Chain Of Death

CHAPTER X A MURDERER STRIKES

PROFESSOR LANGWOOD DEVINE had retired, content that his aerial cable could not be seen from the street below. The professor’s assumption was well formed. Already, peering eyes were gazing upward, trying to spy the slender line of steel from the chasm of the thoroughfare.

Fullis Garwald had arrived at the corner on which the Hotel Salamanca was located. A pleased leer appeared upon his lips as he stared toward the dull glow of the sky. Garwald could not see the cable. That was why he smiled.

The arriving man’s eyes turned as they looked upward. On the top floor of the hotel — one story above the twenty-fourth — a tiny sparkle showed at a window. The twenty-fifth floor was a penthouse; and some one was at home.

Entering the lobby of the Hotel Salamanca, Garwald strolled to a corner where the house phones were located. He called the penthouse and spoke in a voice that was gruffer than his usual tone. He asked for Mr. Gaston Ferrar. A short pause; then Ferrar himself was on the wire.

“Good evening,” declared Garwald, in a gruff tone. “I have come to see you about the green.”

“Ah! My friend!” A suave voice came across the wire. “You have decided upon the matter? I thought perhaps that I would not hear from you. Come up, at once.”

Garwald smiled as he hung up the receiver. He entered an elevator where several people were already standing. He waited as the car stopped at various floors. When the twentieth was reached, Garwald was the only remaining passenger.

“Penthouse,” he stated, in a gruff tone.

The elevator man turned as the door clanged. He did not see Garwald’s face. The passenger was studying a dinner menu posted at the back of the car. The operator hesitated.

“Who are you going to see?” he questioned.

“Gaston Ferrar,” answered Garwald, without turning. “He is expecting me.”

The operator started the car upward. He stopped at the twenty-fifth. Garwald stepped forward while the doors were opening. His head was faced slightly toward the side. Again, the operator failed to note his features.

The car remained stationary with the operator watching while Garwald rang a bell at the opposite side of a little anteroom. Garwald’s back was toward the car. When a servant opened the door, the visitor stepped through. The operator closed the door and descended.

“You wish to see Mr. Ferrar?”

The servant was questioning Fullis Garwald. The solemn-faced man made no effort to hide his features. He looked the servant squarely in the eye.

“Yes,” he said testily. “I came to see Mr. Ferrar. Tell him that I am here.”

“Your name?”

“Tell him I am the friend who called from downstairs.”

The servant went into an inner room. He returned and motioned Garwald to the door. As the visitor entered, the servant closed the barrier from the outside. He was evidently following instructions which he had just received from his master.

FULLIS GARWALD was standing in a small, but magnificent room. Every item of furniture — from heavy chairs to massive table — was an antique of value. Garwald’s eyes went toward the corner, where a languorous man was seated at a bulky writing desk. Brown eyes stared from a pale, pinched countenance as Gaston Ferrar looked toward his visitor.

“Who are you?” questioned Ferrar, in surprise. “I do not know you. I expected to see—”

He paused, apparently loath to utter the name. Fullis Garwald supplied it, smiling as he did so.

“‘Barton Talbor,” he declared. “He was the man whom you expected.”

“He could not come?”

“No.”

“Why? Is he ill?”

“He is dead.”

A troubled look appeared upon Gaston Ferrar’s face. Fullis Garwald did not display concern, he calmly seated himself in a chair opposite the writing desk.

“My name,” he stated, “is Fullis Garwald. I was secretary to Barton Talbor. Before he died, he told me of his acquaintanceship with you, Mr. Ferrar. Perhaps if I give the details of his statements, you will know that my claim is genuine.”

“Proceed,” suggested Ferrar, sinking back in his chair.

“Barton Talbor,” declared Garwald, “once possessed some rare gems. He sold them — all except a certain, emerald, of Siamese origin, which he kept. You, as a collector of such gems, came to Talbor privately and offered to buy the stone. You had learned that it was in Talbor’s possession.”

“That is true.”

“You said that if Talbor chose to sell, you would buy. You also stated that if he wished to take other jewels in its stead, you would let him choose from your collection, up to a value greater than that of the emerald.”

“Correct.”

“Barton Talbor told you to visit him again. When you came, he said that he would never part with the emerald unless circumstances should force him to do so. He added that if such circumstances arose — such as poverty or financial failure — he would never want it to be known that he had been forced to sell.”

“That is right. Go on.”

“So Talbor — who was quite eccentric in his ways — said that should he come to you, he would mention neither his name nor the emerald. He declared that he would announce himself by simply stating that he had come to see you about the green.”

“Those were his exact statements.”

Fullis Garwald settled back easily in his chair. From his pocket, he produced a small jewel case. He placed it on the desk as he leaned forward. He sprang the cover. A sparkling emerald glistened in the light. Gaston Ferrar crouched forward, his pale face keen with eagerness.

“The Siamese emerald!” he cried. “How did you gain it?”

“As a reward for faithful service,” stated Garwald, in a solemn, convincing tone. “Barton Talbor died wealthy. He divided his existing estate among his heirs. He gave me the emerald before he died.”

“Poor Talbor.” Ferrar shook his head. “I can see him plainly — a weary man — as he was when last I visited him. He loved that emerald; and would not part with it, much though I coveted the stone.”

“My own circumstances,” said Garwald, “are very moderate. I value the emerald because of its actual value. Talbor told me that if I came here in his stead, I could dispose of it to you.

“Certainly,” assured Ferrar. “I am still anxious to purchase it. Of course” — he paused doubtfully — “I should first make sure regarding your statements. I have only your word as proof that Barton Talbor is dead. I seldom read the daily newspapers. Under what circumstances did Barton Talbor die?”

GARWALD produced a clipping from his pocket. It was Barton Talbor’s obituary notice. He passed the item to Ferrar. The pale-faced collector nodded. The clipping convinced him.

“How much money are you asking?” he inquired.

“I do not want money,” replied Garwald, with a touch of shrewdness in his voice. “I would prefer gems from your collection — on the same terms that you promised Barton Talbor.”

“But your circumstances are moderate.”

“Frankly, they are. I am simply following advice that Barton Talbor gave me. He said that all collectors have gems that mean but little to them. He added that collectors frequently purchase more than their means allow.

“It follows that a collector, like yourself, would give greater value in jewels than in cash, when purchasing a rare item. I can readily dispose of gems. So I would prefer to exchange, rather than to sell.”

Gaston Ferrar frowned momentarily; then he leaned back and laughed. Garwald’s calm frankness amused him. It did more; it gained his full confidence. He picked up the jewel case, removed the mounted emerald and smiled as he saw the beauty of the gem. Replacing the case upon the desk, he arose and went to a safe located in the wall.

“You shall have your terms,” he laughed, as he turned the combination. “I shall abide by my offer to Barton Talbor. I shall show you my entire collection; then I shall pick out gems from which you can choose. You are right; I can spare gems more than money. I promise you that I shall give you value beyond that of the emerald.”

Ferrar produced a long, flat jewel box. He turned to face Garwald. His lips trembled; his arms began to shake. Fullis Garwald had risen. In his right hand he was holding a revolver.

“What — what—”

Ferrar’s exclamation came in a gasp. It brought a command from Garwald. In response to the crook’s order, Ferrar staggered to his chair and dropped the jewel box upon the desk.

“You fool!” spat Garwald. “You have fallen for the game. Not my game, mind you, but Talbor’s. This is what he intended to do. He baited you with that emerald, so that he could capture your entire collection.

“Why do you think he wanted his name kept quiet? Why do you think he insisted that he would speak of the ‘green’ — not of the ‘emerald’? Simply to make his path an easy one. That is all.”

Ferrar sat stupefied. Garwald’s face showed its evil leer. Suddenly, the collector broke forth with a challenge.

“You cannot escape from here!” he exclaimed. “If you take the jewels you will be traced. You must have been Talbor’s secretary. The law will find you.”

“Not through your testimony,” scoffed Garwald. “You will never speak, Ferrar. I am here to murder you — in that very chair where you now sit.”

THE fiendish words had the very effect that Garwald wanted. With death facing him, Ferrar took recourse to desperation. He howled for his servant.

“Larmond!” he cried. “Help me! It’s murder — murder—”

Garwald stood rigid. He had purposely refrained from firing. A shot might have sent the servant scurrying for help. A cry, however, was bringing him on the run. Footsteps sounded outside the closed door as Ferrar began to rise. Garwald swung a quick glance. He saw the door knob turning. Swinging his eyes toward Ferrar, he fired point blank.

Ferrar collapsed in his chair. The bullet had been aimed straight for his heart. Garwald did not wait to witness the result. Turning, he covered the servant, who was caught flat-footed in the doorway. With a hideous laugh, Garwald pressed finger to revolver trigger.

Larmond made a frantic dive for cover, just as the revolver spurted. Garwald saw the servant stagger. He heard his body clatter in the hall. Pocketing his revolver, the murderer leaped to the safe. Jewel boxes came forth in his eager hands. Garwald packed them in his pockets. He added the box that was on the table; for the finish, he seized the little case that held the Siamese emerald. He started for the door of the room.

A look of startled surprise appeared upon Garwald’s morbid face as the killer reached the outer room. Larmond, the servant, was not in sight. Leaping to the door of another room, Garwald saw the man slumped at a table, telephone and receiver in his hands.

Too late, Garwald realized that his shot had merely crippled Larmond. The wounded man had managed to reach the telephone. He had given the alarm. Fiercely, Garwald raised his revolver. Larmond, seeing him, tried to move from the table. He sprawled upon the floor. Garwald furiously fired two bullets into his helpless body.

Positive that his shots had not been heard outside the penthouse, Garwald had lingered in Ferrar’s room. Larmond’s call for help had changed the situation. Even while Garwald was backing from the spot where the servant’s body lay, the door of the anteroom opened. Swinging, Garwald saw a man who was evidently the house detective; beyond the fellow, the open door of the elevator with the operator standing at the control.

Garwald whirled to fire. The house dick, not expecting the sudden attack, made a plunge back toward the elevator. Two bullets whistled from Garwald’s gun as the detective made the car. The third shot flattened itself against a closing door of the elevator.

Reaching the anteroom on the run, Garwald observed a bolted door at the right. He yanked back the bolt; opened the door and sprang down a stairway. With long leaps, he gained the hall below. He was on the twenty-fourth floor. Straight ahead was the path to the elevators.

Garwald fired as a man poked his head around the corner. This time a shot responded. The house dick had alighted at the floor below. He was exchanging bullets with the killer. One of Garwald’s shots nicked the detective’s arm. As the man staggered out of sight, Garwald sprang forward.

THE dick was diving for the stairway that led to the floors below. Garwald aimed toward him; he dropped as an elevator door clanged open and a uniformed policeman came into view. Garwald backed toward the hall, firing as he retreated. The second operator — like the one who had brought the house dick — slammed the door as a protection against the fire.

Garwald was in the corridor. He was trapped. A policeman from the elevator; the house dick on the stairs; both could hold him until reinforcements came. Garwald, however, made no new attack. Panting as he ducked back into the corridor, he reached the door of 2410.

A quick glance told him that he was momentarily free from observation. He pressed the door; it opened inward. Garwald was in Professor Devine’s entry. Breathless, he closed the door behind him. Pocketing his revolver, he scurried for the window.

Whistles were sounding from Seventh Avenue. Whines of police sirens answered the shrill blasts. The alarm had been sounded. Fullis Garwald had no time to lose. He had come here for a purpose. He saw the trolley-bar resting on the radiator. He gripped it with one hand as he clambered to the sill.

Blackness ruled below. The side street was an asphalt ribbon at the bottom of a gaping chasm. Garwald hesitated; for the first time he seemed to sense the sounds from the avenue. Gripping the bar with both hands, he swung his body from the window.

Wheels clicked as the weight of Garwald’s body sent the car-like bar whizzing down the cable-line. Gathering momentum, Fullis Garwald became a rocketing form that sped swaying toward the roof of the old building opposite. The trip was a matter of brief seconds. Garwald’s flight carried him above the parapet; it ended as he released himself upon the solid roof.

Swiftly though Fullis Garwald had acted, there was another who moved as rapidly. Professor Langwood Devine, coming from his bedroom, hobbled with remarkable speed to the window. He saw Garwald’s figure tumbling upon the opposite roof. The old man chuckled.

In his hand, Professor Devine was holding another object that he brought from his bag. It was a cardboard mailing tube, a coil of fish line wrapped about it. The professor thrust this cylinder beneath the radiator. He gripped the cable that was around the radiator pipe, wrenched it free, and attached the end of the fish line. He slapped the end of the cable as a signal.

Some one was pounding at the door of the suite. Unperturbed, the professor watched the cable start outward from the window. Chuckling in satisfaction, he turned and hobbled to answer the door.

Crime had been completed. Fullis Garwald had escaped. The last evidence was making its automatic departure. Professor Langwood Devine, member of Crime Incorporated, had no qualms to annoy him.