Nick Carter Stories No. 143, June 5, 1915: The sultan's pearls; or, Nick Carter's Porto Rico trail

Nick Carter--known to the captain and crew of the tramp steamer Cherokee as Sykes, the bos’n--heard this shout, taken up by man after man, as he lay stretched out on the foc’s’le head, in the early morning, just as the ship nosed her way into San Juan harbor, on the northern coast of Porto Rico.

The thrilling warning that somebody has fallen into the sea, which always sends a shock through both crew and passengers whenever heard, does not permit any ordinary person to remain quietly dozing.

The famous detective was one of the first to rush over to the side of the ship when the alarm had been given.

Close by him were his two assistants, Chick and Patsy Garvan, who, in the rôles of common sailors, had come down to Porto Rico to help him get back the fortune in jewels which had been stolen from Stephen Reed, the well-known New York millionaire.

“Who is it, chief?” asked Patsy, forcing his way to the front.

“I haven’t heard.”

“One of the crew, I suppose?” hazarded Chick.

“No doubt. There is only one passenger on board now, Paul Clayton. It isn’t he, for there he is, behind you.”

Meanwhile, under orders from Captain Bill Lawton himself, two life rings, each with some thirty fathoms of line attached, had been hurled over in the direction of where the drowning man might be expected to be.

It was too dark to make out plainly anything in the water, but a sharp lookout was kept for an hour, until the vessel reached her anchorage and the “mud hooks” were let go.

“Well, we couldn’t do any better,” grunted Captain Lawton, through his shaggy mustache, as he and his big, two-fisted first mate, Van Cross, stood together on the bridge. “We might have a roll call of the crew. I don’t know who it was went over. I reckon it wasn’t anybody who might have become President of the United States, nor nothing like that.”

The saturnine skipper gave vent to a husky “Haw-haw!” at his own joke, and Van Cross joined in with an equally raucous guffaw.

Nick Carter was the only person on board the Cherokee who thought of a certain possibility which would attach more importance to the falling off the vessel of the man than its commander had supposed.

“Patsy!” whispered Nick. “Go to Mr. Clayton’s cabin and see if that suit case of his, containing the Reed jewelry, is safe.”

“I can’t see it unless Clayton is there,” objected Patsy.

“Naturally. But he is there. I saw him go down just now. You may tell him I sent you to inquire.”

“Who shall I say? Sykes?”

“Of course. I have no other name on the Cherokee.”

As Patsy Garvan disappeared to obey his chief, although without understanding what it all meant, Nick Carter beckoned to Chick, and the two went down a forward hatch.

“What’s the idea, chief?” asked Chick.

“I want to see that the prisoners are secure, Chick. It has always been difficult to keep John Garrison Rayne behind the bars--except when he is inside the stone walls of a State’s prison--and I have not much faith in the place they have him in on the Cherokee.”

“The same about his man French, I suppose?”

“French is an insignificant scoundrel,” returned Nick. “He is entirely under Rayne’s influence. I dare say he regrets that he ever was persuaded to come on this ship--to act as assistant engineer and to do what he could toward robbing Clayton of the Reed jewelry.”

“The whole case strikes me as curious,” observed Chick. “To begin with, the robbery of Stephen Reed was traced directly to Paul Clayton, the passenger they call Miles.”

“I know, Chick. But I don’t want that talked about.”

“Nobody’s talking about it,” rejoined Chick. “Except to you. Of course, I think enough of Clayton--and his sweetheart, Lethia Ford--to be glad you are letting him go. But that isn’t all. If there should be any hitch about the delivery of the loot to Stephen Reed, it might put you in a bad position.”

Chick spoke with a gravity and directness that no one else would have ventured on with Nick Carter. But as the principal assistant of the great detective he had gained the right to advise with his chief, and the latter valued his counsel.

“There will not be any hitch,” answered Nick positively. “Paul Clayton has kept a constant eye on his suit case ever since we got it away from Rayne the other day.”

“Rayne nearly had it, in the engine room, that time,” remarked Chick, with a shrug.

“I cannot admit that,” was the detective’s quick negative. “He had stolen the suit case, jewelry and all, from Clayton’s stateroom, it is true. Also, he had stowed it away in the engine room. But, unless he got it off the ship, of what use could it ever have been to him?”

Chick shook his head dubiously.

“He’s as cunning as any old-time Indian, and you can’t tell what he might have done. No wonder they call him the Apache.”

“He is called the Apache partly because he is so ruthless when pursuing any object,” said Nick. “Remember that. I don’t believe I ever knew another white man with quite so cruel a disposition. He neither asks nor gives quarter. I give him credit for being a fighter. Only, like the Indian warrior of thirty or forty years ago, he is not satisfied with merely overcoming his foe. He wants to torture and kill him, too. But, come on, Chick! We’ll take a look at the door of his glory hole, anyhow. I don’t suppose it was Rayne who jumped or fell overboard just now. But I want to make sure.”

Chick was a few paces ahead of his chief as they turned a corner in a narrow passage, lighted by an oil lantern swinging from the ceiling, and it was Chick who exploded in a shout of astonishment and dismay.

“Chief! He’s gone!”

“Who?”

“Rayne!”

Nick Carter required only one glance at the open door of the confined space used as a prison cell on the Cherokee to understand that the man who had gone overboard was really John Garrison Rayne, the international crook, known as the Apache.

There were three cells in a row. When not employed as prisons they were used as storerooms for rope, spare canvas, and similar material. Now one was full of such stuff, the second was locked, and the third stood open.

“Well, it doesn’t so much matter,” remarked Nick Carter, when satisfied that Rayne had got away. “Of course he dived off the ship and swam to shore. He may hang about San Juan. But most likely he will get away as soon as there is a ship sailing that suits him. We have the comfort of knowing that he failed to steal the Reed jewelry, and that is the main point, after all. Come on, Chick! We’ll go on deck.”