Murder Trail

CHAPTER XVIII FARADAY’S VISITOR

FOOTSTEPS sounded along the hall that led by the door where a pair of watching mobsmen lay. A man in evening dress walked by, followed by two servants. He opened the door of the rear room, and entered the lighted chamber.

Roberts Faraday, the millionaire, had just returned from New York City. The uniformed men who accompanied him were his house man and his chauffeur.

Seating himself at a huge desk in the middle of the lighted room, Roberts Faraday looked at his servants.

The millionaire was a man of about forty years. Firm-faced and businesslike in appearance, he showed power and dominance in every expression. His smooth-shaven countenance was marked by the sternness of his eyes. Roberts Faraday was unquestionably a man of forceful character.

“Crayle” — Faraday was addressing the butler — “I am expecting a visitor shortly. His name is Victor Venturi. When he arrives, show him in here. Then you can leave. Boggs” — Faraday was referring to the chauffeur — “will wait for you and drive you back to the city. I shall remain here tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” said the house man.

“You have been here all evening?” questioned Faraday sharply.

“Yes, sir,” responded Crayle. “I–I was dozing, sir, up in the front hall. Waiting for you, sir—”

“That’s enough. You may go. You, too, Boggs.”

Roberts Faraday arose after the two had left. He strolled back and forth across the room. He did not chance to glance toward the door that led to the next room. Hence he did not see that it was ajar. Once, in his pacing, Faraday turned and looked toward the rear wall of the room. Set in that wall was the steel door of a large vault — the most formidable type of strong room that modern ingenuity had yet devised.

There was something in Faraday’s step that indicated repressed nervousness. The millionaire glanced at his watch, and noted that the hour was nearly midnight. He went back to his chair, extracted a cigarette from a case, and lighted it. Smoking seemed to ease his impatience.

When he had finished his cigarette, the millionaire opened a desk drawer and drew out a sheaf of documents. He went through them one by one. He gave particular notice to a cablegram that was on top of the pile. The name at the bottom of the message was that of Aristide Ponjeau.

Minutes ticked by. Faraday, smoking another cigarette, watched the clock while he waited. The hands reached twelve. The clock chimed the hour. Long, tense seconds passed; then, as if in answer to the millionaire’s expectations, a distant ring came from another portion of the house. Some one had rung the front doorbell.

TIME seemed long before the inevitable result occurred. Footsteps echoed from the hall. Crayle, the house man, appeared and advanced across the room. He stopped short, and made the announcement that Faraday awaited.

“Mr. Victor Venturi, sir.”

“Show him in here, Crayle.”

“He is not alone, sir.”

“No? Who is with him?”

“His attendant, sir — an Italian gentleman. Mr. Venturi explained that he is always accompanied by his man.”

“That will be all right, Crayle,” said Faraday, in a thoughtful tone. “Bring them both here. I shall be waiting.”

Crayle’s footfalls echoed into the distance of the long hall. A few minutes later, mingled pacings could be heard. Victor Venturi, sallow and nervous-faced, entered, with Angelo at his heels. Crayle was behind the two. He stopped at the door.

“Ah! Mr. Faraday!” exclaimed Venturi.

Roberts Faraday had arisen. He extended the hand to the Italian; then looked questioningly toward Angelo.

“My attendant, Mr. Faraday,” explained Venturi. “Angelo is always with me. It is quite all right for him to be here.”

Venturi spoke in careful, musical English, choosing his words with much thought. Angelo stood by, offering no comment. It was obvious that the attendant knew very little of the language which his master was using.

“You may go, Crayle,” said Faraday brusquely.

The house man bowed and went away. Faraday listened intently until he heard the footsteps reach the end of the hall. He continued to listen; at last the throb of a motor came from outside the house, barely audible to the millionaire’s ears. Faraday motioned Venturi and Angelo to be seated. He took his own place behind the desk.

“You came here by taxicab?” questioned the millionaire.

“From the station, yes,” responded Venturi.

“Good,” commented Faraday. “We are entirely alone. My servants have gone for the night. I thought it best — in view of our private negotiations. I can summon a cab when you are ready to leave.”

The millionaire reached into his pocket and produced his cigarette case. He held it open toward Venturi and Angelo; both shook their heads. Faraday withdrew a cigarette for himself, and lighted it. Then, calmly to Venturi:

“You have your credentials?” The Italian bowed.

“I have,” he said. “They are here, sir.”

Venturi brought the papers from his pocket. Roberts Faraday examined them. Signed by Aristide Ponjeau, these documents were similar to the ones which Crix, as Baron von Tollsburg, had used to trick Winston Collisten and Sturgis Bosworth into giving him their millions.

The second sheet, however, bore the signature of Victor Venturi, instead of Hugo von Tollsburg. Roberts Faraday did not have time to ask for a verification of the indelible signature. Victor Venturi produced a pen and sheet of paper. Leaning upon the desk, he wrote his name. Faraday compared it carefully with the signature on the document.

“You understand, of course,” explained Venturi, “that my mission here is purely one of warning. It is not my province to make a request for money. We can discuss that matter afterward. It is because of unexpected occurrences that I have come to you—”

Roberts Faraday waved his hand in an impatient gesture. He was still comparing the signatures. His sharp eye did not let a single detail slip. Venturi stood silent until the inspection was completed. Quietly, Faraday gave the documents back to the Italian.

“The cablegram from Monsieur Ponjeau warned me,” Faraday explained. “That was sufficient. It made me decide to use the utmost caution. I am an expert on signatures, Mr. Venturi. Yours has passed a most critical test.

“I am satisfied. You are an emissary from Aristide Ponjeau. Be seated, sir, be seated. I must hear your story. I realize that it is most important.”

Victor Venturi resumed his chair. With back to the door the Italian faced the millionaire. The two men were intent; Angelo was watching them with all attention. Facts were to be revealed — and behind the partly opened door of the adjoining room keen enemies were listening.

Victor Venturi and Roberts Faraday were conferring within earshot of the evil men who served the archvillain, Crix! Twelve armed men were waiting; and only one, Cliff Marsland, was there in The Shadow’s service!