The Black Master

CHAPTER XVI. THE BLACK MASTER STRIKES

HUBERT BANKS pushed his empty glass from the table. It fell to the floor but did not break upon the thick rug.

The gloom of the tapestried living room seemed more pronounced tonight. With the rain had come a killing atmosphere that filled the entire house. The butler entered and picked up the glass from the floor.

"Where is Mr. Vincent?" questioned Banks.

"He has not returned, sir."

"Tonight, of all nights!" grumbled Hubert Banks. "I want to talk with him! I must see him! Bring me another drink, Herbert!"

The butler started from the room. He stopped at the top of the steps to answer a ring at the front door.

He came back a few moments later.

"Mr. Barton to see you, sir," he informed Hubert Banks.

"Stewart Barton? My attorney?"

"Yes, sir."

"What can he want? Tell him to come in."

Stewart Barton entered the room. He was an elderly man with solemn, saddened features. He appeared more like a mortician than a legal adviser. He bowed curtly, and when Banks did not rise to greet him, he took a chair opposite the millionaire.

"Well, Barton," said Banks, "what brings you mere tonight?"

"I received a call to come here," replied the attorney. "It was from your secretary, Mr. Vincent, this afternoon."

"I didn't tell him to call you."

"No? I have never met Mr. Vincent, but I took his word that you wished to see me."

"What did he call you about?"

"He wanted me to remind you that today was the first of June and that the—"

A startling change came over Hubert Banks. His face became the face of a madman. He raised his hands and his half-clenched fingers clawed in empty air.

"The first of June!" he screamed. "The first of June! Remind me of it!"

The paroxysm passed and the millionaire sank helpless in his chair while Stewart Barton looked at him in startled bewilderment.

There was no question in the attorney's mind. He had not seen Hubert Banks for many months. He had heard statements doubting the millionaire's sanity. He was now prepared to agree with them.

Nevertheless, Barton had business to discuss, and to a man of his methodical type, such interests came first.

"Mr. Banks," he said, clearing his throat, "I must tell you that your legal affairs have reached a very serious condition. This is through no fault of ours—"

"Vincent was taking care of them for me," objected Banks. "Didn't he tell you that?"

"Mr. Vincent has been in correspondence with us during the past week. As your secretary, he advised us that you would not be ready to discuss your affairs until after the first of June.

"So when I received an urgent call, this afternoon, purporting to be from Mr. Vincent, I came here."

"What then?" demanded Banks.

"I have been wanting to see you for some time, Mr. Banks. You will recall that you have three important lawsuits pending."

"Combined, they involve a sum of nearly one million dollars. We had agreed to settle them out of court for a fraction of the amount demanded — less than twenty thousand dollars, all told."

"Well, why haven't you done it?"

"Because of the papers, Mr. Banks."

"What papers?"

"The ones that were brought here by Mr. Houghton, which you never returned to our office!"

"I gave them back to him," exclaimed the millionaire. "I took them from my safe and sent them back by him, two weeks before he was killed."

"We do not have them, Mr. Banks. Frankly, we do not believe that Mr. Houghton lost them or disposed of them. He was too reliable a man. His unfortunate death—"

"It served him right!" cried Banks. "All of them — Houghton — Warfield — and the others! It served them all right! I'm glad they're dead! The next time I meet a cur like one of them, I'll kill him myself!"

The appearance of Graham, the valet, interrupted further threats. Banks sank back in his chair and glared at the servant.

"Mr. Vincent has just called, sir," declared Graham. "He said that he would have returned before but it is pouring rain and he cannot obtain a cab."

"Where is he?" grumbled Banks. "I want him here, to talk with Barton!"

"He is at an apartment on Ninety-third Street, sir," answered Graham. "Shall I summon Chalmers with the coupe?"

"Yes. Do it right away."

The millionaire sank into silence. He was brooding, angrily fighting a mental conflict. Barton preserved silence. He decided it was best to delay the discussion until the arrival of the millionaire's secretary.

The valet went to the upstairs telephone. He was there for several minutes. No one disturbed him. The butler had returned and was busy bringing Banks another drink.

The lawyer had declined the millionaire's invitation to have a highball. Just as the butler arrived with the glass, the valet reappeared.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he said. "Mr. Vincent is on the telephone. He says that he is with a Mr. Clifford Gage, who wishes to speak to you. He says it is very urgent, sir."

Hubert Banks gulped down his drink. He stumbled as he went up the short flight of steps from the living room. He picked up the telephone in the hallway. The valet was at his side.

"That telephone is out of order, sir," he said. "You'll have to use the one upstairs in your room."

The millionaire threw the instrument on the floor with a grunt of annoyance. He walked unsteadily to the stairway and went up the second floor. He was scarcely out of sight before the front door opened and Chalmers, the chauffeur, entered.

"The car's outside," he said to the valet.

"Wait a few minutes," was the reply. "Mr. Banks is busy."

The valet listened as though hearing some unusual noise from the floor above.

"What's that?" he exclaimed.

"I don't hear anything," answered Chalmers.

The valet hurried to the steps that led to the living room. Stewart Barton was still seated there. The butler was also in the room.

"We must go upstairs!" exclaimed the valet. "I'm afraid something has happened to Mr. Banks!"

He started rapidly across the hall. The others, alarmed by his action, followed at his heels.

Hubert Banks, in the meanwhile, was listening in amazement to a strange, convincing voice that was talking over the telephone. He had been surprised to find that neither Harry Vincent nor Clifford Gage was on the wire.

Even in his state of semidrunkenness, he could recognize a voice. But the man who spoke to him had captured his instant attention.

"One million dollars!" came the voice. "You will lose one million dollars! You will always remember June the first, Hubert Banks!"

"June the first!" shouted the millionaire.

"June the first!" repeated the voice. "You have not forgotten that date! Lift that paper from the telephone table. Tell me what you find there."

Instinctively, Banks obeyed. As he drew the paper away, a hoarse cry escaped his lips. There lay a large, color-tinted picture of his first wife, Rachel. Across the blank space above the portrait were written — in the millionaire's own hand — the words "June the first."

A wild frenzy gripped Hubert Banks. He staggered and seized the side of the telephone table. To his distorted gaze, the portrait seemed a living image.

The pathetic, accusing eyes of the picture; the date inscribed in his own hand — these were too much for his burdened mind to withstand. He still held the small desk telephone in his left hand. He pressed the receiver to his ear and uttered unintelligible articulations into the mouthpiece. Then his words became plain.

"Who put that here!" he shouted. "Tell me! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"

The monotone of the voice became persuasive as it responded to the man's insane outburst.

"Open the drawer of the telephone table," it said. "You will find the revolver there.

"You ask the name of the man who has caused all this. I shall tell you! He is in your employ. He is the man who calls himself Jenkins, your valet.

"He is outside your door this very moment, gloating. He is the one who has caused your ruin. Kill him!"

Hubert Banks had yanked open the drawer of the telephone table. He was drawing forth the loaded revolver as he heard the final words.

He did not pause to wonder who had placed the gun where he could find it. He flung the telephone against the wall. He stared at the picture on the table. He seized it in his left hand and rushed to the door of his room, brandishing his revolver.

As he jerked the door inward, he came face to face with the valet. Behind the man stood the other men.

A wild, maddened laugh came from the millionaire's lips. As Howard Jennings, the pretended valet, leaped back in sudden fear, Banks swung the revolver directly toward the man whose death he now desired.

Three times the millionaire's finger pressed the trigger. Jenkins staggered at the first report. He fell lifeless, the useless tool of the plotter who no longer needed him — of The Master who had cunningly contrived his doom!

Hubert Banks had drawn himself to his full height. Now he relaxed and leaned against the doorway, mumbling vague epithets. Even his befuddled mind grasped the seriousness of the action which he had taken.

The monotonous words that had persuaded him over the telephone were clouded in his memory. He realized that he had killed a man; that this greatest fit of fury had caused him to commit a murder.

The men in the hallway were stupefied. They formed a silent, immobile group, each one shuddering in horror at the deed which they had witnessed.

Hubert Banks stared toward them with unseeing eyes. He became conscious of the picture which he held in his hand. His gaze softened and he laughed gently, as his demented mind brought back old recollections.

His eyes turned. He saw the revolver that he held. Slowly, deliberately, he raised the muzzle of the gun to his temple.

The watchers stood, fear-stricken. A man came rushing up the stairs. He burst through the group. It was Clifford Gage. He called to Banks in warning; but the millionaire did not heed the cry.

Before his friend could reach his side, Hubert Banks again pressed the finger of his revolver. The report sounded. The millionaire collapsed upon the body of Jennings, just as Gage made a futile effort to pluck the revolver from him.

The three men who had witnessed the tragedy stood still in silent horror. It was Clifford Gage who leaned over the bodies and learned that both men were dead.

Upon the floor, close by the body of Howard Jennings, lay a small object. It was an oval disk, the token of The Black Master. It had fallen from the dead man's pocket.

Gage picked it up, unnoticed. He stood up and faced the silent three. They saw his firm lips murmur the words, "Too late." Then, with bowed head, he walked by them and descended the stairs.

His sudden arrival and departure restored their self-control. Headed by Chalmers, the chauffeur, they moved forward to examine the bodies of the dead men.

Clifford Gage stood in the hall below. He was like a statue, lost in perplexity. Once again, he had witnessed the power of The Black Master; that strange, unknown monster, whose unseen hand dealt sudden, violent death and did not spare those who performed his bidding.

Mechanically, Gage reached to the table beside the door and lifted a large hat and a long flowing cloak that he had cast there when he had burst into the house at the sound of the first shots.

Slowly, methodically, he donned the cloak and wrapped its collar about his face. He placed the hat upon his head. Its wide, turned-down brim totally obscured his features. Then his manner changed.

In one brief instant, the identity of Clifford Gage had been absorbed by the unknown character of The Shadow. The door opened silently and closed again. The man in the cloak was gone — gone into the stormy night!