CHAPTER XXV.

THE MAN IN THE BED.

The detective knew in that instant that he could no longer hope to save

his prisoner; that is, to escape with her, and that the chances were

about a thousand to one against his own escape.

That Mike Grinnel was thoroughly incensed, and that he was determined

that the detective should never get out of that place alive, was

apparent in the cold glitter of his eyes, as he looked at Nick across

the barrel of his revolver.

And Nick knew how Grinnel had succeeded in heading him off. He could see

in his mind just what the surprise was in the saloon when the lights

were again turned on and it was discovered that one of the strangers who

had come there with Curly had disappeared, and had taken Black Madge

with him.

Grinnel, knew, of course, that there was only one way out of that place,

which was through the private door back of the bar into the little room

which he used as an office, and thence through that other door behind

the safe, through the narrow corridor, down the stairs into the cellar,

and then up again into the back end of the Chinese laundry.

And Grinnel had lost no time in summoning to his aid three of his most

trusted adherents, and hastening with them to the laundry, where he was

ready to head off the detective's retreat.

It had not been difficult for them to get there and be ready for him

before he could reach the place with his burden; for he had used up a

great deal of time in searching out the secret door behind the safe, and

in finding his way through the cellar.

And, moreover, Mike Grinnel was a man of expedient. Having arranged this

method of escape for himself, if the necessity of it should arise, he

had also prepared the laundry with lights to turn on or to extinguish as

he might desire; and, therefore, having reached the laundry and prepared

himself and his followers for the coming of the detective, they had only

to wait silently in the darkness until they heard him approaching, when

Mike switched on the lights.

It was a moment fraught with peril, and with unnumbered possibilities.

At such times there is always an instant of inaction; an instant when

neither party concerned knows quite what to do.

But the detective, as it happened--with the possible exception of Mike

Grinnel himself--was the first to recover.

The detective was carrying Madge in his arms; and now, at the risk of

injuring her, realizing that it was the only way by which any

possibility of escape could be offered to himself, he raised her over

his head at the very instant that the turning on of the lights revealed

his enemies, and threw her with all his strength at Mike Grinnel's burly

figure.

Of course, not one of the crooks dared to use his weapon, lest Black

Madge herself be shot, and it was upon this idea that the detective

acted as much as any other.

Nor did it occur to Mike Grinnel that this other, whom he had seemed to

have now guessed must be Nick Carter, would resort to any such measure

as he had, and, therefore, he was not prepared.

The body of Madge, flying the short distance across the room, struck

Grinnel squarely on the chest, and thus forced him backward against two

of the men who were with him; and so in that instant four people all

together were huddled in a heap upon the floor, and only one of Nick's

visible enemies remained standing.

And the instant that Nick threw Madge at them, he leaped forward and

seized the switch, which was almost at Grinnel's shoulder, where he had

been standing; and, with a twist of his wrist, he turned off the lights

as suddenly as they had been turned on.

At the same instant he had taken into consideration the position of the

one man of the enemy who was left erect, and no sooner had he turned the

switch than he leaped forward toward the spot where he knew that man to

be standing.

Nicely calculating the distance, he struck out a savage blow with his

right hand, and he heard this last one of his enemies go down in a heap

upon the floor.

And then the detective leaped over him toward the door which he had seen

during that brief interval of illumination, passed through it, and

pushed it shut behind him.

He knew now that he was in the front room of the laundry. He knew that

there should be tables and benches there, and it was only the work of an

instant for him to reach out and feel around until he seized upon one,

and then, exerting his great strength, he pulled it over in front of and

against the door he had closed.

A faint light shone into that room from the street, and Nick instantly

leaped for the front door of the shop, reaching it only to find that it

had been locked when the others entered.

But the door was of glass, and, hesitating not an instant, he seized a

chair and hurled it into the street, thus making a hole through which he

had no difficulty in passing.

The next instant he was outside, and for the moment, at least, safe. But

the detective knew that he was by no means free from pursuit as yet,

although he had no intention of fleeing very far; and, as he was about

to turn away, he remembered that he had left Chick inside the saloon

surrounded by rascals of every kind.

It was not in the nature of Nick Carter to desert any one under such

circumstances, much less his favorite, Chick.

While he hesitated, he heard a noise behind him in the laundry that was

made by Grinnel and his three followers, attempting to escape from the

predicament into which he had thrown them.

He remembered then that Grinnel and his men must have come out of the

dive by the front door or by the hall-door entrance, in order to have

reached the laundry when they did, and he figured in that instant that

it was more than likely that in doing so they had not thought to fasten

the door behind them, or had purposely, perhaps, left it unlocked in

order that they might be able to return with all the more speed to the

safety and seclusion of the dive.

He heard them pounding against the door against which he had pulled the

heavy bench, and he knew that at least three or four minutes must elapse

before they could make their escape; and in that moment he decided to

return to the saloon at whatever cost, if it were possible for him to

get there.

A few quick bounds brought him to the front door of the dive--that door

which swung so ceaselessly to and fro during the legal hours of its

business. He knew, although he tried it softly, that it was securely

locked against him, and he passed on to the hall door of the house,

which was just beyond it. This, as he had guessed might be the case, was

not fastened, and he pushed it open and passed beyond it.

He found himself in a hallway in black darkness, and while he paused for

a moment to listen, not a sound of any kind came to his ears, a fact

which led him to determine that either Chick had already been done for

by the frequenters of the dive, or else that he had been made a

prisoner, and was lying somewhere, bound and gagged, awaiting the return

of Grinnel.

Nick now crept along the hall until his hand came in contact with a

balustrade; and here he paused, uncertain whether to proceed through the

hall to the rear of the building, which he knew should give an entrance

to the saloon, or to ascend the stairs and temporarily hide himself in

the neighborhood of the house. Everything considered, this latter course

was distinctly the best one, since, doubtless, it would never occur to

Mike Grinnel or to any of those who were concerned with him in this

incident, that Nick Carter would have the temerity to return to the same

house from which he had just escaped.

Therefore, if safety were the only incentive for Nick Carter, to act

upon this was the very best course he could have adopted. But Nick was

ever one who considered his own safety last. His whole impulse now was

to do the best that could be done to get Chick out of the predicament

into which he had been thrust; and he considered that to be the very

method he had adopted.

Nick knew the characteristics of the people against whom he was pitted

well enough to understand that the moment they realized that he had

escaped them they would simply return to the saloon of the dive to

discuss it--and doubtless, also, to call to severe account those who

were responsible for the affair.

Such a discussion would not take place until two things had

happened--until they were satisfied utterly that Nick Carter had escaped

them, and also that they had Chick so thoroughly in their power that he

could not hope to escape.

And so the detective ascended the stairs softly, and as silently as a

shadow. He had no means of knowing, of course, the character of the

rooms on those floors, or their location; but, nevertheless, the

circumstances were such that he had to take desperate chances, and

therefore when he reached the landing he felt with his hands silently

along the wall until he came to a door, which he felt slowly down until

he touched the knob. This he turned, trying to open the door which

resisted him, showing that it was locked.

There is a way to force a door--that is, an ordinary door--and at the

same time make very little noise. It is done--if the door opens

inward--by seizing the knob firmly with both hands, having turned it,

and then by bracing the body with one knee pressed firmly against the

door directly under the knob. In this position, if it is assumed by a

strong man, every effort may be centred upon one sudden impulse forward,

which, while there is no visible or perceptible impact, will place all

of the muscular force and weight of the man directly upon the point

where the latch or lock of the door is located; and it is a very

substantial lock which will not give way under this sort of pressure

when it is correctly applied. Nor is there any perceptible noise, more

than that of the tearing out of the slot which holds the bolt of the

lock.

When this door gave way before the detective it admitted him to a square

room at the rear of the house--a room in which a lamp, turned low, was

burning; and as he closed the door behind him and pulled a chair in

front of it to hold it shut, he saw a figure of a man, who had been

sleeping fully clothed on a bed in one corner of the room, start to an

upright posture, staring and apparently alarmed.

"Who----" the man started to exclaim, but the detective interrupted him

with a sharp command.

"Shut up," he ordered, "if you let out a peep you will be the worse for

it."

Without a word, the man sank back upon the pillow, apparently not in the

least alarmed now, and evidently believing that the person who had

entered his room was only another like himself, who, having gotten into

some sort of trouble, was fleeing from his pursuers; and by all

precedents, if the man was pursued to that room, it would be infinitely

better for its permanent occupant to appear to be still sleeping

soundly, than to have any of the aspect of a confederate, and so he

closed his eyes again as if he were still alone.

Nick waited a moment at the door, listening for sounds outside, and

while he stood there he heard the hall door from the street open, and

presently close again, and he could distinguish the tramping of feet

along the hall as several persons passed to the rear of the house,

evidently on their way to the saloon again.

As soon as these noises had ceased, he knew that he was for the moment

at least safe from pursuit. He piled other things against the door, and

then deliberately crossed the room to the lamp and turned it up, after

which he strode over to the bedside.

"Now, my friend," he said to its occupant, "I'll have to ask you to wake

up for about three minutes."

"All right," was the simple response. "What do you want? Who are you,

anyway? And what in blazes do you mean by bursting into my room in this

way?"

"First," said Nick, "I want to know who you are, and whether you belong

here or not?"

"Oh, you make me tired," grunted the man on the bed. "I'm Phil, the head

day bartender downstairs."

"All right, Phil," said Nick, smiling. "Get up on your feet, where I can

look at you, and where you can answer a few questions for me."

"Oh, what's eating you?" growled the bartender. "I ain't been to bed

more than an hour. Let me sleep."

Instead of replying, the detective reached out his hand, and, seizing

Phil by the shoulder, jerked him from the bed to the floor, stood him on

his feet, and then seated him forcibly upon one of the wooden chairs

near at hand--so forcibly that his jaws snapped together like the

cracking of a nut.

"Now, will you be good?" asked Nick, smiling grimly.

"Yes, curse you," was the surly reply. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you."

"Well, talk on, can't you? I'm listening. Who are you, anyhow?"

"I'll tell you who I am," answered the detective, "and after I have done

so, perhaps you will consent to listen to me. I am Nick Carter, the

detective, and I want to make a little bit of use of you right now,

Philip."