Chapter VIII: The Melting Pot

Nick Carter never forgot the scene at which he helplessly gazed later that evening.

He was seated on a bare earth floor, within four grim stone walls, to an iron ring in one of which he was securely bound.

Two narrow windows in the side walls were closed with tight-fitting iron shutters, precluding the escape of a ray of light from within.

The ceiling was crossed with great faded beams, between which could be seen the chinks of a square trapdoor, showing that there was a room above. A narrow wooden stairway in one corner led up to it.

In one of the end walls was a door covered with sheet iron, closed and securely locked. Near by was an excavation leading into the narrow underground passage, through which Nick had been carried by his assailants, and which evidently had been quite recently made from the rag shed to this secret refuge of the outlaws into whose hands the detective had fallen.

In a pile at one side of the room were numerous articles in cloth wrappings, some of which were partly displaced. Through these could be seen the glitter of yellow metal, and the dull luster of tarnished silver.

Obviously, these parcels had been brought there secretly and separately, or a few at a time, by the thieves then in possession of them.

There could be no mistaking what all this was--the contents of the three stolen cases--the valuable Waldmere plate.

In a temporary brick structure in the middle of the earth floor a coal fire was fiercely burning, forced by a bellows thrust through the low brickwork.

Above it, suspended from an iron frame, hung a heavy caldron, with a long ladle in it--and a quantity of silverware that was being rapidly melted.

In the earth floor near one of the walls were numerous rectangular holes, molds for receiving the melted metal, and from some of which the silver ingots already had been pulled with an iron hook, to make room for more of the costly fluid.

The room was almost as hot as an oven, and perspiration stood in great drops on the faces of the three men then at work there--Floyd, Bagley, and Gorman.

Nick Carter had been sternly watching them for some time. He had found that he had solved more than the mystery of the stolen Waldmere plate.

He had known for weeks of numerous plate robberies from the dwellings of wealthy suburban residents, till it had become a question in the minds of the police as to who were committing the crimes and how so much plate was disposed of successfully.

It no longer was a question in Nick Carter’s mind. He knew, now, that he was in the secret quarters of the gang, and where Floyd had been and how employed since the looting of the Imperial Loan Company.

“Go up, Gorman, and open that trapdoor,” Floyd suddenly commanded, wiping his dripping face and glancing up at the ceiling. “Then some of this infernal heat will go into the loft.”

“So ’twill,” nodded Gorman, red and glowing. “We’ve forgotten that.”

He hastened up the stairway to obey, and Nick presently saw the square trapdoor raised and laid over on the upper floor.

Gorman leered down at him for a moment before returning.

Nick ignored him, however, but then said to Floyd, resuming a conversation that had ended when the miscreants began the work now engaging them:

“You’ll suffer more heat than this, Floyd, for this night’s work. Take my word for that.”

“Not in this world,” Floyd replied, with a sneer.

“No, in the next.”

“I’m not going that way just now.”

“You’ll go sooner or later.”

“I’ll take chances on the heating system, Carter, all the same,” Floyd said scornfully. “I’ll get none the worst of it because of anything you have accomplished.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

“Rats! We’ve got safely away with stuff, as I gave you a hint when I last saw you. We’ve got you, too, as I warned you. All this ought to convince you, Carter, that I’m not to be easily cornered.”

“Nor am I easily convinced on so doubtful a point. You’ll get yours in time,” Nick sternly predicted.

“You already are getting yours,” Floyd retorted, laughing derisively.

“Perhaps.”

“I warned you that I’d get you for having put me to the bad. You thought you were keen and clever when you picked me up in the railway yard. You picked up a live wire.”

“Very well.”

“Why, you bonehead, did you think I would not anticipate your seeking me there? I knew you would get after me in that way. I went there only to trap you.”

“That now appears quite obvious,” Nick said dryly.

“I knew that you would recognize me and follow me,” Floyd went on, with malicious satisfaction. “I had the trap all laid. You are a fall guy, Carter, all right. I knew you’d walk into it.”

“It has not occurred to you, perhaps, that I did so with open eyes,” Nick said pointedly.

“Bunk!” sneered Floyd. “Tell that to the marines. Why would you have done that?”

“Merely to get a line on you rascals.”

“At the risk of your life, eh?”

“Certainly. That’s not uncommon,” said Nick.

“Rot!” Floyd glared at him doubtfully. “If you walked into it with your eyes open, Carter, we’ll make mighty sure to close them for you. You’ll keep them closed, too. Take my word for that.”

“Let it go at that, then,” Nick said indifferently.

All the while, in grim amusement over this colloquy, Gorman and Bagley continued their work of melting the silver plate and pouring it into the earth molds.

The seething caldron glowed with the heat.

The fire burned intensely under it, forced by the wheezy bellows.

It was like a scene in the infernal regions.

The melting pot was getting in its work.

Floyd appeared to be making good.

Seeing him tear the cloth wrapping from a magnificent piece of gold plate, superbly embossed and engraved, Nick frowned more darkly and asked:

“Are you going to melt all of that gold plate, Floyd?”

“You can bet I’m going to melt it.”

“That’s a sacrilege.”

“Call it what you like.”

“Such plate could not be replaced in these days. That was the work of some of the finest goldsmiths in Europe. You can do better than melt it, Floyd,” Nick earnestly protested, anxious to save the fine old plate from destruction, if possible.

“How better?” questioned Floyd curiously.

“By selling it back to Waldmere,” said Nick. “He would pay thrice the intrinsic value of the metal.”

“Think he would, eh?”

“I am sure of it.”

“That’s a good scheme, then, no doubt.”

“You had better adopt it and save the plate.”

“Mebbe I had, Carter, but I’ll do nothing of the kind. The risk is too great.”

“Don’t let that deter you,” Nick insisted. “A man as clever as you could safely make the deal and realize what the stuff is worth. You’d get by, all right.”

“I’ll get by, Carter, and you can bank on it,” Floyd asserted confidently. “But I shall stick to the safe road. I’ll put this stuff into shape that can be easily turned into cash. It will pay us handsomely enough, all right,” he added, with an exultant leer.

“That’s no pipe dream,” growled Bagley, with eyes glowing. “It beats any stuff of the kind that I ever lamped. It ought to bring----”

He broke off abruptly when a low, peculiar whistle fell upon his ears. Though instantly recognized, he instinctively reached for his revolver.

“It’s Bannon,” snapped Floyd quickly. “Bannon or Vera.”

“Sure!” put in Gorman, gazing.

This was verified in a moment by the appearance of Bannon from the tunnel leading from the rag shed.

He came out of the ground like an imp out of Hades, with an evil gleam in his narrow eyes, and obviously in some excitement.

“Say, Floyd, I’ve been up against it,” he cried at once. “I’ve been double-crossed by a scurvy whelp, who would have thrown us all down and into the hands of the dicks.”

“Whom do you mean?” Floyd demanded, staring at him.

“Pilot Flynn.”

“That cur!”

“Gee! Wait till I get back at him,” Bannon fiercely threatened. “I’ll pepper him as full of holes as a sieve.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Floyd. “Tell me.”

Bannon hastened to do so, describing the subterfuge of Patsy Garvan and stating what had followed.

It brought a murderous light into Floyd’s eyes, while uglier scowls settled on the sweaty faces of Gorman and Bagley.

Nick Carter, listened with some misgivings, also, though he still felt quite that Patsy would yet contrive to accomplish what he had undertaken.

“But what led you to suspect?” Floyd questioned. “What put you wise to the game?”

“I wasn’t wise, only suspicious, and I knocked him out to make sure,” Bannon quickly explained. “I made sure, too, all right.”

“How so?”

“Here’s his barker and a pair of bracelets,” said Bannon, producing them. “I knew his mug, all right, after I had downed him. He’s one of this dick’s push. His name is Patsy Garvan.”

Floyd swung around and glared at the detective.

“What do you know about this, Carter?” he demanded.

“I’m not telling all I know,” Nick bluntly answered.

“You’re not, eh?”

“Not is right.”

“By Heaven, I’ll find a way to make you,” Floyd harshly threatened. “I’m going to find out just where we stand, or----”

“Easy!” Bannon turned like a flash, then added quickly: “Oh, it’s only the skirt. It’s Vera.”

She came by the same way as Bannon, with her skirts drawn around her to avoid the earthy walls, and with a look of alarm in her evil black eyes.

“Who’s the stiff in the alley?” she asked abruptly, with a startled glance at the detective.

“Still there, is he?” Floyd quickly questioned, instead of explaining.

“Yes.”

“He’ll lie still for some time to come,” Bannon viciously predicted. “I gave it to him good and strong.”

“And I’ll see that you get yours, in return,” thought Nick, far from daunted by his own threatening situation.

“You ought to have downed him earlier, farther from here,” said Floyd, doubtfully shaking his head.

“Why so?”

“He may get wise.”

“Rats!” sneered Bannon curtly. “What can he make of it? He don’t know why I came this way, nor which way I went after dropping him. He’ll get fat trying to trail me from where I left him.”

“Well, what’s on your mind?” asked Floyd, turning to the woman again, to whom Bagley had hurriedly explained the situation. “Have you seen the girl, as you planned?”

“Want it in his hearing?” questioned Vera, with another glance at Nick.

“Why not?” snapped Floyd. “He cuts no ice, now that we have him where we want him. We’ll finish him, along with this other good work, before morning.”

“That will be the safest way,” Nick coolly advised.

“Leave that to us.”

“That’s what I am doing--under protest.”

“Have you seen the girl?” Floyd repeated, again turning to Vera Vantoon.

“Sure, I’ve seen her,” Vera nodded.

“Were you expected?”

“That’s what. I can always bank on Angel Face.”

“Angel Face!” thought Nick, with a quick thrill of satisfaction. “She refers to Minerva Grand, as sure as I’m a foot high. Things are looking up. It’s money to marbles that Chick shadowed the girl, then dropped her to follow this woman. He would not have forgotten her and her past relations with Stuart Floyd. He cannot be far from here. There’ll be something doing presently that will give these rascals the surprise of their lives.”

Nick did not for a moment think that Chick would have lost sight of this woman.

Now replying to Floyd’s inquiry, Vera Vantoon told him of her meeting with Minerva, and reported in detail the information the girl had imparted.

Some of the color faded from Floyd’s face while he listened.

Those of Bug Bannon, Bagley, and Gorman took on more serious expressions.

“What the devil did he want of hot water and a spoon?” Bannon suspiciously demanded, addressing Floyd. “What kind of a test could he have wanted to make?”

“I’ll be hanged if I know.”

“It don’t go down, not down my throat,” Bannon growled. “He had some other object. He may be putting something over that we don’t know about.”

“I’ll darned soon find out!” cried Floyd, with eyes blazing. “What was it, Carter? What was your game?”

“You’ll not find out from me,” Nick curtly answered.

“Won’t I?”

“Not by a long chalk.”

“We’ll see!” thundered Floyd, lifting from the melting pot the ladle half filled with liquid silver. “You answer! You tell me! Out with it--or I’ll pour this down your infernal neck!”

He meant what he said--and he looked it.