The Spruce Street Tragedy; or, Old Spicer Handles a Double Mystery

"Who's that with him?"

"Old Spicer."

"The deuce it is! But, yes; I would have known him by the descriptions I have seen of him. Queer looking cuss, ain't he?"

"He's – well, he's rather slender, to say the least."

"A sort of Wm. M. Evarts. Ah! good-day, Mr. Spicer. Good-day, doctor; glad to see you, gentlemen," and as the great detective and the surgeon entered the room with Crowley, the reporter followed after them, as a matter of course.

"Why, Crowley, where's your prisoner?" demanded Old Spicer, in startled tones, after a single glance at the blood-stained bed.

"He's – Great Scott! He's gone!"

"Gone?" exclaimed the reporter, in his usual brisk way. "How the devil did he manage to get away?"

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAMBERLAIN'S CAPTURE

"How'd he manage to get away? confound you!" exclaimed Crowley, turning upon the reporter in the bitterness of his soul. "He managed it while my back was turned answering your nonsensical questions."

"Nonsensical! Look a-here, officer, I can prove to you in just one minute and a half that my questions were anything but nonsensical."

"Oh, don't bother me!"

"Well, but how do you suppose he got away? I'd really like to know that – good point – great sensation – man supposed to be fatally wounded finds he's a prisoner – the trusty officer left in charge merely steps to the door for a moment to consult and advise with a well-known gentleman of the press, when, on turning back, presto, change! the bird had flown!

"Yes, I can work it in that the greatest mystery hangs about his disappearance – that is, you know, unless we can find out just how he managed it."

"Well," said Old Spicer, suddenly turning upon the reporter, "I think we can satisfy your laudable curiosity upon that point."

"Ah! you do, eh! How so, pray?"

"See this closet?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, step a little further this way. You see there's a door opening from it into the next room. The place has been so arranged that it can be used as a closet for either room, you perceive?"

"Ah, yes, to be sure, or so that it might be used as a passageway – as in the present case, eh?"

"Exactly. Now, then, the question is, has the wounded man, in his supposed weakly condition, been able to escape from the hotel? Crowley, please summons Killett. We must institute a thorough search."

"I'll take a hand in that," exclaimed the reporter, with alacrity, "and I hope I shall find him."

"Why are you so anxious on that point?" asked Old Spicer, curiously.

"Why, you see I want to make a little noise in the world before I start for New Haven to hunt out the murderer or murderers of Charley Way."

"Oh! you are going to do a little detective work up there, are you?"

"Yes, sir; I'm jist going to pipe that mystery, you bet."

"Well, sir, I wish you all the success possible – all the glory there is left to gain."

"Are you speaking sarcastically, sir?"

"By no means."

"I thought I detected something of the kind in the tone of your voice."

By this time Killett had made his appearance, and the detectives, the reporter, and nearly every one connected with the hotel, spread themselves through the house in search of the missing man.

After an hour they returned to the point from whence they had started, and were obliged to confess that their efforts had been in vain. Emory E. Bissell had utterly vanished, and left no trace behind!

"Well," said Killett, drawing Old Spicer aside, and speaking in a low tone, "there can be no question about it, the fellow was playing 'possum, and he's got clean away. What had we better do now?"

"He must be found," said Old Spicer, decidedly.

"No question about that; but where shall we look first?"

"Have you no suggestion to make on that point yourself?"

"I think he's still in this neighborhood."

"I think it's quite possible; and, if you're willing, I'll leave you here for a time and look after another matter."

"All right, old fellow, only don't let us lose track of one another."

"Of course we mustn't do that," and Old Spicer, a little irritated by the escape of both Chamberlain and Bissell, hurried away.

He went straight to Cora Bell's rooms, and had a long and serious talk with her. He then went to the place where he and Killett had spent so much time earlier in the day, and wrote two long letters, which he posted with his own hand. After this he went to Inspector Byrnes' office, on Mulberry Street, and was closeted with that celebrated detective for more than two hours; and then, being quite worn out, he made his way to a neighboring hotel and went to bed.

Early the next morning he started out again.

A little later he found himself in the Bowery. He had just crossed Third Street, walking in the direction of Fourth, when he saw a figure ahead of him that attracted his attention.

It was that of a rather good-looking young man of about twenty-three years of age.

The blood tingled in the old detective's veins. His heart beat faster – his pulse quicker.

He hurried forward.

The young man turned into a saloon. Old Spicer followed him.

The young man called for a drink. The detective did likewise.

The young man cast a suspicious glance at the elder, threw a nickel on the bar and hurried out.