The Melting-Pot: Where's the Commandant?
9781465664853
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“Oh, no, I have not forgotten you. I never forget the face of a crook.”The speaker was Nick Carter. His voice, though somewhat under ordinary pitch, had a subtle and ominous ring. There was a threatening glint in the eyes he had fixed upon the face of the man he addressed. It was a striking and impressive face, nearly as strong and impressive as that of the famous detective—but for directly opposite reasons. Nick Carter’s face was frank, manly, and wholesome. That at which he was gazing was pallid, sinister, and severe. Its clean-cut features were as hard as flint. The thin-lipped mouth denoted cruelty and vicious determination. The square jaw and aggressive chin evinced firmness and bulldog tenacity. The cold gray eyes had a shifty gleam and glitter seen only in the eyes of what the detective had called this man—a crook. He took up the epithet bitterly, saying, with a sneer: “Crook, eh! You cannot prove it.” “I may sooner or later.” “You have tried—and failed.” “Failure never deters me from trying again. You know the old adage.” “You succeeded only in smirching my name, in giving me a bad reputation. It caused my friends to desert and avoid me. It excluded me from the clubs, the reputable hotels, from every desirable place that I had been accustomed to frequent. It has changed my life and turned it as arid as the heart of a desert. I have you to thank for all this—you, Carter!” “You are mistaken,” Nick replied. “You have only yourself to thank for it.” “We view it differently.” “Where have you been for the past two years?” “Not where you tried to put me.” “In Sing Sing.” “Yes.” “Nor have you been in New York, or I should have known it.” “You would have known it, too, if I had been arrested.” “Most likely—if arrested under your own name.” “You remember that, then, also.” “Both the face and name of a crook, Stuart Floyd, I always remember,” said Nick. “I make it a point never to forget them.” Floyd’s thin lips curled again with intense scorn and bitterness. “That epithet again,” said he between his teeth. “I have you to thank for it—and repay.” “Ah! I see now why you stopped me,” said Nick. “You wanted to threaten me.” They had met in Madison Avenue; in fact, the detective having left his residence only a few moments before. It was about ten o’clock in the morning. “Threaten you!” exclaimed Floyd, with ominous quietude. “There has been no day or night for two years that I have not threatened you.” “Indeed!” “Have you supposed that I forgot, that my memory is less retentive than yours, that I have less cause than you to remember? Have you thought for a moment that I forget and forgive?” “It matters very little to me, Floyd, whether you do or not,” Nick calmly informed him, entirely unaffected by the subdued yet vicious intensity with which the other was speaking. “Later, Carter, you will pipe a different tune,” Floyd went on, with eyes vengefully gleaming. “I will not sleep until the debt is paid. I am going to put something over on you, Carter, that will more than balance our account. Smile scornfully, if you will, but wait until I plunge you into the melting pot. It will come—take my word for that. It’s you for the melting pot. You for the melting pot!” Nick Carter did not ask him what he meant—did not seriously care. Nor did he attempt to detain him, though he glanced after him a bit sharply. Stuart Floyd had stepped to one side, then walked briskly away without a backward glance, and he was quickly lost to view in the throng of pedestrians then in the avenue. Nick Carter walked on as if nothing had occurred. The threat did not alarm him. He gave it hardly a second thought. It was two years since he had seen Stuart Floyd, since he arrested him for complicity in the looting of the Imperial Loan Company by Morris Garland and Moses Hart, its two treacherous managers, the case involving the felonious pawning of Lady Waldmere’s valuable jewels, held by them for collateral.
