Читать книгу Snarled Identities; Or, A Desperate Tangle - Carter Nicholas - Страница 10

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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.”