The Duplicate Night: Where's the Commandant? (Continued)
9781465665133
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
It was a fateful moment—one to be remembered. A fateful moment in the lives and fortunes of some to whom there then came no premonition of evil, no dread of the terrible sword that hung by a hair above their heads, upon whom was cast no shadow through the glare and glitter around them, amid the gay festivities in which each played a part. It was a fateful moment, one brought only by chance to the notice of Nick Carter. It was remembered by the celebrated detective, moreover, only because of two incidents that would have been entirely unnoticed by a less keen and discerning man. One was the single stroke of a tall, old-fashioned clock in the main hall of the great mansion. It struck the half after ten. The hall in which it struck, and in which Nick Carter then was standing, was that of the magnificent Carrington mansion on Washington Heights, the home of the wealthy railway magnate, Horace K. Carrington, a millionaire fifty times over, and prominent with his handsome wife in the most fashionable and exclusive circles of New York society. It was the night of the fifteenth of January, memorable for an unusual warm spell of more than a week, which had melted the last vestige of snow and drawn the last sign of frost from the ground. It was also memorable as the night of a private masked ball in the Carrington mansion, in which something like three hundred of their most intimate friends had gathered. The avenue and streets adjoining the extensive estate were thronged with conveyances of the most expensive kinds, limousines, and costly motor cars predominating. The elegant grounds, covering nearly an entire square, were almost as bright as day under the glare of a myriad of electric lights suspended among the trees of the surrounding park. The superb mansion itself was ablaze from basement to roof. Its broad halls and spacious, sumptuously furnished rooms were thronged with masked guests, many in elaborate fancy and historic costumes, and some in nondescript attire. Courtiers and princes rubbed elbows with clowns and jesters. Queens in regal raiment hobnobbed in corners and alcoves with country bumpkins, while the whirl of the dance presented a kaleidoscopic picture, the details of which would require a volume. It was a weird, yet dazzling picture, with the gleam and glitter of jewels of inestimable worth. Aside from the numerous officers and guardians in and about the extensive grounds, guardians of diamonds and gems that would have aggregated millions, two men in evening dress and of refined and unofficial bearing mingled with the servants and other house functionaries in various parts of the mansion, apparently having only an eye to the general conduct of affairs. These two men were Nick Carter and his chief assistant, Chick Carter, both carefully disguised, the balmasque feature of the gathering and the unusual opportunity for knavery that it presented, in view of costly jewels worn by his guests, having led their host to secretly employ the two famous detectives as safeguards against designing intruders and possible crime. At precisely half past ten, the fateful moment mentioned, Nick Carter was standing in the main hall and near the front door of the house. He could see the entire length of the hall, the broad stairway to the second floor, and through several open doors the throng of dancers in the adjoining rooms. All of them still wore masks, eleven o’clock having been the hour stipulated for their removal.
