The Black Master

CHAPTER V. A HAND INTERVENES

IT was eight o'clock in the morning. The first throng of early workers was still entering the Financial Building, Manhattan's newest skyscraper.

Beneath the towering monolith that raised its lofty spire eight hundred feet above the street, these people seemed less than pygmies. They came by hundreds, and were absorbed within the giant walls of the massive structure.

The long row of elevators was working to capacity. A crowd of stenographers and businessmen were pushing their way into the waiting cars.

One elevator sped upward and made its first stop at the thirtieth floor. There it began to discharge its human freight.

It continued upward. At the forty-fourth floor, a single passenger stepped forth. The door slid shut behind him.

The man hesitated a moment, then walked along the corridor and stopped at an office which bore the number 4418. On the glass panel appeared the title:

The man reached in his coat pocket and removed a set of keys. He looked carefully about him and noted that he was alone in the corner of the corridor.

He was tall, immaculately clad in a tailor-made suit of dark blue. He appeared prosperous.

His most noticeable characteristic was his face. He was smooth-shaven and had a quiet, dignified expression. One would have hesitated to state that he was more than forty; yet his firmly molded features indicated that he might be much older.

The light that came through the glass-paneled door made his face seem masklike, as though his flat cheeks and aristocratic nose had been molded by some human artifice. As he gazed at the door before him, his eyes sparkled.

The visitor inserted a key in the lock. It was not the right key. He tried another; then a third. Each time, he was unsuccessful.

He kept the third key in the lock and moved it back and forth with his thumb and forefinger. He was probing the lock as though he could feel its interior. His thumb and finger twisted. The lock clicked. The door opened.

The stranger entered the office and closed the door behind him.

A partition divided the office into two compartments. A glass-paneled door bore the word, "PRIVATE."

This door was locked. The visitor opened it with another key, finding his first attempt successful.

There was a closet in the inner office. This, too, was locked.

The keys that the stranger carried seemed gifted with a magic charm. Before a minute had elapsed, the door to the closet was open.

There were many articles in the small closet; boxes and piles of circular letters. With amazing rapidity, the stranger made a thorough inspection, removing various objects and replacing them exactly as they had been.

In less than five minutes he had completed his search. He locked the closet and looked around the room.

In the corner stood a typewriter table. There was no chair beside it. The man laughed softly. Evidently the table was not used regularly.

It was one of those tables that opened at the top, swinging the typewriter into position. It was locked, but this time the visitor did not resort to a key. He produced instead a tiny instrument which he pushed into the small lock.

Carefully and slowly, he swung the top of the typewriter table. The interior came into view. Instead of the typewriter, a square box appeared.

The stranger lifted the lid. He brought out a round object, larger than a bowling ball. Its top consisted of a small but complicated mechanism, made of polished brass.

It was a finely fashioned bomb, that rested on a slightly flattened bottom.

Long, thin fingers slid along the spherical surface. They discovered a close-fitted joint. The hands rested the bomb upon the table and carefully unscrewed the top.

The man laid this aside. It contained the detonator. The charge was within the thin shell of the spherical bomb. The visitor lifted the charge and removed it.

He replaced the top with its detonator, and put the empty bomb back in the box.

A bookcase, in another corner of the room, was set at an angle with a space behind it. The man who had entered pulled the bookcase away from its position and placed the charge of the bomb behind it. Then he carefully arranged the bookcase as it had been before.

With a last glance about the room, he left and closed the door of the private office. He went into the corridor and disappeared. It was twenty-two minutes after eight.

At eight forty-five, a stenographer arrived and unlocked the door of the office. A few minutes after she had been seated at her desk in the outer office, a man entered. It was the same stranger who had been there before.

"Has Mr. Barr arrived yet?" he inquired.

"Mr. Barr is in Chicago," the girl replied.

"Mr. Childs, then?"

"I expect him any minute. Will you wait?"

The man glanced at his watch. He thought for a few seconds; then decided to remain.

He sat in a chair in the outer office, and graciously accepted a newspaper which the girl offered him. He was reading when a short, stocky man arrived and briskly entered the office.

The newcomer had a fat face and a bristly mustache. He paid no attention to the man who was reading.

He unlocked the private door and went into the inner office.

The girl went over to the man who was waiting and asked his name. He gave her a card which bore the name Henry Arnaud. The girl carried it to the inner office.

There was a muted exclamation. The man with the bristly mustache burst from the outer office.

"Mr. Arnaud!" he exclaimed. "I am glad to see you — very glad to see you! I am George Childs!"

A slight smile appeared upon the chiseled features of the visitor. He had expected this reception.

The name of Henry Arnaud commanded attention in New York. There was only one Henry Arnaud; he was a multimillionaire, known for his eccentric investments.

"Come right in, sir, come right in!" continued Childs. He ushered his visitor into the inner office and gave him a chair beside the desk. He produced a box of corona cigars and Henry Arnaud accepted one.

Childs supplied the light.

"This is indeed a pleasure," said Childs, rubbing his hands. "I have heard of you often, Mr. Arnaud, through — er — through mutual acquaintances, you might say. I have often wished to meet you."

"Rather nice office you have here," commented the visitor, looking curiously about him.

"It's unpretentious, Mr. Arnaud," returned Childs, "and it's very small. You see, Mr. Barr and myself are frequently out of town. We scarcely need an office but the Financial Building is so widely known that it makes an excellent permanent address."

Arnaud nodded and continued to look about him. Childs waited expectantly. He was keyed up with enthusiasm.

This was a real opportunity. Barr Childs specialized in speculative investments, and a man of millions would make an ideal customer.

"I just came in to make your acquaintance," began Arnaud. "You see, I occasionally seek unusual fields for my investments. Your concern was recommended to me.

"I thought that I would like to meet either you or Mr. Barr, so that in the future you could keep me posted on anything that might be of interest."

"Gladly!" exclaimed Childs. "Gladly, Mr. Arnaud. You see, our concern is—"

The girl opened the door of the private office.

Childs hesitated for a moment. Then he rose.

"I should like to have you meet Mr. Warfield," he said, turning to Arnaud. "He is an excellent promotion man with whom we have had some very successful dealings.

"Of course, you understand, Mr. Arnaud, that Mr. Warfield is — er — well, all his negotiations should be conducted through us. He has many plans, and whenever they are sound, we handle them."

"I see," replied Arnaud, nodding.

"Tell Mr. Warfield to come in," ordered Childs.

A thin man of medium height entered the office. His face was that of an adventurer — long, sallow, and marked by thin, deep lines. He bore a worried expression that seemed natural.

He had a short, black mustache and a prominent nose above it. His eyes were piercing, and they turned immediately toward the visitor.

The shrewdness of his glance was met by the shrewdness of Henry Arnaud's gaze. Childs made the introduction. Arnaud arose and shook hands.

Childs drew up a chair on the other side of the desk. Before Warfield could step toward it, Arnaud had crossed to the new chair and had quietly taken his seat there.

There was nothing surprising in his action. It simply left the original seat for Perry Warfield.

The sallow-faced man was starting toward the vacant chair when Childs proffered a cigar. Warfield lighted it while Childs went behind the desk.

Then, amid a momentary silence, Warfield stepped toward the empty chair, which was directly in front of the unused typewriter desk in the corner of the office.

Childs was busy at his desk for the instant. Warfield was puffing his cigar. Henry Arnaud was listening attentively although his expression did not indicate it. He was slightly forward in his chair; that was all.

As Perry Warfield sat down, there was a click from somewhere behind him. The sound was muffled; otherwise its sharpness would have attracted immediate attention. As it was, only Henry Arnaud detected it.

His expression did not change, but a slight gleam of satisfaction shone in his eyes as he relaxed in his chair.

Then his gaze turned toward the window, and he puffed his cigar thoughtfully. His mind seemed to be puzzling over something.

Childs began a brisk conversation. It was intended for the benefit of both Henry Arnaud and Perry Warfield. It dealt chiefly with investments.

Arnaud listened with feigned interest. Warfield nodded, but kept chewing the end of his cigar. The man was nervous, although he tried not to show it. At last, during a lull in the conversation, he spoke to Childs.

"Any new developments?" he asked.

"Nothing spectacular," replied Childs. "One or two matters I can speak to you about, but they can wait until later."

"Don't let me interrupt," began Henry Arnaud, starting to rise.

"Stay right where you are, sir," said Childs. "Why don't you come back later, Perry?" The last remark was to Warfield.

"Think I will," said the sallow-faced man. He became suddenly courteous as he arose and shook hands with Henry Arnaud. "I'll be moving along," he said to Childs. "There's just one point"

"I'll see you to the elevator," suggested Childs. "Stay right here, Mr. Arnaud. I'll only be a minute."

The two men went into the outer office and thence to the corridor. The door of the private office remained open behind them.

Henry Arnaud looked quickly into the outer office. The girl was facing the window. Moving with amazing stealth, Arnaud reached behind the bookcase and brought out the interior of the bomb. He moved to the typewriter desk.

There was no click as he probed the lock. The top of the desk moved noiselessly. The top of the bombshell was loose; it required but a few seconds for Arnaud to replace the charge beneath the detonator and to close the desk again.

Then he was back in his chair, puffing his cigar meditatively when Childs entered.

The two men talked investments for half an hour. Childs was in an excellent humor when his visitor left.

He felt sure that he would soon number Henry Arnaud among his clients.

The morning went by satisfactorily. Childs went out to lunch and returned. Several persons called to see him. Some were ushered into his private office while he was temporarily absent.

It was a busy day, which reached its climax when Childs received a long-distance call from his partner, at four o'clock. He had scarcely hung up the receiver when the girl entered, with a short, dark-faced man behind her. The visitor spoke before she had a chance to introduce him.

"Mr. Childs," he said, "I'm Detective Cardona, from headquarters. I want to make a search here — on a tip-off I received today."

"What — what's it all about?" stammered Childs.

"I'll tell you later," said Cardona briskly. "There's no time to lose, right now. I'd like to look in that closet.

No, wait a moment" — his eyes had noted the typewriter desk in the corner — "what's in there?"

"Nothing," replied Childs, in a puzzled tone. "It's an empty typewriter desk — that's all—"

Cardona was looking at the lock.

"Have you the key?" he asked.

Childs supplied it.

Cardona opened the desk cautiously. An exclamation came from his lips. He bent over the desk and made a quick inspection. Then he turned to Childs and shook his head.

"This is your lucky day!" he said. "By rights you should be dead — blown out through the side of the building with this whole office!"

He lifted the box from within the desk and exhibited the bomb which it contained.

"The detonator has struck," he said. "But it has failed to explode the charge! When it occurred, I do not know. Probably yesterday afternoon. This would have been the fifth explosion — but somehow it went wrong!"

With these words, the detective left the office. When two plainclothesmen entered from the corridor to complete their superior's investigation, they found Childs collapsed behind his desk, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes staring in horror!