Kitabı oku: «Nelson The Newsboy», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXXI.
BULSON GROWS DESPERATE

Sam Pepper was taking it easy at the rear of his resort on the evening of the day when Gertrude went to Lakewood, when the door opened and a messenger boy came in.

"Is Sam Pepper here?" asked the boy, approaching Bolton.

"That's my handle, sonny. What do you want?"

"Here's a message. I was to wait for an answer."

Pepper took the message and read it with interest.

"Friend Pepper: Meet me to-night between eleven and twelve o'clock at my apartments. Something important. Bring those old papers with you. I have the cash.

"H. B."

"Humph! so Bulson wants to close that deal to-night," muttered Sam Pepper, as he tore the message to shreds. "He's in a tremendous hurry, all at once. I wonder what's new in the wind? Well, I'm low on cash, and I might as well take him up now as later on."

"Where's the answer?" asked the messenger boy.

"Here you are," returned Pepper, and scribbled a reply on a slip of paper. Then the messenger received his pay and made off.

Promptly on time that night Sam Pepper went up Fifth Avenue. Just as he reached Homer Bulson's home the young man came down the steps.

"Come with me—the house is full of company," he said. "I want to talk to you where we will be free from interruption."

"I'm agreeable," answered Pepper.

The pair walked rapidly down a side street. Homer Bulson seemed ill at ease, and Pepper noticed it.

"You are not yourself to-night," he said.

"I've got lots to think about," growled Bulson.

"Still mad because the girl won't have you, I suppose."

"No, I've given her up. I don't want a wife that won't love me."

"That's where you are sensible."

"Gertrude can go her way and I'll go mine."

"Well, you'll have the softest snap of it," laughed Pepper. "She'll get nothing but hard knocks."

"That's her own fault."

"She don't make more than half a living, teaching the piano."

"Oh, if she gets too hard up, I'll send her some money," responded Bulson, trying to affect a careless manner.

"By your talk you must be pretty well fixed."

"I struck a little money yesterday, Pepper—that's why I sent to you. I want to go away to-morrow, and I wanted to clear up that—er—that little affair of the past before I left."

"What do you want?"

"I want all those papers you once showed me, and if you have that will I want that, too."

"You don't want much." And Sam Pepper laughed suggestively.

"Those papers will never do you any good."

"They might."

"I don't see how?"

"The boy might pay more for them than you'll pay."

"He? If he knew the truth, he'd have you arrested on the spot."

"Don't be so sure of that, Bulson. I know the lad better than you do. He has a tender heart—far more tender than you have."

"Well, if it's a question of price, how much do you want?" demanded Homer Bulson sourly.

"I want five thousand dollars cash."

"Five thousand! Pepper, have you gone crazy?"

"No; I'm as sane as you are."

"You ask a fortune."

"If that's a fortune, what's the amount you expect to gain? Old Horton is worth over a hundred thousand, if he's worth a cent."

"But I'm not sure of this fortune yet. He's a queer old fellow. He might cut me off at the last minute."

"Not if you had that will. You could date that to suit yourself, and you'd push your game through somehow."

"I can give you two thousand dollars—not a dollar more."

"It's five thousand or nothing," responded Sam Pepper doggedly.

"Will you accept my check?"

"No; I want the cash."

"That means you won't trust me!" cried Bulson, in a rage.

"Business is business."

Homer Bulson breathed hard. The pair were on a side street, close to where a new building was being put up. The young man paused.

"You're a hard-hearted fellow, Pepper," he said. "You take the wind out of my sails. I've got to have a drink on that. Come, though. I don't bear a grudge. Drink with me."

As he spoke he pulled a flask from his pocket and passed it over.

"I'll drink with you on one condition," answered Pepper. "And that is that I get my price."

"All right; it's high, but you shall have it."

Without further ado Sam Pepper opened the flask and took a deep draught of the liquor inside.

"Phew! but that's pretty hot!" he murmured, as he smacked his lips. "Where did you get it?"

"At the club—the highest-priced stuff we have," answered Bulson. Then he placed the flask to his own lips and pretended to swallow a like portion to that taken by his companion, but touched scarcely a drop.

"It's vile—I sell better than that for ten cents," continued Pepper.

"Let us sit down and get to business," went on Bulson, leading the way into the unfinished building. "I want to make sure that you have everything I want. I am not going to pay five thousand dollars for a blind horse."

"I'm square," muttered Sam Pepper. "When I make a deal I carry it out to the letter."

"You have everything that proves the boy's identity?"

"Everything."

"Then sit down, and I'll count out the money."

"It's—rather—dark—in—here," mumbled Sam Pepper, as he began to stagger.

"Oh, no! it must be your eyesight."

"Hang—me—if I—can—see—at—all," went on Pepper, speaking in a lower and lower tone. "I—that is—Bulson, you—you have drugged me, you—you villain!" And then he pitched forward and lay in a heap where he had fallen.

Homer Bulson surveyed his victim with gloating eyes. "He never sold better knock-out drops to any crook he served," he muttered. "Now I shall see what he has got in his pockets."

Bending over his victim, he began to search Sam Pepper's pockets. Soon he came across a thick envelope filled with letters and papers. He glanced over several of the sheets.

"All here," he murmured. "This is a lucky strike. Now Sam Pepper can whistle for his money."

He placed the things he had taken in his own pocket and hurried to the street.

Nobody had noticed what was going on, and he breathed a long sigh of relief.

"He won't dare to give me away," he said to himself. "If he does he'll go to prison for stealing the boy in the first place. And he'll never be able to prove that I drugged him because nobody saw the act. Yes, I am safe."

It did not take Homer Bulson long to reach his bachelor apartments, and once in his rooms he locked the door carefully.

Then, turning up a gas lamp, he sat down near it, to look over the papers he had taken from the insensible Pepper.

"I'll destroy the letters," he said. He smiled as he read one. "So Uncle Mark offered five thousand for the return of little David, eh? Well, it's lucky for me that Sam Pepper, alias Pepperill Sampson, didn't take him up. I reckon Pepper was too cut up over his discharge, for it kept him from getting another fat job." He took up the will. "Just what I want. Now, if Uncle Mark makes another will, I can always crop up with this one, and make a little trouble for somebody."

He lit the letters one by one, and watched them turn slowly to ashes. Then he placed the other papers in the bottom of his trunk, among his books on poisons, and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXXII.
SOMEBODY WAITS IN VAIN

Mrs. Kennedy was busy at her stand, piling up some fruit, when a woman who was a stranger to her approached.

"Is this Mary Kennedy?" the newcomer asked.

"That's me name," answered the old woman. "But I don't know you, ma'am."

"My name is Mrs. Conroy. I'm a nurse. Mrs. Wardell sent me to you."

"Yes, I know Mrs. Wardell. But what is it you want, ma'am? I don't need a nurse now, though I did some time ago, goodness knows."

"I am not looking for a position," smiled Mrs. Conroy. "I am looking for a young lady named Gertrude Horton."

"Gertrude Horton! Who sint you?" questioned Mrs. Kennedy suspiciously.

"Her uncle, Mark Horton, sent me."

At this Mrs. Kennedy was more interested than ever.

"An' what does he want of the darling, Mrs. Conroy?"

"He wants her to return home."

"Heaven be praised fer that!"

"Where can I find Miss Horton?"

Again Mrs. Kennedy grew suspicious.

"I can tell you that quick enough, ma'am—but I must know if it's all right, first."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"There's a villain of a cousin, Homer Bulson, who's been tryin' to git Miss Gertrude in his clutches. You're not doing this work for him?"

"No, indeed, Mrs. Kennedy. Mr. Horton sent me himself. He wants Miss Gertrude to come straight home. He wants her to forgive him for his harshness."

"To hear that now!" ejaculated Mrs. Kennedy joyfully. "What a change must have come over him!"

"I do not know how he was before, but he is now very anxious for her to return. He thinks he might get better if she were with him."

"What a pity Gertrude can't go to him this minit!" said Mrs. Kennedy.

"Will you tell me where I can find her?"

"She is not in New York, Mrs. Conroy. She went to Lakewood early this morning."

"To stay?"

"Oh, no! She'll be back to-night."

"Will you see her then?"

"To be sure—she lives with me."

"Oh!"

"I'll send her home the minit I see her," went on Mrs. Kennedy.

"Then I'll return and tell him that," said the nurse. "Be sure and insist upon her coming. He is so anxious he is almost crazy over it."

"Sure and he ought to be—drivin' her away in that fashion."

"I guess it was his sickness did it, Mrs. Kennedy. The man is not himself; anybody can see that. The case puzzles the doctors very much."

Mrs. Conroy had some necessary shopping to do, but an hour saw her returning to the mansion on Fifth Avenue.

"Well?" questioned Mark Horton anxiously. "Did you see her?"

"She had gone out of town—to Lakewood. But she will be back to-night."

"And will she come to me?"

"I cannot answer that question, Mr. Horton. I told the woman with whom she lives to send her up here."

"Did you say she must come—that I wanted her to come?" persisted the retired merchant eagerly.

"I did, and the woman was quite sure Miss Gertrude would come."

"When was she to get back from Lakewood?"

"By seven or eight o'clock."

"Then she ought to be here by nine or ten."

All that afternoon Mark Horton showed his impatience. Usually he took a nap, but now he could not sleep. He insisted upon getting up and walking around.

"The very thought that she will be back makes me feel stronger," he declared. "It is more of a tonic than Homer's wine."

"Please do not grow impatient," said Mrs. Conroy. "You know there may be some delay."

Slowly the evening came on and the street lamps were lit. Mr. Horton sat at a front window, looking out. He did not want a light in the room.

"I wish to watch for her," he explained. "You may light up when she comes."

He was now feverish, but would not take the soothing draught the nurse prepared. Hour after hour passed, and presently he saw Homer Bulson enter his quarters, and then go out again.

"I do not know how Homer will take the news," he told himself. "But he will have to make the best of it. Of one thing I am resolved—Gertrude shall do as she pleases if only she remains with me, and she shall have half of my fortune when I die."

At last it was nine o'clock, and then the sick man became more nervous than ever. Every time a woman appeared on the dimly lit street he would watch her eagerly until she went past the mansion.

"She will not come!" he groaned. "She will not come!"

At ten o'clock Mrs. Conroy tried to get him to bed, but he was stubborn and would not go. Another hour went by, and then another. As the clock struck twelve Mark Horton fell forward in his chair.

"She has deserted me!" he groaned. "And I deserve it all!" And he sank in a chair in a dead faint.

With an effort the nurse placed him upon the bed and did what she could for him. But the shock had been great, and in haste she sent for a physician.

"He has had them before," explained the doctor. "I will give him something quieting—I can do no more. Each shock brings him closer to the end. It is the most puzzling case on record."

As he was so feeble Mrs. Conroy thought best to send for his nephew, and Homer Bulson was summoned just as he was waking up.

"All right, I'll be over," he said, with a yawn. He did not feel like hurrying, for he was tired, and had been through such an experience before. It was after eight when he at last showed himself.

"You are worse, Uncle Mark," he said, as he took the sufferer's hand.

"Yes, I am worse," was the low answer. "Much worse."

"It is too bad. Hadn't you better try some of that new wine I brought you?"

"Not now, Homer. I feel as if I never cared to eat or drink again." And Mark Horton gave a groan.

"You must not be so downcast, uncle."

"Homer, Gertrude has turned her back upon me!"

"Gertrude!" cried the nephew, very much startled.

"Yes, Gertrude. I—I did not think it possible."

"But I don't understand, Uncle Mark. Did you—er—did you send to her?"

"I will confess I did, Homer. I could stand it no longer. I wanted to see the dear child again."

"And she turned her back on you?" went on Bulson, hardly knowing what to say.

"She did. I sent for her to come at once. She had not gone to Boston, but to Lakewood, and was to be back in the evening. That was yesterday. She is not yet here, and that proves that she has forsaken me and wants nothing more to do with me."

At these words a crafty look came into Homer Bulson's eyes.

"Uncle Mark, I am sorry for you, but I could have told you as much some time ago," he said smoothly.

"You could have told me?"

"Yes. I went to Gertrude when she was thinking of going to Boston and begged her to come back. I even offered to go away, so that she would not be bothered with me. But she would not listen. She said that she was done with you, and that she preferred her theatrical friends to such a home as this, where there was no excitement. She is changed—and changed for the worse."

"Oh, Homer! can this be true? The dear, gentle Gertrude I once so loved and petted! But it is my own fault. I drove her away. I have only myself to blame." And burying his face in his pillow, the sick man sobbed aloud.

Instead of replying, Homer Bulson got out of a medicine closet the bottle of wine he had brought two days before and poured out a glassful.

"Take this, Uncle Mark. I know it will do you good," he said.

"No, I want no wine!" cried Mr. Horton. And suddenly he dashed wine and glass to the floor. "I hate it! It does me no good. I want nothing but Gertrude!" And he buried his face in his pillow again.

"I will do my best to bring her to you," said Bulson hypocritically.

He remained at the mansion a short while, and was then told that there was a man who wished to see him.

He hurried to his own apartments across the way, and here found himself face to face with Sam Pepper.

"You played me a fine trick," growled Pepper. "Give me back the papers you stole from me."

"Let us come to an understanding," said Bulson. "I am willing to pay for what I took, Pepper. Come with me."

"Want to drug me again?"

"No. I want to get where it is quiet. Come."

"All right, I'll go along. Supposing you come to my place?"

"That will suit me. I want to make a new deal with you."

And the pair started for Sam Pepper's resort on the East Side.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
QUESTIONS OF IMPORTANCE

"Sure, and this is a double mystery, so it is. What do you make of it, Mr. Van Pelt?"

It was Mrs. Kennedy who spoke. The non-appearance of Gertrude had worried her greatly, and she had visited Van Pelt, to learn that Nelson was also missing.

"I don't know what to make of it," answered George Van Pelt. "Nelson went after Billy Darnley, who robbed our stand. Perhaps he has met with foul play."

"Could our Gertrude have met with foul play at Lakewood?"

"I shouldn't think so. She knew where she was going, didn't she?"

"To be sure—to a Mrs. Broaderick's; she read the letter to me herself."

"Perhaps Mrs. Broaderick asked her to stay over," said Van Pelt. "I can't think of anything else."

While the pair were talking Mrs. Kennedy happened to look up the street.

"Here comes Nelson now!" she cried suddenly.

She was right, and soon our hero was at the stand, and shaking each by the hand.

"I feel as if I've been on a long trip," he said, with a broad smile.

"Where have you been?" questioned Van Pelt and Mrs. Kennedy in a breath, and then he told them his story, and also told of what had happened to Gertrude.

"The dirty villain!" cried Mrs. Kennedy, referring to Bulson. "He ought to be put in prison. But the poor girl's troubles are over now."

Then she told of how Mark Horton wanted his niece to come back to him.

"Perhaps he wants her back, and perhaps this is another trick," said Nelson. "After this I am going to help guard her more than ever."

"Where is she now?"

"At home. She doesn't know what to do. She thinks of calling on her uncle—to warn him against Bulson. We've got an idea the man is poisoning his uncle in order to get the entire fortune."

"Those books on poison–" began Van Pelt.

"Exactly," said Nelson. "You can testify to them, can't you?"

"To be sure. You had better tell the police of this."

"I shall," said Nelson, quietly but firmly.

The matter was talked over, and our hero determined to call again upon Gertrude, whom he had just left at Mrs. Kennedy's rooms.

When told of the message her uncle had sent the poor girl burst into tears of joy.

"Dear Uncle Mark! He is not as bad as I thought!" she cried. "He would be as kind as ever, if he wasn't so sick. Yes, I will go at once, and I will tell him all."

"And I'll go along—to prove your story and to tell him about the books on poisons," said Nelson.

Soon the pair were on their way to the mansion on Fifth Avenue. Gertrude was all in a tremble, and could scarcely contain herself for joy. The housekeeper let her in, with a smile.

"I am glad to see you back," she said warmly. "I hope you'll stay, Miss Gertrude."

"How is my uncle?"

"Very feeble. I hope the shock doesn't hurt him."

"Is that Gertrude?" came in Mark Horton's voice from the head of the stairs.

Instead of replying the girl ran to meet him, and in another moment uncle and niece were in each other's arms.

"Oh, Uncle Mark!" was all Gertrude could say.

"My dear Gertrude," murmured the feeble man, "I am so thankful you have come back to me! I was cruel, nay crazy—but I will never be so again. Will you forgive me?"

"Willingly, uncle," she answered. "You were not yourself; it was your sickness made you act so. Now I will nurse you back to health and strength."

"Ah! Gertrude! I do not feel as if I can get back my strength again. I am too far gone," murmured the retired merchant.

"Rest yourself, uncle." And she led him to a chair. "After a while I want to have a long talk with you. But tell me first, have you been taking any wine lately—I mean the wine Homer Bulson gave you?"

"A little. But I do not like it—although he almost forces me to take it. Why do you ask?"

"If you will hear me out, I will tell you. It is a long story."

"I will listen to every word, Gertrude."

As briefly as she could she told of what had happened to her since she had left home, how Homer Bulson had followed her up, and what he had done at Lakewood. Then she spoke of Van Pelt and Nelson, and how they could prove that Bulson had purchased several books on poisons. At this last revelation Mark Horton grew deadly pale.

"And you think–" He faltered, and paused. "Oh, Heavens, can it be possible? My own nephew!"

"I would have the wine analyzed," said Gertrude. "And I would have him watched carefully."

At that moment came a ring at the front door bell, and the doctor appeared.

"Ah, Miss Horton!" he said with a smile. "I am glad that you are back."

"Doctor, I want that wine examined without delay," broke in the retired merchant.

"Examined? What for?"

"See if it is pure. I have an idea it is impure."

The doctor smiled, thinking this was another of the sick man's whims. But Gertrude called him aside.

"We think the wine is poisoned," she whispered. "Examine it as soon as you can, and report to me."

"Oh!" The doctor's face became a study. "By Jove, if this is true–" He said no more, but soon departed, taking the wine with him, and also a glass of jelly Bulson had brought in for his uncle's use.

"And so you have brought Nelson with you," said Mark Horton. "Perhaps I had better see him."

"Do you remember him?" asked Gertrude, her face flushing. "He was in the library that night–"

"So that is the young man that was here! Gertrude, for the life of me I cannot understand that affair."

"Nelson did not want to explain all he knew, because he wanted to shield a man who used to care for him, uncle. He thought the man came here to rob you, but he made a mistake, for after he left this house he saw the man come out of the house opposite, with Homer Bulson."

"Who was the man?"

"A rough kind of a fellow who keeps a saloon on the East Side. His name is Samuel Pepper."

"Samuel Pepper? Samuel Pepper?" Mark Horton repeated the name slowly. "That sounds familiar. Pepper? Pepper? Ah!" He drew a breath. "Can it be the same?" he mused.

"Shall I bring Nelson up?"

"Yes, at once."

Soon our hero was ushered into the sick room. He was dressed in his best, and cut far from a mean figure as he stood there, hat in hand.

"You are Nelson?" said Mark Horton slowly.

"Yes, sir."

"I must thank you for all you have done for my niece. I shall not forget it."

"That's all right," said Nelson rather awkwardly. "I'd do a good deal for Gertrude, any day."

"You are a brave boy, Nelson. I believe I once misjudged you."

"You did, sir. I'm no thief."

"I am willing to believe that I was mistaken." Mark Horton paused for a moment. "Gertrude tells me you live with a man named Sam Pepper," he went on slowly.

"I used to live with him, but we parted some time ago. I didn't want anything to do with drink or with a saloon, and I did want to make a man of myself."

"That was very commendable in you. But tell me, is this man's right name Sam Pepper?"

"I hardly think it is, sir. I once saw some letters, and they were addressed to Pepperill Sampson."

"The same! He must be the same!" Mark Horton breathed hard. "Do you know anything about him—where he came from, and so on?"

"Not much. You see, I'm not very old. But he did tell me once that you had been an enemy to my father."

"Me? Who was your father?"

Our hero hung his head and flushed up.

"I don't know, sir."

"This Pepperill Sampson is a villain. Why, he robbed me of my son years ago, to get square with me because I had discharged him for stealing."

"Robbed you of your son?" repeated Nelson. "Do you mean to say he killed your boy?"

"I don't know what he did. At first he was going to let me have my little David back for five thousand dollars, but then he got scared, and disappeared, and that was the last I heard of him or of my child."

"Then David may be alive!" cried Gertrude. "Nelson–" She stopped short. Each person in the room gazed questioningly at the others. Our hero's breath came thick and fast. Then the door bell below rang violently, and Nelson and Gertrude heard Mrs. Kennedy admitted.