Cyro

CHAPTER I BIRDS OF A FEATHER

“YOUR mail, Mr. Rowden.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.”

The switchboard operator passed a stack of envelopes to the man who stood in front of the lobby desk. Rowden smiled as he received the mail. He scanned the envelopes; then thrust them in his pocket and strolled into the elevator.

The switchboard girl sighed as the door closed. It was not often that the Mallison Apartments received such debonair guests as Roke Rowden. Small and obscure in the midst of Manhattan, the Mallison catered chiefly to bargain-hunting tourists.

Roke Rowden was a novelty. He had the bearing of a man-about-town. Suave to the points of his sharp-tipped mustache, friendly of eye and manner, he had become the switchboard operator’s idol. Rowden’s slight swagger; the easy fashion in which he carried his gold-headed cane — these were gentlemanly mannerisms that the girl judged as perfection.

Even in the elevator, Roke Rowden lost nothing of his poise. Cane beneath his arm, he retained his studied pose until the car had reached the fifth floor. Then, with his accustomed gait, he strolled forth along a corridor and stopped at a door marked 516. Deliberately, Rowden unlocked the door and entered. He closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Roke.”

Rowden turned quickly as he heard the greeting. For a moment, his face was disturbed. Then he smiled suavely as he observed a dark-eyed, smooth-faced man lounging in an easy chair. This chap had a quiet air that marked the real gentleman. A contrast to Rowden’s affectation.

“So it’s you, Tracy,” spoke Rowden. “I’d forgotten that you were coming in. Usually, you slide up here just after I arrive.”

“I thought it best to change that plan this evening. After all, someone might connect us, even though I do get off at different floors and use the stairway for the rest of the trip.”

Rowden nodded.

“And by the way,” added the man called Tracy, “it would be a good idea for you to tell me the name I’m to use tonight. Forget that I’m Tracy Lence.”

“All right,” agreed Rowden. “You’re Claude Kilgarth for the time being. And I have good news for you, Claude, old boy. The pay-off is due.”

“The sucker bit, oh?”

“Swallowed the line with the bait. That’s what comes of using an artistic buildup. I’ve been working for a full month off and on, seeing the sap only occasionally, letting him ripen.”

Roke Rowden paused to pull the letters from his pocket. One by one, he ripped open envelopes, read their contents and tore both letters and envelopes before tossing them in the wastebasket.

“Even this mail is part of the build,” chuckled Rowden. “That’s what comes of having a few pals who travel around the country. They frame business letters from various concerns. I always accumulate a lot of important-looking mail.”

He stopped as he came to a long envelope. He studied it carefully; then tore it open and read the letter inside. He shook his head; then chuckled.

“This is a new one,” he declared. “I can usually figure who planted these letters for me. Every con man has his own type of crowd as a rule. But this one is from a book shop; that is, it’s on their stationery.”

“What city?” inquired Tracy Lence.

“New Orleans,” replied Rowden. “I guess Biggs mailed it. He must have grabbed some of the stationery. An odd letter, too. It begins with ‘Esteemed Friend.’ Biggs springing a gag, I guess.”

ROKE tore the letter and the envelope. He tossed them along with the rest of the trash. Then, with a suave smile, he lighted a cigarette and turned toward Lence.

“Let’s talk business,” suggested Rowden. “I told you we were due for the pay-off. It’s ripe, tonight. The fall-guy is coming here to see me at nine o’clock.

“His name is Northrup Lucaster. An old duck from Des Moines, Iowa, who came east to spend a few months in New York. Somebody introduced him at one of the clubs. That’s where I spotted him.”

“I figured that game was about your speed,” remarked Lence. “Go on. Give me the rest of it.”

“What are you getting at?” retorted Rowden. “Say — I can put up a front with anybody. The reason I picked this duck from Iowa was because he looked like a cinch.”

“That’s just it, Roke. Why spend a month on him? We could have pulled at trimming and gone on with another job.”

“I’ve only seen him off and on,” explained Rowden. “I was looking for better bets, all along. But I didn’t spot them, so I went ahead with Lucaster.”

“Apology accepted,” put in Lence. “Proceed with Lucaster. What’s he falling for?”

“Silver,” chuckled Rowden. “There’s been a lot of talk about it in the Middle West. Price of the metal going up. Free silver, maybe. That’s what they think. So I told Lucaster my phony story.

“I spilled a yarn about a Nevada silver mine that was closed up because it wasn’t paying. Poor transportation facilities and all that bunk. Closed up forty years ago. Present owners ready to sell me their stock cheap. They don’t know that there’s anything in it.

“A friend — that’s you — is ready to go half shares on the purchase. But you’ve only got enough to buy the stock; someone else has to furnish the kale to start operations. A pool is the system. You and Lucaster each put up half. I get a commission, that I’ll take in stock.”

“Well, it sounds all right,” decided Lence. “I’ll be Claude Kilgarth. Where do I come from?”

“Zanesville, Ohio. You told me you know that town.”

“And how much am I putting up?”

“Twenty-five grand.”

Lence eyed Rowden coolly.

“I thought,” he remarked, “that you said Lucaster and I were going to put up equal amounts.”

“I did,” returned Rowden.

“You mean then” — Lence paused, incredulous — “that twenty-five grand is the game? That it’s all you’re going to tap this fellow for?”

“Yes.”

“And you call him a sucker! Say — that’s chicken feed for the amount of trouble you’ve gone to. Ten grand a piece is about all we’ll net, after we chop off the expenses we’ve incurred. What’s the idea, Roke? Is that all the coin the old fellow can spare?”

“It’s all I can show. Twenty-five grand.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that I’ve got that much in a safe-deposit box at the Manhattan Night Bank. I’m going down there to get it. You’ll hold the roll and flash it. When you hand the mazuma over to me, Lucaster will do the same with his wad.”

“You sap!” Lence showed indignation. “That isn’t necessary. You could count on me to swing it. A check, faked to look like it was certified. That would do for my share.”

“It’s too late now, Tracy.”

“Why?”

“Because my build was a cash down proposition. Lucaster fell for it on that basis. We’d lose out if we tried to switch the game. He might get leery.”

“Twenty-five grand! From what you’ve told me, this sucker should be good for fifty.”

“It’s twenty-five in the bag, though, Tracy. We can take it on the lam before Lucaster wises. I told him we’d have to go out to Montana. Weeks, perhaps, before he’d hear from us.”

“All the more reason why you should have hit for bigger dough. However, it can’t be helped.”

“That’s the way to look at it.” Rowden became brisk. “Well, Tracy, stick around until I get back. I’m going down to the bank. Take a look at some of those timetables in the table drawer. Pick the route you want to take when we leave town.”

Roke left the apartment.

LENCE had risen from his chair; he stood with hands in coat pockets. With his right, he was juggling the duplicate key with which he had entered this apartment. As minutes drifted, Lence kept eyeing the door with crafty, sidelong gaze.

At last, convinced that Roke was actually on his way to the bank, Lence became active. Stepping across to the wastebasket, he stooped and fumbled among the torn letters. He found the one that Roke had received from the New Orleans book shop.

Roke had torn the letter in two pieces. Lence held the portions before the desk lights. He chuckled as he noted the thickness of the paper. Moistening thumb and forefinger, he began a peeling process. The thick paper came apart in two portions. Lence laid the rear sheets upon the desk.

Leaving the living room, he returned with a glass of water. Moistening a corner of his handkerchief, Lence dabbed the inner surfaces of the rear sheets. Writing appeared. It was in code.

Seating himself at the desk, Lence began to translate. The message was a brief one, addressed to himself. It read:

Laying the deciphered message beside the torn sections of the peeled letter, Lence drew a watch from his pocket and noted the time. It was half past eight. Lence made a mental calculation; a smile appeared upon his smooth face.

Rowden had spoken of a table drawer where railway schedules were kept. Lence noted the table in an alcove at the far corner of the room. He moved in that direction, found the drawer he wanted, and began to examine the schedules that he found. He chose three that included listings of through trains to New Orleans. He thrust them into his inside pocket.

Closing the drawer, Lence took a metal case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. He was obtaining a light as he strolled from the alcove. As he puffed, he shook the flame to extinguish it. He looked up.

Lence’s fingers relaxed. The burnt match dropped to the floor. The smile left his lips as he stared toward the dark where he had left the message. Tracy Lence was staring into the mouth of a revolver. The gun was held by Roke Rowden.

The other crook had returned while Lence was in the alcove. The turn of his key had not been sufficient to attract Lence’s attention. Entering, Roke had noted Lence’s absence. He had seen the message on the desk; he had read the translation.

Gun in readiness, Roke Rowden was waiting to demand an explanation of this surreptitious correspondence. His suave countenance had hardened. Roke was prepared to hear facts from his partner, Tracy Lence.