Читать книгу Snarled Identities; Or, A Desperate Tangle - Carter Nicholas - Страница 11

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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.