Chick and Patsy, with eyes of horror, saw Nick Carter fall, and, forgetful of everything save the fate of their beloved chief, hurried to his side. Tears of joy were in their eyes when they saw that he was not dead, nor even badly injured. His body had struck the Russian, whose head, coming in contact with the protruding spike of a heavy board, was now still and lifeless. But the head of the detective, as well as the upper part of his body, had fallen against a hair mattress, and thus been the means of saving broken bones and the preservation of a useful life. Beyond a number of painful bruises and a temporary loss of breath, Nick Carter was as good as ever. It was some moments, however, before he could speak to Chick.
"Mannion? Where is he?" he asked.
"Patsy is following him," was the answer; "the boy, as well as myself, let him go when you fell, but as soon as Patsy saw you were not dead he rushed around the corner of the house."
"I am afraid he has given us the slip," returned Nick disappointedly.
"Never mind," said Chick consolingly; "we'll get him[149] yet. By the way, do you know you have cooked the goose of one of the men you were after?"
"What! Goloff?"
"Yes."
"How? Ah! I understand. He was the man I flattened to the sidewalk."
"The same hombre, Nick. And he's dead. No more shall the ear-splitting notes of his fog-horn voice offend the senses of poor, suffering humanity."
"Have they taken his body away?"
"Not yet. But I'm looking for the patrol any minute."
The wagon soon came and Nick accompanied the driver to the morgue, leaving Chick behind to supplement the work of Patsy.
At the morgue, in the course of time, the body was searched, and forty dollars in money, some letters from San Francisco, written by Goloff's wife, and several copies of a will were the only articles deserving attention that were found.
The copies of the will were submitted to Nick by the coroner, and, in an instant, the detective's mind took in their vital significance. Here was a find, indeed. There were four copies in all, and the wording of each was the same. The only points of difference—and they were slight—lay in the handwriting. Looking at and comparing them carefully, Nick's correct conclusion was that each copy was written by the same person and for the purpose of using one—the copy as perfected—as a[150] model upon which to draft a purported genuine document. The reading of the words—the purport of the alleged will—revealed the object sought. And this is what Nick Carter read:
"This, my last will and testament, written by myself and without dictation, when, sound both in body and mind, disposes of all the property of which I may be possessed at the time of my death. I hereby declare that I am without wife or children, brothers or sisters, or any legal heirs at law. Therefore, I give and bequeath to the Soldiers' Home five thousand dollars; the Smithsonian Institute, five thousand dollars; and all the rest and residue of my property, real and personal, to Arthur Mannion, son of my deceased wife; and I hereby appoint my dear friend, Jackson Feversham, to serve as executor of my will, and desire that no bond shall be required of him.
"James Playfair."
"Washington, D. C., April 16. 19—."
For some time after he had handed back the papers to the coroner, Nick remained in a brown study. Soon his mind was made up as to his course of action. The finding of these copies must not be made public for a week. Much might be done in that time, perhaps the case might be ended.
Half an hour later the detective, the coroner, the local detectives, and secret service men, chiefs and subordinates were closeted together. To the assembled criminal-catchers Nick exposed his hand and outlined his plans.
"Mannion knows he is suspected," he said, "but blinded[151] by the great pecuniary interest at stake, he may conclude to remain in the city for awhile. If he does he will be caught. If, however, this will business is sprung on him through newspaper publication he will understand that all is lost and that his life is not worth a candle."
"But, Mr. Carter," spoke up the coroner, "I don't understand what value as evidence against Mannion these copies of the will possess. They are evidently not copies made by James Playfair, for they would not have been found in the possession of a Russian criminal, an utter stranger to the old man. Looking upon them, then, as having been written by another man, Arthur Mannion, say, they reveal nothing more than a silly propensity to build castles in the air. If a will, worded as these copies are, should, however, be produced by the executor as a genuine instrument, or, what purports to be one, and which was found among Playfair's possessions, then I could see some point to your contention."
The coroner paused. Nick, who had listened quietly and with an impassive face, replied:
"I think I can satisfy your scruples. Will you kindly step to the phone, call up Jackson Feversham, and ask him to step around here? His office is not far away, and if he is in he will be with us in a few minutes."
Feversham was in his office, and five minutes later made his appearance.
He was asked by Nick if any will had been found.
"Yes," was the answer.
[152]
"To whom is the property devised?"
"To me, that is, the larger portion of it. Playfair had no relatives. He was an only child, and so was his father."
"What is the date of the will?"
"October seventh of last year."
"Where did you find it?"
"Among his papers, in his room."
"Had he a deposit box in any bank?"
"Yes."
"Have you examined that?"
"No. I haven't found the key, and I have concluded to procure an order of court before having the lock forced."
"You are the executor under the will made in October, are you not?"
"I am."
Having been informed by the chief of detectives that court was then in session, Nick proposed that Feversham go at once to the judge, state the exigency of the case and obtain an order for the opening of the box.
"The court can act under the assumption that there is only one will in existence, the one which is in your possession. Of course," Nick went on, "the time is too short for the institution of regular proceedings; but under the circumstances the court may appoint you special administrator, and in that capacity you can go ahead."
"Yes. I think it can be done," returned Feversham,[153] "and I'll make the attempt at once. I sha'n't be gone long. Will you wait here, or shall we arrange for another meeting?"
"If there is no objection," said the coroner, "we will wait."
Feversham, on account of his long residence in Washington, and his high character as a citizen and as a man, had no difficulty in procuring the temporary appointment from the court. A locksmith was found, and in less than an hour after his departure from the room which held the officers he reappeared with a bulky envelope in his hand.
Opening the envelope in the presence of the company, a number of papers, stock certificates, tax receipts, bankbooks, etc., and a small, sealed envelope superscribed "My last will and testament," were brought forth.
"Before you produce the will which that small envelope holds," said Nick Carter. "............