The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER IV. CRIME BREAKS

“A GENTLEMAN to see you, sir.”

Perry Trappe looked up as he heard the servant’s words. There was a puzzled expression on his face.

Perry Trappe was a man who seldom received visitors. Here, in the living room of his secluded apartment, he was wont to spend his time alone.

“Who is it?” he questioned.

“Here is his card, sir,” replied the servant.

Trappe took the card. It bore an odd name. The inscription beneath was the portion that awakened his interest:

“Where is the man?” questioned Trappe. “In the anteroom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show him in. I shall talk with him.”

The servant departed and returned shortly afterward, followed by the visitor. Perry Trappe waved the arrival to a chair. The servant left as the two men were studying one another.

Perry Trappe had expected a human oddity, for he was familiar with curio dealers, especially those who had foreign names. Darwin Basib, however, was not at all the type that he had anticipated. The man was tall, smooth of features and languorous in expression. His dark hair was glistening in slickness.

The man who had introduced himself as Darwin Basib, curio dealer, was none other than Fingers Keefel.

The false curio dealer was studying Perry Trappe. Fingers had expected to find an elderly man, for he knew that Trappe was a collector who lived alone. Instead, he noted that Trappe was of middle age and a brusque, businesslike fellow. Stocky, full-faced and of somewhat challenging eye, Trappe looked like a test for the subtle strategy of Fingers Keefel.

“A curio dealer, eh?” questioned Trappe. “What have you to offer?”

“I am not selling curios,” responded Fingers, in an indifferent tone. “I am buying them.”

“None of mine are for sale,” snapped Trappe. “What I collect, I keep.”

“I understand that you are wealthy,” declared Fingers. “That is why I have come to see you. Most of my purchases are made from wealthy men. I have done some rather odd buying, Mr. Trappe.”

“Of what sort?”

“Of all sorts. Always at the same price which the purchasers originally paid — and my offers have been accepted very quickly.”

Perry Trappe appeared puzzled. This smooth-speaking individual had him guessing. He noted a shrewd look in his visitor’s eye. The explanation followed.

“The curios that I buy,” declared Fingers Keefel, in a cautious tone, “are the ones which have been unloaded on their present owners. In other words, Mr. Trappe, I show people a way out — after they have been swindled.”

“You mean” — Trappe’s voice was incredulous — “that you pay money for stuff that is worth nothing?”

“Exactly,” said Fingers, with a smile.

PERRY TRAPPE was on his feet. With arms akimbo, he was studying his visitor, wondering if the man could possess his proper senses. Leaning back in his chair, Fingers Keefel laughed.

“Here is my system, Mr. Trappe,” he explained. “Suppose a swindler should try to sell you a fake curio. Suppose he found you biting. What would be his natural action?”

“To meet my price,” returned Trappe, promptly.

“That’s right,” declared Fingers. “He would let you have a thousand dollar item for less than five hundred. Why? Because he would be selling something without being able to guarantee its genuineness.

“Suppose that you learn your curio is a fake. You would be tickled to sell it to me for five hundred dollars and give me a certificate that I had made the purchase. Am I correct?”

“Certainly,” agreed Trappe.

“All right,” resumed Fingers. “I take the curio and the certificate. I go to another collector. I ask the full price of one thousand dollars. I have what appears to be a guarantee of its genuineness — the proof that I bought it from you, a recognized collector. You get rid of a fake without a loss; I make the profit that I want.”

Perry Trappe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He saw the game. It was crooked; yet attractive. Fingers Keefel smiled as he saw the trend of the collector’s mind.

“There’s no comeback,” remarked the fake curio dealer. “My sales appear so bona fide that they are never questioned. You cannot be held responsible after the item has left your hands.”

“I agree,” declared Trappe. “The only point is that my collection of rare curios contains no fakes.”

“You are sure?”

Trappe was startled by the suddenness of his visitor’s question. Though he nodded his head, the collector seemed a bit perturbed.

“I should like to see your collection,” purred Fingers. “I can pick out fakes where others can’t. I’m an expert in that line, Mr. Trappe.”

“So I infer,” stated Trappe, dryly. He drew a big key from his pocket. “Come along. I’ll show you the curio room.”

FINGERS KEEFEL followed as Trappe led the way to the rear of the living room. The crook coughed slightly as they neared the far door. Trappe entered a hallway and turned to the right. He reached a door at the end of the passage and unlocked it. He and Fingers stepped into a room that looked liked a small museum.

Tapestries hung from the walls. A suit of armor stood in one corner. Glass cases were filled with objects that varied from ancient coins to earthen jars. Fingers Keefel surveyed the medley.

“Is this all?” he questioned.

“Yes,” replied Trappe.

Fingers strolled across the room, to the only wall that had no windows. He calmly lifted a tapestry and revealed a door that bore a huge lock.

“Another room, eh?” he questioned, suavely.

“Drop that tapestry!” roared Perry Trappe. “This is outrageous! You act as though you owned this place!”

“Perhaps I do,” returned Fingers, with a grin. “Suppose you open that door, Mr. Trappe.”

With clenched fists; Trappe sprang toward the crook. He stopped suddenly as he heard a sharp word from the outer door. He turned to see a tall, square-jawed man standing with leveled revolver. It was Croaker Mannick.

“Stick ‘em up!” ordered the killer.

Perry Trappe obeyed in sullen fashion. Fingers Keefel, grinning broadly, approached the curio collector and frisked his pockets. He found a ring of keys.

Going to the rear door, Fingers ripped the tapestry from the wall. He tried the keys until he found the one he wanted. He unlocked the door and pushed it inward. The light from the larger room showed a large closet. Set upon a low, square-topped table was a four-armed golden idol.

The headdress; the objects in the statue’s hands — all were studded with sparkling jewels. Fingers picked up the statue of Vishnu and carried it into the curio room. The jewels glittered. Fingers laughed.

“Heavy,” he remarked. “Maybe it’s gold — maybe not. Perhaps these sparklers are really rubies. Maybe they’re only glass. Anyhow, it’s what I came for — the jeweled Vishnu from Hyderabad.”

“Thief!” gasped Perry Trappe. “Thief—”

A threatening gesture by Croaker Mannick stopped the collector short. Fingers Keefel, holding the small but heavy idol, spied a cloth covering upon one of the curio cases. He laid the Vishnu upon it and formed the cloth into a sack, which he loaded on his left arm.

“All aboard,” he said to Croaker Mannick. “I may have trouble with the flunky. If I do” — Fingers pulled a stub-nosed revolver from his pocket — “I’ll drop him and leave the finish to you.”

“He must have gone to his room,” returned Croaker. “He wasn’t around when I sneaked in from the hallway. I waited till I heard you cough. I followed you in here without any trouble.”

“O.K.,” said Fingers.

With a snorting, disdainful laugh at Perry Trappe, Fingers hurried along the passage. His footsteps ended.

Perry Trappe stared anxiously, wondering if the thief had found a clear way. Croaker Mannick listened.

His keen ears heard the outer door close.

“There goes your funny looking idol,” growled the killer. “Don’t feel too bad about it — you’re only losing a phony.”

“What!” gasped Trappe. “You mean—”

“That the thing is a fake,” snarled Croaker. “But you’re not going to blab about it. That’s what I’m here for — to shut you up so you’ll stay shut up for—”

The glare in Croaker’s malicious gaze struck home. Perry Trappe gasped. He realized that death had been planned for him. This man had covered the thief’s getaway. Murder was the step to follow!

“Help!” howled Trappe, hoping that his distant servant would hear. “Help! Harvey — quick! Help! Murder!”

As he shouted, Trappe leaped forward with lunging arms, in an effort to prevent Croaker’s shot. The square-jawed killer wore an evil grin. He timed his trigger pull with Trappe’s plunge. The revolver spurted flame.

Trappe’s cry ended in a choking gasp. The curio collector collapsed upon the floor. His body sprawled sidewise at Croaker’s feet.

The single shot had done its work. Perry Trappe was dead.

CROAKER turned. He faced the hall and waited. He heard footsteps. The white-faced servant, Harvey, came into the hallway. The man was holding a puny automatic — a .22. He raised it quickly as he saw Croaker Mannick covering him with the revolver.

Croaker fired. Harvey had no chance. Like master, the servant dropped. Croaker hurried along the hall and took a look at the body. His second shot had been as good as his first. Both Perry Trappe and his lone servant, Harvey, were dead.

Hastening through the living room, Croaker reached the outer door. He bobbed into a hallway and leaped for a flight of stairs. A shout came from a turn in the hallway. Croaker fired at a man who had evidently hurried in this direction after hearing the shots from Trappe’s apartment.

Down the stairs dashed Croaker. He reached a small lobby two floors below and ran uninterrupted to the street. His arrival on the sidewalk, however, brought a shout.

This was a quiet district of Manhattan. The revolver shots from Trappe’s third floor apartment had been heard outside. Two men were pointing upward as they beckoned to an approaching policeman. One of them spied Croaker.

The killer dashed toward the nearest corner. Shouting, the two men began to take up the chase. The officer drew his revolver and shouted a command to halt. Not one of the three pursuers noted a sedan that was parked across the street.

As the policeman leveled his revolver, a fusillade of shots broke from the darkness of the sedan. The policeman sprawled upon the sidewalk. The first pursuer staggered; then his companion dropped.

Croaker had reached the corner. From the sedan came a growled order — the voice of Brodie Brodan.

The sedan leaped forward and sped along the narrow street. The three victims of gangster bullets lay upon the sidewalk in front of the apartment house.

Fingers Keefel — Croaker Mannick — Brodie Brodan. The trio had worked together tonight. The first of Duke Larrin’s scheduled jobs had been accomplished. The orders from the crypt had been obeyed!