The Cobra

CHAPTER VIII THE TRAIL

“AT nine-thirty, Cardona.”

Detective Joe Cardona nodded as heard the police commissioner’s statement. Cardona was seated in the little office of Weston’s apartment. He had just heard the commissioner’s account of the call from The Cobra.

“It was eight-thirty when the call came in,” continued Weston. “Just after I had hung up from my talk with you. I knew that you were on the way here, so I didn’t call back to headquarters. Instead, I telephoned to Caleb Myland.”

“What did he have to say, commissioner?” questioned Cardona.

“He was not at home,” declared Weston. “Out of town, his servant said. I wanted to get Myland’s advice. However, I feel sure that he would recommend the course that I intend to follow.”

“To keep this appointment with The Cobra?”

“Exactly. Taking one man along with me. You, Cardona, are the man that I have chosen.”

“You’re running a risk, commissioner,” declared Cardona, gravely. “This looks like a phony game to me. Let me take a squad out on this job.”

“And ruin it?” The commissioner laughed. “No, Cardona, that would be futile. I have made arrangements for our protection. I called Inspector Klein at headquarters, just before you arrived. He is sending men to act as our reserve.”

“You mean they’ll follow us?”

“Yes. I am in charge tonight, Cardona. I have made my plans. Come. We are going to Forty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenue.”

As the two men rode in the commissioner’s car, Weston recalled a question which he had intended to ask Cardona. He put it eagerly, realizing that it might have a bearing on tonight’s expedition.

“You have seen Gorgan?”

“Yes, commissioner. About an hour before I called you. He hasn’t learned anything new as yet. They’re still talking of The Cobra — but it’s all been rumor.”

“This is no rumor, Cardona.” Weston spoke with assurance. “That voice over the wire tonight was the same one that spoke to me the evening that Deek Hundell was slain by The Cobra. Ah — here we are. Come on; we’ll look for the gray sedan.”

WESTON and Cardona alighted near the spot appointed by The Cobra. There was no sign of the gray sedan. Cardona noted two men standing a short distance from the curb. One was Detective Sergeant Markham; the other, Detective Logan, both from headquarters. They had evidently been dispatched here by Inspector Klein.

It was exactly half past nine, by the big clock on the Paramount Building. Cardona turned to the commissioner.

“We’ll learn quick enough,” began the detective. “If this is a stall—”

Weston stopped Cardona with a wave of his hand. Joe turned in the direction of the commissioner’s gaze. A gray sedan had pulled up by the curb. Weston stepped forward and accosted the driver; at the same time, he made a beckoning motion which brought Markham and Logan from their spot of obscurity.

“You’re waiting for me?” questioned Weston.

“Came here to get two passengers,” returned the driver. “I guess you’re the ones who are waiting.”

“Who sent you?”

“New Era Garage, over on Tenth Avenue. Fellow came in there tonight and hired this car.”

“Do you work for the garage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where have you been instructed to take us?”

“Down Sixth Avenue. The fellow that hired this car said a cab would pass us on the avenue. I’m to follow the cab that blows its horn.”

Weston turned toward Markham. The detective sergeant nodded. He and Logan hurried away. Weston motioned Cardona into the sedan. The car started.

“Clever,” mused Weston. “This driver knows nothing. Paid to take us down Sixth Avenue. Hm-m. Wait until the cab appears. We may find out something then.”

The sedan had reached Sixth. It was rolling beneath the superstructure of the elevated. Past Thirty-fourth Street, a cab swung by on the left. The taxi driver blew his horn; then slowed speed. Weston leaned to the rear window of the sedan and drew a flashlight from his pocket. He flicked the light twice.

A black sedan swept past the gray. Cardona grinned. In the black car were Markham, Logan and other detectives. Weston and Cardona watched the police sedan overtake the cab and order it to the curb.

“Pull up in back of the taxi,” ordered Weston. The driver of the gray car complied.

Markham was quizzing the cab driver when Weston alighted on the sidewalk. The detective sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“He don’t know anything, commissioner,” said Markham.

The cab driver looked startled. The word “commissioner” had given him the identity of this big man with the pointed mustache. Fearing arrest, the taxi driver became voluble.

“I haven’t been doin’ nothin’, commissioner,” he said, “A bloke give me a ten spot an’ told me to stick here on Sixth Avenue until I seen a gray sedan. I was to go by an’ blow my horn.”

“Where were you to told to lead us?” demanded Weston.

“Down Fourth Avenue, commissioner,” responded the cab driver. “Another cab is supposed to be waitin’ down there. When he blows his horn, that means for me to quit.”

WESTON turned to Markham. He motioned to the detective sergeant and drew him aside. He called Cardona into the conference.

“A clever game,” asserted the commissioner. “There may be one cab after another. These chaps know nothing about The Cobra. Here is our plan.

“Follow us, Markham, until we reach our destination. Keep in the offing. Form a cordon and be ready for a whistle. If it looks safe, Cardona and I shall go ahead alone. Do not approach unless you see my light; if we get out of sight, wait for the whistle.”

“Yes, sir,” affirmed Markham.

“Go ahead,” said Weston, as he approached the cab driver. “We are following.”

The cab headed for Fourth Avenue. The gray sedan, with Weston and Cardona as occupants, took up the trail.

On Fourth Avenue, near Fourteenth Street, another cab rolled by and honked. The first cab pulled to the curb. The driver of the gray sedan took up the trail of the second cab.

This vehicle headed eastward. The driver seemed to be following a charted course as he turned from street to avenue. Suddenly another cab passed. Its horn blew. The second cab pulled to the curb; the third took up the lead.

The course led to a dingy district. They had reached the fringe of the badlands when the cab came to a stop. The sedan rolled up behind it. Weston bounded to the curb and spoke to the taxi driver.

“Is this where you were supposed to lead us?” he questioned. “How did you know where to stop?”

“I didn’t know until just now,” returned the cab driver. “I was told to come along this street until I saw a cab parked the wrong way, with only one light on. There it is.”

“Quiz the other driver,” ordered Weston, to Cardona.

Joe hurried ahead. He flashed his badge as he reached the cab. The driver growled.

“I figured it,” he said. “Parked the wrong way, I knew somebody would land on me. I thought it would be a copper though. I didn’t know the dicks were on traffic duty.”

“Forget it,” rejoined Cardona. “What I want to know is how you came to be here.”

“Don’t think I’m cuckoo,” said the driver. “A guy gave me ten bucks to pull up here and park with only one light. He said if anybody asked me any questions, to tell them to go in that house over there.”

The driver pointed to a dilapidated building on the other side of the street. Its windows were unlighted.

“What then?” questioned the sleuth.

“I’m through,” returned the cabman. “That’s all I’m supposed to do.”

Cardona went back to where Weston was standing. He told the commissioner what he had learned. Weston shrugged his shoulders.

“These men know nothing,” he again affirmed. “Check on their cab cards and order them to report to headquarters in the morning.”

While Cardona was doing this, Weston returned to the gray sedan and told the driver that he could go back to the Tenth Avenue garage. The driver protested:

“I was hired to wait here, sir,” he said, “I guess they figured you would be going back. I’m to take you wherever you want to go.”

“Wait here, then.”

THE cabs were pulling away. Weston beckoned to Cardona. The commissioner and the detective crossed the street. They ascended the steps of the dilapidated building.

“Ring the bell,” ordered the commissioner. “We’re going in here. We can summon Markham and his men if we need them. There’s a second police car with them; they’ll surround the place after we enter.”

The bell button failed to push. Cardona struck a match and examined it. He whistled softly.

“Say, commissioner!” he exclaimed. “I ought to have known this place. That bell’s out of order, but there’s a name card over it. Eliaphas Growdy.”

“Eliaphas Growdy?”

“Yes, Old Growdy. This is where he lives. Worth a million dollars, they say. Owns a lot of real estate down in this district. Has his office in his home — lives here like a recluse.”

“Try the door.”

Cardona obeyed. The door was locked. Cardona produced a flashlight and examined the fastenings. He turned to the commissioner.

“I can open this,” declared Cardona. “It’s an old lock — I always carry a bunch of keys.”

“Do it.”

Cardona turned locksmith. He drew a ring of keys from his pocket and worked on the lock. He was successful. The door opened inward on rusty hinges, to show a darkened hallway.

“Leave the door open,” ordered the commissioner. “Come inside, Cardona. We’ll wait here for five minutes, to let the cordon form. Then we’ll investigate the place.”

The commissioner drew back his cuff to show the dial of his wristwatch. It showed the time as exactly ten o’clock.

“Five minutes,” repeated Weston.

Standing in the darkened hallway, the police commissioner and the star detective tarried before keeping the appointment that The Cobra had arranged.