Chapter I: The Vial in the Snow

"Well, old man," said Nick Carter, as he shook the snow from his overcoat, "what’s the news? Anything strange since this morning?"

He was addressing Chick, his assistant, who, to use his own expression, was "acting the chamber lawyer" for the day.

"Yes. Two small cases have come in; but there is a telegram from Boston that may be of importance."

"Let’s see it, my lad!" said the great detective, throwing his overcoat on a chair and seating himself. He took the dispatch in his hands and read it slowly.

"H’m! Yes, there’s something in this, Chick. What time is it?"

"Five-forty."

"Good! I can catch the Providence boat. Telegraph anything you have to say to the Adams House!" and in another moment the noted detective had left the office.

The snow lay heavy upon the ground when Nick Carter arrived in Boston next morning. Nothing eventful happened during his journey, and he felt rested and ripe for his work--whatever it was.

He was about to step into a cab, when his eyes caught sight of a small vial, half buried in the snow, which he picked up and placed in one of his overcoat pockets, then addressing the hackman, he said:

"When did the snow stop falling?"

"Just after the train for New York pulled out last night, sir."

"You had a heavy fall?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know where Mr. Samuel Rogers lives in Dorchester?"

"Of course I do, sir."

"Well, take me there."

Half an hour later the cab stopped at an old-fashioned mansion, which stood in a beautifully kept lawn, in the most fashionable part of Dorchester.

"I wish to see Mr. Samuel Rogers, junior," said the detective to the colored man who answered his ring.

"What name shall I say?" asked the domestic.

"Oh, never mind the name. Tell him that a friend from New York wishes to see him."

* * * * *

A few minutes afterward a good-looking young fellow entered the room.

"Mr. Rogers, I presume?" said Nick.

"Yes, sir. That is my name."

"I received a telegram from you yesterday," rejoined Nick Carter.

"Oh!" said Rogers. "You are Mr. Nick Carter?"

"Yes."

"Won’t you be seated?" continued the young man. "I wished to see you upon a very sad and mysterious matter."

The detective watched him keenly as he spoke; but did not interrupt.

"My father lies dead in the next room. The doctors say he died of heart disease, but I have a different opinion."

"Ah!" sighed Nick. "And what may your opinion be, Mr. Rogers?"

"I believe he was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"Yes."

"Upon what do you base this suspicion?"

"This letter," said Rogers, handing the detective an envelope, which bore the Boston postmark of the previous day.

Nick opened it and read as follows:

"Mr. Rogers: Your father did not die of heart disease. He was murdered. Have the body thoroughly examined before burial. You will find that the murderer is nearer home than you imagine.

"ONE WHO KNOWS."

Nick looked from the letter to Rogers’ face.

In a searching glance, he seemed to learn what he wanted.

"You wish me to unravel this mystery?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Rogers.

The detective placed the letter in his pocket and said:

"Have you had a private examination of your father’s body?"

"No, sir. I waited until I had consulted with you."

"You did quite right," said Nick, "and now, Mr. Rogers, will you be good enough to let me see your father’s remains?"

The only watcher in the death chamber was the colored man who had admitted Nick Carter.

Nick looked at the corpse and noticed that the face had a peculiar grayish hue.

Turning to Rogers, he said:

"Was the body embalmed?"

"No, sir. Dr. Lord wished to have it embalmed yesterday; but I objected."

"Why did you object?" asked Carter, narrowly watching his companion’s face.

"That letter," said Rogers; but before making any further explanation, he ordered Jones--the colored man--to leave the room.

"What about the letter?" inquired Nick, when Jones had gone.

"I received it by the afternoon mail, just before the doctor made his examination. I then telegraphed to you, and decided that, until you arrived, I would not allow any interference with the body."

"Was the coroner notified?" asked Nick.

"No, sir. Dr. Lord has given a certificate of death from heart disease."

Just then the servant summoned young Rogers to receive a visitor.

The moment he was gone Nick took a hasty inventory of the surroundings.

As the young fellow had said, it was quite apparent that nothing in the room had been disturbed since the old man died.

During his examination of the body his hand touched something with a sharp point.

It lay within the folds of the coat, and Nick made an exclamation of surprise when he discovered that it was a lady’s hat-pin, with a curious haliotis shell head. This he put in his pocket.

He had almost finished his examination of the body, rearranged the clothing, and was just placing the hands in the position in which he found them, when his keen eye detected a slight discoloration of the left wrist.

Upon close examination, he discovered a very small wound--almost a pin-hole.

An almost imperceptible discoloration extended from this wound up along the wrist.

In a moment Nick produced a small surgical pincers and drew from the little wound a needle-like piece of silver.

It was the point of a hypodermic syringe.

This he stowed away with the hat-pin.

A few moments afterward young Rogers made his appearance.

"There is a mystery here," said Nick.

"What have you learned?"

"That I cannot tell even you, sir--at least not yet. But I shall have to ask you a few questions. Remember, if you do not answer them truthfully, or if you keep back any information concerning this matter, I shall not be responsible for the consequences."

"Mr. Carter," cried Rogers, "what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. You must trust me with all your secrets, if I require to know them. Otherwise, you will never know how your father died."

The young man became pale and flushed in turn. He seemed to be suffering from intense mental disturbance.

But, at last, he regained his composure, and said:

"I shall not conceal anything from you, Mr. Carter. But," he falteringly continued, "publicity must only be given to those matters that directly concern my father’s death."

"Good!" said Nick. "And now, Mr. Rogers, let us be seated; for I have much to learn from you. Had your father ever suffered from any complaint that would need hypodermic injections?"

Rogers looked at him in amazement and answered:

"Yes. He complained of neuralgic rheumatism for some years."

"And sought relief by injections of morphine, no doubt."

"Yes, sir. Dr. Lord prescribed it."

"Are you quite sure that he used only morphine?"

"Certain."

"Did he use the hypodermic syringe himself?" asked Nick.

"No, sir."

"Who gave him the injections?"

"Dr. Lord."

"Was Dr. Lord here on the evening preceding his death?"

"Yes; he had dinner here that evening."

"Then he is a friend of the family?"

"Yes, sir. He is engaged to be married to my sister."

Nick’s face brightened; but he pretended not to notice the announcement which young Rogers had just made.

Continuing, he said:

"When did Dr. Lord leave here that evening?"

"Shortly after dinner. He had an urgent call to a patient at Roxbury."

"And your father retired shortly after?"

"No; he did not go to his room until ten o’clock."

"When did you discover that he was dead?"

"When Jones went to bring him his chocolate, at seven o’clock yesterday morning."

"What happened then?"

"We sent for Dr. Lord, who examined him and pronounced it heart disease. He went away then, and returned shortly afterward with another doctor."

"Did the strange doctor agree with Dr. Lord?"

"Yes. Dr. White also said heart disease."

"Who was in the house besides your father, sister, the colored man, and yourself after Dr. Lord went away?"

Rogers became nervous, which fact Nick immediately noticed.

The young man replied:

"My sister was not here. She is in Philadelphia."

"Does she know of your father’s death?"

"Yes. But my uncle has prevailed upon her not to return just now."

"Is your uncle coming to the funeral?"

"Yes; he will be here this afternoon."

"You have not told me," said Nick, "who was in the house the night before last after Dr. Lord went away."

Rogers became disconcerted again; but he replied:

"My father, Jones, the cook, chamber-maid, and myself."

"You are sure there was no one else?"

The young fellow again faltered and became very pale. And then, with an effort, he replied:

"Yes; I am quite certain of it."

"When was the marriage of your sister to Dr. Lord to have taken place?" asked Carter.

Rogers breathed freely again as he answered:

"Father wanted it to take place next month."

"And was it fixed for that date?"

"Well, no," hesitatingly.

"Was there some barrier?"

"The fact is, Mr. Carter, I am also engaged to be married, and my sister and I decided to have the two events come off together."

"A capital idea!" said Nick. "But why couldn’t you have arranged it so?"

"Well, we--that is, I hadn’t fixed upon any particular time. Miss Bland and I are not in a hurry, you know."

"And your sister? Was she anxious for her wedding day?"

"Not exactly," hurriedly cried Rogers. "She is not head over heels in love with Lord; but father was anxious for the match."

"And how does the doctor feel about it?"

"Oh, he is very ardent in his suit."

"I see," mused Nick. "Tell me," he continued, "did your father make a will?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know its contents?"

"Yes."

"What are the provisions?"

"It is very simple, but a little curious."

"In what way is it curious?"

"It stipulates that his entire property is to be divided equally between Aimee and me, upon certain conditions. The estate is valued at about three hundred thousand dollars, and the only strange condition of the will is that, in the event of his death before Aimee’s marriage with Dr. Lord she is to get one-half of his entire estate if she marries him within six months of his, my father’s, decease. But that, in the event of this marriage not taking place within that time she is only to receive the interest upon twenty thousand dollars for life."

"And what becomes of the balance?"

"It reverts to me absolutely."

"Does Dr. Lord know the provisions of your father’s will?"

"Yes, sir. He has seen it."

"Does he know that you telegraphed for me?"

"No."

"Very well. Now, I shall have to leave you," said Nick; "but I shall probably return in the afternoon. In the meantime do not disclose my presence or identity to anybody."

And as he moved toward the door, he added:

"I think you might send for the undertaker, and have the body placed in the coffin at once."

Nick immediately walked in the direction of the telegraph office.

Having arrived there, he sent the following telegram in usual cipher:

"Mrs. Nicholas Carter, New York City: Send Ida to Philadelphia immediately. Tell her to stop at usual hotel. I will telegraph her instructions this evening."

From here he walked slowly toward the cars, and was just about to board one bound for Boston, when he stopped and said:

"I must see that doctor."

He retraced his steps and entered the nearest drug store.

"Can you tell me where Dr. Lord lives?" he inquired from the clerk.

"Certainly, sir. Straight up the road opposite. I forget the number; but you cannot make a mistake, for you will see a brass plate, with his name, on the garden gate."

"Thank you," said Nick. "But perhaps that is not the Dr. Lord I want."

"It must be," said the clerk, laughing, "for he is the only Lord in Dorchester."

A few minutes afterward Nick Carter was ushered into the reception-room of Mr. Rogers’ physician.

Apparently the reception-room was also used as a kind of auxiliary surgery; for, upon a table, were a number of surgical instruments of various kinds.

Nick noticed this with satisfaction, and he moved over toward the table in order to more closely inspect the contents.

Just then the servant entered the room and announced that the doctor would be disengaged in a few minutes.

"You’re in luck, Nick!" muttered the detective, as he forthwith proceeded to inspect the surgical instruments. There were forceps, and lancets, and clinical thermometers by the dozen; but what attracted Nick’s eye were four hypodermic syringe cases.

He opened them one after another, and when he got to the last--which was smaller than the others--he held it in his hand only for a moment; then opening the case, he found a small syringe from which the pointer needle had been broken off at the base.

Taking from his pocket the point which he had removed from Mr. Rogers’ wrist, he was not surprised to find that it fitted exactly.

He quickly replaced the broken syringe in its case and resumed his seat.

Shortly after a tall, dark, good-looking man entered the room.

Nick recognized him from a photograph he had seen at Rogers’.

"Dr. Lord, I presume," he remarked.

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?" said the medical gentleman, with a pleasant voice.

"Have you any surgical instruments to be repaired?" said Nick.

"No, sir," politely replied the doctor. "When surgical instruments need repairing it is generally time to get new ones. I am sorry I have nothing in your line to-day."

As he said this he was very courteously opening the door for his visitor; but Nick was not so easily dismissed.

"You will excuse me, sir," he said, "but while I was waiting I took the liberty of looking over your instruments yonder. They are beautiful tools; but I noticed that a remarkably fine hypodermic syringe has the point broken off."

"By the way," said the doctor, interrupting him, "I wish I knew where that came from. It isn’t mine. It is of a very curious pattern, too."

"Yes, doctor," said Nick, "it is a curious little syringe. But it is remarkable that it could have found its way here without your knowledge."

The doctor did not quite like this remark. He showed it in his face, which Nick was intently watching.

"I would like to buy it from you," said the pretended surgical instrument maker, not noticing the doctor’s look of impatience.

"Oh," said the latter, "it is not mine to sell. I found it upon my table yesterday evening, and I cannot possibly trace an ownership for it among my callers."

"It is of Spanish make," said Nick, who was carefully examining it.

But this did not enlighten Dr. Lord. He was beginning to tire of the pertinacity of his visitor, and finally, to get rid of him, he said:

"Well, you can take it away with you. It is useless to me, and as it is also useless to whoever left it here, I dare say they won’t return for it."

Nick was profuse in his thanks, and was hurrying toward Boston in a very few moments.

He had noticed that the graduated cylinder of the syringe contained a small quantity of some kind of liquid, and he determined to have it analyzed.

At the same time he remembered the small vial which he had found in the snow, at the Providence depot; and, upon his arrival at the city analyst’s, he handed that gentleman the two articles.

He gave him his card, and the moment the analyst recognized the name of the great New York detective he became particularly attentive, and after a careful examination, he pronounced the contents of the syringe to be the same as the vial, and a deadly poison it was.

"Supposing some of it was injected into a man’s wrist, what would happen?" said Nick.

"Happen? Why, the man would be dead in ten second or less. This is a South American poison, Mr. Carter. It is, perhaps, the most deadly in existence, and the peculiar thing about it is the fact that in doing its work in the human system, it so quickly assimilates with the blood that it is next to impossible to trace it. Another strange thing about it is that it acts directly upon the heart, and in such a manner that the most experienced physician will imagine the victim died from heart disease."

Nick thanked the analyst, and went at once to the Adams House for letters and telegrams from Chick. The coincidence of the fluids contained in the hypodermic syringe and in the vial, which he picked up in the snow at the Providence depot, being the same was remarkable, and, as he walked along, he mused:

"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars and a pretty girl is a big stake to lose, Dr. Lord. But it wasn’t a man of science who placed that syringe point in man’s wrist!"