The Bradys Beyond Their Depth: or, The Great Swamp Mystery
Francis Doughty
Doughty Francis Worcester
The Bradys Beyond Their Depth Or The Great Swamp Mystery
CHAPTER I.
CAUGHT IN THE ACT
"Help! Police! Murder!"
It was a dark, rainy night in March when this thrilling cry, in a man's voice, came from a house in West Thirty-sixth street, New York.
Two detectives were passing along from Seventh avenue, toward Broadway, when the wild appeal brought them to a sudden pause.
"Hark, Old King Brady!" one of them exclaimed. "Did you hear that cry?"
"Somebody in distress, Harry," replied the tall, gaunt old man, as he shot a keen glance around. "This is a dangerous neighborhood."
The stylishly-dressed youth of twenty nodded, felt to see if he had a revolver in his pocket, and pointed at an undertaker's wagon standing in front of one of a row of houses opposite.
"Queer hour for that fellow to be doing business!" he remarked. "There isn't a light in any of that row of houses, yet the undertaker must be in one of them."
"Help! Help!" came the mysterious voice in smothered tones once more.
This time the Secret Service men located the sound.
It came from the house before which the wagon stood.
"By Jove, the undertaker must be making a job for himself!" exclaimed Old King Brady, pushing his big white hat back, and exposing a strong-featured, smooth-shaven face, in the light of a street lamp.
He unbuttoned the old blue frock-coat he wore, disclosing a standing collar and stock, drew out his watch and fob, and added:
"It's just eight o'clock."
"Shall we go over and investigate those cries?" asked Harry Brady, the youth.
"No, not yet. Get in this area. I see the house door opening."
They glided swiftly into the area of a flat house, and keenly watched proceedings.
Old and Young King Brady, as the pair were called, were the two most celebrated detectives in the Secret Service. They were not related.
On the contrary, they came of different families. But, since the time James Brady took an interest in Harry, and taught him his profession, they had been partners, and made themselves dreaded by all evil doers.
Both were shrewd, brave and daring to a fault, and Harry's ambition made him strive to excel his tutor in every way.
The boy was first to catch view of a man in the open doorway opposite, and he dimly observed that he was tall, thin, dressed in black, wore a high hat, and had a mustache and a pair of bushy side-whiskers.
"Looks like an undertaker," Young King Brady commented in a whisper.
"He's carrying something," added the old detective. "Ah – it's a coffin, ain't it?"
"A wooden box shaped like one. There's another man on – the other end of it," said Harry, whose interest was aroused. "They're coming out."
The second man was a short, roughly-clad negro.
As they staggered under the weight of the box, the detectives inferred that it was heavy. The Bradys could now see a rope tied around it.
The two men carried it down to the wagon, the back doors of which stood open.
Just as they shoved the box into the vehicle, Old King Brady darted across the street, and tapped the tall, thin man on the arm.
He gave a start, a cry of alarm, and wheeled around, glaring at the officer.
"What have you got in that box?" demanded the detective, abruptly.
"My dear sir, really, that is none of your business," replied the other.
"You are mistaken," said Old King Brady, exhibiting his badge. "I am an officer. We heard cries of murder emanate from that building, and this is a singular hour for an undertaker to be removing a corpse."
The tall, thin man nodded, and smiled blandly.
Taking something from his pocket, he handed it to the officer.
"My card, sir," he said, politely. "Name of Solomon Gloom. This is a case of smallpox. House has been quarantined. Here's my Health Board permit to remove the corpse. The rule is to take 'em at night."
He handed over a permit, but it was too dark for Old King Brady to read it.
"Well," said the officer, hesitatingly, "that part may be all right. Who is dead?"
"Albert Reid, the old cot