The Crime Master

CHAPTER XVIII ANOTHER PRISONER

“A GENTLEMAN to see you, commissioner.”

“At this hour?” Commissioner Weston looked up from the desk where he was working. “What does he want, Grady?”

“Something confidential, sir. He wouldn’t give his name.”

“Very well. Tell him I shall see him in a few minutes.”

Commissioner Ralph Weston was in the little office which formed a room of his apartment. It was one o’clock in the morning; yet he was still at work on problems of crime. There was a reason.

Earlier, there had been a slaying in the underworld. The police had found the bullet-riddled body of a scrawny mobster in a slovenly room of an old house. Inspector Klein, covering the case, had recognized the dead man as a stool pigeon — Squawky Sugler.

On Sugler, Klein had found a crumpled sheet of paper. It was this penciled slip that puzzled Weston. It bore an odd shaped diagram that looked like the floor plan of a house.

Weston was sure that this chart was a clue to coming crime. During the past week, the police had confirmed their belief that a supermind was controlling gangdom. The law had come to recognize the existence of an overlord of evil whom gangland knew as The Crime Master.

Did this penciled scrawl represent information that Squawky Sugler had gained? All stools had been ordered to learn whatever facts they could concerning the master mind who controlled the underworld. The Crime Master’s previous efforts had been well-mapped attacks upon buildings where wealth was stored.

Yet a single paper — with plan alone — meant nothing. Weston continued his hopeless study of the chart; then, suddenly, his curiosity began to act. He wondered about the visitor who was waiting. Thrusting the penciled paper into a desk drawer, Weston summoned Grady.

“Bring the man in,” ordered the commissioner.

Grady went out; he returned with a solemn-faced chap who wore an overcoat buttoned around his neck and who handled his hat in servile fashion as he fumbled it between his hands.

THE visitor was perhaps forty-five years of age; his appearance was unimpressive; but he stood with worried expression until Grady had left at the commissioner’s order. Then he approached.

“I have come from Mr. Dagron, sir,” he announced, in a polite and methodical tone, “From Mr. Ganford Dagron. I am his secretary—”

“Ganford Dagron,” interposed Weston. “You mean the famous financier who retired a few years ago?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the visitor. “Mr. Dagron gave up active interests after the government ruled against further railroad mergers.”

“I remember,” declared Weston, tersely. “What does Mr. Dagron want?”

“He is in great fear, sir,” declared the visitor, in an awed tone. “He has received some strange warnings. He has not told me the nature of the message; but it worries him. He stays in his library, sir, at night; he does not retire. This evening, he was very troubled. At midnight, he called me and ordered me to come to you. He says that he must see you, commissioner, at once; he added that your visit must be made with strictest secrecy.

“I came in the limousine, sir; but I left it around the corner, at Mr. Dagron’s order. He did not wish his car to be seen in front of this apartment. He was afraid, even, to telephone to you. He asks that you come with me; he wants no other officers to accompany us—”

“Wait a moment!” snapped Weston. “What does Ganford Dagron mean by giving all these instructions? He must be a doddering old fool, to think that he can impose all these conditions without explanation.”

“He is quite alert, sir,” assured the solemn-faced visitor, as he leaned forward on Weston’s desk. “You see, he has many valuables in the house. I think that he fears his protective measures are not sufficient. Some one — I believe — is seeking to rob him!”

A pen projected from an inkwell on Weston’s desk; near it was a pad. Dagron’s secretary reached for these; while Weston watched, the man began to draw lines.

“The house is like this, sir,” explained the secretary. “The living room is here; the library — where Mr. Dagron stays — is next to it. This corridor leads—”

An exclamation burst from Weston’s lips. The commissioner’s eyes were staring. Line for line, room for room, Dagron’s secretary was drawing a replica of the plan which had been found on Squawky Sugler!

“Stop!” Weston opened the desk drawer. He drew out the penciled sheet. “Is this the complete plan of the ground floor at Dagron’s home?”

The standing man nodded. He appeared dumfounded. Weston tore away the sheet on which the secretary was making marks; he added it to the penciled paper.

“I’m going with you,” he announced. “Come along.”

Summoning Grady, Weston called for hat and coat. He spoke terse words to his man:

“I’m going to the home of Ganford Dagron. I shall probably be late returning. Don’t wait up for me Grady.”

“Very well, commissioner.”

WESTON left with his visitor. They found the limousine waiting around the corner. A man was at the wheel; he drove northward and finally reached a street where an old mansion showed among smaller buildings. The chauffeur drove to the rear; the car rolled through a gate and stopped in an old-fashioned courtyard. The secretary ushered the commissioner into the rear entrance.

They went through a passage. Weston’s conductor rapped upon a door. A cracked voice responded:

“What is it, Henley?”

“The police commissioner, sir.”

“Have him enter. At once.”

Henley opened the door. Weston stepped into an old-fashioned library, where rows of towering bookcases lined the walls to the ceiling. An old man, with shocky white hair, was seated at a chess board. He waved Weston to a chair.

“I understand that you are worried,” remarked Weston. He had recognized Ganford Dagron immediately upon entering. “I have come to learn the trouble.”

“I am greatly worried,” admitted the old man, in a crackly tone. “I have enemies — terrible enemies — men who seek my life, as well as my treasure. This” — he pointed to the chess board — “is my solace. Only by concentration upon such a game can I escape my troubles.”

Weston smiled; Dagron noticed the expression.

“Crime threatens, yet I play a game.” Dagron chuckled. “You think that is odd? Not at all, commissioner. Not at all. Crime is a game.” The old man’s eyes were flashing through their slitted lids. “A great game, commissioner — greater than chess. Yet” — Dagron paused thoughtfully — “chess and crime have much in common.”

Rising, the old man stalked toward the bookcase. He opened it inward, like a door. He motioned to Weston to follow him into a lighted room that adjoined the library. Intrigued, despite his perplexity, the commissioner followed. The door swung shut after they had entered. They stood in a room with paneled walls; looking, Weston could not discern the place through which they had entered.

“Look at this board, commissioner.” Dagron pointed to a table with a glass, checkered surface. “Here — take this chair. You will be interested, I assure you.”

The commissioner surveyed the board before him. He was puzzled as he noticed the map beneath the glass. He realized that it showed streets and buildings. He was also astonished by the array of pieces on the board. Reds, blues and greens — all were of a shape. But among them were white men of a different formation.

“Interesting, eh?” Dagron chortled. “It should be — to you, commissioner. There in the center is the vault room of the Impregnable Trust Company. Three weeks ago, a shipment of Colombian platinum was stored there. The value of the metal — I believe I am correct — is four million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Weston looked up. He stared at Dagron’s face. It seemed gray and fiendish in this light. Weston wondered if the old man were insane. He looked at the board again, as Ganford Dagron pointed.

“The reds are prepared to move,” crackled the old man. “They are raiders — swift and certain. They are protected by the mobs — the greens — by the spies and snipers, who are blue.

“Against them” — Dagron paused in sneering fashion — “are the whites — pitiful whites who represent the forces of the law.”

The fascination of the board had caught Weston unaware. The commissioner was studying the obvious perfection of the game before him. It was only of a sudden that he realized who must be its author. Straightening, he flung his challenge to the gloating fiend before him.

“You!” blurted the commissioner. “You — you are The Crime Master!”

DAGRON leered. Weston’s hand shot toward his pocket. It stopped at sight of Dagron’s eyes. Turning, Weston saw that the door had opened. Henley and another man — Weston recognized the chauffeur — were covering him with revolvers.

“I have capable assistants,” snarled Dagron. “Henley — my secretary — was the one who hoaxed you here. Woodling — who serves as my chauffeur — is equally able. He, my dear commissioner, will be your jailor.”

The men approached. Woodling thrust his revolver into the small of Weston’s back while Henley calmly produced a revolver from the commissioner’s pocket.

“I am The Crime Master.” Ganford chuckled gleefully. “My aim in life is wealth — possession. Once I was known as a giant among financiers.

“Then my practices were declared illegal. Why? Not justly, but because my ways of accumulating wealth were too gigantic. In five years longer, I would have become the overlord of merged industries. I would have commanded billions — not mere millions.

“I was prevented. So I went back to millions. Preposterous laws had been passed to stop my plans for pyramiding wealth. So I resolved to proceed in defiance of the law. The barriers were down, so far as I was concerned. I spent thousands upon thousands in organizing crime. To-day, I am The Crime Master!”

The old man was approaching Weston as he spoke. He fairly spat the final words into the commissioner’s face. Then, with a sweep of his hands, he ordered Woodling to new duty as he pointed a scrawny finger toward his new prisoner.

“Take him away!” shrilled Dagron. “Take him away! Keep him safely, Woodling. He is my hostage.”

The old man’s mirth trailed into a maddened cackle. Derisively, The Crime Master voiced the triumph of his capture. The chief official of the law was in his power. Already, minions had sent in the report of The Shadow’s trapping.

AFTER Woodling had marched Weston from the room, Ganford Dagron settled in his chair behind the checkered table. As he surveyed the layout for his coming game, he spoke aloud to Henley.

“The police may visit us,” chuckled The Crime Master. “But what if they do? You, Henley, will remain out of sight. I shall tell them that I have no secretary. They will believe that my name was used as a lure.

“That is the advantage, Henley, of my reputation. The police! Bah! Outside of Cardona, who is still disabled, and this man Weston, who is my prisoner, there is none among them who would have brains enough to doubt my integrity. The proof? We had it tonight — when Weston, himself, came to visit me.

“As for this crime” — the old man waved his hand above the board — “the very stupendousness of it serves as a protection. Compared with the Impregnable Trust Company’s vault room, that of the Titan Trust was a toy bank. Moreover, we are dealing with heavy metal, Henley. The very weight of those platinum bars should render them safe from ordinary robbers.”

Again, the old man cackled. He tapped the white pieces on the board; the reminder caused him to loose final derision toward the law.

“Fools!” he exclaimed. “They know that The Crime Master is mighty — that he must possess a wizard’s brain such as my own. Yet they will not suspect me. They know that The Crime Master pursues mighty schemes; but they will overlook the one opportunity for unparalleled robbery — that wealth in the vault of the Impregnable Trust.

“No one would suspect either fact!” The Crime Master paused; a cunning smile showed on his evil face. “Yes — there is one who would suspect. One — The Shadow. But he is helpless within my mesh!”

While Henley, first of The Crime Master’s own aids, was harkening to the babbling of his chief, Woodling, the second trusted servant, was listening to palaver of a different sort. Woodling had imprisoned Weston in a cell-like room beneath his master’s library.

Behind a wicketed door, the commissioner was speaking to his jailer. He was studying the hard face of the servant while he presented persuasive argument. Weston had classed Ganford Dagron, The Crime Master, as a grasping miser. He was basing his plea to Woodling on the offer of cash.

“Here is a check” — Weston paused to draw book and pen from his pocket — “that will be cashed without question. It is my first payment for my release. Do you understand?”

Woodling nodded while Weston scrawled.

“I do not ask to be released tonight,” resumed the commissioner. “To-morrow will be soon enough — after you have obtained your money. Take it to the bank; they will pay you five thousand.”

He handed the check through the wicket. Woodling nodded as he read the amount.

“Then return,” ordered Weston. “I shall have another check — the next one for ten thousand. It will be yours the moment that I am free.

“Keep me here until late to-morrow afternoon. That will lull this fiend you call your master — the man whom you must cease to serve. Remember, I guarantee you immunity from the law, if you will do your part to aid me in combating crime. Do you understand?”

“To-morrow.” Woodling nodded. “I cash this check. I receive another. Ten thousand. I understand.”

The Crime Master’s minion departed. Commissioner Weston seated himself on a small cot. A smile appeared beneath his trim mustache.

Weston was confident that he had succeeded with his bribe. By to-morrow night, he felt sure, he would be free to thwart The Crime Master’s greatest robbery.