In the afternoon Nick, disguised as a negro porter, went to L Street. Chick and Palsy had been instructed in the r?les they were to play. The house described by Patsy was found, but the carpenters and painters were not there, although the scaffolding was still in place. As the day was Saturday, Nick found an explanation for the absence of the workmen. According to union rules, every Saturday afternoon is a holiday. The sidewalk had not been cleared and there were boxes, bricks, broken boards, and odds and ends lying about. Just beyond the entrance to the stairway, and near the edge of the sidewalk, was a large hair mattress, the ticking which covered it being torn in many places. Nick went up the stairs and stopped in front of a small, dingy office, presided over by a slatternly woman of middle age.
"Is Misto Mannion stayin' heah?" he asked, with an engaging smile.
"Room eighteen, this flo'." was the short answer.
"Ah'm gretly ableeged, Mistis. Ah'll fine hit, mahse'f. Don' yo' stir you' bones on mah 'count." As the woman made no effort to move, but simply stared at him, the false negro's courtesy seemed not to have been required.
Before the room, whose windows overlooked the back[140] yard, Nick stopped, for inside a man was singing softly to himself. The voice was a light tenor and was pleasing to the ear.
"The fellow is in happy spirits, apparently," thought the detective. "Hope I won't agitate him too much."
He knocked gently and presently the door opened and a tall, rather handsome young man, with dark face, red, womanish lips, cold blue eyes set close together, and a low forehead confronted him. Women might be deceived in respect to his character. Men of sense would not be likely to trust him. He was dressed in the height of fashion and seemed, entirely at his ease.
His eyes, in cool inquiry, sought the face of the black-faced caller, whose form trembled slightly.
"Well," he said curtly, "what can I do for you?"
"Ise—Ise de pusson yo' talked to tudder day down by de w'arf, sah," said Nick humbly. "Yo' gimme dat bank-bill fo' ter git changed, sah. Don' yo' 'member dat perceedin'?"
"Yes." A change, swift as lightning, swept over Mannion's countenance. He was no longer cool and nonchalant, but keen, alert, on his guard. "What about it?"
"Nuffin', sah, on'y I sho' don' desiah fo' ter git inter no trubble 'bout dat bill."
"Get into trouble? How can you get into any trouble? The bill was all right, and, anyhow, you didn't change it. You gave it back to me."
"Dat's truf, sah, but de coppers done foun' hit an' days er keepin' hit. Dat's wat eatin' mah heart out, sah.[141] Wat do de coppers want wid dat bill? Lucy Miranda—dat's mah ole woman—she say dat de bill is a hoodoo, an' dat I gotter hab dat young man wat gib hit ter me go git it an' take de hoodoo off."
Nick, looking at Mannion closely, thought he observed signs of perturbation.
"Have you spoken to any one about our transaction the other day?"
"No, sah. Ise bin erfraid ter speak, an' Lucy Miranda wouldn' tole de debble ef he was ter come in an' ast her."
Mannion drew a breath of relief. "I'll go down-town and get the bill," he said, "so don't bother your head about it any more. To tell the truth, I hadn't missed it, or I would have tried to find out what had become of it."
"De coppers foun' hit near de spot whar de killin' was done." said Nick, in an awed whisper.
Mannion regarded the false negro sharply, but any suspicion that might have entered his brain was dissipated at sight of the honest, disturbed countenance of the speaker.
Mannion did not say anything for a few moments. Then he asked this question, in what was meant to be a careless manner: "Have you heard any talk about the bill—that is, any talk in connection with the place where it was found?"
"Yes, sah, I hab," replied Nick hesitatingly, as he cast down his eyes and fumbled with his hat. "Ise heard a[142] heap o' talk. Some say dat de man wat drapped dat bill is sho' 'sponsible fo' de murder." Before Mannion could open his mouth Nick went on: "Yo' los' dat bill, sah, an' yo' sho' gotter fine dat killer else de coppers may git after yo', sah."
"Come inside," said Mannion, his face now as pale as death. Nick entered and the door was closed. "Now be seated and tell me every word you have heard. This—this is terrible"—meeting Nick's look of innocent inquiry—"that the man who found that bill, which I carelessly dropped, should be the murderer the officers are looking for."
The great detective had come to Mannion's room in pursuance of a definite plan, which he had not seen fit to divulge to any one. He might have told both Chick and Patsy, for they were to be trusted; but every detective is human, and Nick may be pardoned for desiring to give his assistants a surprise. Ever since he had looked upon the dead face of the murdered man, he had had a card up his sleeve. In examining the neck upon which the marks of cruel fingers were discernible, he had made two important discoveries—first, that the marks on the right side of the neck were heavier than those on the left side; second, that between the first and second marks, the first being that of the thumb, was a space of twice the width of each of the other spaces.
It is the business of a detective who hopes to make a success of his vocation to seize upon what to the layman would appear as the slightest trifles. Nick Carter's[143] eyes, trained to see every point that would aid him in the investigation of a criminal case, had let nothing escape him when he entered the morgue. Now, seated in front of Arthur Mannion, he knew that he was in the presence of the murderer of James Playfair.
The heavy finger-marks on the right side of Playfair's neck showed to the expert that the murderer was not only left-handed, but that the muscular power of the two hands and arms had been reversed from the ordinary. Once, while the talk was going on at the door, Mannion had shown that he was left-handed. Twice since entering the ............