Murder Trail

CHAPTER XIII CRIX CALLS

“A GENTLEMAN to see you, Mr. Bosworth.”

Sturgis Bosworth looked up from his desk. He was seated in a private office that he had in his home at Montclair. He looked questioningly at the servant who had made the announcement.

“Who is it, Caleb?” he asked.

The servant handed Bosworth a card. It bore the name of Hugo von Tollsburg.

“Show him in,” ordered Bosworth.

A few minutes later, the visitor entered the office. Sturgis Bosworth, like Winston Collister, found himself facing a man who had a foreign air, but who did not appear to be a German.

“I am Baron von Tollsburg,” the visitor announced.

“Pleased to meet you, baron,” responded Bosworth. “Sit down and have a smoke. Cigar or cigarette?”

“A cigarette,” said the visitor suavely, “but I prefer my own brand, thank you.”

He lighted a cigarette, and the odor of Egyptian tobacco became noticeable in the room.

Sturgis Bosworth was a man past middle age, baldheaded, and serious in demeanor. He, like his guest, had lighted a cigarette, and as the smoke floated upward, Bosworth blew a puff and made a chance observation.

“It is an excellent evening,” were his words.

“An evening which one might long expect,” came the reply.

“With the world in turmoil—”

” — it is our duty to right it.” Sturgis Bosworth puffed again on his cigarette.

“I am glad that you have arrived, baron,” he said. “I am ready to deliver the money to aid the cause of my friend Aristide Ponjeau. It has worried me a bit.”

“You are providing a large sum,” said the visitor, in a commending tone.

“It is not the money,” returned Bosworth. “I have made millions through the manufacture of various types of machinery. I regard this contribution as an investment. The World Court of Industry will aid the international progress of big business. No, baron, I have merely been worried about the delivery of the funds.”

“That worry is ended now.” Bosworth nodded in agreement.

“You have your credentials?” he questioned.

The man who called himself Baron von Tollsburg arose. He brought forth the same documents that he had shown to Winston Collister on the fateful night when he had slain the insurance magnate.

“These are satisfactory,” announced Bosworth. “Your method is wise, baron — or should I say that Monsieur Ponjeau’s method is wise? I — nor any of the other contributors — do not know the identity of those who are providing funds. We shall know later, however. It may prove surprising then.”

Bosworth chuckled as he unlocked a desk drawer. He brought out an oblong box, and opened it to display a mass of bills of large denomination. He thrust a typewritten sheet across the desk to his visitor.

“Your signature, baron,” he requested.

The visitor signed. He slipped his hand to his coat pocket as he saw Bosworth comparing the signed slip with the indelible signature upon the document. Sturgis Bosworth was not so close a scrutinizer as Winston Collister had been.

“This is quite satisfactory,” said the manufacturer.

THE false Von Tollsburg removed his hand from his coat pocket. He reached forward to take the box that contained the money.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. The visitor looked up in momentary alarm. Sturgis Bosworth registered the same expression. With a lift of his hand, he went to the door.

“Who is it?” he questioned.

“Caleb, sir. A visitor. Quite important, sir. Here is his card.”

Bosworth opened the door a trifle and received the card. His face paled momentarily, then regained its color. The millionaire laughed.

“It gave me a trifling shock,” he said. “A visitor at this opportune moment. An old friend whom I have not seen for some time. He can wait.”

“I shall be leaving immediately, Herr Bosworth.”

“Of course. Of course” — Bosworth paused as he approached the desk — “but before you leave, baron, you must accept a special gift which I have provided for the emissary of Monsieur Aristide Ponjeau. Wait until you see it, baron. It will surprise you.”

Bosworth reopened the desk drawer and fumbled as though looking for something that he had misplaced. Suddenly, his head popped up above the desk. His hand came with it, and an old-style revolver glimmered in the millionaire’s fist.

“Put up your hands!” ordered Sturgis Bosworth, in a hoarse voice.

The visitor obeyed in feigned surprise.

“So!” Bosworth’s tone was indignant. “You have tried to trick me, eh? Well, it is fortunate that the next visitor arrived. Did you ever hear of Victor Venturi, Mr. Baron?”

The visitor registered blankness. “He is a friend of Aristide Ponjeau,” declared Bosworth. “He sent in this card that bears his name — marked ‘From Aristide Ponjeau.’ It also bears a written statement. ‘Beware the impostor who is deceiving you.’ What do you make of that, Mr. Baron?”

The visitor made no response. His hands still above his head, his eyes were gleaming in anger.

“You are an impostor,” accused Bosworth. “Your face shows it. You have played into my hands. You have only one chance for safety. That is to play fair. Who are you?”

A slow smile showed on the accused man’s face. He seemed to recognize the fact that he was trapped. Nevertheless, his tone was sarcastic as he replied to Sturgis Bosworth.

“I am not Baron von Tollsburg,” he stated. “I may as well be frank with you before I face Victor Venturi. Von Tollsburg is dead. I killed him.

“My own identity? It might surprise you, Bosworth. I have more than one identity. You should, therefore, be interested in the one that I have assumed for this particular work. I call myself Crix. Remember that name, Bosworth. Crix.

“An unusual name? Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is a good one. Shrewd crooks have obeyed Crix. He has always kept in the background. Smart men have known him only as Crix. I am Crix.

“Since you have learned my insidious identity, I may as well tell you more” — Crix, with a short pause, was rising as he spoke — “because it will mean much in your future life. Your future life, Bosworth, which will be very short.

“When Crix plots, Crix plots well. You may kill me if you wish, but the sound of your revolver shot will be your own death warrant. I have marked it as a signal for my men. They will leap to the aid of their master — to the aid of Crix. I am Crix, who killed Baron von Tollsburg, who killed Winston Collister. Crix, who will bring death to Sturgis Bosworth—”

The words broke off as Crix leaped across the table. He had caught Sturgis Bosworth at a moment when the man was tense because of the strange statements he had heard.

The millionaire pulled the trigger. The action was a moment late. Crix, in his swift leap, barely managed to strike Bosworth’s arm aside. Coming over the table, the attacker grappled with the man who had tried to shoot him.

The struggle lasted only a few seconds. Crix, with a powerful blow, staggered Bosworth. The millionaire fell back, still clutching the gun, but before he could raise the weapon, Crix had drawn his own revolver. Firing point blank, he shot Sturgis Bosworth in the body. The millionaire sank without a groan.

Crix turned toward the door, a fiendish look upon his face. The door was opening, and the murderer saw Caleb, Bosworth’s old servitor. The situation was identical with that which had occurred in Hartford. A servant coming to the rescue. Crix adopted the same alternative. With a fiendish smile, he pressed the trigger of his gun. Caleb dropped in his tracks.

Calmly, Crix pocketed his gun. He picked up the box and closed it. With absolute indifference, he stepped from the room and turned down a hallway that led to the side door of the house.

Tonight, Crix had planned more carefully than before. He had spoken the truth to Sturgis Bosworth. The first shot was a signal. If it and the second had not been heard, the third had certainly carried to listening ears, for the door had been opened when Crix discharged it.

This getaway was easy. Tonight the way to escape was guarded. Crix laughed fiendishly as he departed. Victor Venturi might be there; others might hear the shot within the house. They had been provided for. Turmoil was due to break within this home, and the strong hands of gangsters would be waging war for Crix!

Two million dollars was again the stake. Safely boxed, it was under the arm of the murderer, Crix!