. He had fears of a general break for liberty, but apparently no one was paying any attention to him.

Therefore he excitedly inserted a key in the lock, and, after some fumbling, opened the door. It was then that Gordon had pounced upon him.

One blow had been enough. It caught the unfortunate guard behind the ear and sent him hurtling through the opening. In a moment the convict had followed.

Gordon dashed across the road before the vanguard of the crowd from the town had reached the spot, and, dodging through the extensive lumber yard, made his way to the outskirts of Dannemora, his goal being a certain tumble-down, abandoned house.

There he found what he sought—a moisture-proof box of considerable size, containing a complete outfit of clothing, an automatic of the latest model, and no less than five hundred dollars in gold.

We have hinted that Ernest Gordon was no ordinary criminal, and the truth of that has doubtless begun to shine through this narrative. Here, at any rate, is striking evidence of it.

Green Eye had always preferred to work alone, as many of the most successful criminals have done. He had friends, however, and one of these had carried out his directions. The gates of Clinton Prison had not even closed behind Gordon, when the latter had begun to plan for a possible escape, and the planting of this box played an important part in the arrangement.

During his many months in the prison, Green Eye had not succeeded in liberating himself, but now that the fire had enabled him to escape, the box was waiting for him, thanks to his unusual foresight.

Thus it was that he had completely eluded pursuit. The authorities were looking for a commonplace, unimaginative yegg, who went by the name of Shang Libby, and who might be expected to retain some, at least, of his prison garments. It is little wonder, therefore, that they failed to capture the polished and superdaring Gordon, who lost no time in starting for New York City in a sleeping car.

The fugitive’s first thought when he reached the metropolis was one of revenge. He had no idea of killing Nick Carter for the part the latter had played in his downfall, for murder had never been in his line. There are many other kinds of revenge, however, and Gordon was determined to avail himself of one or more of them.

He wished to humiliate Nick to the utmost, if possible, and, incidentally, to do so in such a way that his success would line his pockets with gold.

He had a plan, when he presented himself at Nick’s door, but it was lacking in many details, for these he had decided to leave to the inspiration of the moment. In any case, however, he meant to palm himself off as a would-be client, and, having thus gained the detective’s confidence, to proceed with the rest of the scheme, or some modification of it.

“Is Mr. Carter in?” he asked anxiously, when the butler opened the door.

“No, sir,” the servant replied, noting with approval the visitor’s apparent prosperity and air of importance. “Mr. Carter is out of town at present.”

“Is it possible? For how long?”

“He went away day before yesterday, and expected to be absent for two weeks.”

“How unfortunate! I have a case of the utmost importance—the sort of thing no one else can handle,” the caller said, with the semblance of profound disappointment. “One of his assistants might help me to some extent, however, or bring the matter to Mr. Carter’s attention by telegraph.”

Again the butler shook his head regretfully. He was being very indiscreet, but he did not suspect it for a moment, owing to the impression the stranger made upon him.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, too, sir,” he answered. “There is no one at home who could attend to you. It’s the first time it has happened in years.”

The stranger seemed greatly distressed.

“This is terrible!” he cried. “I don’t know what I shall do if I can’t get hold of Mr. Carter. I would be very sorry to break up his vacation, but I’m sure if he knew the circumstances, he would not hesitate for a moment. Some very prominent people are involved, and, unless something is done speedily, there will be nothing short of a national scandal. Surely, you will give me Mr. Carter’s address, will you not?”

The butler hesitated—and fell.

CHAPTER IV.
THE DETECTIVE’S “HALFWAY HOUSE.”

Chick had been in favor of cutting off all communication with the detective’s residence in New York. It was not because he himself felt any great need of a holiday, but rather because he had an exaggerated notion that his chief was badly in need of a change.

Nick, however, had vetoed this suggestion, and left things largely to his butler’s discretion. The butler had been in his service for years, and had shown himself by no means a fool.

“If anything big develops,” Nick had told him, “do not hesitate to telegraph for me, or have me called on the long distance—if there isn’t time to write. I don’t want to miss an important case.”

The butler remembered these words now—and forgot that he did not even know the caller’s name. Carried away by the man’s air of authority, he blurted out the desired information.

“Mr. Carter is staying at the Buck’s Head Inn, Little Saranac Lake, sir,” he said.

“Many thanks! That’s all I need. I’m sure Mr. Carter will respond at once when he hears what’s in the wind,” Gordon declared importantly, and having made a note of the address, thanked the butler again, and returned to the waiting taxi.

Green Eye had seen a great light as a result of the butler’s incautious revelations, and all his previous plans had been discarded. In their place a new one was growing—a plan that promised to set a record for daring, and to bring the detective nearer to professional shipwreck than he had been in all of his career.

The new plan did not involve an interview with Nick. On the contrary, it was built upon the fact that the detective was hundreds of miles away, buried in the woods.

Therefore, as may be guessed, Green Eye did not make use of the address the butler had given him. He was quite satisfied to have created the impression that he intended to communicate with Nick at once, and that the latter might return in the course of a day or two.

The following morning an individual climbed the stairs leading to one of Nick’s “halfway houses,” that particular one being on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.

Nick Carter maintained a number of these places in different parts of the city, and in each of them he kept several complete changes of clothing and a supply of wigs, false mustaches, beards, make-up articles, and the like.

Their mission is perfectly obvious. Under ordinary circumstances, it was safe enough for the detective and his assistants to disguise themselves at home, and to return to their headquarters at their pleasure. When they were handling an unusually delicate case, however, or dealing with exceptionally clever lawbreakers, they found it necessary to take further precautions, and these so-called halfway houses then came in handy.

In other words, the secret bases of supplies—each of which had two exits—made it possible for them to leave and return to their headquarters openly, and without disguise, although the intervening hours might be devoted to the most relentless shadowing, carried on under all sorts of guises.

The man who climbed the stairs at the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street place, therefore, might easily have been Nick in the act of returning from some such expedition. He did not look in the least like the great detective, but that proved nothing, and his actions went far to indicate that he was Nick or one of the latter’s assistants.

He boldly approached the door of the room, the location of which did not seem to give him the slightest trouble, despite the fact that there was nothing on the door to guide him. He seemed to have some little difficulty in getting the door open, to be sure; but, after working at the lock for two or three minutes, he gained entrance.

Many criminals would have given a great deal to know the location of one of those rooms, but Nick did not dream that one rascal had long since discovered the halfway house in Harlem.

The man who had gained entrance by picking the lock was Green-eye Gordon, of course.

He had learned of the place shortly before Nick had caught him, two years or more back, and had been more or less uncertain as to the present use of the room. The detective might have given it up in the interval, for all he knew, but he had resolved to put his knowledge to the test, and now he was rewarded, for a glance about the place showed him that it was still employed by the detective.

Rows of clothing hung in orderly array on hooks along the walls. At one side there was a long mirror, which enabled one to view oneself from head to feet, and between the windows, at the rear, was a dressing table, which looked as if it might belong to some musical-comedy star, so cluttered was it with make-up materials of all sorts.

It was nearly an hour later when Ernest Gordon let himself out, locked the door behind him—after some further effort—and sauntered downstairs.

Another complete transformation had taken place in his appearance. He was no longer the hunted criminal who had escaped from Clinton Prison, no longer the dressy individual who had presented himself at the detective’s, the day before, and least of all did he look like the man who had ascended those stairs some fifty minutes previously.

Now, to all intents and purposes, he was Nick Carter himself.

Not only was he wearing one of the excellent suits the detective kept for his more respectable disguises, but in build, walk, features, and even expression, he was as much like Nick Carter as one pea is like another.

His astounding plan had ripened into action.

CHAPTER V.
IN NICK’S SHOES.

The butler happened to be out ordering supplies when the detective’s front bell rang, and, as Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, was near the door, she answered it.

On the tip of her tongue she had the answer which she had already given to several inquiries—that the detective was out of town. Therefore, her amazement may be imagined when she found—as she supposed—that it was Nick himself who was outside.

“For goodness’ sake, sir!” she ejaculated, starting in surprise. “What in the world are you doing back so soon?”

The masquerader smiled one of Nick’s characteristically genial smiles.

“I was called back, I’m sorry to say,” he answered, his voice taking on the detective’s familiar tones. “Joseph furnished my address yesterday, I believe, and the man he gave it to wired me to come back. The case was so important that I felt I had to. I hope to return, though, in a few days, and, as I have everything here, of course, I didn’t bring any baggage.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the housekeeper. “I feared it would be just like this, but I hoped you would stay this time. Didn’t Mr. Chickering come back with you?”

“No, I left him at Little Saranac, but shall send for him if I need him.”

As they had been speaking, the housekeeper had instinctively stepped aside, and Gordon had passed her. Now he started up the stairs, in the direction of the study.

“You’ll have some lunch ready at the usual time?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“Of course, sir,” was the reply; and that was all that was said.

If the new arrival had been Nick himself, he would have smilingly apologized to Mrs. Peters for having broken in so unexpectedly upon her well-earned relaxation, but Green Eye was altogether too selfish to think of such things.

Thus far he had played his part very well, but there were many pitfalls in his path, and there was no knowing at what moment he might fall into one of them. His eyes were not Nick’s eyes, and his disposition was not Nick’s disposition—far from it, in fact.

At any moment his innate harshness and tyranny might assert themselves.

Moreover, his habits were unlike those of the detective. He smoked much more, for one thing, and he drank. Nick, to be sure, had consumed many a glass of beer and wine—for effect and under protest—but he had no real liking for anything of the sort, and no one had had a better opportunity than he to note the evil effects of drink.

Naturally, Gordon had resolved to deny himself whenever he was under the eye of those who were familiar with Nick’s habits, but it remained to be seen whether he would succeed in keeping to that resolution.

Already he had forgotten one little thing which might have caused him embarrassment, and might still do so, for that matter. He had meant to offer some plausible explanation of his failure to let himself in with a latchkey, but he had forgotten all about it at the time, and now it might seem strange if he brought up the subject.

He had not come straight to the house from the changing room on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, but had shown himself in one or two places where Nick was well known, his idea being to see if his disguise would pass inspection elsewhere before submitting himself to the scrutiny of Nick’s household. That had consumed some time; consequently, the luncheon hour was near when he arrived at the house.

He was on fire with eagerness to rummage in Nick’s desk, hunt about in his file cases, and rifle his safe, but he knew that he could not accomplish much before lunch, and he did not wish to make himself conspicuous by passing over that meal. Perhaps he could accomplish something, however.

With that idea in view, he approached one of the detective’s metal file cases. The drawers were locked, but he found a means of opening them, and the drawer he first pulled out was that devoted to the letter “G.”

A few moments spent in thumbing over the big cards filed there brought the desired one to light. It was that devoted to himself, and bore, in addition to a lot of closely written information, a photograph and a set of facsimile finger prints.

Gordon seemed to take a grim delight in reading the accurate description of himself, and the careful details concerning his career, characteristic methods, and so on.

“Not bad!” he muttered presently. “In fact, it’s a little too true for comfort. I think I shall have to withdraw it.”

And going over to the wastebasket, he deliberately tore the card into small bits and dropped them into the receptacle.

After that he returned to the file case, fingered over some of the other cards, and then leaned thoughtfully on the opened drawer.

“There are hundreds and thousands of cases recorded here,” he mused, “but apparently they are not the most important ones, and it’s safe to say that Carter isn’t keeping records of his most confidential affairs in such an easily accessible place. I have no doubt I could milk lots of these fellows for tidy little sums, but I’m after big game just now—not rabbits.”

His gaze strayed in the direction of the detective’s safe, and a more calculating look came into his eyes.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you hold the records I’m looking for—or some of them,” he muttered aloud, addressing the big safe. “If not, you may contain something else of interest. At any rate, I’m going to find out, the first chance I get.”

CHAPTER VI.
AN INTERRUPTION.

The audacity of Green-eye Gordon’s venture has doubtless been apparent from the beginning, but now the real purpose of his impersonation has begun to be discernible.

He was not there in Nick Carter’s shoes, in undisturbed possession of the detective’s study, for the mere satisfaction involved in such a daring masquerade. Of course, the experience was a stimulating one, and the clever rascal chuckled to himself every time he pictured Nick’s face when the detective learned the truth. It was something more practical, though, that had brought him there.

Naturally, if he succeeded in gaining access to the safe, he would not be above appropriating to his own uses whatever money and valuables he might find there, but his desires even went beyond that—far beyond it.

He knew that Nick had handled many of the most delicate cases that had ever developed in this country, and was the custodian of more secrets than had come into the possession of any other American.

Among those secrets he had no doubt were many of such a nature that those concerned would feel compelled to part with large sums of money, in order that their secrets might be kept. Some of them doubtless were men and women now wealthy or distinguished, who had some secret connected with their past lives which they would go to almost any lengths to keep the world from knowing. In other cases, the guilty might be dead, or unable to pay, but the records would probably give the names of relatives, friends, or former business associates who might be successfully blackmailed.

That was it—blackmail on a huge and hitherto unprecedented scale.

The accomplished scoundrel had made up his mind that Nick Carter’s records would prove nothing less than a gold mine, and he meant to work that mine for all it was worth in the next week or ten days. Nick might have destroyed the most confidential and dangerous of these records, but Gordon did not believe that to be the case.

“They are too valuable to him in his work,” he told himself. “And, even if they were not, the keeping of records gets to be a habit. Of course, he may realize that some of them would be more dangerous than a few tons of dynamite, if they should fall into the wrong hands, and he may have placed the ones of that description in some safe-deposit vault. If he has, that will mean much more trouble, but if I can locate the vault, I ought to be able to trick those in charge of it into giving me access to the box, even if I can’t produce the key. Am I not Carter himself, and are not keys lost or mislaid in the best-regulated families?

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary, though. I trust I shall find what I want right in this room.”

He was summoned to luncheon then, but he came through the ordeal that followed with flying colors. Joseph, the detective’s butler, served him in person, and evidently found nothing more suspicious than Mrs. Peters had done. Gordon still had himself well in hand, and, after the brief greetings were over, little was said.

“I’ll eat what’s set before me,” Green Eye had decided. “The servants are well trained, and ought to know Carter’s likes and dislikes by this time; therefore I can’t go far wrong in eating what they serve, whether I like it or not. It won’t be easy to deny myself, and to keep on the alert, but I shall have to pay some penalties, I suppose, for aspiring to be the great and exalted Nick Carter.” And he grinned at the thought.

After luncheon the impostor hurried back upstairs, and hunted up a box of Nick’s favorite Havana cigars. A handful of them underwent a careful selection, and a more or less appreciative sniffing before being transferred to his pocket.

“Not so bad,” he commented mentally. “A little too dry, though, and I’ve smoked better.”

Nevertheless, he did not seem averse to smoking these, one after another.

“I shall have to go out before long, I suppose,” he decided. “It’s understood that I’ve been called back on important business, and, as it isn’t convenient for my new client to call on me here, I’ll be expected to meet him elsewhere, and to make a noise like action.”

That did not deter him, however, from making an immediate descent upon the safe, but he soon found that he would be obliged to defer serious activities in that connection. He had hoped to be able to open the safe by merely putting one ear to the door and listening to the fall of the tumblers in the lock, but five or ten minutes’ effort convinced him that that was out of the question.

“It can’t be done with a lock like this,” he concluded, with a muttered imprecation. “It looks to me as if I would have to force my way in if I’m going to get in at all. That will be decidedly risky, at best, but I think I can do it quietly enough, and, after it’s over, I ought to be able to find some means of concealing my handiwork. Not just now, though, thanks. I’ll take something a little easier, first.”

And with that he turned his attention to the desk.

The top had been cleared of its accumulation of papers before the detective’s departure, and the drawers were all locked, but Green Eye was provided with certain handy little tools. To be sure, it took two or three minutes to open each drawer, but soon the contents of three or four of them lay at his disposal in plain sight, and he determined to examine these papers and books before opening the other drawers.

He was engaged in this absorbing occupation, when the lower bell rang and roused him with a start.

“Wonder who that is?” he asked himself apprehensively, then shrugged his shoulders. “This won’t do!” he muttered. “If I’m going to be as nervous as a cat at every sound, I had better give up. What difference does it make who it is; I’m master of the situation.”

He listened attentively, and heard Joseph go to the door, after which there was a murmur of voices, followed by steps on the stairs. Presently, the butler knocked and entered.

“I thought I told you at luncheon that I was still out of town,” Gordon said angrily. “I came back for this one case, nothing else, and I don’t want to be bothered by every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

“I didn’t forget, sir, I assure you,” Joseph said apologetically. “It’s Mr. Cray, though, and I felt you would want to make an exception in his case. There’s a gentleman with him.”

Gordon knew what that meant, for he had studied Nick Carter almost as thoroughly as the detective had studied him. Moreover, had he not himself figured not inconspicuously in detective circles not many years before? Consequently, he knew that the Cray referred to was Jack Cray, a former police detective, who for years had been in business for himself, and who, curiously enough, was a close friend of Nick’s.

The two were about as unlike as possible, but Cray, big, methodical, tireless, and brave to the point of recklessness, was a fine example of his type, and had won Nick’s friendship and assistance, giving, in return, a rare gratitude and loyalty.

Nick had thrown many cases in Cray’s way, and, on the other hand, had found his big, lumbering friend of considerable assistance now and then. In fact, they worked together unusually well, for Cray had all the plodding methods of the police department at his command, to supplement Carter’s swift intuitions, and the ex-police detective—unlike many of his kind—was always ready to follow Nick’s leadership, and defer to the latter’s better judgment.

Should the bogus Nick Carter see Cray, though? He did not in the least fear discovery at Cray’s hands, but the interview might lead to something embarrassing. On the other hand, it might be most fortunate.

Obviously, Cray had brought one of his clients to Nick, and that meant that the big fellow felt himself more or less out of his depth, and wished to consult with his brilliant friend.

If the case were important enough, it would be worth while for Green Eye to look into it. He felt himself quite capable of solving almost any puzzle if he chose to solve it, but, aside from that, there was a possibility of pickings—of blackmail again. But much depended upon the client.

“Who is the other man?” the criminal asked eagerly. “Did Cray say?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Mr. Griswold—Mr. Lane A. Griswold.”

The man behind the desk whistled softly, and a gleam came into his eyes.

CHAPTER VII.
THE RASCAL’S FIRST CLIENT.

Green Eye’s decision had been an immediate one when he heard the second man’s name, for Lane A. Griswold was several times a millionaire, and the owner of the New York Chronicle and Observer, one of the biggest and most influential of the country morning papers—the first and most conspicuous link in the chain of daily publications which now stretched all the way across the continent.

Millionaires were worth cultivating, according to Gordon’s philosophy, and he reasoned that if he could get any sort of a hold upon this one, it might mean the greatest stroke of luck in his life.

It was well to be on the safe side, however, and he knew that Cray sometimes exhibited an unexpected degree of intelligence. In the light of that thought, he took an automatic from one of the open drawers, examined it to make sure that it was loaded and in first-class condition, and then dropped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat.

After that he closed the drawers, darkened the room, took up his cigar, and leaned back in his chair.

“Nick Carter” was ready for another case—as ready as a spider is for a fly.

The face of the man was calm, his expression indifferent, but it is probable that his heart was beating at an unusually rapid rate, and that more or less fear was lurking behind that noncommittal exterior.

It would have been strange, indeed, had it not been the case, for, with all his daring, this was no commonplace, everyday affair for Ernest Gordon. He might remind himself as much as he pleased that he was “officially” dead, burned in the fire at Clinton Prison, and that no one would be looking for him for that reason, but the many months he had spent within those grim walls had told upon him physically and mentally.

In other words, he was not yet his old self. The unnatural conditions of prison life so lately left behind had incapacitated him to a certain extent for this abrupt plunge into the life outside, especially a plunge of such an interesting character, yet he gave no sign of all this, and, unless something unforeseen developed, he would doubtless gain confidence and ability as time went on.

For that matter, he had already planned and begun to carry out a scheme which would have daunted any other criminal in the country.

The supposed detective regarded his visitors with lowered eyes as he rose languidly from his chair.

Jack Cray’s red face was redder than usual with excitement, and there was something about his manner that suggested he had brought the famous newspaper owner there for no trivial reason.

The latter was a man rather over medium height, dressed in the very latest fashion, but with a trace of untidiness that suggested a careless valet. His face was inclined to be sallow, and the light eyes, prominent and rather jerky in their movements, had heavy bags under them, despite the fact that their owner must still have been under fifty.

For the rest, his chin was firm, perhaps a little pugnacious, and his bearing was that of a man who fully realizes his importance.

“This is Mr. Lane A. Griswold, the owner of the Chronicle and Observer, you know, Carter,” explained the flustered Cray. “Mr. Griswold, my friend, Nicholas Carter.”

Gordon kept his eyelids partially drawn down as he greeted the millionaire. It was a trick of Carter’s when thinking. In fact, the detective often closed his eyes altogether at such times. Gordon had noted this, and was making use of it in order to conceal the color of his eyes, the one weak point about his impersonation, physically considered.

Cray was inclined to clip his words short, and leave out as many of them as he could, thereby giving an impression of unusual directness, and a haste that cannot stop for trifles.

“Very important case, this one, Mr. Griswold has brought me,” he said. “Delicate matter, too—decidedly. Did little job for him once, so he brought me this. Thought I’d better let you in on it, though.”

Gordon nodded slightly, as if all this was quite a matter of course.

“I shall be glad to hear what it is about, Mr. Griswold,” he said. “Of course, I’m very busy, as always, but——”

“I understand that,” the newspaper proprietor broke in. “I’ll make this well worth while for both of you, though, if you can handle it without publicity.”

Green Eye smiled. “That sounds rather strange from the lips of our greatest apostle of publicity,” he commented.

Griswold gave a gesture of impatience. “Perhaps so,” he admitted. “I can’t help that, though. Facts are facts, and this would be most embarrassing to me if any of my competitors should get hold of it, or even if it were spread by word of mouth.”

He fixed Gordon with his eyes, looking him up and down, as if scrutinizing an applicant for the position of office boy—supposing a millionaire would descend to such trivialities.

But the bogus detective stood the scrutiny very well. To tell the truth, Ernest Gordon was really beginning to enjoy himself. Griswold’s first words could hardly have sounded more promising. They suggested all sorts of delightful and golden possibilities.

It seemed perfectly plain that this was just the sort of thing he was looking for—the case of a wealthy, prominent man, who had something to hide, and was willing to pay liberally to those who would keep his secret.

“I can trust you implicitly, whether you succeed or fail, to reveal no word of what I’m about to tell you?” Griswold asked sharply.

The man behind the desk shrugged his shoulders in a way that was characteristic of Nick Carter on occasion.

“I’ve been in the confidence of presidents and senators, ambassadors and noblemen—and millionaires,” he returned, tacking on the word “millionaires” as if it were an afterthought. “In fact, I may claim some knowledge of the secrets of royalty.”

It was all perfectly true from Nick Carter’s standpoint, but the detective himself would not have put it in that way, or boasted of it at all.

“Of course, you may confide in me or not, as you please,” Green Eye continued, warming up as he gained self-confidence.

“Tut-tut!” ejaculated Griswold, with a somewhat pained expression. He had come, with reason, to believe that wealth would buy anything, and he was not quite prepared for this show of indifference. “I meant no offense, Mr. Carter, you may be sure. As I said, though, this is a very ticklish business——”

“We’ll take that for granted,” Gordon quietly interrupted. “Were you going to give me the details, Mr. Griswold?”

His cool, almost insolent tone gave no hint of the turmoil of impatience raging within.

What was he about to hear, and what use would he make of it—in other words, how much could he make it yield him in cold, hard cash, or crackling bank notes?

CHAPTER VIII.
THE ABSCONDING TREASURER.

For a time it looked as if the millionaire newspaper proprietor meant to resent the supposed detective’s effrontery in some way, but he managed to swallow his wrath, and, after reseating himself and angrily fingering his watch chain, got down to business.

Probably he had decided that it would be very poor policy to have words with a man of Nick’s reputation, especially when he was badly in need of the detective’s services.

After clearing his throat, he began:

“I have explained it all to Mr. Cray, here, but perhaps I had better go over it again, in my own way. The case is in connection with the relief fund which my papers, headed by the Chronicle and Observer, have raised for the Hattontown sufferers.”

Gordon nodded almost imperceptibly. The terrible fire at Hattontown, which had destroyed a large part of one of New England’s busiest little manufacturing cities, had occurred while he was still in prison. He had read of it, however, in the papers to which he had access in the prison library, and for that reason he was familiar with the main facts.

Hundreds of residences and business blocks had been destroyed, with an appalling property loss and a considerable loss of life, as well. Thousands of persons, men, women, and children, had been rendered homeless and penniless.

That was where Griswold’s chain of newspapers had taken a hand. Always quick to respond to such emergencies—largely, it is to be feared, for the advertising it gave them—they had started to raise a fund for the destitute victims, and, thanks to their tremendous combined circulations, the amount had soon attained imposing proportions.

Part of it had been paid out for the immediate needs of the victims, but most of it, according to the latest reports Gordon had seen, was being retained for more permanent aid, to provide work, homes, et cetera.

What could there be about this fund, Green Eye wondered, that required investigation, particularly an investigation prompted by the proprietor of the newspapers responsible for it.

“As usual,” Griswold went on. “I started the fund by subscribing five thousand dollars, and many men of substance have contributed large sums, although none so large as that. You may or may not know that the receipts to date total a little over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“A very neat sum, indeed,” Gordon commented, “and one that is very creditable to those who have contributed, especially those who have done so anonymously.”

He could not resist that slight dig, for he knew perfectly well that Lane A. Griswold had never been guilty of making an anonymous contribution in his life. He was never satisfied unless his name could head the list.

Perhaps this baiting was unwise, but Green Eye did not think so. A little of it, he felt sure, would be good for the millionaire, and give him a wholesome fear of the supposed detective. He decided, though, to let it go at that, for the present, at least.

As for Griswold, after swallowing hard two or three times, he evidently determined to ignore the thrust.

“But how could a criminal case, delicate or otherwise, have arisen out of such a philanthropic enterprise?” Green Eye queried innocently.

If pressed, he could have given a pretty shrewd guess, but it suited his purpose just then to take another course.

“It’s simple enough—too infernally simple!” Griswold retorted feelingly. “The money has been stolen, that’s all!”

Gordon had suspected something of the sort, but it was pleasing to hear it put into words. A hundred-thousand-dollar relief fund reposing safely in some bank vault was of only theoretical interest to him, along with the hundreds of millions stored in similar vaults within a radius of a few miles of Nick Carter’s study. A hundred thousand dollars—or anywhere near that amount—in the hands of a fugitive from justice was a very different matter, however. There were possibilities in that situation.

“Ah, I’m not surprised!” Gordon remarked calmly. “How and when was the money taken? I assume you don’t know by whom?”

“But I do—I know only too well,” Griswold told him promptly.

“You do?”

“There’s no room for doubt about it. The money was taken by a man named John Simpson, an old and trusted employee of the Chronicle and Observer.”

“How did he happen to have access to it, may I ask?”

“I made him the treasurer of the fund. I never dreamed of anything of this sort. He had served in a similar capacity more than once in the past, and always with the most scrupulous fidelity.”

“But how did he have possession of the whole fund, if it was collected by different newspapers?”

“Daily drafts were sent to the Chronicle and Observer, as the parent newspaper of the chain. Our New York office is the general headquarters, you know.”

“I see. Simpson is missing, is he, along with the money?”

CHAPTER IX.
CHANCE PLAYS INTO GORDON’S HANDS.

The newspaper proprietor nodded gloomily in response to Gordon’s question.

“Yes,” he answered, “Simpson disappeared four days ago.”

“Has he a family?”

“A wife.”

“And she knows nothing about him, or professes to know nothing?”

“I feel sure she’s as much in the dark as we are.”

“Perhaps—perhaps not,” murmured the bogus detective, joining the tips of his fingers as he had seen Nick do. “Please tell me now how the fellow managed to get hold of the money, to get it out of the bank or banks in which it had been deposited to the credit of the fund. Surely, his wasn’t the only signature required, was it? The checks drawn against the fund must have been countersigned by some one else?”

“They were—by Mr. Driggs, the vice president of our organization.”

“Then how——”

“In a very ingenious way. I wouldn’t have thought John Simpson capable of so much adroitness. I was away at the time, but he prevailed upon Mr. Driggs to withdraw the fund from the two New York banks in which it had been deposited—the Broadway Exchange Bank, and the Hudson National—and to transfer everything to the Cotton and Wool National at Hattontown.”

“Thus making it possible to deal with only one bank, and that a smaller one whose officials presumably were not so wary,” Green Eye commented judicially. “What excuse did he give?”