Nick Carter – författare

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A sense of failure pervades Italian history: the failure of the Liberal State after Unification to democratize, mobilize and modernize Italian politics, economy and society; the rise of Fascism as a reflection of these shortcomings; the problems of the post-war Republic, tainted by corruption, organized crime and terrorism. The notion has arisen of Italy as a deviant nation, unable or unwilling to follow the 'normal' path of state development. These perceptions are the stuff of historical debate, and it is with the ebb and flow of interpretation that this study is principally concerned. In each of the three sections - Liberal Italy, Fascist Italy and Italy from the Occupation until the end of the 'First Republic' - Nick Carter describes and evaluates the historiographical contours. The politics, economic developments, and society and culture of each period are thoroughly analysed, and an overview of recent research into hitherto largely neglected areas of study, such as gender, is also included. This book is an invaluable guide for those wishing to get swiftly to the heart of the issues in modern Italian history.

A sense of failure pervades Italian history: the failure of the Liberal State after Unification to democratize, mobilize and modernize Italian politics, economy and society; the rise of Fascism as a reflection of these shortcomings; the problems of the post-war Republic, tainted by corruption, organized crime and terrorism. The notion has arisen of Italy as a deviant nation, unable or unwilling to follow the 'normal' path of state development. These perceptions are the stuff of historical debate, and it is with the ebb and flow of interpretation that this study is principally concerned. In each of the three sections - Liberal Italy, Fascist Italy and Italy from the Occupation until the end of the 'First Republic' - Nick Carter describes and evaluates the historiographical contours. The politics, economic developments, and society and culture of each period are thoroughly analysed, and an overview of recent research into hitherto largely neglected areas of study, such as gender, is also included. This book is an invaluable guide for those wishing to get swiftly to the heart of the issues in modern Italian history.

This book is Nick Carter's autobiography and self-help hybrid in which he chronicles his struggles with a dysfunctional family and the unimaginable rigors of becoming an internationally successful pop-star at the age of 12. From his battle with addiction to serious health complications and the pain of his younger sister's tragic death, Nick leaves nothing to the imagination and offers true and heartfelt advice to help readers overcome obstacles in their own lives.

Excerpt: "Nick Carter caught sight of the couple only by chance. His touring car, in which he was seated with his chauffeur and Patsy Garvan, his junior assistant, was speeding through one of the winding driveways in Central Park, New York, and heading for Fifty-ninth Street. “Hold on! Slow down, Danny!” he cried to his chauffeur. “That woman has fainted, or is in a fit.” The woman was lying on the greensward near a diverging driveway, and some fifty yards from where Danny Maloney, startled by the detective’s sudden sharp commands, brought the touring car to a quick stop. A girl in a white apron and a starched linen cap was bending over the woman and gazing around affrightedly, uncertain what to do. Seeing the car stop and the detectives alighting, she suppressed a scream for help and awaited their approach."

Excerpt: "The members of Nick Carter’s household all happened to meet at the breakfast table that morning—a rather unusual circumstance. The famous New York detective sat at the head of the table. Ranged about it were Chick Carter, his leading assistant; Patsy Garvan, and the latter’s young wife, Adelina, and Ida Jones, Nick’s beautiful woman assistant. It was the latter who held the attention of her companions at that moment. She was a little late, and had just seated herself. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes gave no hint that she had reached the house—they all shared the detective’s hospitable roof—a little after three o’clock that morning. “You good people certainly missed a sensation last night,” she declared. “It was the strangest thing—and one of the most pitiable I ever beheld!” Nick, who had been glancing at his favorite newspaper, looked up. “What do you mean?” he asked. It was Ida’s turn to show surprise. “Is it possible you don’t know, any of you?” she demanded, looking around the table. “Haven’t you read of Helga Lund’s breakdown, or whatever it was?” Helga Lund, the great Swedish actress, who was electrifying New York that season in a powerful play, “The Daughters of Men,” had consented, in response to many requests, to give a special midnight performance, in order that the many actors and actresses in the city might have an opportunity to see her in her most successful rôle at an hour which would not conflict with their own performances. The date had been set for the night before, and, since it was not to be exclusively a performance for professionals, the manager of the theater, who was a friend of Nick Carter’s, had presented the detective with a box."

Excerpt: "“There’s no question in my mind, inspector, as to who did the job,” said Nick Carter. “You feel sure of it, then?” “As sure as water runs downhill. I refer, of course, to the mechanical part of the work. I looked it over on the morning following the burglary, every part of the looted vault, and I am as sure of the cracksman’s identity as if I had seen him getting in his work. Only one yegg in the business has the mechanical genius to crack a vault as that was cracked.” “James Nordeck?” “Surely. I have seen Nordeck’s work before, and I know it when I see it. It is invariably stamped with his mechanical ingenuity. Jim Nordeck is in a class of his own at that business.” “Here is his mug, front and profile, chief, also his record. Have a look at them.” The last came from Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s senior assistant, and the remarks of both were addressed to Inspector Mallory, then head of the detective force identified with the New York police department. They were discussing the recent burglary of a savings bank up in Westchester County, a crime committed about a week before, in which the remarkably skillful drilling of the vault for the use of explosives, as well as other details of the felonious work, plainly showed it to have been that of professional cracksmen."

Excerpt: "Nick Carter listened without interrupting. The man addressing the famous detective was not one to be wisely interrupted. His strong face, his broad, thin-lipped mouth and square jaw, the glint of his steel-blue eyes, his portly and imposing figure—all denoted that he was the type of man that insists upon having his way, his inning at the bat, as it were, but who then would graciously accord the same privilege to another. “The danger, Mr. Carter, cannot be overestimated,” he was forcibly saying. “It really is very terrible. We are living in constant peril. That man is a perpetual menace. Unless he can be wiped out of existence, or put behind prison bars, there is no telling what he might accomplish, no possible way to anticipate it and guard against it. I cannot for the life of me understand how he got by a detective as marvellously keen and discerning as you. I cannot, Carter, on my word.” Nick smiled and knocked the ashes from his cigar. “It is not very difficult to understand,” he replied, with patience unruffled. “There were two reasons for it, Mr. Langham.” “Two reasons?” “Yes. One, because the likeness between Chester Clayton and David Margate, or Doctor David Guelpa, in which character this exceedingly clever rascal then was posing, is a most extraordinary one. I doubt that two other persons could be found, not excluding the most perfect of twins, who look so precisely alike.”"

Excerpt: "The electric bell from Andrew Anderton’s study rang sharply. It was close to the ear of the butler dozing in his little room off the hall at the back of the main staircase, and he awoke with a start. “Lord love ’im!” exclaimed that functionary, stalking to the door with as much haste as his dignity would permit. “Why doesn’t ’e stop ringing? I ’eard ’im the first time, without ’im keeping the blooming bell going all the time.” Then, as he reached the door and made for the stairs, he continued grumblingly: “All right, Mr. Anderton. I ’ear you. You certainly are a most impatient gentleman. I never seed anything like you for ’urrying a man, not even in the old country. Though the Marquis of Silsby—my last master before I left England—was a ’asty sort of gentleman, too. This was the way ’e always acted. Wanted me to be right on the spot as soon as he touched the bell, although ’e knew very well I was two floors below ’im. My word! That bell’s still ringing. I can ’ear it from up ’ere.” The butler, by this time, was on the second floor of the handsome house in upper Fifth Avenue, where Andrew Anderton, the millionaire traveler and Oriental student, lived. He pushed open the door of the study. “Did you ring, sir?” He had these words out, from force of habit, before he even looked around the room. When he did, he gave utterance to a shout that brought a maid, who had been passing along the hallway, surging in, white-faced and round-eyed, to see what was the matter. Andrew Anderton, in the handsome, velvet, embroidered dressing gown he generally wore when alone in his study, was lying across the floor, face down. His body, pressed on the electric foot button, kept the bell below ringing continuously."

Excerpt: "“Hello! hello! This is Frank Mantell talking. I want Mr. Carter—Nick Carter. Is he there?” Patsy Garvan, the detective’s junior assistant, then alone in the library of Nick’s Madison Avenue residence, was the recipient of the above telephone communication. It came over the wire in tones reflecting the haste and excitement of the speaker. Patsy remembered him, a son of the senior partner of the firm of Mantell & Goulard, whose big department store in Sixth Avenue had recently been wrecked by a long series of mysterious robberies committed by the junior partner, Gaston Goulard, resulting in a round-up of the criminal and his confederates by Nick and his assistants, all of which had transpired several months before."

Excerpt: "“You say this burglar has got into your bedroom three times?” “Yes, Carter. Three times that I know of. He may have got in oftener for aught I know.” “Hardly likely, Mr. Bentham. If you woke up three times and saw him, it indicates that there is something in his presence which affects you even in your sleep. It is a psychological influence, evidently.” Professor Matthew Bentham, one of the most learned scientists in Brooklyn, shook his head. He knew too much about psychology to believe it was an agent in his case. “That explanation won’t do, Carter,” he declared. “On each occasion I have been awakened by a distinct noise in the room.” “But you never got up to interfere with the man,” Nick Carter reminded him. “That isn’t your way. No one ever has insinuated that you lack in physical courage. You are an athlete, too. I have had the gloves on with you, remember, and I know how you handle yourself. There must have been something to make you lie still in bed while a stranger was ransacking your bedchamber.” The famous detective was sitting comfortably in Professor Bentham’s well-appointed library on the ground floor of the latter’s home near Prospect Park, and both were smoking. Carter had dropped in casually to see his friend, and the subject of the mysterious burglar had come up without any previous knowledge of it by the detective. They had been talking about other things, particularly about some important records of a Chinese secret organization which were in Matthew Bentham’s care, and which were soon to be sent to Washington."

Excerpt: "Nick Carter did not interrupt the sobbing girl. He listened patiently, grave and attentive, letting her run on in broken, desultory phrases, until her first paroxysm of grief immediately following his arrival should abate sufficiently for her to tell him connectedly what had occurred. “They may say what they will—what they will, Mr. Carter, but I cannot believe it, will not believe it,” she tearfully declared. “My faith in him is unshaken. He is incapable of such deceit, such cruelty, such terrible treachery. He is the victim of a plot, a hideous conspiracy, or some terrible crime—oh, I am sure of it! He would not betray me in this way, not for life itself! I know he would not. Arthur is above such duplicity, such terrible——” Nick now checked her with a gesture. “I agree with you, Miss Strickland,” he said kindly. “Arthur Gordon is, in my opinion, a thoroughly honorable man. As you are so sure of it, too, and that he is the victim of a conspiracy, you best can serve him by subduing your agitation, and telling me precisely what has occurred. I can do nothing, nor form any opinion of the case, until I know all of the circumstances.” “Mr. Carter is right, Wilhelmina,” said her elderly uncle, Mr. Rudolph Strickland. “It is very kind of him to come out here, with his assistant, this morning. Dry your eyes, therefore, or let me talk with him. I can inform him, Mina, better than you.” “Do so, Mr. Strickland,” said Nick, turning to him. “What has befallen Arthur Gordon, as far as you know?” The scene of this interview, which was the beginning of one of the most extraordinary criminal cases in the career of the famous detective, was the library of a new and exceedingly fine wooden residence in one of the most beautiful rural sections of the Bronx."

Excerpt: "Nick Carter waited, listening intently, listening vainly, with his desk telephone in his hand and the receiver at his ear. Chick Carter, the celebrated detective’s chief assistant, sat watching him, noting each changing expression on his strong, clean-cut face, and wondering what occasioned it. It was about nine o’clock one evening in October, and both detectives were seated in the library of Nick Carter’s spacious residence in Madison Avenue. “Hello!” Nick now called quite sharply. “Hello!” No answer. “What’s the trouble?” Chick inquired. “Don’t you get a reply?” “No, Chick, and that’s not the worst of it,” Nick said quite gravely. “Why so? What do you mean?” “I heard my name called just as I removed the receiver from its hook,” Nick explained. “The voice sounded like that of a woman, though I am not positive about it. Then came a single sharp crack, like the report of a revolver, or as if the telephone had dropped from the speaker’s hand and crashed upon the floor. I suspect there is something wrong.”"

Excerpt: "“Man overboard!” 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."

Excerpt: "“Extraordinary—that doesn’t half express it. I know of no word that would. To some extent, Nick, at least, men’s motives are usually discernible in their conduct. But in this case—why, there was nothing to it. It is utterly inexplicable. It was like a horrid dream, a hideous nightmare, or the mental abnormalities of a dope fiend.” Nick Carter laughed and spread his napkin, with a significant glance at his chief assistant, Chick Carter, who sat at one side of the table, that of a private dining room in a new and fashionable New York hotel. “Well, Mr. Clayton, if the story you have to tell warrants so remarkable a preface, it will be interesting, at least,” said the famous detective. “Yes, Nick, and then some,” Chick agreed, smiling. “He so has aroused my curiosity that I really am all ears.” “I don’t think I shall disappoint you,” said their companion, more gravely. He was a fashionably clad man of thirty-five, of medium build and with clean-cut, attractive cast of features, smoothly shaved. There was in other respects nothing specially distinctive about him. He was the type of well-bred, well-informed, and thorough business man with which New York City abounds."

Excerpt: "“Slow down, Danny, and look out for that wire,” said Nick Carter to his chauffeur. “It may be a live one.” “I’m onto it, chief.” “Onto it, eh? Don’t you run onto it while I’m in the car, not if it’s a live one. You may fancy absorbing the output of an electric-lighting plant, but not for mine, Danny, not for mine! I know what it would do to me. I’ve seen men electrocuted.” Danny Maloney laughed, for it was obvious that the famous detective was jesting. “Onto it with my lamps, chief, is what I meant,” he replied. “Say what you mean, then,” said Nick, with a smile. “Precision is one of the valuable assets of a detective. Luckily, however, you are addressing one who can read between the lines—barring those of the ambiguous letter that brought us out here.” “Can’t you fathom it? It must be mighty blind, chief, if it fools you.” “On the contrary, Danny, it is perfectly plain—what there is of it,” said Nick dryly. “A woman, one Mrs. Myra Darling, states that she is in great trouble, that a very devoted friend of mine has advised her to appeal to me, and will I favor her with a call at my earliest convenience.” “That all?” questioned Danny tersely. “The whole business,” said Nick. “Of course, the appeal coming from a woman, I cannot turn it down. Noblesse oblige.” “You don’t know her?” “Not from a side of leather. I am acquainted with no Darling woman—suppress that smile, Danny. I know what you are thinking. But all women are not darlings—far from it.” “This one might be,” said Danny, his smile spreading to a grin."

Excerpt: "“I feared you would not come.” The speaker, a beautiful woman of two or three and thirty, half reclined on a sofa, in an elegant apartment. A gentleman, rather old, had entered the room. He was what he looked to be—one of New York’s money kings. “It is for the last time, Louise,” he said, toying with his watch guard. “And why for the last time?” For a second the woman appeared downcast, and then, rising to her feet, she said, pleadingly: “You swore that you would always love me.” “Yes,” he thundered, “but then I was not aware that the shy and modest Louise Calhoun was a common adventuress. Truly, you would be a nice woman to grace my home and be a second mother to my orphan children!” “I shall force you to keep your promise!” The woman’s eyes blazed and she clinched her hands until the nails sank deep into the flesh. “Force me—you will force me!” exclaimed the gentleman. “Those were the words I used, Hilton Field.” “Why, you are a criminal.”"