CHAPTER XVII. THE GIRL AND THE CRIME.

It was with a feeling of some chagrin that Nick Carter realized his desperate situation the moment the heavy iron doors of the walled passage closed upon him, leaving him alone in the Egyptian darkness of the tomblike place.

Yet the trick by which he had been caught was one to have deceived any man. Only a clairvoyant could have seen that the doors worked jointly and under the motive of powerful springs.

Though alert and watchful from the moment he had entered the house with Belle Braddon, he had not looked for such a trap as this.

Keenly suspicious, knowing in fact that the girl was up to some knavish game, Nick had suspected that he was being led into Flood’s house with a design to throw him into the hands of several assailants, a situation which would have given him no concern whatever, and which he really had been inviting in order to identify the parties to it and learn their motives.

Before Nick had fairly recovered from his surprise, however, he heard the voice of Belle Braddon from Flood’s private room. It sounded dead and muffled, much as if Nick was locked in a bank vault, yet he could readily distinguish her words and the triumphant intonation with which they were uttered.

“I say, Carter,” she cried, crouching to place her lips near the crack of the closed door, “are you there?”

Nick instantly resumed his usual composure.

“Yes, I’m here,” he coolly answered.

“Throw me out of a job, will you?” screamed the girl, with a ringing laugh.

“I’ll do more than that for you one of these days, young lady,” Nick cried back.

“Yes, you will!” returned Belle derisively. “It won’t be many days before there’ll be singing and flowers at your house, and you’ll ride at the head of a procession.”

“Think so?”

“You’ll not hear any of the music, either.”

“Don’t bank too heavily on that,” replied Nick. “I have been in worse places than this.”

“And got out alone?”

“And got out alone.”

“Well, if you get out of this one, Carter, you’ll be a bird,” cried Belle tauntingly. “You’ll find that this is no gilded cage. How do you like it?”

“Oh, it’s snug and cozy all right.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to enjoy it. I’m going to leave you there.”

“The sooner the better,” retorted Nick. “Your room is preferable to your company.”

“Thanks,” laughed Belle. “The sentiment is mutual. By the way, sir!”

“Well?”

“You may make all the noise you wish. It won’t disturb anybody, for there’s nobody to hear it.”

“I’m glad to know that,” cried Nick, undaunted.

“Both houses are vacant and you are midway between them,” cried Belle, with a cruel laugh. “You may yell your lungs out and you’ll not be heard.”

“I shall keep my lungs where they belong,” cried Nick, a bit impatiently. “I shall require my voice a little later, to testify against you.”

“I’ll risk that, my man,” retorted the girl. “In that trap you’ll not live more than a day or two. If you don’t suffocate you’ll starve, for nobody will show up here for many a day. I’ll insure that.”

“Thanks. It’s very kind of you.”

“You’re entirely welcome,” answered Belle. “And when your body is finally discovered here, it will be assumed that you came here alone in search of Flood and accidentally got caught between the iron doors.”

“Quite reasonable, I am sure.”

“Very clever, isn’t it? You see, Carter, no one will ever be suspected of having lured you here and lodged you in there. You are reputed to be too clever to be caught in a trap in that fashion. It’s dead open and shut that your death will be attributed to an accident.”

“Providing I die here,” supplemented Nick.

“If you don’t, there’ll be something wrong with the deck,” cried Belle, with derisive assurance. “I’ll come to your funeral, Carter, and send a broken column.”

“Good enough. I’d prefer gates ajar, however.”

“Doors ajar, you mean,” cried Belle, with a scream of laughter. “Good-by, Carter. I’m going to leave you now. I have a date at the Waldorf at six. I’m going to dine with a yellow-haired chappie from Dakota.”

“Good-by—and good riddance,” cried Nick.

The last brought no answer.

Belle Braddon had glided silently out of Flood’s private room and was hurrying down the hall stairs.

Despite her derisive laughter and the taunting remarks with which she had mocked her helpless victim, her cheeks were as white as the knot of lace on her heaving breast.

The awful horror of the crime she had committed was upon her. She fully believed that she had left Nick Carter to suffocate in the foul atmosphere of the walled passage; or, if spared that fate, that thirst and starvation would overcome him.

The very hideousness of the crime shook even her callous nature and filled her quaking soul with nameless horror.

The nervous tremor of her feet on the uncarpeted stairs as she hurriedly descended thrilled her with alarm, and her knees were knocking together when she reached the lower hall.

There she paused and caught her breath, steadying herself, then went into one of the silent parlors, as silent as death itself, to peer through the closed blinds into the sunlit street.

The brighter light outside restored her nerve, and a smile of vengeful exultation relaxed her drawn gray lips.

“He’s as good as done for, as good as done for,” she muttered through her teeth. “It serves him right. It was his life or that of my uncle, and all is fair when life hangs in the balance. He would have turned Nate down as indifferently as he did me, and he has invited only what he has got. Let him take his medicine, then! It’s what he deserves!”

With such reasoning as this she put the horrid crime out of her mind, and resolved to think no more about it.

With calmness came greater cunning. She reasoned that she might be seen leaving Flood’s house, if she departed by the front door. Instead, she descended to the basement.

There she broke a window and opened the catch, to indicate that Nick Carter, when his lifeless remains should be discovered, had entered the house, presumably in search of Moses Flood. That he had accidentally been caught in the walled passage she also felt sure would be assumed. That the crime should never be brought home to her, she was taking every precaution.

In the semidarkness of the basement, she next tied a thick veil over her hat, and drew it carefully about her face.

Then she let herself out the back door, locking it after her, and stole quickly through a narrow alley, and thus gained the nearest side street.

Now she breathed freely again, and triumphantly hastened away.

“Five thousand easily earned—easily earned!” she said to herself, weighing in mind the price Nathan Godard had agreed to pay for Nick Carter’s life.

Belle Braddon dined that evening with her yellow-haired chance acquaintance from Dakota, so alleged.

Had she dreamed for an instant that she was dining with Chick Carter, she would have fallen out of her chair in a fit.

It was midnight when she reached home at the shore house of Nathan Godard, and she found the large wooden dwelling enveloped in darkness.

There was no game in progress that night.

Belle went straight to bed—as straight as her unsteady steps would take her, and slept soundly until morning, the heavy sleep of semi-intoxication.

At breakfast with Nate Godard that morning she gave him the key to the situation—but not the situation itself.

“You keep away from those two town houses, Nate,” she said grimly to him, over her coffee.

“What’s that for?” inquired Godard curiously.

“Never mind what it’s for,” replied the girl, with threatening significance. “You do just as I say; that was the agreement when I undertook to accomplish this Carter job for you.”

Godard started slightly.

“Is it done?” he quickly asked.

“It’s as good as done, make no mistake about that.”

“On the level?” cried Godard, with knavish eagerness.

“Yes, on the level,” declared Belle. “But, mark what I say, Nate, and this goes.”

“Well?”

“You keep away from those two town houses for the next ten days. If you don’t do so, Nate Godard, you later may be run down to police headquarters, in Mulberry Street, to answer to the worst charge in the calendar. So do what I command, or bitter trouble may be yours.”

In his mind’s eye, so pointed were the girl’s remarks, Nate Godard fairly could see the lifeless body of Nick Carter stretched upon the cellar floor of one of the two houses. How Belle Braddon had accomplished it Godard neither knew nor cared. He felt it would be a safe gamble to follow her instructions to the letter.

“By thunder! Belle, I believe you have brought a shift of luck,” he exclaimed, after a moment, with a grim mingling of satisfaction and approval. “On my word, Belle, you are one girl in a million!”

She shrugged her shoulders, then drained her cup of coffee to its dregs.

“Let’s hope so,” she replied. “I have another bit of news for you, too, Nate!”

“What is that?”

“My Dakota chap’s uncle is coming on here to join his nephew.”

“The devil you say!” cried Godard, half rising from his chair.

“It’s no joke, Nate.”

“When is he coming?”

“I’m to meet the two of them at the Waldorf to-morrow afternoon.”

“You mean the wealthy cattle-dealer?”

“The same, Nate.”

“Can’t he be induced to go up against my game here?”

Belle Braddon’s crafty eyes took on a quizzical look at the man opposite.

“Suppose he can, Nate?” she answered slowly: “could you make a sure thing of him?”

“How much can be won?” demanded Godard ominously.

“A hundred thousand, at the least, if you get him on the down track.”

“Are you sure?”

“Dead sure!”

“And he comes from Dakota?”

“There’s no doubt of it, Nate, not a shadow of doubt.” cried Belle. “I’ve seen the telegram he sent to his nephew, and that simple guy hasn’t art enough to deceive an old woman. Yes, Nate, it’s dead open and shut that the uncle comes from Dakota.”

Godard dropped back into his chair and fell to thinking.

He was thinking of Moses Flood’s brace deal box, then in his own possession.

He was thinking, too, of a deck of strippers, also in his possession, with which he could vary to his own advantage the turn of every card.

In the lives of those who pursue fickle fortune through the medium of games of chance there is no experience which so arouses a spirit of utter recklessness as that of protracted losing. Sooner or later it drives discretion from its seat and opens the door for hot-headed desperation.

Say why the moth flies madly into the flame that consumes him! Say why the screaming sea-gull dashes out his brains against the dazzling windows of the towering lighthouse! Say why the undetected murderer haunts the neighborhood of his bloody crime!

Give answer to these questions—and then you may say what frenzy of human nature led Nathan Godard to dare self-destruction in the passionate greed of an evil hour.

Presently he looked up, fixing his inflamed eyes upon Belle Braddon’s face.

“A sure thing?” said he hoarsely. “Yes, I can make it a sure thing, Belle, that we win his money!”

“No slip-up, eh?”

“Not on your life!”

“Good!” cried Belle approvingly. “Get rid of all but your cuekeeper, Nate, and notify the gang that there’ll be no game here to-morrow night.”

“And you, Belle?”

“I will have the Dakota couple here at precisely nine o’clock.”