Atoms of Death

CHAPTER XIX THE WAY IS PAVED

“Most astounding, Mr. Mann! Most astounding!”

Basil Tellert, his curve-streaked face aghast, was half indignant, half troubled, as he spoke from behind his desk. In one hand he clutched a letter that Mann had given him to read.

“You were acquainted with this man Bruce Duncan?” inquired Mann.

“I have seen him,” responded Tellert. “His claim is correct. He was formerly Professor Jark’s secretary. But why do you suppose he wrote to you, and not to me?”

“A few years ago,” explained Mann, “I handled some investments for Duncan. Since then, I have neither seen him nor heard from him until this morning. I suppose he wrote to me, knowing that my contact with investments would make me the logical person to visit you. He might have chosen some friend; but perhaps he could think of no one available.”

“There appears to be no way of communicating with Duncan,” decided Tellert, studying the letter. “Naturally not, since he states that his life is in danger.”

“Our only hope,” returned Mann, “is to follow the plan which he suggests. He promised to call on you personally, once you have made public these facts concerning Professor Jark.”

Tellert dropped the letter on the desk. He arose from his chair and paced to the window, where he stared in meditation. Then, turning about, the promoter nodded his accord.

“That is right, Mr. Mann,” he decided. “We have only one course. We must issue a statement to the newspapers. And yet” — he hesitated — “we must use discretion at the start. Until we have actually talked with Duncan; until we have him present, to swear to these revelations that he has made—”

“I agree with you entirely,” interposed Mann. “Duncan’s letter is no proof. It might even be a hoax; or a forgery.”

“No, no,” insisted Tellert. “It has truth in back of it, Mr. Mann. I am sure of that much; and I realize what a fool I have been not to see the vile scheme myself. Day after day, I have been reading of these robberies; yet never once did I think of connecting them with Professor Jark’s disintegrating ray.”

“You saw the machine that Jark invented?”

“A crude model of it, yes. But one that had nothing like the power that the present device must certainly possess. Then this dynamiting business fooled me, besides. I thought that the criminals had blasted their way into those vaults they robbed.”

“That was the police version.”

“Exactly.”

Again, Tellert paced. Then he sat down in his chair, folded his hands and faced Mann. Straightened lips formed an odd contrast to the ever-present curves of the promoter’s face.

“In this letter,” declared Tellert, “Bruce Duncan states that Professor Baldridge Jark has called in the services of two dangerous criminals, whose names, Duncan says, can be made public later.”

Mann nodded.

“Also,” continued Tellert, “Duncan affirms that Jark has chosen a new headquarters, location unknown, from which — so Duncan believes — the crooks are making their forays and are returning with their spoils. Duncan also expresses belief that Jark holds a physician named Nordis Baird. That is quite possible.”

“Why would Baird be a prisoner?”

“Jark would need some physician to attend him. The old inventor had some strange malady which demanded constant treatment.”

“Was Baird his physician?”

“I do not know. That would be easy to find out, however, by calling Baird’s office.”

Again Mann nodded. Tellert was showing prompt response. It was apparent that the promoter intended to throw willing aid into this cause that lay ahead. Mann tightened. It was part of The Shadow’s plan that he should moderate the promoter’s actions. That, Mann knew, was one reason why no letter had been sent directly to Tellert from Bruce Duncan.

“FRANKLY,” declared Tellert, “I am so perturbed that I could scarcely begin to suggest our first move in this case. Apparently, however, Duncan has given the matter much careful thought. The concluding paragraphs of his letter, more temperate than the opening ones, bring up a point that offers us aid in our dilemma.”

Mann smiled slightly. This was the very comment that he had been prepared to make, should occasion demand it.

“Duncan says” — Tellert was referring to the letter — “that Jark is an absolute swindler. That he has duped those willing men who invested in his invention. He stands ready to prove that Jark is a swindler. That is excellent; because it is a line along which we can proceed without Duncan’s presence.”

“You mean,” responded Mann, “that we can publicly accuse Jark of trying to defraud the investors?”

“Certainly,” replied Tellert. “This information settles my perplexity. There is only one course now open. That is to break the news that Jark is a swindler. It will pave the way to the very results that we seek.”

“It will tell Duncan,” agreed Mann, “that we have accepted his statements to some degree at least. It may be sufficient to bring him from hiding, so that we shall have him as a witness.”

“Yes,” assured Tellert, “and it will not tip off the criminals to the fact that we know their game. That would be inadvisable, until we have notified the police of all we know.”

“Yet we are not sure of how much we really know until we have Duncan with us. I feel sure, Mr. Tellert, that Duncan will appear as soon as the newspapers run the swindle story.”

“Let us hope he will appear, Mr. Mann. He may not, though. But if he remains in hiding, we can give further news to the newspapers. Our real course is to tell the reporters but little at the start. Enough to make a good story — that is all. We can build up later.”

Rutledge Mann nodded wisely. He saw Tellert’s expression easing. It was time to bring up another point.

“Your position is a difficult one, Mr. Tellert,” stated Mann. “The story will have to come from you, since it would be unwise to mention Duncan until he is with us.”

“Quite right,” agreed Tellert. The story will come from me.”

“Then how,” objected Mann, “will you explain it to the investors? How will you convince them that it was right for you to hold back this revelation after you knew that Jark had left town?”

“By George! That is a sticker!” exclaimed Tellert. His face showed worriment. “It will make me look mighty bad, Mann. Only a nincompoop will take a weak middle course. That is exactly what I have been fearing, all along.”

“Perhaps, Tellert, if you could attribute this discovery to news received from someone other than Duncan—”

“That’d be an answer to the riddle! But who will stand for it? Who can we bring into this? Other than—”

“Other than myself,” interposed Mann, as Tellert hesitated. “Yes, that is the only final answer. I am not keen for it, Tellert; nevertheless, I have voluntarily taken on this duty; and I would be a poor sport not to stand by you.”

“This is fine of you, Mann.”

“Only fair, Tellert. Our question is simplified. I shall state that certain investors asked me to inquire into Professor Jark’s electrical inventions. I came to you; at my request, you tried to communicate with Jark and found him missing.”

“Excellent, Mann! We can both state our belief that Professor Jark has turned swindler. Let’s call the newspapers at once.”

“Just a moment.” Mann stroked his chin. “We must limit this story at the start. I think it would be best to choose a morning newspaper and give it an exclusive story. That should mean front-page news, Tellert.”

“Yes. But which journal? The Sphere?”

“Too conservative. I should prefer a tabloid. The Classic is the only one.”

“The Classic! It is a yellow sheet, Mann.”

“Certainly. All the better for our purpose. We want this to be a strong story. The Classic will make the most of it. What is more, if we do not give it to the Classic, that journal will lift from the others and will distort it—”

“True enough. Do you know anyone at the Classic, Mann?”

“Hardly.” Mann smiled. “That scandalous journal is denounced by all the conservative club members with whom I meet.”

“I never read it,” snorted Tellert, “but the stenographers do. Wait; I think there is a copy in the outer office.”

TELLERT went out, to return almost immediately with a copy of the Classic. He passed the tabloid to Mann, who thumbed the pages almost gingerly, then stopped with a sudden exclamation.

“What is it?” inquired Tellert.

“An article signed by a chap named Clyde Burke,” chuckled Mann. “It knocks the spots out of Wall Street. A good story, too, with plenty of meat in it. Suppose we try to get hold of the fellow?”

Tellert picked up the telephone. He instructed the switchboard operator to call the Classic and get Mr. Clyde Burke on the wire. Then he handed the instrument to Mann.

“You do the talking,” suggested Tellert, “while I outline my statement. You will have time to make yours afterward.”

A few minutes later, Mann was talking to Burke. He spoke cryptically as he invited the reporter up to Tellert’s office. Then Mann busied himself with the statement that he was to make.

When Mann and Tellert had spent some twenty minutes reading their statements to each other, a stenographer rapped at the door to announce that the men from the Classic had arrived.

Mann reached quickly across the desk. and plucked up Bruce Duncan’s letter. Tellert nodded in approval as the investment broker pocketed the sheet of paper. He gave the nod for the visitor to enter.

Clyde Burke barked briskly into the office, followed by two pudgy photographers. He saw Tellert behind the desk and nodded.

“You’re Mr. Mann?” he questioned. “The fellow who called me?”

“That is Mr. Mann,” responded Tellert, pointing across the desk.

“Full name, please,” requested Clyde, looking at Mann without a smile. Mann gave the response: “Rutledge Mann;” and Tellert added his own full name.

“What’s the story?” demanded Clyde.

“Here are our statements,” returned Tellert, handing the reporter two written pages. “If you prefer, I shall have them typed—”

“Never mind,” interrupted Clyde. “I can read this.” The reporter perused the first sheet; his eyes opened wide. He turned to the second: “Say — is this the Professor Jark — the electrical wizard—”

“The same,” put in Tellert, “but we have no photograph of him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” laughed Clyde. “The morgue down at the office has a whole flock of photos showing that old boy’s physiognomy. What I want is some shots of you two.”

Tellert began a protest; so did Mann. Clyde overruled. The photographers were all ready with their cameras. One focused on Tellert, while the other clicked a flash bulb. Turn about, the picture takers reversed jobs as they snapped Mann.

“Both together, now,” ordered Clyde, briskly. “On the same side of the desk. Over here, Mr. Mann. Here, Mr. Tellert, hold this sheet of paper, like you were reading Mann’s statement.”

“There’s nothing on it,” objected Tellert. “It’s a blank sheet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” returned Clyde. “We’re shooting the back of it. Closer — like a conference. Ready, Jerry. Flash, Steve. That’s it.”

POCKETING the statement, Clyde was starting from the office. Tellert was spluttering. Rutledge Mann was on his feet, showing indignation. One of the photographers shouldered up and wanted their full names. The fact that Clyde had gotten them did not matter. The editorial and photographic departments were separate. Both had their routine orders at the Classic.

Tellert calmed as he gave his name. Mann managed a rather annoyed smile. The photographers followed Clyde Burke. The story was on its way to print, five minutes after the enterprising tabloid trio had breezed into Tellert’s office.

“Well,” decided Tellert, “there is nothing to do but wait. But I must see you tomorrow, Mann. We may be in for it.”

“By all means,” agreed Mann. “Here is my card, with my office telephone. I shall be there from nine o’clock on.”

They shook hands. Mann departed. Traveling down in the elevator, The Shadow’s agent wore a slight but steady smile. For Rutledge Mann knew that he had accomplished all that was needed for the present. He had paved the way for Clyde Burke; and the reporter had played the part of a stranger. Clyde, too, was under The Shadow’s orders.

Then Mann’s smile faded. His lips became tense. Mann was thinking of the morrow. As Tellert had said, half jesting: they might be in for it. In deeper, perhaps, thought Mann, than Tellert had suspected.

For The Shadow, through Mann, had played a card that the foe would be sure to trump. When the enemy moved, danger would begin. A bold stroke — one that risked a life — yet the only move through which The Shadow could counteract the terrible advantage that men of crime had gained.