Chapter VII: Henley Shows His Hand

It was, indeed, a clever bit of detective work that had enabled Nick Carter to form a theory consistent with all of the circumstances and the accumulation of evidence denoting that Arthur Gordon was guilty of the basest of treachery and the most heinous of crimes, and which would have been convincing not only to the public, but probably to all other detectives than Nick Carter himself.

He keenly realized, however, that a theory based only upon his own convictions was not enough, that absolute evidence was needed to convince others, and he was not long in hitting upon a plan by which he thought he could obtain it.

Nick hurriedly explained it to Patsy, giving him a few necessary instructions, and he then sent him to call the suspected man from the kitchen.

Henley came slouching into the library a moment later, with Ginger trailing at his heels. He had a more lowering look in his shifty eyes. He had become impatient and suspicious during his long wait. He did not fancy his having been excluded from the conference of the detectives. It smacked of distrust of him, and his resentment was manifest in his swarthy face.

Nick saw it, of course, and at once took steps to dispel it.

“Pardon me, Henley, for keeping you waiting so long,” he apologized with a heartiness well calculated to be convincing. “I had no idea it would take more than a few minutes to examine these articles. Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Carter,” growled Henley, with countenance lighting. “Time ain’t wuth much to me. I reckoned you’d want a good look at them.”

“I have examined them carefully, Henley.”

“What d’ye think about it?”

“It looks like a bad mess, very bad,” Nick said, more gravely.

“So it does,” Henley nodded. “There ain’t nothing to it but murder, that I can see.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Nick replied.

“Sure thing, chief,” put in Patsy. “What else can you make of it? It’s dead lucky we met Mr. Henley. He sure has put us on the right track.”

“And he can do still more to aid us,” supplemented Nick approvingly. “I suppose, Henley, you are perfectly willing to assist us. You will be well paid for your services. I guarantee that.”

“Your word’s good enough for me, Mr. Carter,” said Henley, consenting with a readiness denoting that his misgivings were entirely dispelled. “I’m right here to lend you a hand. Say what you want, sir, and I’ll do it.”

“Good enough,” Nick declared. “We’ll set about it at once. Find the butler, Patsy, and have him give you a pair of Gordon’s shoes. I will look after those left by the girl. We’ll leave these other articles until we return. I’ll take the precaution, however, to lock the library door. Get Gordon’s shoes and rejoin us in the car.”

Patsy hastened from the room, then started upstairs to say a few encouraging words to Strickland and Wilhelmina.

“I wish to visit the spot where you found these garments, Henley, or where Ginger nosed them out, to be more correct,” said Nick, taking only the pair of button boots from the table and thrusting them into his pocket.

“I’ll show you,” said Henley. “That won’t take long.”

“We will expedite matters by going in my car as far as possible,” Nick added. “Bring along the dog. We may find him useful.”

“He’s some dog, Mr. Carter; you can bet on that.”

“He looks it, Henley, no mistake. One moment while I lock this door and remove the key. Now, then, we’re off.”

Nick led the way out to the touring car, in which Patsy presently joined them, bringing a pair of Gordon’s shoes, and in another moment they were speeding down the long driveway toward the woodland road.

“Take us to the point where we picked Henley up, Danny,” Nick directed. “He then can take the ribbons and show us the way.”

“You can run a quarter mile farther,” said Henley. “That’ll take us to the crossroad. It’s rough going, then, too rough for a buzz car.”

“We will walk the remaining distance, Henley, in that case,” Nick replied, all the while with an air of friendliness and appreciation of his services that appeared to deceive the swarthy ruffian. “I think you said it is less than a mile from the road to the pond you mentioned.”

“’Tain’t more than half a mile.”

“Just where did you see Gordon and the girl last evening?”

“Going through the crossroad.”

“We traced them to the juncture of the two roads.”

“It was a quarter mile from there that I saw them.”

“Was Gordon carrying a suit case?”

“That’s what,” nodded Henley. “The girl had her jacket over her arm. The man had an ugly look, and they seemed to be in a fuss over something, but I couldn’t hear what they said. I watched them till they turned a bend in the road, and that was the last I saw of them.”

“Gordon looked threatening, did he?”

“I sure would have thought so, Mr. Carter, if he had been looking at me,” Henley forcibly declared. “He looked fit to fight a dog.”

If Nick Carter had wanted further evidence of Henley’s complicity in the knavish game that was being played, these last statements would have convinced him of it, in view of his own discoveries and deductions. He did not betray his suspicions, but pretended to have entire confidence in the rascal, interrogating him along much the same lines until Danny brought the car to a stop at the crossroad.

Nick was the first to alight, followed by Henley and the hound, while Patsy paused to question:

“Am I to go with you, chief?”

Nick hesitated for a moment, as if he had given this matter no previous thought, and he then said abruptly:

“No, you’ll not be needed. Henley and I can look over the ground and accomplish all that can be done.”

“Sure we can,” put in Henley, with ill-concealed eagerness.

“You return with Danny, Patsy, and keep an eye on those things in the library. There is a bare possibility that some one will try to destroy them, in case our suspicions are known.”

“That’s right, too,” Patsy quickly agreed. “I thought you were taking a chance, chief, in leaving them there.”

“You return and look after them,” Nick repeated decidedly. “I’ll hoof it back with Henley after making an investigation. He won’t mind the tramp.”

“Mind it be hanged!” cried Henley. “Tramping round these diggings is the most that I do.”

“That settles it, then,” said Nick. “Back into the crossroad to make a turn, Danny, and wait for us at Gordon’s place.”

“I’ve got you, chief,” nodded Patsy. “We’ll keep an eye on things.”

Nick did not hasten his departure with Henley. He waited until Danny had turned the touring car, then watched it speed away with both of his assistants, till it vanished around a near bend in the road.

Henley stood silently watching him, with his shotgun under his arm. There was a gleam of secret satisfaction deep down in his shifty eyes, an ominous curve in his thin-lipped mouth. Both vanished instantly, however, when Nick turned and said:

“Now, Henley, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll make good, all right,” was the reply, with a covert significance the detective was quick to notice.

“Lead the way, then.”

“I’ll soon show you, Mr. Carter,” Henley added, with the same sinister significance. “Come on, Ginger. He’s some dog, Carter, some dog. Ginger can’t be beat.”

Nick did not reply. He followed the swarthy ruffian over the rough crossroad, stopping at intervals to study the ground, stating that he wanted to examine the footprints of the missing couple, if any could be found. He delayed frequently in this way--but with an entirely different object in view.

Twenty minutes brought them to a path through the woodland, into which Henley struck without hesitation, remarking grimly:

“They must have gone this way. It was on this side of the pond that Ginger nosed out the bloodstained togs.”

“How far is the pond from here?” Nick inquired, following him.

“Not far,” Henley gruffly assured him. “It’s over the hill and down into the valley. There’s another path on t’other side of it, leading to a road running south.”

“Toward Fordham, then.”

“That’s what. Gordon must have known about the pond. ’Tain’t very big, but it’s as deep as a volcano. The devil himself couldn’t raise a corpse sunk to the bottom of it. Gordon knew that, mebbe.”

“Quite likely, Henley, since he evidently wanted to get rid of the girl,” Nick allowed.

“That’s how it looks to me. Bear off this way, sir.”

Henley strode away to the left and plunged through the bushes and underbrush, Nick following, with Ginger bringing up in the rear.

Ten minutes brought them in sight of the pond, shut in on all sides by a thick belt of woods, and Nick followed his uncouth guide down to the edge of it and to the spot he was seeking, a lonely and suitable place enough for such a crime as superficially appeared to have been committed.

“Here’s the spot,” cried Henley, pointing to some trampled shrubs and underbrush. “There’s the log where Ginger nosed out the girl’s hat and jacket. They were rolled up and thrust under it, then partly covered with dirt and leaves.”

“Yes, yes, I see.”

“Here’s blood on the bushes, and footprints in the ground and dry leaves, as if the girl put up a fight to save herself from----”

“Stop a moment,” said Nick, intently viewing the evidence mentioned. “I want to compare these shoes with the imprints.”

“Gordon’s shoes?”

“Yes. The button boots belong to the girl. She left them in a house where she has been boarding.”

“You went there after them?” questioned Henley, with sinister scrutiny.

“Yes, certainly,” said Nick, without looking up. “By Jove, they correspond perfectly, Henley. There’s no question about it.”

Nick was comparing both pieces of footwear with several impressions found in the damp earth. There was, as he had stated, no question as to the correspondence in size and shape, which was further evidence of who had been there the previous evening.

“It looks bad, bad enough,” he added, after viewing the blood-spattered bushes, the rough ground on all sides, and seeking vainly for evidence showing in which direction Gordon had departed.

“You have made no search for the girl’s body, Henley, you said.”

“What’s the use?” Henley asked, with a growl. “A hundred to one it’s at the bottom of the pond.”

“Very likely,” admitted Nick, with seeming uncertainty as to what course to take.

“Gordon wouldn’t have waited to bury it.”

“True again,” Nick allowed. “If we only knew in which direction he went----”

“We can find that out easy enough,” Henley interrupted, with eyes gleaming for an instant.

“How so?” asked Nick, though he had expected and been only waiting for these suggestions. “How can we contrive to trace him?”

“Leave it to Ginger.”

“You mean----”

“Ginger will show you,” Henley cut in. “He can trail him like breaking sticks. He’s some dog. Mr. Carter, some dog. Wait a bit and I’ll show you. Gimme one of Gordon’s shoes.”

“By Jove, that’s a good idea, Henley.” Nick cried, as if he had not thought of it. “He can get the scent from this, perhaps, as you suggest. I ought to have been wise to that.”

“Here you, Ginger, come here,” Henley growled harshly. “Come here, you rascal.”

The hound bounded through the bushes and cringed at his master’s feet.

Henley seized him by the scruff of the neck and held to his nostrils the shoe the detective had given him, then pointed to the larger of the imprints in the ground.

“Get after him, Ginger!” he commanded, producing a leather strap and hooking it to the dog’s collar. “Follow him up! After him, Ginger, you rascal!”

The hound brightened up and appeared to know what was wanted. He began to bark, until Henley cuffed him fiercely, and then he thrust his muzzle to the ground, whining and eagerly tugging hard on the leather leash.

Henley seized his shotgun from the ground where he had placed it, crying gruffly:

“I told you, Carter. He’s got the scent. Come on at my heels. Ginger’ll trail him.”

“By Jove, I believe you are right, Henley,” Nick cried, following.

“I know I’m right. He’s some dog, sir, some dog.”

“Some dog, Henley, no mistake.”

“Can you stick close?”

“Bet you!” said Nick, as both plunged on after the hound. “You can’t go too fast for me.”

“Sing out if I do.”

“I’ll hang on, all right. Want me to carry your gun?”

“Not much!” growled Henley. “I’m used to this ’ere business.”

“Gordon evidently went round the pond, instead of back to the crossroad.”

“That’s so. He most likely was heading for the other road.”

“It looks so, for fair.”

“Ginger’ll trail him. Leave it to Ginger.”

The hound was plunging on all the while, with his muzzle to the ground, and was shaping a course through the woods and around the south side of the pond.

“Plainly enough, whoever planted this evidence wore the shoes Gordon had been wearing,” thought Nick, tramping rapidly on behind Henley. “That’s evidence enough, too, that he now is in the hands of this rascal’s confederates. It would be like Mortimer Deland not to overlook a point as essential as that. Where will the trail end? That’s the question.”

It then was, in fact, almost the only important question in Nick Carter’s mind. He felt that he had a correct answer for all of the others. He was not left long in uncertainty, however, for the trail was not a very long one.

Ten minutes brought them to a narrow road on the south side of the pond, though a quarter mile from it, and the hound started off to the left without a moment’s hesitation.

Another eighth of a mile brought them to what evidently was an extensive private estate. There were low walls through the woods, and away off to the right could be seen at intervals, when the trees and foliage did not hide them, the white stones and monuments of a distant cemetery.

“Whose place is this, Henley?” Nick inquired, while both scrambled over a low wall over which the hound had leaped. “Do you know who owns this estate?”

“Sure I know,” growled Henley, over his shoulder. “I know every place in these parts.”

“Whose is it?”

“It’s owned by a man named Barker, Colonel Morgan Barker, but he’s in Europe with his family. The house hasn’t been open for a year.”

Nick remembered the man and the place, also the Barker tomb, in which Mortimer Deland had temporarily concealed the art treasures stolen from Rudolph Strickland’s flat in Fifth Avenue, and from which gruesome confinement Nick had rescued Patsy Garvan on the night of the round-up.

No additional evidence was needed to convince him that he had hit the nail on the head, that Pauline Perrot and Mortimer Deland were one and the same, and that this notorious European crook was back of the knavery then in progress.

“It’s dollars to doughnuts, now, that the rascal has taken secret possession of Barker’s unoccupied house,” Nick said to himself. “It’s the old Barker homestead, and sufficiently isolated to serve Deland admirably for such a job. He knew all about it, too, and that he would ordinarily be safe from intruders. I’ll butt in on him, now, in a way he’ll not fancy.”

The last scarce had crossed Nick’s mind when they emerged into the cleared land back of the large old country house, stable, and outbuildings.

Ginger was still tugging on the leash and leading the way between the buildings and toward the rear of the fine old dwelling.

Not a word now came from Henley.

Nick glanced sharply at the house while they approached it. Shutters protected all of the lower windows. The curtains at those on the upper floors were closely drawn. The surrounding grounds, an eighth of a mile from the nearest road, shut in by the trees of an extensive park, were entirely deserted and running to rank grass and weeds.

When within ten yards of the rear door, toward which the hound was heading, Nick said abruptly:

“Stop a moment, Henley. If our man is here----”

“He’s here, Carter, all right,” Henley cut in gruffly.

He swung round while he spoke and dropped the leash, then threw his shotgun into the hollow of his arm, instantly covering the detective.

“He’s here, Carter,” he added, with sinister significance. “Don’t you reach for a gun. Don’t move, blast you, or I’ll pepper you so with buckshot that you’ll look like a sieve.”