Chain Of Death

CHAPTER VII CRIME INCORPORATED

Two days had passed since the murder of George Hobston. New news occupied the front pages of the New York journals. The police were still looking for Howard Norwyn. This fact was proclaimed in short columns on inside pages of the newspapers.

The Shadow, too, had gained no progress. He had learned that Seth Deswig was coming home from Florida; Harry Vincent, canvassing offices in the Zenith Building, had discovered nothing. Slender clues were bringing no immediate results.

Somewhere in Manhattan — not in one place, but in several — The Shadow might have found the answer to perplexing problems. He knew that men of crime could be forced to speak, if discovered; but he had not gained the opportunity to learn their identities.

The police search for Howard Norwyn had passed from public interest. Yet there were people who still gave it their concern. On this new evening, when the night was as misty as the time of Hobston’s death, a querulous old man was thumbing through the final edition of a newspaper, looking for new reports on the futile manhunt.

The old man was a wizened creature. He was lying propped upon the pillows of an old-fashioned bed. Beside him, on the table, were numerous bottles of medicine. His breathing came in wheezy gasps, with intermittent cackles of senile joy. From the mist beyond the half-opened window, the occasional flap-flap of tires on asphalt indicated that he was in the second story of an old house on a secluded street. The glare that hung within the swirling fog told that the house was within twenty blocks of Times Square.

The old man had found the evening item that pertained to the police search. His eyes blinked as he read the new report of failure. His lips spread in a smile of sordid delight. Again the cackle; then a coughing spell that racked the old man breathless. As the wizened face sank back into the pillows, the door opened.

The man who entered was a dry-faced individual whose countenance was solemn and gloomy. He was evidently an attendant who had the old man in his care. He approached the bed and stood in readiness while the convulsion ceased.

“You are prompt, Garwald,” cackled the old man, when he had regained his breath. “Well, you need not worry. Your duties will soon be ended. When this finishes me” — the old man coughed as he clutched his thin throat — “you can find more suitable employment. After all, you are a secretary, not a trained nurse.”

“I am in your employ, Mr. Talbor,” returned the solemn man, quietly. “I take what comes.”

TALBOR shot a look at Garwald. A knowing smile appeared upon the old man’s lips. The secretary noted the expression, but made no comment. He stood silent as Talbor chuckled with wild glee.

“You take what comes! Ha — ha — ha — ” The old man trailed a laugh. “You always take what comes. You’re right, Garwald. Quite right. You take what comes.”

Unsmiling, Garwald shook his head. His action indicated that he could not understand his employer’s mirth. Still cackling, Talbor gripped the newspaper and thrust it into Garwald’s hands. He pointed, with scrawny finger, to the news account that concerned the search for Howard Norwyn.

“Read that, Garwald,” he ordered. “Read it. Tell me what you think of it.”

“Very well, sir.”

Garwald read the item in solemn fashion. When he had finished, he looked toward Talbor for an explanation. The old man was sitting up in bed. His paroxysm ended, he was studying his secretary, smiling as he did so.

“What do you make of it, Garwald?” questioned Talbor.

“Make of it?”

“Yes. Do you think that Howard Norwyn murdered George Hobston?”

“Most certainly. The evidence is apparent.”

“Ah!” The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You have been reading previous accounts, eh, Garwald?”

“Yes,” confessed the secretary, “I must admit that I have.”

“Good.” Talbor settled back into the pillows. “Very good. I am glad to learn it. Now let us see. I am Barton Talbor — an old man — dying. You are my secretary, Fullis Garwald, nursing me in my last illness.

“In your spare time, you read news concerning crime. You read about a murder. Good. Why do you read about murders, Garwald?”

Fullis Garwald made no reply. He stared at Barton Talbor and blinked in owlish fashion. The old man chuckled.

“I’ll tell you why,” asserted Talbor. “You read about murders because they interest you. The reason murder interests you is because you have considered murder yourself!”

Garwald nearly forgot himself. He stepped toward the bed, his fists clenching. A look of sudden fury came upon his face and faded. Talbor chortled.

“You would like to kill me,” laughed the old man. “You would kill me, if you thought that the blame could be shifted to some one else. But you have decided to let me die; and you hope that you will be alone here when I pass to another world.”

Garwald made no response to the impeachment. He betrayed no new sign of nervousness. He waited quietly to hear what else Talbor might say.

“You think, Garwald,” declared the old man, “that I have wealth hidden in this room. You would like to find it; to rob my heirs of their due. I can’t blame you, Garwald. My relatives are a shoddy lot; but they will get my money just the same. It is stowed in safe deposit vaults. My lawyer has the keys, along with my will.

“I’m sorry for you, Garwald. I’ve seen you eyeing this room, looking for some hiding place. So I’m going to help you out. Go, there, to the mantel. Press it, as I tell you.”

FULLIS GARWALD hesitated. A frown showed upon his solemn face. Hesitation ended, he turned and followed the old man’s bidding. He reached the mantelpiece that projected above the old fire place.

“Press inward,” ordered Barton Talbor, with eyes half closed. “Then to the left. Inward again. To the right. Draw outward—”

Garwald was following the instructions. As a climax to the old man’s final statement, a sharp click sounded from the fire place. Garwald stooped to see that the rear of the fire place had dropped. Something white showed in the cavity beyond.

“Bring out the envelope,” came Talbor’s order. “Then close the fire place. It will lock automatically. Carry the envelope here.”

Garwald obeyed. He appeared at the bedside, holding the large envelope that he had found behind the fire place. Talbor gripped it with his scrawny hands and opened it with ripping fingers. From the inside, he drew two objects. One was a smaller envelope; the other, a folded paper. He retained the envelope and passed the paper to Garwald.

“Open it,” ordered Talbor.

Garwald did so. To his surprise, the sheet of paper resembled a stock certificate. He started to read its wording; he arrived no further than the title.

There, in large printing, he observed the statement:

A chuckle came from Barton Talbor. The old man’s eyes had opened. His hands were holding the envelope; they gestured toward a chair beside the bed. Fullis Garwald sat down. He listened while the old man spoke.

“Garwald,” declared Talbor, in a solemn tone, “I have left my heirs half a million dollars. I am giving you a legacy worth twice that amount. The certificate that you now hold will mean your fortune.

“Crime Incorporated. A wonderful name, eh, Garwald? A wonderful organization, also. One that you can appreciate. Particularly when you learn its history from the founder — namely, myself — Barton Talbor.”

Garwald had folded the document. He was staring intently at his aged employer. Keen enthusiasm was showing on his usually solemn countenance.

“I have made my fortune,” stated Barton Talbor. “I gained my wealth through crime. Not ordinary crime; but craft. Subtle methods were my forte when I was younger.

“I learned that there were others, as crooked as myself. Also, like myself, they kept their methods covered. It occurred to me that men of our ilk should be banded into a cooperative organization. That, Garwald, was the beginning of Crime Incorporated.

“I was the founder; but all are equal. I chose two men; I knew that both were crooked. I told them each my scheme. I gained their cooperation. These two men do not know each other. I am the only link between them.

“I issued myself this share of stock in Crime Incorporated. To each of them, I gave similar certificates. I supplied them with codes for correspondence. Thus we formed a chain of three, with myself as the connection.

“Each of them, in turn, solicited another member. Those new members gained one man apiece. That plan has continued, until Crime Incorporated now numbers more than twenty chosen persons, each a crafty master of crime, in his own right.”

THE old man paused to rest upon the pillows. He cackled reminiscently. With eyes shut, he continued:

“I saw at once that stock bearing the name Crime Incorporated would be a dangerous possession. So I changed the name on the other certificates. I am the only man who owns a share of the original stock. The others bear the title Aztec Mines, a name which struck my fancy. But every holder of such stock knows its true meaning. Aztec Mines is simply a synonym for Crime Incorporated.

“This envelope contains the names of my two original associates. With it are details — by-laws and procedures — all in special code. Every member of Crime Incorporated holds a share labeled Aztec Mines; also the names of the two men whom he knows; and a coded table of instructions.”

Talbor paused wearily. The explanation had tired him. Garwald, observing the opportunity, interposed a question.

“What is the purpose of Crime Incorporated?” he asked. “How does the organization operate?”

“We further subtle crime,” explained Talbor, slowly. “One member sees opportunity for great gain. He sends coded messages to his two contacts. They copy the note and send it along. A statement of planned crime goes through the entire chain.

“Then come the replies. Each member adds his own suggestion. If cooperation is required, volunteers make known their readiness. We call ourselves by numbers — not by names.”

“And of all the twenty,” questioned Garwald, “you know only two?”

“Yes. Each man knows but two. Those at the end of the chain know only one, until they gain new members. Some times, a message goes along the line, suggesting names of members to be solicited. But they must be followed up by those at the ends of the chain.”

Again, Barton Talbor paused. Fullis Garwald unfolded the certificate of holding in Crime Incorporated. He was beginning to understand the value of this sheet of paper.

“Each share is transferable,” remarked Talbor, opening his eyes. “That certificate, Garwald, is my legacy to you. In this envelope, you will find the names of the two men whom I know. We shall send them messages to-night, informing them that Fullis Garwald has replaced Barton Talbor as holder of certificate number one.”

GARWALD opened the envelope as Talbor thrust it in his hands. He found a sheet of paper, with a peculiar code of oddly-blocked letters. He also found two smaller envelopes. He was about to open one when Talbor stopped him with the clutch of a scrawny hand.

“No, no!” exclaimed the old man. “Those are for emergency only!”

“How so?” asked the secretary.

“They are from the two men whom I know,” explained Talbor. “Each contains the name of the man next beyond in the chain. Thus I know two men; I also have the names of two others. You will notice that the envelopes are coded, to tell from whom they came.

“Suppose that one of my friends should die suddenly. Suppose that he should have no opportunity to do what I am doing now — make a transfer of his certificate. What would happen?”

“The chain would be broken.”

“Precisely. But by opening the proper envelope, it would be possible for the man next in line to learn the name beyond the broken link. The breach would close automatically. Crime Incorporated would continue without interruption!”

There was triumph in the old man’s cackle. The secretary nodded his understanding. He realized the cleverness of his employer’s organization.

“We are sworn,” declared Barton Talbor, “not to open those envelopes except when actual emergency compels. My oath, Garwald, is transferred to you.”

“I understand.”

The old man shifted in his bed. From a table, he plucked a letter which had come in the afternoon mail. He drew out two sheets of paper. One contained letters in the block code; the other a succession of quaint circles.

“This came to-day,” declared Talbor. “It tells that crime has been successful. Can you guess to what crime it refers?”

“The murder of George Hobston?”

“Yes. That deed has been planted on Howard Norwyn. One member of our chain planned it. Others aided in its completion. All along the line, we have been waiting for that crime to be finished. Some one else now has the chance to suggest a master stroke. This time” — Talbor chortled huskily — “it will be my turn. No” — his tone saddened — “not mine. Yours, Garwald, as my successor.”

“You have a crime already planned?”

“Yes. One that can be accomplished only with the aid of Crime Incorporated. I shall reveal it to you, Garwald, and you can send your word along the chain. But first — most important — is the code. That depends upon a key, here” — Talbor tapped his forehead — “and if you bring paper and pencil, I shall reveal it to you.”

“There are two codes from this letter,” reminded Garwald, as he produced a notebook and a pencil. “One consists of circles; the other of blocks, like those which were with the certificate.”

“You must learn both,” stated Talbor. “The circled code is a blind. It is simple to decipher. So we use it for trivial, useless messages. The block code is the one of consequence. It will never be deciphered. It is too subtle. It will baffle the greatest of cryptogram experts; for it depends upon a special principle.”

“Why the useless code?”

“To mislead any who might find a message. Any experimenter would shift to the circles as the easy one to solve. Finding a useless message, he would think these codes to be a puzzler’s game. Finding the block code too difficult for ordinary solution, he would regard it as something of no importance. We are crafty, Garwald, we who form Crime Incorporated!”

Propping himself upon the pillows, the old man took the pencil in his scrawny right hand. Letter by letter, he formed the alphabetical arrangement of the codes: first the circles, then the blocks.

GARWALD stared as Talbor dealt with the second code. He realized at once that the old man had spoken true when he had stated that it would baffle experts. Simple though it was, the block code adhered to a principle that Garwald had never suspected.

Minutes passed. Old Talbor’s hand was slowing. It completed the final task. With a gasp, the old man settled backward. Garwald caught pencil and pad as they dropped from his loosened hands.

Barton Talbor’s breath was coming in long, choking wheezes. His feeble fingers were pressing at his throat. Staring at his stricken employer, watching the pallid face with its bluish, closed eyelids, Fullis Garwald realized that death was soon to come.

Standing with the certificate of Crime Incorporated in his hand, holding the coded names and by-laws, clutching the translated formula that the old man had inscribed in the notebook, Fullis Garwald smiled.

No longer did he seek to hide his evil nature. His curling lips were proof of Barton Talbor’s assumption. The servant, like the master, was a man of crime. Barton Talbor had passed his greatest legacy to an heir as evil as himself.

Soon, Fullis Garwald knew, Barton Talbor would recover strength. Then the old man would reveal his scheme for crime. After that, word would go forth along the chain of members who formed Crime Incorporated.

Days would pass before the new scheme would be perpetrated. Before that time arrived, Barton Talbor would he dead. In his place, the new Number One of Crime Incorporated, Fullis Garwald would reap the profits of Barton Talbor’s scheme.

Swirling mist crept into the gloomy room where plans were to precede death. The same chain that had worked toward the murder of George Hobston would soon work again. Unbroken, the links of Crime Incorporated would deal in profitable murder.