Gray Fist

CHAPTER XIX CARDONA’S LUCK

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA had no inkling of what was going on in Chinatown. In fact, the ace had not even linked up recent gang frays of the underworld with the case that now concerned him. He knew that gangsters figured in the affairs of the supercrook whom he was seeking to find; but he expected to find disturbing elements in the better sections of New York.

Cardona had based much upon his list of names. His decision that Ruggles Preston was the agent of a master crook had been a good one. But Cardona had played his cards wrong during the day that had passed since Preston’s death. He had resolved to approach people cautiously, to find out if there were others in Worth Varden’s class — men who had been racketeered by Seth Cowry.

With a new evening here, Cardona had started down the list. He put in a telephone call to the home of Westford Blackdale, a clothing manufacturer. He was informed that Mr. Blackdale had left New York on a business trip.

A call to Martin Fetzler, a Brooklyn banker, produced the same result. Third on the list had been Landis Glascomb, a Wall Street financier. Cardona’s inquiry had brought the reply that Glascomb had left town.

By that time, Cardona came to a startling realization. He knew that the fears Worth Varden had expressed could not have been feigned. Some menace was hanging over every man whose name appeared on the list discovered in Ruggles Preston’s apartment!

All had disappeared, like Worth Varden! Did they know from reading the newspaper, that the death of Ruggles Preston had brought their names into the hands of the police? Cardona considered that point, and decided negatively. Worth Varden had not mentioned Ruggles Preston.

Cardona sought another explanation. He found it. These men: Blackdale, Fetzler, and Glascomb — together with the rest, on the list — had been under the same cloud as Worth Varden. Cardona had exhausted every name, traveling alphabetically from Glascomb down the line. Not one was in town.

Varden, Cardona decided, had been the only one with nerve enough to call detective headquarters. He had paid for his temerity with his life. Preston, too, had been slain. A fierce hand was behind it all, and the master worker had doubtless ordered all of his prospective victims to leave New York City at once.

With this key to the situation, Cardona decided upon a new plan. His call to the men on the list had been anonymous. He had received no certainty that they were actually away from New York. Perhaps some had planned to leave, and had simply given instructions that they were about to go.

REMEMBERING Worth Varden, Cardona figured that some one of the listed men might be ready to talk if approached. So he began again and called each residence. He told the person who answered at Blackdale’s that he was anxious for the manufacturer to call detective headquarters. He repeated the same formula when he telephoned Fetzler and Glascomb.

Cardona’s fourth call was to a broker named Grant Jillings. The detective hung up after he had delivered his message and prepared to call another on the list. As he reached for the telephone, it rang. A plaintive voice came over the wire.

“Detective Cardona?”

“Yes,” answered the detective.

“You called me,” said the voice in a cautious tone. “I want to see you.”

“What is the name?” inquired Cardona.

There was a pause. Then, the voice spoke once more, this time with a statement that was almost whispered:

“Landis Glascomb.”

Cardona was elated. He had found one man who had not actually left New York.

“How soon can I see you?” questioned Cardona.

“As soon as possible,” Glascomb’s voice was quavering. “I am under a great strain. I have much to tell. But I am afraid. You must come to see me — but be careful.”

“Careful?”

“Yes. That no one may know you are visiting me. I am practically in hiding, at my home. If it were known that I am in New York, it might mean my death.”

The words were spoken in a tone of real terror. They added to Cardona’s eagerness to meet Landis Glascomb.

“I’ll be at your house in an hour,” stated the detective, then terminated the conversation.

Cardona had no difficulty finding Landis Glascomb’s residence. He went by taxicab to an uptown street. There he alighted and sauntered down the thoroughfare until he spied the number of a brownstone building. Like a chance visitor, the detective ascended the steps and rang the bell.

Joe had a sensation that eyes might be watching him. He expected something of the sort from within the house; he was also disturbed by the thought that spies might be outside. At the same time, the detective had taken guard against recognition. He had his overcoat muffled up about his neck, and was standing close to the darkness of the door.

The portal opened cautiously. Cardona saw a white-faced servant looking out. In a low voice, Cardona whispered his name. The servant beckoned. Joe entered, and the door closed behind him.

The residence was a well-kept one. Joe Cardona noticed the costliness of its furnishings as the servant led him past a gloomy parlor, up a flight of stairs, and along the second-floor hall. Following his guide, Joe went up another flight. On the third floor the servant stopped and rapped at a door. It opened, and a stoop-shouldered man peered cautiously forth from a dimly-lighted room.

“Detective Cardona?” he queried.

“Yes,” acknowledged the sleuth.

“Come in,” was the man’s reply. “I am Landis Glascomb.”

WITHIN the room, Cardona saw at once that Glascomb was in hiding. This was a servant’s room — one that had evidently been unoccupied until Glascomb had taken it. Cardona turned to view the man who had received him. Glascomb was slumping into a chair. Seen in better light, the man looked older than Cardona had supposed.

Landis Glascomb’s face was peaked. His eyes, though sharp, were furtive. His expression showed deep worry. Cardona, through his long experience, could tell that some great burden weighed heavily upon the mind of the old financier.

“Sit down,” suggested Glascomb, in a weary voice. “Sit down. I must talk to you.”

Cardona took a chair. He noted that Glascomb was inspecting him, almost mistrustfully. The old man seemed worried about speaking, but after a few moments he put a question that was troubling him.

“How did you learn my name?” he asked.

Cardona eyed the questioner steadily. He decided to meet Glascomb with definite frankness.

“I found your name upon a list,” he declared. “You were one of others — among them a man for whom I have been searching — an importer named Worth Varden.”

“Worth Varden!” Glascomb gasped the name. “Worth Varden! I feared it.” Then, as an afterthought: “But the list — the list — tell me — where was it?”

“In the hands of a dead man,” returned Cardona. “It belonged to a lawyer named Ruggles Preston.”

Landis Glascomb seemed on the verge of collapse. He leaned forward, trembling. His whole frame seemed to tremble as he heard the news.

“I feared that, too,” he quavered. “I feared it. You have the list — with you—”

“Here in my pocket,” interposed Cardona.

“You have not made my name public?” There was anxiety in Glascomb’s tone.

“No,” returned the detective. “No one else has seen the list. I am willing to show it to you — but only after I know what it is all about.”

“I can tell you,” nodded Glascomb.

“About Cowry — or Varden — or Preston?” quizzed Cardona.

“About them all” — Glascomb was emphatic — “about them all — and many more!”

“The others on the list?”

“More than that,” he declared solemnly. “More than that. I can tell you about—”

“About the man behind the game?” asked Cardona as Landis Glascomb paused.

“Yes.” The old man’s voice was hollow. “I can tell you all about Gray Fist!”

A pause.

“Gray Fist!”

The name gasped from Glascomb’s lips for the second time. A terrible fear seemed to sweep the old man. Cardona felt the dread that was in Glascomb’s tone.

Instinctively, the detective knew that he was to learn strange facts regarding a supercrook whose sway was backed by death!