TOYING WITH FATE;
OR,
Nick Carter’s Narrow Shave

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.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
79-89 Seventh Avenue

Copyright, 1903
By STREET & SMITH
Toying With Fate
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian.

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The William Wallace Cook stories in the New Fiction Library.

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The Charles Garvice stories in the New Eagle Series.

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The Horatio Alger stories in the Medal and New Medal Libraries.

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The Edward C. Taylor stories in the New Medal Library.

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STREET & SMITH, Publishers
NEW YORK

TOYING WITH FATE.

CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERIOUS OLD MAN.

“Move on, old man, and go home!”

It was the stern voice of one of New York’s finest policemen that uttered these words.

“Home! I wonder where it is?” muttered the old man to whom the policeman had spoken, and a shudder ran through his frame, as he slowly moved down the street.

As he reached the corner near old St. John’s Church, on Varick Street, he paused, rubbed his eyes and gazed dreamily around him.

For some time before the policeman had addressed him he had been standing inside the church, looking through the railings into the churchyard.

His form was bent by decrepitude and sorrow, and his hair was as white as the flaky snow that clung to the steeple of the old church, the bells of which had just sounded the knell of the dying year.

The old man only halted on the corner for a minute, and then, crossing Beach Street, he shuffled along until he reached the center of the block, where he came to a standstill in front of an old-fashioned house, which was unoccupied.

Then, as if a faintness had come over him, he grasped the rusty iron railing to prevent himself falling to the ground, and he closed his eyes, as though the sight of the snow-covered houses was too much for him.

The policeman had followed him at a distance, and was watching him from where he was standing on the corner.

“Poor devil!” muttered the guardian of the peace, as he swung his nightstick back and forth. “I wonder who he is! He seems weak! Perhaps at one time he amounted to something. God save me from ever coming to his condition. I wonder why he stands so long in front of that old empty house, which has been closed for twenty years, to my knowledge! I’ll watch him a while, but I won’t molest him, poor devil!”

As the policeman concluded his soliloquy the old man straightened up and walked up to the door of the house, the old knocker on which he caught hold of and gave it a rap.

But suddenly, as if struck by some painful recollection, his hand fell to his side and he staggered back to the middle of the sidewalk.

“Strange,” the policeman ejaculated, noting this action. “Perhaps he lived there at one time.”

The old man looked up at the house, at which he gazed long and intently.

Then, suddenly arousing himself, he ambled back to the corner, stopping near the policeman. He looked confusedly around him, from the left to the right, and the policeman gazed at him closely, but spoke not a word. On his part, he did not seem to see the man in uniform. He stood bewildered, appearing not to know which way to turn.

“Why don’t you go home, old man?” the policeman asked, this time in a softened tone of voice.

“Home!” the old fellow ejaculated—his voice was like a wail, a heartbroken sob. “Home! where is it?”

“The Lord bless you, man, how can I tell you, if you can’t tell yourself?”

“Twenty years ago—twenty years behind darkened walls—and this——” He muttered the words in such a forlorn tone that the policeman stared at him.

“Your brain is turned, old gentleman.”

The old man laughed and looked up into his questioner’s face with a quizzical expression.

“My brain is clear, my friend,” he replied, in a clear, harsh tone. “I have come from a prison—the world is strangely altered since I was in it before.”

“In it before? Why, what do you mean? I suppose you will try and persuade me that you have been dead and have risen from the grave.”

“Figuratively speaking, I have—I have been dead to the world—in prison at Sing Sing. Mark me well—Sing Sing Prison—for twenty years—to-day I was released. See me now. I am old, decrepit, hardly able to walk. Once I stood erect, my hair was as black as the raven’s wing, and now—look at me, a wreck without home or friends. Wife, children, all gone! I have never seen nor heard of them since the day I was taken out of yonder house a prisoner, by the unjust, hard, and cruel decree of a so-called court of justice. Twenty years! A prisoner, buried alive, as it were.”

“You had committed a crime?”

“No. I was innocent, but powerful conspirators plotted against me—the evidence was perjured—and I—I—was entombed.”

“You say you lived in yonder house twenty years ago?”

“Yes, and no man carried his head higher than I did. I was rich—but bah! what is the use of rehearsing those things to a stranger! Hardened as you are by association with crime, you would not believe my story. You would think that I was romancing. Things have sadly changed in this neighborhood.”

“You may bet they have.”

“Once all these houses were occupied by rich people, but to-day they are the abodes of the poor and the outcast.”

“What is your name?”

“My name! It matters not. Good night.”

“Well, well, keep your secret, old man. God bless you, and may this new year bring you happiness.”

“Happiness! I shall never know that again. Good night, again.”

He moved off slowly, and the policeman watched him until he turned the corner into West Broadway, when he proceeded to patrol his beat.

As the policeman moved away, a dark form came out of a near-by doorway and hurried around the corner.

The man was tall, he wore a long ulster with the collar turned up around his neck, and a slouch hat was pulled down over his eyes. He followed closely in the old man’s trail.

The old man halted several times, and as he did so his form seemed to lose its decrepitude. As the light from the street lamps shone upon his face it could be seen that his eyes glared like two living coals; he threw his hand aloft, and so fierce and startling was the action that the man who was following him halted and shrank back for an instant, as if he had been struck.

“Vengeance!” the old man hissed, and then he started on again.

The street was deserted, save by the old man and the man who was following him.

The former walked on, looking up at the tall warehouses and store buildings, muttering to himself.

More than once he put his hand up to his head and gazed about in a bewildered manner.

His limbs shook under him, for a long time had passed since they had been used to such exertion.

The fresh air came so strangely upon him that he panted for breath.

Suddenly he halted in front of an old-fashioned three-story brick building near Chambers Street. A beacon-shaped red lamp was burning over the doorway, and upon the front pane of glass was painted:

THE RED DRAGON INN.
Established by William Sill—1776.

It was an old landmark in the neighborhood, and it had always been a hostelry. In revolutionary times it was a post roadhouse, and was famous as the headquarters of many of the British officers. During later days it became the resort, at the noonday hour, of many of New York’s most staid and solid merchants, whose places of business were in the vicinity.

At this time the ground floor was occupied by a man who ran a saloon and restaurant, and who rented out the upstairs rooms to transient lodgers. No improvements had been made about the place, and it stood just as it did when it was conducted by its original owner.

As the old man paused in front of the inn the sound of voices and the clinking of glasses came from within. He walked up to the door and opened it. Then he stepped into the saloon, staggered up to the bar and, in a low tone, ordered a glass of toddy, which was supplied to him.

A number of men were seated at the tables, drinking, and none of them paid any attention to the newcomer, who drank his toddy while standing and leaning against the bar.

The old man placed his empty glass back upon the counter, and facing the bartender, said:

“I want a room for the night.”

“There is only one empty,” the bartender replied. “It is in the attic.”

“That will answer my purpose.”

“It will cost you one dollar.”

The old man drew a purse out of his pocket, took out the amount, and handed it to the bartender, who asked:

“Do you want to retire now?”

“I do,” the old man answered.

“I will show you the way up.”

“It won’t be necessary. I am familiar with every room in the house. Many a time I have stopped here in other days. If you will tell me which room I am to occupy, I will go up to it.”

“The second room in the back part of the attic on the left of the stairway is the one. You will find a lamp on a table in the hall on the second floor.”

“All right.”

The old man left the room, while the bartender gazed after him with curiosity. He climbed the stairway and reached the second floor, where he found the lamp, and then proceeded upstairs to the attic room.

An hour after he retired, the house was silent, all the midnight revelers having gone home, and the bartender having closed up the saloon.

New Year’s Day dawned bright and clear.

The proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn opened the barroom, and at nine o’clock the bartender came downstairs.

For a time the two men stood talking.

There were no customers in the place.

At last the bartender asked the proprietor if he had seen anything of the strange old man who had come in after midnight.

The proprietor said that the old man had not appeared.

“Did he request you to call him?” he inquired.

“No,” the bartender answered. “Shall I go up and ask him if he wants breakfast?”

“Yes.”

The bartender ascended to the attic.

The door of the room which the old man had been assigned to stood ajar.

The man knocked, but there was no answer. He pounded again and shouted. Still no answer. Finally the man pushed the door open. A terrible sight met his gaze. Stretched out upon the bed he beheld the old man, with his throat cut from ear to ear. His hands were folded across his breast, and he was covered by the coverlet of the bed. Evidently there had been no struggle.

The bartender uttered a cry of alarm, but he did not enter the room.

As soon as he recovered from his surprise he dashed off downstairs, crying “Murder!” at the top of his voice.

Instantly the house was aroused, and in a short time a great crowd congregated in the street in front of the door.

CHAPTER II.
SEARCHING FOR CLEWS.

Early on New Year’s morning Nicholas Carter, the famous detective, arrived in Jersey City on a train from Chicago, where he had been investigating a diamond case, which he had closed up successfully.

Danny, his chauffeur, met him at the station, with his powerful touring car; and in a few minutes they were crossing the Hudson River on the downtown ferry over to Chambers Street.

They had just landed and were beginning to get headway along that thoroughfare, when their attention was attracted by a loud commotion in the street.

Leaning over, Carter beheld the crowd congregating in front of the Red Dragon Inn, which was almost opposite. He heard the cries of murder.

Instantly the veteran’s energies were aroused. He forgot all about his not having had breakfast, and springing out, he pushed his way through the crowd and entered the barroom of the Red Dragon Inn.

There he found the proprietor pacing up and down in a state of nervous excitement.

A policeman was also there, and to him Nick applied for information.

“I can’t make head nor tail of it,” the policeman replied to Carter’s inquiry. “I’ve sent word to the police station, Mr. Carter, and I am expecting the captain every minute.”

“Have you been upstairs?”

“No, sir. I thought it best to wait until the captain arrived.”

“Where is the bartender?”

“Standing over there,” and the policeman pointed to the man, who was leaning against the bar.

Carter stepped up to the bartender and asked:

“What is your name?”

“George Terry,” the bartender answered.

“How long have you been employed here?”

“Three years.”

“I believe you discovered the murder?”

“I did, sir.”

“At what time?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you know the man?”

“No, sir, he is a stranger to me.”

“What is his name?”

“I forgot to ask him.”

“Don’t you keep a register?”

“No, sir.”

“What time did the man arrive?”

“Shortly after midnight.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell me all about your conversation with him.”

“As I said, he came in here shortly after midnight. He seemed weak and exhausted as he slipped up to the bar. He requested me to make him a hot toddy, which I did.

“After he had finished his drink he asked me if I could let him have a room for the night, and I told him that the attic room was vacant and he could have that. He paid the price out of a well-filled purse.

“I offered to conduct him up to the room, Mr. Carter, but he said it would not be necessary, because he was familiar with the house, he having stopped here on various occasions twenty years ago. He left the room, and that was the last I saw of him until I discovered his murdered body, when I went up to the attic to call him and opened the door of the room he occupied.”

“You heard him say he had stopped here on various occasions twenty years ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the proprietor’s name?”

“Henry Lancaster.”

“How long has he conducted this place?”

“Ten years.”

“Do you know the name of the man from whom he purchased it?”

“I do not.”

“Has any one been upstairs to the murdered man’s room since you made the discovery?”

“No one has been near it. Everything is undisturbed. I did not enter.”

“I will speak to the proprietor.”

Carter approached Mr. Lancaster, who was a middle-aged man of affable manners.

“The bartender informs me that you have conducted this place for about ten years,” the detective said, as he came up to Mr. Lancaster.

“I have owned it for nearly eleven years,” Mr. Lancaster replied.

“From whom did you purchase it?”

“A man named Peter Wright, who had been the proprietor for nearly a quarter of a century.”

“Is Mr. Wright alive?”

“He is.”

“Where does he reside?”

“At the Cosmopolitan Hotel, across the street. He is a bachelor, and entirely alone in the world, all of his relatives having died. He is an Englishman by birth, and a courtly old gentleman. He has a moderate income to live on, and he is enjoying himself in his declining years. All of the merchants of old New York knew him, and when he conducted the Red Dragon Inn it was famous as a chop house.

“Mr. Wright’s acquaintance is extensive,” added Lancaster. “If you see him, he may know something about the murdered man—if the man spoke the truth when he said that he used to stop here twenty years ago.

“I shall surely call upon Mr. Wright, and ask him to take a look at the remains.”

At this moment Carter felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned around and beheld the captain of the precinct, who had just arrived.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Carter,” the officer exclaimed. “You can help us in this, and as usual I suppose you have gleaned considerable information?”

“I have found very little,” the detective replied.

“Will you help us?”

“Certainly.”

“My mind is relieved. I hope you’ll take full charge of the case.”

“What about headquarters?”

“I will take care of that. While you have charge, the people at headquarters will not interfere.”

“Have you sent out an alarm?”

“Yes.”

“Let us go up to the attic room. Request your men to keep every one downstairs.”

“I will do that.”

The police captain issued his instructions to his men, and then he and Carter proceeded upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the victim lay.

The captain stood out in the hall on the threshold, while the detective entered the room.

Carter stepped up to the side of the bed and scrutinized the face of the victim closely in silence.

“His throat was cut while he slept,” Nick remarked, looking toward the captain.

“Do you see any sign of the weapon with which the crime was committed?” the police official asked.

“Not yet.”

Carter turned around and commenced to inspect the room.

For nearly fifteen minutes he was engaged in the work, without uttering a word.

The police captain watched him with close attention.

The detective went over the ground with the avidity of a sleuthhound scenting for a trail.

Every nook and corner of the apartment was inspected, until the detective stood by the window, the sash of which was raised. He looked at the sill and then uttered an exclamation.

“What is it?” the police captain asked, entering the room and stepping up to Carter’s side.

“See,” the detective replied, pointing with his forefinger to stains upon the window sill and the lower part of the sash. “Here are imprints of bloody fingers. The murderer, after he committed the crime, came over to this window and raised the sash. And here are bloody tracks on the outside. Look; there are imprints of shoes in the snow across the roof—they lead from here to the edge. The murderer escaped this way. Wait here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Carter crawled out of the window onto the roof, and followed the tracks in the snow, until he came to the edge of the roof, where he halted and looked over.

There, attached to the side of the house, he beheld an iron ladder leading from the roof down to the yard.

Still he saw nothing of the weapon with which the crime had been committed.

There was no doubt now in his mind about the assassin having escaped by the roof. He returned to the room and gave the captain an accurate but brief account of what he had discovered.

“This leads me to think the murderer possessed some knowledge of this house,” the police captain remarked, after he had listened to what the detective had to say.

“Probably,” Carter rejoined, and then for a time he lapsed into deep thought.

The captain was also silent.

Nick’s eyes wandered around the room and he bit his lips.

Upon his face there was a strained expression.

One could tell that he was following some train of thought.

The pupils of his eyes blazed brilliantly.

Minute after minute passed and still he did not speak.

Patiently his companion waited.

Carter’s eyes rested upon the clothing of the victim, which was lying on a chair near the bed in a corner of the room.

It was in a confused heap.

The detective stepped forward.

“We have overlooked these!” he exclaimed, pointing to the clothes.

“I was just looking at them,” the police captain remarked. “It seems to me that they must have been disturbed by the murderer.”

“They were,” Carter rejoined, holding up the dead man’s vest for the police captain to inspect. “There are bloodstains upon this and the other garments.”

“Search the pockets.”

For some minutes the detective was engaged in making the search. When he finished he looked at the captain.

“Nothing,” he said tersely.

“The murderer secured everything,” the police captain rejoined, in a tone of disappointment, “he has not left a scrap of paper by which the dead man could be identified.”

“Everything is gone.”

“It is too bad.”

“Yes—but I have made a discovery.”

“What is it?”

“These are prison clothes—they are new.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“I am positive. They were made in Sing Sing Prison.”

“And what is your conclusion?”

“This murdered man was recently released from State’s prison.”

“Perhaps the motive for the crime was revenge.”

“Maybe, and still he may have been murdered because he possessed information which some one was afraid would be divulged.”

“That may be it.”

“In one way this discovery is important.”

“And you really think this man was a convict?”

“I do. If he were not a released convict he would not have worn clothing made expressly for the convicts.”

“He may have purchased them from some one.”

“That is so—but still I think he did not.”

“There is one clew anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Let us go downstairs.”

They left the room.

Carter closed and locked the door.

On the way downstairs the detective inspected the steps, but he found nothing which would throw any light upon the mystery. There were no tracks, except those in the snow on the roof. The leading question in his mind was how the murderer had entered the house.

After he had returned to the barroom he called the bartender aside and asked:

“Do you remember if any one came in after the old man retired?”

“Yes, I do, now that I come to think of it,” the bartender exclaimed, with considerable animation. “A tall man entered just as the old man left the room. He wore a long ulster and a slouch hat.

“This man, sir, stepped up to the bar and called for whisky, which I served to him. He took a seat at a table near the hall door.

“I was busy supplying the orders to the other customers and I did not pay any attention to him.

“When I came to close up he was gone.

“When he went out, I do not know; but he may have left while I was serving drinks at some one of the tables.”

“Would you know the man if you should see him again?” inquired the detective.

“I cannot tell whether I would or not.”

“Are you able to describe him?”

“I should think he was about forty-five or fifty years old. His face was covered with a heavy brown beard. His eyes were black, restless and penetrating. That is all I can remember about him. I didn’t pay particular attention to him.”

“Who occupied the room next to the one in which the man was murdered?”

“I did.”

“What time did you retire?”

“It was probably about half past one o’clock. As I was about to enter my room I noticed that a light was burning in the old man’s room. I thought at the time that he had not yet retired, but I didn’t hear him make any noise.”

“You were not awakened during the night?”

“No.”

“Are you a sound sleeper?”

“I am.”

“What time did you get up?”

“About half past eight o’clock.”

Carter went out into the back yard.

There he found footprints in the snow leading from the foot of the ladder over to a gate in the fence, which opened to an alley running along between the yards into Hudson Street.

The trail was plain and distinct.

The detective followed it until it ended on Hudson Street.

Then he returned to the yard, where he made a search for the weapon, thinking the assassin might have thrown it away.

But there was no trace of it to be found.

Carter went back into the barroom.

The coroner had arrived and was preparing to take charge of the body.

The detective hurried across the street to the Cosmopolitan Hotel and asked to see Mr. Wright, the former proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn.

Mr. Wright was a portly old gentleman with a large, florid, jovial face, and he received the detective instantly. He listened attentively to what Carter had to say, and he complied with his request to accompany him over to the inn and view the remains of the victim.

“If that man spoke the truth,” Mr. Wright remarked, as he and the detective left the hotel, “I may be able to identify the body.”

CHAPTER III.
THE IDENTIFICATION.

Carter conducted Peter Wright upstairs to the attic room in which the body of the victim lay.

The coroner was making an examination, but he stepped aside, so as to allow Mr. Wright to see the face of the murdered man.

The former proprietor of the Red Dragon Inn looked at the ghastly white countenance long and intently.

All of the persons in the room watched him in silence.

Several times the old man shook his head back and forth and his brow became contracted.

Finally he looked at Carter and shook his head dolefully.

“There is a certain familiar expression about that man’s features,” he said, in a tone of awe, “but for the life of me I cannot recall who he is. If he were a patron of the Red Dragon Inn while I was proprietor, he has changed so that I cannot remember him.”

“I am very sorry that you are not able to identify the body, Mr. Wright,” the detective said. “Will you kindly accompany me downstairs. I want to have a private talk with you.”

“Lead on, and I will follow.”

The detective led the way down to the parlor.

As soon as they were inside the room he closed the door. Presently he and Mr. Wright were ensconced in easy-chairs.

“Permit your memory to wander back ten or twelve years to the time when you owned this place, and see if you can recall the name of any one of your patrons who was sent to State’s prison.”

Mr. Wright started.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed.

Carter smiled and his eyes sparkled.

“What startles you?” the detective asked, with an assumed air of surprise.