Chapter I: Denver Bay

“And so, you see, I stand to lose twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a large sum.”

“Yes, Mr. Carter, it’s a large sum; but a middle-aged gentleman like yourself ought to be aware that risks are sometimes forced upon people who handle money in large sums.”

The celebrated detective smiled as he looked into the excited countenance of the Wall Street man before him.

Half an hour before, if the broker had seen him at all, he would hardly have referred to him as “a middle-aged business man.”

The detective had just returned from an expedition to the upper part of the city, during which he had appeared as a verdant country boy of an inquiring turn of mind.

“Of course,” the detective said, slowly, “people who handle money for the profit of others are expected to keep it in motion--honestly in motion.”

He glanced keenly into his visitor’s face as he emphasized the last three words.

“My case is hardly what you suppose it to be,” said Mr. James Wheeler, broker. “The money I handle belongs to two heirs--both minors. With that, however, you have nothing to do.”

“You’re mistaken,” said Nick Carter, coldly. “If I am to handle your case I must have your fullest confidence.”

“Regarding my present venture, certainly, but I fail to see how past complications can interest you.”

“I have always made it a point,” said the detective, rising to his feet, “not to engage in any case which is not entirely square and above-board. You come here with a statement that you have risked twenty thousand dollars belonging to two innocent children in the next Brooklyn Handicap, an illegal proceeding, and if you have done this for your own personal gain you have taken the first step toward a crime, and in that case I refuse to have anything to do with the matter.”

“Do you remember,” said Wheeler, putting out a hand to restrain the detective, who seemed about to leave the room, “about the recent daylight robbery in Wall Street, which resulted in the loss of twenty thousand dollars in cash?”

“Now you talk like a man of sense,” said the detective, resuming his seat and drawing a note-book from his pocket.

“Three weeks ago yesterday,” he continued, referring to the book, “the office of Mr. James Wheeler, broker, was entered during the noon hour by two men who claimed to be Texans seeking an investment. The broker was absent, and his clerks were careless.

“Result, when the Texans left, the broker was short exactly twenty thousand dollars. Have I stated the case correctly?”

The Wall Street man, sitting with his hands on his knees, stared in the detective’s face with a look of surprise mingled with consternation.

“Great God!” he exclaimed at length. “The matter wasn’t even reported to the police.”

“Very true. Perhaps you will have the kindness to tell me the reason why.”

“It would have ruined me. My creditors, and especially the friends of these heirs, would have pounced down upon me in less than twenty-four hours.”

“And so, instead of facing the matter like a man, you endeavor to play even by staking money on the next handicap?”

“That’s it exactly, and I pledge you my word of honor that in doing so I only sought to restore to the children the money of which they have been robbed.”

“And now they are likely to lose forty thousand instead of twenty.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What reason had you for supposing when you staked the money that Denver Bay would win the race?”

“To tell the truth, I was half crazy when I made the investment. In doing so I only followed the drift of public opinion regarding the horse.”

“Did you make the bet in the regular pool-room way?”

“Certainly not. The odds were two to one on Denver Bay, and no bookmaker would have taken such chances so long before the race. The bet was made with a down-town sporting man, for whom I frequently do business in a small way.”

“His name?”

“Peter Johnson.”

“One of the most notorious race-track sharpers in the country.”

“I was not aware of that at the time.”

“Well,” said Nick, with a smile, “I never knew a horse to win a race with such an outside bet on him, and all in the hands of one man, and that man a professional trickster.”

“I can see now how foolish it was, and I wish to place the matter entirely in your hands. I am certain that the horse is to be fixed in some way so that he cannot win.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I have no definite information on the subject, it is true. As we say on the street, ‘It is in the air.’ No sporting man will touch the brute now, and those supposed to be on the inside are warning their friends not to risk their money on him.”

“It does look pretty black.”

“It looks pretty black, but I have every confidence in your ability to run the rumors down, and either see that there is a fair race or that the horse does not start at all.”

“It’s a risky business, and will cost considerable money.”

“I expect that; will you take the case?”

“I will take it on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“It in this: If you recover this money you will take the whole amount belonging to these heirs and invest it in some place where it will be beyond the reach of New York thieves and race-track sharpers.”

“You have my word on that. That is exactly the course I had decided upon.”

“Then there’s one other condition.”

“If it is not more difficult than the other I accede to it in advance.”

“That is, that if we discover crookedness on the part of these horsemen, you are not to drop the matter as soon as you are made whole. You are to stand up to the rack and help me to have justice done to them.”

“I will do that willingly.”

“It may cause you some trouble in your brokerage business.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“That is all at present, then. You may see me at your office to-morrow. If a man calls and asks to see you in regard to Lackawanna admit him to your private room at once. You may not recognize me, but you can trust the man that mentions that word.”

After the departure of the broker the detective busied himself for some moments in the examination of a list of the many pool-rooms in the lower part of the city.

“It’s a tough job,” he thought, “but it will give me a chance to see the inside of some of these dens again.”

He stepped into an inner room, and in a few minutes returned in the guise of a cattle drover from the far West.

When he left his office shortly afterward he took the direction of Barclay Street, and soon entered one of the disreputable pool-rooms in the vicinity of that thoroughfare.

The place he entered was in a basement, and was foul, musty, and suffocating.

The place was crowded with men and boys of high and low degree, all half crazed with the gambling spirit.

The time was early in the afternoon.

From his position behind a large desk a tough-looking clerk was drawling out the names of horses with the odds which the proprietor of the place would bet against them.

It is generally supposed by the public that these pool-rooms merely conduct a commission business, and that the odds offered there are the ones posted at the race track.

But this is by no means the case. The proprietors of the places bet according to their private ideas of the proper odds.

The rustling of greenbacks and the clinking of gold and silver were heard throughout the place as the detective entered.

“The race in which Denver Bay is entered takes place the day after to-morrow,” mused the detective, “and I’ll just see how he stands in this locality.”

“Say, podner,” he said, advancing toward a heavily-built man behind the railing, whom he knew to be the proprietor, “what odds d’ye give on Denver Bay?”

“Guess you’re from the West,” was the answer.

“Right from the West, and any time you want to know about the price o’ cattle just drop a line to Sol White to the Denver post-office.”

“Denver Bay’s from the West, too, isn’t he?”

“You bet he is, and he’s a good little hoss. What odds will you give me on him?”

“The Bay don’t count much of a figure on my books. The race ain’t on yet, you know, and you can’t tell yet what horses will start. But I’ll make a bet of two to one.”

“You can’t do business with me at that figger,” said Nick, turning away.

“Hold on!” said the sharper, pretending to look over the leaves of a note-book in his hand. “I’ll give you five to one if you want to back your favorite.”

“Ten to one would be nearer right.”

“You can’t have much confidence in your horse.”

“’Tain’t my horse. I thought I’d drop fifty or a hundred just for luck.”

“A thousand to a hundred is a pretty wild bet.”

“You don’t have ter make it. Tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll make it fifteen to one I’ll go you a hundred.”

Nick Carter watched the face of the bookmaker as he made this proposition, and saw at once that he was pleased to get a bet even at such odds.

“All right,” said the bookmaker. “Put up your dust. Here’s your ticket.”

“If the horse don’t start, now,” said Nick, counting out the money, “I get this back, I suppose.”

“That’ll be all right,” said the other, in a non-committal sort of way.

“When I sell my cattle,” said Nick, resolved to learn still more regarding the pool-room idea of the horse, “I may want to bet some more.”

“I’ll take all the bets you want to make at that rate.”

“Will they let me see the horse?”

“You’ll have to settle that with the trainer.”

“Where is he?”

“In one of the stables near the track, I suppose.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go over to-morrow and see him. I’ll bet the hoss’ll know me like a book. Why, podner, I’ve rode behind him many a time.”

“W’at’s dat ye’re givin’ us?” asked one of the plug-uglies who infest that part of the city, crowding up against the detective.

In paying over the money Nick had purposely exhibited a large roll of bills. He was positive that such a course would attract the attention of some of the sharpers about the place and would lead to some sort of conversation.

“I was jest a-sayin’,” he said, turning to the bully with a benevolent look, “that I’ve rode behind Denver Bay many a time.”

“Good little horse,” said the other, “but I think I can give yer a pointer or two on him.”

“Don’t give it away here,” said Nick, in a whisper.

“I don’t give nuthin’ away. I gets money fer pointers--I does.”

As he spoke he took the detective by the arm and led him to the meanly furnished bar-room in the rear of the place.

“I’ll jest tell you,” he said, as they stood at the bar with liberal glasses of whisky before them, “that yer want ter play dat hoss fer second place.”

“I’ve been playin’ him fer winner.”

“Well, you jest take my tip, an’ go ahead on it. It’s all right.”

The detective paid for the drinks, and turned away, but the other caught him fiercely by the arm.

“Hold on here!” he said, with an ugly look. “That tip’ll cost you just ten dollars.”

“I didn’t ask you for no tip,” said the assumed countryman, with a stare.

“Well, you got it just the same, an’ you’ll get somethin’ else, too, if you don’t cash up.”

“You won’t get no ten dollars from me.”

The bully struck viciously at the detective, who dodged away from him in a clumsy sort of way.

Nick was perfectly aware that the man meant business, and had no idea of coming to close quarters with him.

He well knew that a clinch of any kind would be likely to disarrange his disguise and thus expose his true identity.

With an oath the bully advanced again and struck a savage blow at the detective’s face.

Nick simply dodged his head this time, and striking before the other could resume his guard, laid his opponent senseless on the floor.