Circle of Death

CHAPTER XIX THE CONFERENCE

LOGAN MUNGREN was seated behind his mahogany desk. The portly, baldheaded stock promoter was expecting a visitor. He showed signs of nervous impatience. The ring of the telephone brought an ugly leer to his lips.

“Hello…” Mungren’s grin persisted. “I see… Mr. Rightwood is here… Yes, send him in at once.”

Mungren was standing by his desk when a tall, stoop-shouldered visitor appeared. Logan Mungren was quick to recognize the face of Channing Rightwood. He advanced with outstretched hand.

“Sit down,” suggested Mungren, as he turned back to the desk. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Rightwood.”

The eyes that watched Logan Mungren were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow. Blazing, they studied the portly president of the Acme Securities Company. The moment that Mungren turned, however, those eyes that peered from Rightwood’s visage seemed to lose their light.

Mungren, when he looked at Rightwood, saw no more than a mild-mannered man with large nose and chin, whose upper lip was adorned with a pointed, reddish mustache.

“About my option, Mr. Mungren.” The voice of Channing Rightwood seemed slightly worried. “I am here to exercise it. I feel that Electro Oceanic is a good investment.”

“You do?” Mungren smiled sourly. “I am sorry, Mr. Rightwood, to admit that I cannot agree with you. I must say that Electro Oceanic did look like a good investment when you purchased your first shares. At present, however, it would be a waste of money to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in new shares.”

“I believe otherwise.” Rightwood’s voice became firm. “I have what I consider to be proof that Electro Oceanic should make an excellent purchase.”

“You spoke that way last night,” asserted Mungren. “I should like to see the proof, Mr. Rightwood.”

“Here it is.”

RIGHTWOOD’S hand came from his pocket. A telegram dropped on the desk. It was the message that Bigelow Zorman had wired to Chicago. A sudden gleam of pleasure came to Mungren’s face. Then the stock promoter resumed his suave composure.

“Interesting,” he remarked, “but not specific. Bigelow Zorman would naturally have advised you to exercise your option. His job as the president of Electro Oceanic depended upon new funds.

“However, the man who has taken his place is not so optimistic. Perry Harton, formerly general manager of the Electro Oceanic plant, is now the president of the corporation. He is here in New York. I expect to confer with him. Therefore, Mr. Rightwood, I should advise you to let your option drop.”

“I do not intend to do so,” asserted the visitor. “I am here to invest one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the new stock issue. Tomorrow, I shall arrive in this office with the option and a certified check for the required amount. Is that clear?”

Mungren bowed. There was no further use of opposition. He listened while an added statement came.

“The option,” was Rightwood’s announcement, “is in a safe-deposit vault. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning I am going to obtain it and also to draw the required funds. I shall come here immediately afterward. I shall expect to receive the newly-issued shares of Electro Oceanic stock.”

Logan Mungren spread his hands. His demeanor had changed. He showed no inclination to reason as he had with Maurice Bewkel. Instead, he began to agree with his visitor’s opinion.

“Your purchase,” he asserted, “will be profitable to me, for I shall receive my commission. Perry Harton, though he honestly admits that Electro Oceanic is on the rocks, will be glad that you have made your decision to buy. You will be in New York, tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Could you come to see me at my apartment?”

“I should be glad to visit you.”

“Let me see — you are stopping at the—”

“The Hotel Metrolite.”

Logan Mungren considered reflectively. At last he nodded, as though he had placed the exact location of the hotel.

“My apartment is not far from your hotel,” he observed. “In fact, it is just a short walk. I should advise you not to bother with a taxi. Between one way streets and the theatrical traffic, you can make better time on foot.”

“I agree with you.”

“Start eastward from your hotel,” suggested Mungren. “Four blocks across and a few blocks north will bring you to the Park Avenue apartment house where I live.”

“I could walk up Seventh Avenue and—”

Mungren raised his hands as he heard Rightwood’s suggestion. He laughed shortly.

“Times Square is worse that the Chicago Loop,” the stock promoter declared. “By following my directions, you will get away from the crowded avenue. I am very anxious that you should visit me, Mr. Rightwood. I expect that Mr. Harton will be there.”

“I shall not be open to argument,” protested the visitor. “I have told you that I intend to purchase this new stock.”

“Quite so,” agreed Mungren. “Perry Harton, who is a man of integrity, may be honest enough to tell you not to use your option. But, after all, Harton has something to gain through further investments in Electro Oceanic. He will not be persuasive. I shall inform him of your decision. The topic will be taboo.”

“Under those circumstances” — Rightwood’s voice denoted reassurance — “I shall be glad to visit you this evening and meet Mr. Harton. What time would you suggest that I arrive?”

“Unfortunately,” mused Mungren, “I shall not be at home early in the evening. Harton is coming at nine o’clock. Suppose you arrive about that hour?”

“Very well.” The false Rightwood thrust out his hand to Logan Mungren. He received the promoter’s clasp. “I shall be there not long after nine.”

Mungren saw Rightwood reaching for the telegram. With an easy gesture, the promoter lifted it from the desk.

“Would you mind,” he questioned, “if I took this with me? I should like to show it to Harton — just to get his private opinion before you arrive. It would be to your interest—”

Mungren repressed a smile as he saw Rightwood nod. The stoop-shouldered visitor turned and left the office, leaving the telegram in Logan Mungren’s possession.

The stock promoter followed to the door of his office. When he was satisfied that Rightwood had left the suite, he hurried back and dialed a number. The voice of Felix Tressler came across the wire.

“Rightwood was here…” Mungren’s tone was eager. “Yes. He intends to exercise his option… The telegram?… He had it with him… Yes. I kept it… That’s the only evidence to prove he heard from Zorman…

“He’s coming to my apartment. From his hotel, the Metrolite. Yes. I gave him directions. Coming at nine to see me and Harton…

“No one can know where he was going when they find him. That’s right… Yes, that’s all… I’ll be in to see you at nine o’clock, along with Harton…”

Logan Mungren uttered a malicious chuckle as he hung up the receiver. He was evidently pleased at the result of his interview with Channing Rightwood.

Singularly, the face of Channing Rightwood also wore a smile as its temporary owner was riding westward from the office building where The Shadow, as Rightwood, had visited Logan Mungren.

The reason for the double pleasure was identical. It was caused by the directions which Logan Mungren had given to the visitor whom he had accepted as Channing Rightwood.

The route which Channing Rightwood was supposed to follow when he walked to Logan Mungren’s apartment house would lead directly through the circle of death!