The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter

by Jean Petithuguenin

  As soon as he was in the street, Sweed blew a whistle to call policemen. He sent some of the agents to the hideout and ordered others to go find backups. He gave the order not to take the two prisoners immediately to the station, but to wait for that until their accomplices in the bar had been arrested.

  The reinforcements the inspector had ordered were not long in arriving, and the police then started toward Cooper Street to Thornton’s Bar .

  A Partial Success

  On the way, the little group met Charley Lux, who had arrived from Philadelphia, going along the quays to meet Ethel King at Browning’s yacht. He heard the story of the adventures of his cousin and of Sweed with astonishment, and trembled at the thought of the dangers they had run.

  The policemen approached Cooper Street in little groups so as not to draw attention. Ethel King was well acquainted with Will Thornton’s bar as was the inspector. The establishment was only frequented by the worst elements of Camden. The room, in a deep cellar, was packed every evening with a mass of dubious people.

  The police frequently went down into that tavern to make arrests; but they had to go there in force because the clients had often opposed the representatives of the law. The dangerous scum who frequented the saloon were always armed, so that bloody brawls were not rare. In the present case, they were trying to arrest four thieves, and that operation promised to be very hazardous.

  “There are certain to be 50 hoodlums at Thornton’s Bar at this hour,” the inspector declared. “Not a single one of them would hesitate to take on the defense of our thieves. We must expect a battle.”

  Ethel King thought a moment.

  “No, Mr. Sweed, in this case,” she finally said, “we’re going to act in such a way that this situation will end without combat, or if we’re absolutely forced to come to blows, we’ll arrange it so the encounter isn’t murderous.”

  “That’s easy to say,” Sweed answered. “How will you manage it?”

  “I have a plan. I’m going to my little apartment on Front Street; then, when I’m disguised, I’ll go into the establishment, alone at first. I hope to find a way to make the weapons of these rogues harmless.”

  The inspector looked at Ethel with admiration.

  “I would very much like to see how you’ll do that.”

  “That will depend on the circumstances. As for you, Mr. Sweed, you take care of surrounding the house. Watch the main entry as well as the courtyard, but try, temporarily, to see that no one notices the presence of policemen. Your men can reach the courtyard by going through the neighboring houses and scaling the walls and the fences.”

  “Perfect. I’ll give my orders in that way. I myself will be part of the group watching the house from the rear.”

  “Listen to me again. You will probably hear some revolver shots in the saloon, and even a real fusillade, but don’t let yourself get excited by that and come into the room. A pistol shot is not a signal to you. But if I whistle, come in with your men through all the doors at the same time. I’ll point out to you the ones you should arrest.”

  “I’ll follow your instructions, Miss, but let’s hope that none of the criminals escape us.”

  “Yes, let’s hope so,” Ethel King answered. “To tell the truth, there’s no way to know if Will Thornton has set up secret exits in his establishment through which his clients can escape unseen. In any case, I’ll do the impossible to see that no one slips through our hands.”

  The young woman left after having ordered Charley to join the policemen who were supposed to watch the principal entry to the bar. She went quickly to her little apartment on Front Street and proceeded to completely transform herself. She metamorphosed into a young man of doubtful elegance, put on a glossy black jacket, an old pair of boots, a sportsman’s hat of a greenish color, under which she could hide her thick hair. Her false collar wasn’t immaculately white and her tie was of an indefinite shade,

  In addition to her usual weapons, she stuck an antique two-shot pistol in her pocket. She put on makeup to appear paler, and glued on a thin mustache so cleverly that even the sharpest eye wouldn’t have been able to detect the fake. To complete her character, she provided herself with a cane. She had taken less than 30 minutes to complete this disguise. She looked at herself in the glass with satisfaction. She told herself that the criminals would surely not recognize her.

  Ten minutes later, she turned into Cooper Street and checked to see that the policemen in charge of watching the bar were well hidden. Charley was in front of the establishment’s main door, in an obscure passage. On seeing someone arrive, the young man told himself that that person must be his cousin. It was impossible for him to recognize her at first, but he was expecting to see her in disguise and, looking closely, he noticed that the character was exactly the same height as Ethel King.

  The character opened the door of the bar and entered. The bar’s atmosphere was heavy with thick tobacco smoke. Almost all the tables were occupied. There was a clientele of about 60 persons of the two sexes. Brutality, the absence of scruples, could be read on all the faces. Among those people, there probably wasn’t one who had not had a taste of prison.

  Ethel King walked calmly past the rows of tables and immediately aroused the clients’ attention. They had never seen this young man in the bar, and a new-comer was always the object of careful examination.

  “Well! Who’s this greenhorn?” someone shouted loudly. “What’s he doing here?”

  Ethel King had noted the thieves she was looking for, but she passed in front of them, pretending not to see them. She smiled and nodded to those throwing jibes at her. She went to the bar and asked for a whiskey. The waiter questioned her while waiting on her.

  “So who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “That’s not surprising,” she answered him. “I’m from Baltimore. I’ve only been in Camden two days.”

  “What’s you trade?”

  “Oh! I have a good one. If the police here aren’t too hard, I’ll do a good business.”

  The bar waiter winked, a sign he understood.

  “Ah! I understand,” he said.

  But Ethel King shook her head.

  “I’ll bet anything you like that you can’t guess what I am,” she said. “What you’re thinking is completely wrong.”

  “Really? You surprise me. Then why did you mention the police?”

  “Well! In a lot of cities, things are immediately stirred up if you fire some revolver shots in a saloon.”

  “I’m not following you. Do you like to handle a revolver that much?”

  “But of course. I’m a marksman by profession.”

  “Professional marksman? Thunderation! Then you must be extremely good at it!” the man, clearly struck with respect, exclaimed.

  “On my word, yes I am. Would it be possible for me to give a showing here?”

  “Naturally! Amusements always go over well.”

  “But if the police hear shooting, would they try to interfere?”

  “Bah! The police don’t come near this place. The policeman who entered to shut down the demonstration would be thrown outside immediately.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll begin. I can tell you, without bragging, I’m the best marksman in the world,” Ethel King declared, straightening up proudly.

  The bar manager addressed the drinkers in a loud voice.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have with us, an extraordinary man, an incomparable marksman. The master offers to give us a demonstration of his skill and I think that you would all like to see him exercise it for you.”

  “Oh! Very good! Marvelous!” they shouted from different directions.

  “I’ll give a dollar!”

  “Me too!”

  “I first want to see what he can do!”

  Ethel King took out of her pocket a small coin attached to the end of a string. She went to fix the string under the top of the back door frame, so that the coin hung across from the hinges. Then she exhib
ited her two-shot pistol and returned to the other end of the room, against the table where the four thieves were sitting.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m going to show you proof of my skill, but before that I invite the persons present to try their skill against me. I claim there is no marksman here who is my equal!”

  She waved about a $50 bank note.

  “I promise to give this $50 bill to the one who, from the place I’m standing, can shoot the string from the edge of the coin.”

  There was a general brouhaha; men stood up, a revolver in their hand. The four thieves came forward first, Johnny, their leader, at their head.

  “I’m going to try to win that money,” he shouted.

  He raised his revolver and fired, six times, one shot after the other. The bullets drove into the door without hitting the string. A burst of laughter greeted that failure and everybody began to fire. The establishments’ clients came one after the other to stand at the spot indicated and to discharge their weapons. The door was soon as full of holes as a sieve, but not one had hit the target.

  Ethel King had wanted to force the criminals to fire their revolvers. She knew by experience that most of them didn’t have extra ammunition.

  A voice rang out: “It’s your turn now! Shoot, young man! Let’s see if you aren’t bragging and if you are as clever a marksman as you say!”

  “Just a moment,” Ethel King answered. “I’m going to go see if one of you hasn’t nicked the string.”

  She went to the door and pretended to look at the improvised target. But she suddenly opened the door and putting her whistle to her lips, blew a long blast. The spectators didn’t at first understand what that meant, but as soon as the doors let in policemen, a concert of howls broke out. Ethel King’s clear voice dominated the tumult.

  “Halt! Don’t anyone move! The first one who tries to resist is a dead man! We’re here to arrest four thieves. We won’t bother the other clients.”

  A Saloon Battle

  These words did not calm the uproar. No longer able to use their firearms, the criminals brandished their knives.

  Ethel King made her way toward the table where Johnny and his friends were sitting.

  “I’m arresting you!” she shouted.

  There was a rush forward. Inspector Sweed and the dozen policemen pushing through the crowd behind the young woman were separated from her. Ethel King, pushed back against the bar, saw herself threatened by lifted knives. She pressed the trigger of her revolver; one of her attackers rolled to the floor, moaning. But several hands paralyzed her right arm, forcing her to release her weapon. She fired with her other revolver she was holding in her left hand and a second attacker fell. Then the disguised detective jerked loose and jumped on top of the bar to escape the knives directed toward her stomach.

  That melee had lasted only a few seconds. At the other end of the saloon, Sweed and the police were resisting as well as they could the assault of the frenzied gang, which was trying by any means to force them into the courtyard.

  The criminals were making projectiles of everything that fell into their hands: beer tumblers, saucers, platters rained down on the agents. Fortunately they frequently missed their target and caused as much harm to the other hoodlums as to their adversaries. The women, most of all, were enraged. They climbed up on tables and threw glasses and bottles in all directions.

  “Down with the cops! Kill them! Bleed them!” they bellowed.

  Several policemen had already been wounded and Sweed was beginning to wonder if the affair wasn’t going to end with the massacre of all his companions.

  “Shoot into the pack,” he ordered, so as to give a little more room to the little troop.

  Shots rang out and the wounded’s cries of pain mingled with the criminals’ vociferations of rage. In a moment of panic, the gang retreated to the back of the room where Ethel King was isolated in the middle of her enemies. The tables were overturned, dragging down in their fall those who had used them as a platform and made a barricade in front of which the policemen were forced to stop.

  Sweed was in mortal worry about the fate of Ethel King. He heard revolver shots at the back of the saloon and surmised that the great detective was in the process of fighting a desperate battle.

  The criminals, at first disconcerted by the fusillade, had regrouped on seeing the policemen held back by the obstacle formed by the stacked up tables and benches. They posted themselves behind the barricade and defended it furiously against their adversaries.

  Sweed was panic-stricken.

  “Charge, boys! Charge!” he was repeating mechanically.

  But it was impossible for the agents to obey him. They had trouble holding back the unleashed rabble and instead of charging, they had to clear a way to pass through.

  Ethel King looked down on the crowd of her enemies. The bar waiter, who was still behind the bar counter grabbed her by one of her legs and pulled her backward so roughly that he caused her to fall on her side between the counter and the wall.

  “Cop spy!” he bellowed, “I’ll split your belly!”

  He grabbed a heavy earthenware jug which contained lemons and was placed under the table and brandished it as if to crush the young woman. She could hesitate no longer. In her fall she had lost one of her revolvers but she still had one. She aimed it at the man. A detonation sounded and the scoundrel collapsed, shot dead with a bullet between the eyes. Ethel King jumped up with a bound and threatened the howling crowd with her weapon.

  “The first one who comes near me, I’ll make him share the same fate at that rascal,” she shouted.

  She had lost her cap in the fight, and her hair had come undone.

  “It’s a woman!” one of the thieves exclaimed.

  “Ethel King!” roared Johnny’s voice.

  The scum remained stunned for a moment; then the clamor began again, more enraged. The women heaped curses on the policemen.

  “I’ll have her hide,” Johnny was still shouting in the middle of the tumult, and he made a motion to throw himself on Ethel King, but others did the same and there resulted another jostling for position.

  “Kill Ethel King!” shrieked the scoundrels.

  There was a frenzied rush forward.

  Ethel King still had four shots left in her revolver. That wasn’t enough to fight against such a troop of ferocious beasts. The young woman really wanted to pick up the revolver she had dropped but didn’t find time; if she had taken her weapon off the gang for a second to stoop down, she would have lost the last chance to hold off the criminals.

  “The first man who tries to jump on top of the bar is a dead man!” she shouted, as she backed up against the shelf holding bottles, glasses, and carafes.

  The furious mob hesitated for a moment, then surged to the right and left to surround the lead top bar. The detective could not, especially with a single revolver, stand off her enemies from all directions at once. She noticed that the clients of the establishment were divided into two groups, one trying to grab her, the other fighting foot by foot to prevent the police from coming to her aid. An empty space remained in the middle of the room between the two. Even the tables and benches had been picked up and carried to the barricade to re-enforce it.

  Ethel King, seeing herself on the point of being taken, instinctively adopted the only method she had to escape her assailants, at least temporarily. She fired a shot at the group pressing against the bar to force them to spread out a little. She got to the top of the bar, jumped, and came down lightly in the middle of the room, in the unoccupied section.

  The situation, nevertheless, remained most critical, since the young woman was exposed to the fury of the criminals, without any protection, and without a means of retreat.

  Her exploit of agility was greeted by angry cries, and, in an instant, Ethel King again saw herself threatened from 20 sides at once.

  Sweed and the policemen had seen their ally at the moment she jumped on top of the bar. Conscious of the terrible danger she
was in, they redoubled their efforts. The barricade defenders, distracted by what was happening behind them, resisted more weakly. The police took advantage of that fact to push aside the tables and benches, which turned over noisily. With revolver shots and clubs they cleared a passage through the crowd and reached Ethel King, just as she, after tenacious resistance, was about to succumb under the sheer weight of numbers.

  “Thank God!” Sweed shouted, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re safe and sound, Miss King! If something had happened to you, I would never have forgiven myself for having let you risk this dangerous situation.”

  The police were answering with gun shots a new assault by the gang. Resistance suddenly ceased. Mad panic seized the criminals when they realized that the police were definitely the stronger.

  “Where are our fellows?” the inspector asked.

  “Follow me!” Ethel King shouted.

  She broke through the crowd in the direction of Johnny and his accomplices. As the police were guarding the bar’s doors, the panic-stricken clients looked for refuge under the bar, in the cellar, on the little stairway that led to the second floor. The floor was littered with the dead and wounded. A gaslight had been broken in the course of the fight and continued to burn, throwing out a great high flame which threatened to set the ceiling on fire. Suddenly the sound of a breaking window resounded in the room.

  “They’re getting out by the window!” Ethel King shouted.

  Favored by the confusion, Johnny and his friends, hidden by the crowd, had reached a casement window and escaped through it. Two policemen stationed in the street tried to stop their flight. Cries of rage and then revolver shots rang out from the outside. Despite the policemen’s efforts, Johnny and one of his accomplices managed to get to safety by making off as fast as their legs could carry them.