Murder Trail

CHAPTER VI THE FALSE EMISSARY

THE City of Hartford is noted for its exclusive suburbs. Large, spacious mansions, surrounded by ample lawns and secluded by ancient shade trees, are by no means uncommon within the limits of the Connecticut capital.

Such a house was the residence of Winston Collister, a man well known in insurance circles both for his integrity and his wealth. Collister’s home was a fine old structure, set far back from the avenue; and its large colonial pillars made it easily recognizable.

The interior of the Collister mansion was magnificent. The rooms were spacious and handsomely furnished. Prompt and efficient servants were on duty. When the Collisters entertained, they did so lavishly; but, as a rule, Winston Collister preferred quiet evenings, and avoided ostentation.

Tonight, with midnight close at hand, Winston Collister was seated alone in his library. A tall man of athletic build, the youthfulness of his face belied the age that his gray hair indicated.

Midnight was an unusually late hour for the insurance man. He usually retired before eleven o’clock, except when social affairs were in progress.

Several members of the family had already retired; both of Collister’s sons, however, were still downtown. Two of the servants — Ducroe, the butler, and Ogden, the footman — were still on duty. It was Ogden who appeared at the door of the library to inform Winston Collister that a gentleman had called to see him.

“Ah, yes, Ogden,” said Collister quietly. “Did the gentleman say that he has an appointment with me tonight?”

“He sent in his card, sir.”

The millionaire insurance man received the slip of pasteboard. It bore the name:

“I shall see the visitor, Ogden,” declared Collister. “Show him into my study. I shall join him there.”

The study was some distance from the library; it was a small room located in the wing of the mansion.

Winston Collister stood up after Ogden had gone, and thoughtfully paced back and forth, while he allowed his visitor time to reach the room where the interview was to take place. Then, dignified and erect, the gray-haired man went to meet his guest.

STEPPING into the study, Collister faced a man of medium height, whose firm-set face gave him an appearance of importance. The man did not represent the typical German; but his trim, pointed mustache gave him a foreign air. Collister made a detailed study of the man before him.

He was particularly impressed by the visitor’s eyes. Dark, steady in gaze, those optics centered themselves upon the millionaire. They were the eyes of a shrewd man; at the same time they possessed an impressive firmness.

“You are Mr. von Tollsburg?” questioned Collister.

“Baron Hugo von Tollsburg,” responded the visitor, with a stiff bow. “At your service, Herr Collister.”

There was a guttural accent to the speaker’s voice, and it offset the slight doubt that Collister had entertained as to the man’s actual nationality.

Winston Collister extended his hand. The visitor accepted it, and, after the shake, took the chair that the millionaire indicated.

Collister offered cigars. The guest produced a cigarette instead. The millionaire lighted his own perfecto, and sat down. In an indifferent tone, he made a passing remark.

“It is an excellent evening,” said Collister.

“An evening which one might long expect,” returned the man who called himself Von Tollsburg.

“With the world in turmoil—” Collister cut off his remark and looked directly at his visitor. The suave-faced man responded with the rest of the sentence: “—it is our duty to right it.”

Winston Collister settled back in his chair as he heard the completion of the sentence. There was no need for further formality. With frankness, Collister spoke to his guest.

“I am glad that you have come,” he said. “I have been rather anxious during the last few days. Tell me: have you seen Monsieur Ponjeau lately?”

“Just before my departure from Europe,” was the response. “As his special emissary, it was necessary for me to confer with him.”

“Of course. You saw him at Lausanne?”

“Yes.”

“A wonderful man, Ponjeau,” spoke Collister, in a low, reflective tone. “When he visited me here, Von Tollsburg, I recognized his sincerity the moment that he began to speak. I am pleased to cooperate in the great work that he has begun. He is a natural leader in international affairs.”

“Monsieur Ponjeau is a Frenchman,” replied the visitor. “I am a German. Less than fifteen years ago, we were enemies. Now we are friends. We are citizens of the world, Monsieur Ponjeau and I. You are the same, Herr Collister.”

The seriousness of the man’s tone brought a nod from the millionaire. Winston Collister arose and faced his visitor with dignity.

“It had been my hope,” he declared, “to give my contribution to Monsieur Ponjeau in person. I have long since realized that such would be unwise. I am, therefore, willing to place full trust in an emissary of his choosing. Of course, baron, you have the proper credentials—”

The visitor smiled and bowed. He drew a folded paper from his pocket, and extended it to Collister. The Hartford millionaire examined the document with care. He particularly noted the ornate signature of Aristide Ponjeau, which appeared at the bottom of the sheet. He returned the paper to his visitor and received another document. This, like the first, also bore the signature of Ponjeau. With it was the written name of Hugo von Tollsburg, the signature scored with needle-pointed impressions, so that it could not possibly be altered.

Collister laid this document upon the table. With no further delay, he went to the wall and slid back a panel which concealed a small, strong safe. Opening the metal door, Winston Collister brought forth a packet.

“Here is the money,” he said. “My willing contribution to Aristide Ponjeau’s great plan — the World Court of Industry. It is my hope, Von Tollsburg, that the success for which we hope will soon be obtained.”

“It is my hope also,” responded the visitor.

“I fully appreciate,” continued Collister, “that success depends upon proper establishment. Adequately equipped with funds, the World Court can gain recognition from the day of its announcement. Here, baron, is my share — the sum of two million dollars.”

COLLISTER opened the packet as he spoke. The action revealed a stack of United States currency — bills of a thousand-dollar denomination. Collister made a gesture toward the heap. The man who called himself Von Tollsburg shook his head.

“A count is not necessary,” he said, in a friendly tone. “Your word that all is there will be sufficient for me.”

The millionaire bowed and rearranged the packet. He gave it to the visitor, who carefully placed it in his coat pocket. Collister, watching, remarked further.

“I have preserved absolute secrecy,” he announced. “No one, besides yourself, baron, knows that I have raised this money and brought it to my home. Monsieur Ponjeau, of course, has received my promise; but you have witnessed its consummation.”

The visitor arose and extended his hand. There was the effect of sincerity in his grasp. As the men stepped apart, the visitor turned slowly toward the door. Winston Collister stopped him as though by afterthought, as he saw his guest’s hand reaching for the document on the table.

“The signature,” stated the millionaire.

“Of course,” returned the guest. The shrewd dark eyes watched Winston Collister draw forth a pen and paper. The objects were laid upon the desk. Collister motioned to a chair. The visitor seated himself and picked up the pen. With sweeping, well-timed stroke, he wrote the signature:

Winston Collister picked up the paper that bore the name. He also examined the document that lay upon the desk, to compare the signatures.

“I shall keep this, baron,” he declared, “as your receipt for the money. That, of course, is understood. The main purpose of the signature is to finally establish your identity. I thank you for your courtesy, baron—”

Collister’s voice broke off. The millionaire was making a closer comparison of the signatures. The visitor watched him, with shrewd eyes gleaming. Standing with hands in his coat pockets, the man who called himself Von Tollsburg clutched the packet of thousand-dollar bills with his left hand, while his right moved significantly in his other pocket.

“Perhaps I am in error, baron,” Collister was saying slowly. “Perhaps I am mistaken — but — these signatures do not conform so closely as I had expected.”

He glanced up suddenly, and was quick enough to catch the antagonistic gleam in his visitor’s eyes. The suave man’s expression was changing, but too late. In one brief moment, Winston Collister’s suspicions crystallized into firm understanding.

“The signatures” — Collister’s voice became frigid — “are enough, Baron von Tollsburg! They tell me that you are not the man to whom I should deliver the money. Your eyes tell me the rest. You are an impostor — a false emissary!”

Collister’s hand shot out to grip the visitor’s wrist. The man was too quick; he stepped away. With surprising agility, Winston Collister made a lunge toward the false emissary, and with it, the millionaire uttered a loud shout for help.

“Ogden! Ducroe!” was his cry. “Come here at once to my study!” The call was loud enough to be heard throughout the house. Collister’s quick thrust enabled him to catch the impostor’s left arm. The false baron managed to break away and dash to the table, where he seized the paper upon which he had written the forged signature of a dead man. He thrust the paper into his left pocket, with the packet that contained two million dollars of Collister’s money.

He swung to meet Collister’s next attack, and with the motion he brought his right hand from his pocket. A revolver gleamed in his clenched fist.

AS Winston Collister leaped forward, the door of the study burst open, and two men appeared. They were the servants, Ogden and Ducroe.

Their arrival ended all opportunity for flight without bloodshed. The false Von Tollsburg, who until this moment had sought to make quick getaway, now acted with furious venom.

His eyes blazed as his finger pressed the trigger of the revolver. A shot burst forth, and Winston Collister’s leap came to an end. The millionaire crumpled, a bullet through his heart.

The men at the door did not hesitate. The sight of their master falling dead spurred them to wild effort. They leaped across the room in an attempt to seize the killer.

Had the false Von Tollsburg moved toward them, he would have fallen before the fury of their attack. Instead, however, he drew away; and as he backed across the room, he fired four quick shots.

Two were aimed at Ducroe, and they dropped the man before he had traveled six feet. Ogden was coming on with frenzy, but he, too, was destined to receive the murderer’s bullets. The final pair of shots, delivered at close range, brought the footman to the floor.

Three sprawled forms lay as tribute to the killer’s fell work. The path to the doorway was open. The false Von Tollsburg did not hesitate to use it. Three times a murderer within the space of a single minute, he made a swift dash toward safety.

Followed by screams that came from women on the second floor, the murderer headed toward the front door. That barrier opened as he neared it, and two young men in dress suits confronted the escaping killer. They were Collister’s sons, returned from town at this dramatic moment.

The fleeing man was upon them. He raised his revolver and fired his sixth shot at the first of his antagonists. The other Collister boy struck at the upraised wrist, and in that action saved his brother’s life. The aim was diverted, and the bullet lodged in the shoulder of the one toward whom it was delivered, instead of striking him in the heart.

With one foe down, the murderer grappled with the other. The Collister youth was wiry and powerful; for a moment he resisted the killer’s attack. Then, the murderer’s right hand came free, and he struck with his revolver. The weapon met young Collister’s skull, and the youth collapsed.

The delay at the door brought the fleeing man face to face with the most crucial situation he had yet encountered. As he ran down the steps between the huge colonial pillars, the impostor saw that his path was barred by a man in uniform. A patrolman had heard the shots, and was running up the walk with drawn revolver.

Seeing the gleaming revolver in the murderer’s hand, the officer stopped short and fired. His first shot was wide; the second also missed its target, although the bullet whistled close by the ear of the approaching killer. There was no response from the murderer’s gun; the chambers of the revolver were empty.

The policeman did not realize that fact; and it was his ignorance that made him prey to the murderer’s ruse. The third shot from the patrolman’s gun would surely have reached its mark; but the officer, seeing the barrel of a revolver thrust directly toward his face, dodged instinctively before firing.

In a trice, the killer was upon him. In their writhing struggle, the gun was wrested from the officer’s grasp. A shot resounded, and the policeman fell, slain by a bullet from his own revolver.

The murderer was on his way. Scurrying across the avenue, he gained the lawn beyond, followed by shouts of men who were hastening up the street. People were arriving upon the scene; but the sight of the slain policeman made them hesitate to follow the man who had escaped.

Screams from the Collister mansion told of fiendish work within. The rescuers who had seen the departing murderer preferred the light of the house to the darkness of the lawn on the other side of the avenue.

Smashing his way through all resistance, the impostor had escaped. Only Winston Collister — now dead — could have told the reason for the mad deeds of murder. For the false Baron von Tollsburg, fleeing through the night, had used madness only because method had failed.

In his pocket was the fortune he had come to gain. He had carried away the sum of two million dollars!