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[168] <h2>CHAPTER XXXIII. SUSPICION FALLS ON NICK.</h2> “For the love of Heaven!” exclaimed Lane Griswold, in a shocked voice. “You are crazy, Simpson, or lying! Do you actually mean to charge Carter, who is one of the greatest detectives we have in this country, and a man who is absolutely above suspicion in every way, with having turned on his friend and associate, Cray, and then made off with the money?” Simpson’s air was one of injury. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not lying,” he answered. “I’m telling you, or am ready to tell you, just what I know, and all I know. You’ve got me where you want me. Is it likely that I’d do anything to get in deeper than I am?” “Then, tell me about it—everything.” “Well, it isn’t much, and I didn’t actually see anything. I heard things, though—more than I was intended to, I guess. They tied me up here, and then, while Carter was looking at the money in the suit cases which I had already got in the car, Cray dug over there to make sure that there wasn’t any of it still buried. When he got through, Carter called him to come out, saying that he had something to tell him that he didn’t want me to hear.” “Where was Carter then?” “He wasn’t in sight. He had stepped to the corner[169] out there, just back of where the car was. You can see that he could not have been many feet from here, so it was easy enough for me to hear things.” “Well?” “Well, Cray went out, leaving the door open behind him. The next thing I knew, I heard a queer sort of dull thud, and pricked up my ears. It sounded as if somebody had been hit, perhaps with a fist, or, more likely, with something else. “Of course, I didn’t know then which man had done it, but I suspected that Carter had, because he had called Cray out. The blow must have given Cray something to think about, for there was a pause before I heard him say ‘Mr. Carter!’—just like that. He said it as if his best friend had turned on him, and he didn’t know what to make of it. I guess Carter must have tried to hit him again right away, for they had a little tussle. It did not amount to much, because, as I figured it out, Cray must have got a pretty nasty blow that first time, and there wasn’t very much fight in him. He must have done something, however, for the other fellow snarled, ‘Curse you; take that, then!’ and rapped him again, as I could tell by the sound. Still Cray was not down and out. They clinched, apparently, and then Cray muttered something, or whispered it in a hoarse sort of whisper. I couldn’t hear all of it, but it was something about ‘green-eyed.’ That seemed to make Carter more furious than ever, so far as I could tell. He cursed Cray some more, and seemed to strike him again and again.[170] That was the end of it. Carter locked me in then, and I think he dragged Cray around the garage before he drove off.” Lane Griswold had been listening with all his ears throughout this recital, his face the picture of amazement and incredulity. Incidentally, his keen eyes seemed to search Simpson’s very soul. The man was a thief, and might easily be a liar as well. What possible motive could he have for lying, however? The millionaire could think of only one, and that seemed far-fetched. It was conceivable, of course, that, despite all the probabilities, John Simpson might have had one or more confederates who had struck down Cray, and carried the loot off to some new place of concealment. In that case, the treasurer’s story might be made up out of whole cloth. But after a brief mental consideration of this, the millionaire rejected the theory. If Simpson had had any one to help him, surely he would not have remained tied up there in a locked garage to starve, or be caught by those who were searching for him. Even if he had actually been surprised and handcuffed by Cray before the arrival of his friends, the latter would not have left him there to such an uncertain fate. After giving the detective his quietus, they would have carried Simpson off with them, handcuffs and all, and found a means of releasing him later on. No, the man must be telling the truth. He had suffered great hardships, and he was face to face with[171] the employer he had defrauded. Surely, he was not the sort of man to lie under such circumstances, especially after having confessed to hiding the money under the earthen floor of the garage. But if he had told the truth, and had not misinterpreted what he heard—which seemed unlikely—what could it possibly mean, except that the sight of so much gold had proved too much for the great detective, and that he had turned criminal. Griswold faced the possibility very reluctantly, but he felt obliged to face it. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was the one and only solution. As a newspaper proprietor, he knew a great deal about the seamy side of life, and was the custodian of many discreditable secrets which for one reason or another had never been allowed to see the light of print. He did not need any one to tell him that all is not gold that glitters, or that a man is necessarily straight in every respect because he has never been found out in any wrongdoing, and has always enjoyed the best of reputations. As far as that went, this might not be Carter’s first fall from grace. The detective was undoubtedly an extraordinarily clever man, and was said to be wealthy. Might it not be that he had contrived for years to deceive his clients, and fatten his bank account at their expense? The thought made Griswold gasp, but at the same time it caused his heart to race with excitement. [172] What a beat it would be if his papers could announce exclusively that Nick Carter, one of America’s greatest detectives, and the so-called “archenemy of criminals,” was in reality a master criminal himself! It would cause a sensation, the like of which had never been known. Of course, Griswold confided none of this to the man before him. Instead, with the instinct of the reporter, which had never deserted him since his early days of struggle, he surprised Simpson with a question. “Well, what do you make of it?” he asked. The thieving treasurer’s mind had reverted to his own troubles, and it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together sufficiently to answer. “Why, I—I hardly know what to think, Mr. Griswold,” he replied. “It’s pretty hard to reconcile that sort of thing with what I’ve always heard and read about Nick Carter, but I have to believe my own ears, don’t I? The money seems to have looked good to Carter, just as it did to me, but that wasn’t all of it, I’m sure.” “What do you mean by that?” “I’m thinking about that whisper of the other fellow’s,” Simpson explained. “I told you, remember, that he said something about ‘green-eyed.’ We use that expression in only one connection, don’t we, in speaking of ‘green-eyed jealousy?’ Don’t that look as if Cray was accusing Carter of turning on him because he was jealous of him for some reason?” [173] Griswold was impressed. “That sounds plausible enough,” he admitted. He was unconsciously allowing himself to be led still further astray, and it began to look as if the outcome might be decidedly unpleasant for the great detective, for the owner of a chain of great newspapers is not an accuser who can be ignored or despised. <hr class="chap" /></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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