CHAPTER X

OFF TO TEXAS

Like a flash and without stopping to ask questions, Nat Ridley leaped toward the window, through which, the Spanish translator indicated, the window cleaner had entered and left.

The man with the chamois was not in sight, but his pail was still on the broad, stone ledge, and Nat at once guessed what had happened.

"He walked along the coping here like a human fly and got into the next office," decided Nat. "He was a spy, disguised as a window cleaner! I thought he acted like an amateur when I first spotted him. The Tola gang is after me hot and heavy!"

Nat Ridley needed but a second to make up his mind.

"Where he went I can go!" exclaimed the sleuth. "Look after things sharp here for a minute or two," he called over his shoulder to Berry.

"Where are you going, Chief?"

"After that fellow!" exclaimed Nat.

"Be careful!" murmured the stenographer, who, with Toodles, had run into Nat's private office at the alarm given by the startled translator.

But Nat was already out on the ledge, which, aside from its height above the pavement, was a safe place to walk. In a few seconds the detective had entered the window adjoining his own--the window of an importing firm with the heads of which the sleuth had a slight acquaintance.

There was a clerk in the room into which Nat leaped from the window--a clerk who seemed rather startled.

"Another one!" he exclaimed, and Nat knew he had guessed right.

"Did a man just come in here?" asked the detective quickly.

"Yes. The window cleaner."

"He was no window cleaner," Nat stated, with a grim look. "But let that pass. Did he have anything in his hand?"

"Yes, some papers."

"Which way did he go?"

"Out through our office into the corridor. He said something about feeling sick and needing medicine. I thought you were another one when I saw you come in."

"You mean another window cleaner?" remarked Nat. "No, I'm not," and, as he was in disguise, the clerk did not recognize him. Nat let it go at that.

"Is anything wrong?" the young man asked, as Nat, after a look down the corridor and noting it was vacant, decided it would be useless to chase after the spy.

"No, not much wrong," was the reply. "I just wanted to ask him some questions. Another time will do."

Nat was anxious to get back and ascertain how much of the letters the translator had copied before they had been snatched away from him. So, with a nod to the clerk, Nat went back the way he had come, along the window ledge, somewhat to the surprise of the clerk.

The sleuth found his office force and the Spanish scholar awaiting his return somewhat anxiously.

"Did he beat it?" asked Berry.

"He sure did! It was quite a plan--pretending to be a window cleaner and even impersonating the janitor in telephoning up to tell Toodles he was coming. He got both letters, I suppose?" Nat ruefully asked the translator.

"Unfortunately of a truth, yes, señor," was the reply. "But not before I had made copies of them both. Here they are," and he held out two sheets of paper.

"Good!" cried Nat. "You copied them both, did you? Fine! As long as we know what the letters say we don't need the originals, unless they contain something incriminating."

"They do not seem to be of that nature," said the translator. "The missives do but contain some directions about oil wells and something of a contest over them. There are a number of names of persons and places."

"Good!" cried Nat again. "That is what we want."

Eagerly, he began perusing the translations of the letters found in the torn coat and, as he read, a pleased smile spread over the sleuth's face.

"This settles it!" murmured Nat.

"Settles what?" Berry wanted to know.

"About going to Texas and possibly to Mexico. I'll have to leave in a few days. I'm on the track of the double dagger gang now, all right!"

"Then you're going to run them down?" asked Berry.

"I am if it's humanly possible. I promised Mrs. Lemberg I would do what I could to avenge her husband's death. But I also have a big bone to pick with these devils in the matter of Dan Steele's death. Dan was once a pal of mine. I'll make those imps sorry they knifed him!" and Nat's eyes blazed.

Once more he read the translations, and then had his stenographer make copies of them which he put in his pocket, leaving the pen translations in his safe.

"That spy window cleaner wasn't as smart as he thought himself," chuckled Nat as he prepared to go out to arrange about transportation to Paloma. "He wasn't quite quick enough getting those letters back. You did your work quickly and well," he said to the Spaniard.

"I am glad that the señor is pleased," was the reply, and Nat added a generous bonus to the fee the man charged.

"Well, what's the game now?" asked Berry when he and his chief were alone in the private office after the excitement had calmed down. "Am I to go on being you?"

"Until you get orders to the contrary," Nat answered. "And now let me see--I've got to assume a new character. What would be a natural disguise for one who is going to the Mexican border? I think I'll go as a travelling hardware man, looking for orders for farm machinery--tractors and the like. I'll brush up a bit on the talk of the trade."

Nat Ridley had a wide acquaintance in New York, and among them was a friend in the whole-sale hardware business. Putting on a new disguise from his office stock--making up to look like an inconspicuous office clerk, Nat left his headquarters and sought out Jabez Norman, the big hardware man.

To the latter Nat explained enough of the matter to satisfy the natural curiosity of his friend, and then, for a day or so, Nat absorbed a lot of information about shovels, rakes, hoes, disk harrows, plows, tractors, and the like, together with trade and discount terms. He also managed to pick up a smattering of Spanish which was to stand him in good stead.

Having gotten enough hardware knowledge, he thought, to serve him in a pinch, Nat began to put his affairs in shape so that he could leave for his Mexican trip. For he did not doubt but that he would have to cross the border.

"These plotters and murderers probably slide back and forth over the line several times a week," the sleuth decided. "I must do the same."

The publicity following the murder of Lemberg, the solution of which baffled the police, and the stir made by the attack on Nat and Berry in the Spanish club, seemed to have sent the Tolas to cover.

During the time, after he had had the letters translated, when Nat was preparing to start for Paloma, there was no further attempt on the part of Ramon and his gang to interfere with the detective.

The unfortunate Lemberg was buried and Nat made a last call on his widow, promising to do what he could to bring the murderers to justice. Mrs. Lemberg was not able to give any more clews than those which she had already furnished the sleuth.

"My last word to you, though, Mr. Ridley," said Mrs. Lemberg as the detective was about to take his leave, "is to be on your guard."

"I will," he replied.

"You little know the desperate character of those men," she went on. "My husband did not realize it until too late, or he might be alive now."

"They certainly are desperate and cunning," agreed Nat, as he reflected on the fact that, in spite of all his precautions and disguises, the Tolas had, in some manner, found out about his visit to the Club Tamalle, learned that he had the letters, and had made such a successful attempt to get them back. It was only by chance that the translations had been made before the window cleaner played his trick.

"You shall hear from me," promised Nat as he bade Mrs. Lemberg a final good-bye.

"I hope in person," she answered, with a wan smile. And there was meaning and emphasis in what she said.

From her apartment Nat went to a railroad office where he bought a ticket and berth for Paloma. He thought he was well disguised and that he had come by such a roundabout route that none of the Mexican gang would be able to trail him.

Yet when Nat emerged from the office he was sure a dark, swarthy man, shabbily attired, who shuffled around the corner, was a spy watching him.

"I'll give him a run for his money!" decided the sleuth, with a grim look in his eyes.

Nat pretended to be in a great hurry and hastened along the street head down, looking at some papers he took from his pocket. But out of the corner of his eyes, he was watching the shabby man and saw him prepare to do some shadowing. Then, when opposite the fellow, Nat turned suddenly, as though to go back, having forgotten something. But he deliberately collided with the spy, and with such force as to knock him into the gutter where there was a puddle of water.

"Sorry!" exclaimed Nat. "You should look where you are going, my friend!" he added sharply.

For a moment the fellow said nothing, though his face grew darkly red with rage. Then he cried out a Spanish imprecation, shook his fist at Nat while scrambling out of the puddle, and added:

"Son of a pig!"

"Ah, ah! Señor Ramon or one of his friends! I thought so!" chuckled Nat, and before the fellow could arise to follow, Nat slipped into an office building, went up in the elevator, down again and out through another entrance, thus effectually throwing the shadower off the trail.

Yet with all his precautions and this strategic upsetting of one of his enemies, Nat Ridley felt that they were still on his trail, and he was more positive of it when he went to take the night train for Texas.

Some might ask why Nat did not arrest this rascal and force him to confess. The answer is, the great detective knew that this could not be done. The secret society was too powerful--no member would say a word, not even when in the shadow of death. If a man thought to squeal, he well knew that, once at liberty, his life would pay the penalty.

Tired out, Nat entered the sleeping car and was groping his way along the green-curtained aisle when the porter accosted him, asking the number of his berth.

"Twelve," answered Nat.

"Yais sah, dat's right! Lower twelve," and the colored bed-maker looked at Nat's ticket.

"Lower twelve and upper twelve," said Nat, holding out a second coupon.

"Upper twelve?" gasped the darkey. "Am dere two ob you?"

"No, I'm traveling alone," replied Nat, with a smile. "But I always buy two berths, an upper and a lower. I don't like anyone above me."

"Oh!" gasped the Porter. "Dat's too bad!"

"What's odd about that?" asked Nat. "It's a whim of mine."

"I wish I'd knowed dat, boss," the negro went on scratching his woolly head. "I didn't spect anybody had upper twelve, an' I jes' done put a gen'man in it."

"Oh, did you?" asked Nat sarcastically. "Well, then you can just rout the gentleman out and leave that berth empty. I've paid for two and I'm going to have them. No one sleeps above me!"

As he spoke the curtains of the upper berth parted and a dark face looked out.

"Pardon, señor," said a man in soft Spanish accents. "But there is no other place vacant in the train, and if you are not going to use this berth I shall be glad to pay you for your lower one and also for this."

"Nothing doing!" snapped Nat briskly. "That's my berth, and I'm going to have it."

An ugly look came over the face of the man in upper twelve.