Circle of Death

CHAPTER IV MEN OF MONEY

WHILE The Shadow was making his spectral departure from the neighborhood near police headquarters, a tall gray-haired man was walking through the lighted district that forms Manhattan’s Rialto.

A man of dignity, proud in bearing from his stride to the gold-headed cane that he carried, this individual seemed bound on an errand of importance. Turning along a side street, he entered the lobby of a tall, but narrow building — the Hotel Delavan.

The visitor said nothing as he joined a group of passengers in a waiting elevator. It was not until the last of this group had stepped forth on the twentieth floor that the operator glanced curiously at the passenger with the cane.

“The penthouse,” informed the dignified man.

The operator hesitated; then seemed to remember instructions. He nodded and drove the car upward. It stopped at the top of the shaft. The operator opened the door, and the visitor stepped into a room that resembled a patio.

Everything denoted luxury. A tinkling fountain sprayed in a basin in the middle of the tiled floor. Lights of changing hues played upon the spreading water. The visitor gazed in admiration. He looked up suddenly to see a young man who had come from the door beyond.

This chap had a sly, crafty look in his eye. He was studying the visitor. The expression changed as the gray-haired man met the other’s gaze. The young man bowed.

“You are Mr. Bewkel?” he questioned.

“Yes,” returned the visitor, in a haughty tone. “I have come to see Mr. Felix Tressler — by appointment.”

As he spoke, the gray-haired man proffered a card. It bore the name:

“Mr. Tressler will see you at once, sir,” informed the young man. “He has been awaiting your arrival. This way, please.”

BEWKEL looked about him as he followed his guide through the penthouse. Lavishly furnished rooms showed wherever doors were open. Other doors were closed. Finally, the guide led the guest out through a wide doorway to a roof. Rows of plants showed at intervals. Indirect lights provided a mellow illumination.

“Ah! Bewkel!”

A man was rising to greet the guest. Stocky and heavy of build, he seemed almost too bulky to support himself. In fact, he moved forward as though trying to avoid overexertion. He thrust out a massive paw to meet Bewkel’s handclasp.

This was Felix Tressler. Full-faced, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, he looked like a medieval baron. A heavy, bristly black mustache added to the impression. Tressler’s clasp was firm. His tone, though rumbling, was friendly. He motioned Maurice Bewkel to a chair. Tressler took the seat that he had formerly occupied.

“A while since you have been here, Bewkel,” remarked Tressler, in his rumble. “I have changed the place a bit.”

“A great deal,” declared Bewkel. “The fountain with its patio — this open roof — both are additions to the penthouse.”

“They were being arranged when you were here last,” recalled Tressler. “My secretary, too, is a new acquisition. I decided that I would hire him in place of my valet and houseman.”

“You mean the young man who conducted me here?”

“Yes. A capable young chap. His name is Byres — Wilton Byres. I never leave the penthouse and Byres is here most of the time.”

There was a pause. Byres arrived with a box of cigars. Bewkel took one; so did Tressler. After the secretary had gone, Bewkel ended his puffs and began to speak in a quiet, confidential tone.

“I have come here,” he reminded, “to discuss this Electro Oceanic business.”

“So I supposed,” returned Tressler.

“It is a puzzling problem,” added Bewkel. “One which concerns you as well as myself, Tressler. I have invested fifty thousand dollars in it already. The question now is whether or not I shall invest a hundred and fifty thousand more.”

“My problem also.”

“I know it. The matter also concerns Channing Rightwood. All of us have had a tendency to let Electro Oceanic work out its own salvation. However, Tressler, I have, perhaps, been a little more painstaking than either you or Rightwood. That is why I have come to see you.”

“Ah! This is interesting. What about Rightwood?”

“He is out of town. I shall talk with him on his return.”

“You have data concerning Electro Oceanic?”

BEWKEL paused before replying. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Wilton Byres passing the doorway that led into the penthouse. He gripped Felix Tressler’s arm.

“Suppose,” he suggested in a tone that was half a whisper, “that we discuss this matter in a place less open?”

“Granted.” Tressler laughed in rumbling fashion. “I can understand your qualms, Bewkel. We are free from intruders here, but this roof does give the effect of openness. I have the very place. Come.”

Rising in laborious fashion, Tressler leaned on Bewkel’s arm and conducted his guest into the penthouse. He stopped at a door and unlocked it with a key that he took from his pocket. He ushered Bewkel into a small room with tiled floor. He turned on the light and closed the door behind him.

Bewkel stared. In the center of the room was a heavy tank, set on a stone platform. There was an electric motor at one end. In the center, set in three feet of water, was a large, open cylinder. Within this was a bladed device that looked like a huge propeller. The blades, six in number, were set upright, like huge cleavers.

“Another innovation since your last visit,” declared Tressler. “This is a model of the Electro Oceanic wave motor, ready for demonstration through artificial waves. Would you like to see it operate?”

“Not yet.” Bewkel’s tone was anxious as he took a chair beside the tank. “I have something to tell you, Tressler — something of vital importance!”

A puzzled look appeared upon Tressler’s heavy brow. The bulky man placed his hand upon the back of another chair and lowered his huge form into the seat. He was impressed by the serious tenor of Bewkel’s words.

“Let me tell you what has happened,” urged Bewkel. “More than money is at stake. Human life, Tressler! My life — perhaps even yours — and Rightwood’s.”

“On account of Electro Oceanic?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand—”

“I shall explain.” Bewkel’s interruption was eager. “When that company was first organized, we all bought heavily of the first stock issued because the wave motors offered enormous possibilities. Then came delay. Slow, unaccountable delay.”

“Due to new experiments.”

“Yes. But Perry Harton, general manager of Electro Oceanic, seemed dilatory in gaining results. The presence of the president was required. Bigelow Zorman went to South Shoreview to take charge in person.”

“I know. He found that the existing wave motors were impracticable. They did not produce sufficient power to make them a success commercially.”

“Zorman was conservative.” Bewkel spoke emphatically. “That is why I did not rely upon his opinions. I sent an investigator of my own to look into affairs at the Electro Oceanic plant. His name was Dustin Cruett.”

Felix Tressler caught no significance in the name which Maurice Bewkel uttered. The visitor looked surprised; then spoke again.

“Of course,” he said apologetically, “it was only a small item in today’s newspaper. I am not surprised that you did not notice it.”

“Something about Electro Oceanic?”

“No. The story of Dustin Cruett’s death.”

“You mean” — Tressler’s tone was incredulous — “that your investigator never returned—”

“He did return!” exclaimed Bewkel. “He came to New York. He telephoned my home. He was on his way there with important news when he collapsed and fell dead near Times Square!”

“An amazing occurrence!”

“Not amazing.” Bewkel was serious. “Tressler, it looks to me like foul play. I am convinced that Dustin Cruett was murdered!”

AN expression of incredulity appeared upon Felix Tressler’s heavy brow. Maurice Bewkel noticed it. He leaned forward in his chair to impress his next words upon his host.

“Suppose, Tressler,” he said, “that certain large interests should have learned of improvements in the Electro Oceanic wave motor. They would be anxious, would they not, to see our company fail?”

“They would.”

“Very well. Their first step, then, would be to retard the development of the improved wave motor. That failing, they would attempt to keep news of improvements from such option holders as you, myself and Rightwood. That is why I sent Dustin Cruett to investigate.”

“But why could you not rely on Bigelow Zorman? He has gone to South Shoreview. He is one upon whom we can depend. In fact, I expect to hear from him almost any day now.”

“I have confidence in Zorman,” assured Bewkel. “Like yourself, I am expecting word from him. I feared, however, that if a plot were afoot, Zorman would experience difficulty in learning all that has taken place. That is why I sent Cruett — and Cruett is mysteriously dead!”

“Large interests,” remarked Tressler, with a shake of his heavy head, “would not deal in murder—”

“But they would stoop to espionage!” interposed Bewkel. “They would employ skulking spies in an emergency — and men of the spy caliber might murder!”

Tressler considered this with a doubtful expression. His face showed worriment; but not conviction.

“Tressler,” warned Bewkel soberly, “I have said nothing to the police regarding the fact that Dustin Cruett was secretly in my employ. Such a statement would be poor policy. I am wary. In Cruett’s death, I see a hidden purpose — an effort to keep his verbal information from my ears. Tomorrow, I must see Logan Mungren, the promoter from whom we purchased Electro Oceanic stock, regarding my option for fifteen hundred new shares at one hundred dollars a share.”

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Yes. I must exercise the option at par — or let it drop.”

“Bewkel,” observed Tressler, as he arose and stood with folded arms, “this stock is risky. You and I, like Rightwood, each purchased five hundred shares — an expenditure of fifty thousand dollars apiece. Our stock has dropped to a value of only five thousand — ten cents on the dollar.

“I advised both of you to buy that original stock. I showed my good faith by making a purchase of my own. But I tell you, Bewkel, that I do not intend to exercise my option on one hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of new shares until I am convinced that a new wave motor has been developed.”

“Granted,” stated Bewkel. “Your situation, Tressler, is better than mine. My option comes due within a few days; Rightwood’s option follows — then yours. That is why it was urgent that I should learn of Electro Oceanic affairs. I cannot afford to wait for a report from the president, Bigelow Zorman.”

Felix Tressler nodded his understanding.

“CRUETT’S sudden death,” admitted Bewkel, “would ordinarily discourage me. I have failed to receive his important report. Should I exercise my option, I shall be doing so purely on speculation.”

“Which is unwise,” cautioned Tressler. “I should advise you, Bewkel, to let the option pass. Were I in your position, I should do so.”

“I know it,” affirmed Bewkel. “I expected such advice. Nevertheless, Tressler, I am tempted to purchase my portion of that new stock issue. I came to tell you of my probable decision, that you might have the opportunity to investigate for yourself.”

Bewkel was rising as he spoke. He glanced at his watch; then extended his hand.

“I must leave,” he declared. “Tomorrow, I am going to see Logan Mungren, to discuss the matter of the option with him.”

“Your decision, then, is not final?”

“Practically so. I cannot say until after I have talked with Mungren.”

“Call me after that,” suggested Tressler. “Not tomorrow, but the day after. Whenever you have actually made the purchase. At the same time, remember my advice: Electro Oceanic is extremely risky, and I regret that I was partly responsible for your original purchase. In fact, Bewkel, I have really felt that I should take some of your original stock off your hands. The loss should be mine—”

“Not a bit of it!” Bewkel clapped Tressler on the shoulder. “You have always been over-conservative, Tressler. I think that this stock will pull through — and I feel that I am going to risk it.”

Maurice Bewkel was walking toward the door as he spoke. Neither he nor Felix Tressler noted that the barrier was slightly ajar. It closed just before Bewkel had a chance to notice it.

On the other side of the portal, Wilton Byres, the sly-faced secretary, drew suddenly away from the door, He was the one who had opened it. He had been eavesdropping. He gained another doorway just as Tressler and Bewkel appeared from the room where they had been talking.

AS Tressler and his visitor moved toward the patio, the secretary appeared quite suddenly, as though he had heard their approach, and was coming to see if he were needed.

“Never mind, Byres,” said Tressler, as he saw the young man. “I shall conduct Mr. Bewkel to the elevator. You will not be needed.”

A frown appeared upon the secretary’s crafty face as Byres watched the two men make their way through the patio. With a slinking stride, the young man headed toward the open roof. He passed doors that were open and doors that were closed. Reaching the roof, he went toward the parapet and stood gazing out above the city.

Atop a building, Byres eyed a huge electric light: one which shone with white-clustered corners and thin white lines between them. The young man stared steadily in that direction; then turned and moved back across the roof.

When Felix Tressler reappeared, Byres was gathering up some glasses that were on a table. The heavy-built millionaire seated himself in his big chair and lighted a cigar as Byres carried the glasses into the apartment.

It was later when Wilton Byres again appeared upon the roof. Behind Tressler’s back, the secretary once more edged toward the parapet where, between potted shrubs, he could view the electric sign.

Lights of doom! They were unchanging tonight. Their color remained white, with no token of a signal. Yet the cunning look that appeared upon the face of Wilton Byres showed that the secretary was anticipating the time when changing lights would glimmer.

Tonight, Wilton Byres had heard Felix Tressler and Maurice Bewkel hold their private discussion. He had listened in on talk of Dustin Cruett’s death. Like waiting men in the streets below, Wilton Byres knew the purpose of those lights of doom.

The circle of death was quiet tonight. Later — perhaps upon the morrow — it would act. That was the time which Wilton Byres awaited!