The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER I. DEATH IN THE DARK

DUSK had settled on Manhattan. Mammoth office buildings were pouring forth their human throngs.

Sidewalks were jammed with crowds that bunched at subway entrances. The streets were filled with hooting taxicabs that tried to jam their way through the crush of slow-moving traffic.

The press was thickest in front of the Halbar Building. This colossal edifice — one of New York’s newest skyscrapers — towered like a mighty monolith above the structure of an elevated line. A taxi, trying to pull up in front of the huge arched entrance, was stalled by a truck that swung in from a pillar of the elevated.

“Near enough, driver,” came an irritable voice. “Here’s my fare. Keep the change.”

With these words, a passenger stepped from the cab. He slammed the door behind him, dived in front of another taxi, and reached the curb in safety. He began to fight his way against the human press that was coming from the Halbar Building. Edging toward the wall, he made his way into the spacious lobby.

The light revealed this arrival as a tall, crafty-faced individual, whose eyes seemed restless and uneasy.

His derby hat was tilted at a slight angle; his gray overcoat was of sporty pattern. Under his arm, he was carrying a bundle of newspapers that he had evidently been reading in the cab. Spying a later edition on a news stand in the lobby, the man pulled coins from his pocket and bought a copy. He was reading the headlines as he walked hastily toward an elevator.

People were pouring from the crowded car. When the elevator became empty, the man in the derby stepped aboard. The operator slammed the doors and began an upward trip, carrying this lone passenger.

“What floor, please?”

No reply. The passenger was intent in his reading. His lips were twitching nervously. The operator repeated the question. The man looked up, almost startled.

“My floor? Oh, yes. Thirty-five.”

“Very well, sir.”

AS the operator stopped at the thirty-fifth floor, the man with the derby had shoved the later newspaper under his arm, along with the others. Though his eyes were blinking with a far-away stare, the rider realized that he had reached his floor. He stepped from the car and paced along a corridor to the door of Room 3520. Here, letters on the glass panel bore the legend:

The man entered the outer office. A stenographer was seated behind a desk. She was the only one remaining of a fair-sized office staff, for there were half a dozen desks in this one room. The girl looked up to recognize the arrival.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rund,” she said. “Mr. Tyson Curwood is waiting in your private office.”

“I know it,” barked Rund, as he headed for an inner door. “Please remain here, Miss Saylor, until I tell you to leave. I may have to dictate some letters after I have talked with Curwood.”

“Very well, Mr. Rund.”

In his abrupt, nervous fashion, Sigby Rund opened the door to his private office. Stepping in, he closed the door behind him, then faced the man who was awaiting him. Tyson Curwood, mild mannered and middle-aged, was standing by the window. He frowned in alarm as he noted the expression on Rund’s face.

“What is the matter, Rund?” questioned Curwood. “You appear quite distressed. Have you encountered trouble?”

“Not yet,” growled Rund, “but it’s coming. That’s why I left word for you to come here, Curwood. I may need you as my lawyer.”

“In what connection, Rund?”

“This.” Rund yanked the latest newspaper from his bundle. He pointed to the banner that ran across its front page. “Read that, Curwood.”

“My word!” exclaimed the lawyer. “So Police Commissioner Ralph Weston is going to South America. I did not believe that he would take that appointment offered him by the government of Garauca.”

“Why not?”

“The country is unsettled, Rund. The cabinet members have taken over the government since the flight of President Birafel. Conditions there may seem stable on the surface; but discontent is surely seething.”

“That’s why they need Weston.”

“Of course. As Chief of the National Police, he should certainly capture the acclaim of the populace. It was his exposure of the bond swindle — here in New York — that caused President Birafel to run from Garauca. Why — why — what’s the matter, Rund?”

Sigby Rund had slumped in the chair behind his desk. Tyson Curwood, genuine apprehension on his kindly face, was springing to the man’s side. A sour, sickly expression had replaced Rund’s nervousness.

“You don’t mean” — Curwood shook the newspaper that Rund had given him — “that — that you are implicated? In this matter of the Garaucan bonds?”

“Yes.” Rund moaned as he nodded. “I was in it, Curwood. That’s why I sent for you. I need your advice.”

CURWOOD took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He faced the man who had become his unexpected client. There was something reassuring in the lawyer’s gaze. Rund twitched; then began to speak.

“I went to Garauca six months ago,” he explained. “I represented — well, certain interests. I made a deal with President Birafel. When I came back here, I began to peddle the Garaucan bonds.”

“But you were not one of the brokers whom Weston quizzed. You were not in the scandal that began here and caused Birafel to flee his country.”

“Of course not. I sold the bonds to big buyers. I did it quietly.”

“Then how—”

“Some of the purchasers wised up that the bonds were bad. They got rid of them by proxy. A lot of small-fry brokers began to peddle the stuff. Then Weston butted in.”

With this statement, Rund arose and paced toward the window. He stood there, staring out upon the sparkling vista of Manhattan. Twinkling lights; toy trains on the elevated; microscopic humans dashing in front of pygmy automobiles. These formed the scene below; but Sigby Rund stared blankly. His own affairs seemed to loom above the miniature world below.

“Has Weston traced you?” questioned Curwood, anxiously. “Is that why you are troubled?”

“Yes,” admitted Rund, as he turned to face the lawyer. “It all happened in a hurry, Curwood. First, Weston landed on the local brokers. They squealed like stuck pigs; but they couldn’t tell anything. But when the news reached Garauca, old President Birafel packed. He was a crooked old codger, as wise as any racketeer. So he took it on the lam.”

“Then Weston communicated with the new government, formed by the cabinet members.”

“Yes. He wanted to find out who brought those bonds to New York. I felt safe, in a way, for Birafel was the only man with whom I had dealt in Garauca. But when the new government sent this fellow Marinez Corlaza to see Weston— when Corlaza wanted Weston to come to Garauca — when Weston announced that he would take the job — well, Curwood, the jig is up.”

“It does look bad, Rund,” admitted Curwood. “You made a great mistake in mixing in that matter. At the same time, you can hardly be held responsible. You did not issue the Garaucan bonds — Birafel did that. Obviously, you could not be the man who financed them.”

“But I was his agent,” exclaimed Rund. “I’m the key to the whole mess — don’t you see that, Curwood? I went to Garauca as the representative of — well, of American financial interests. If Weston can make me talk — make me tell the name of the man who put up the millions for the Garaucan bond issue and—”

“Be calm, Rund,” interposed Curwood. “As an attorney, I can assure you that you will not have to divulge any names if Weston questions you. Unless he has actual proof against you; unless he knows positively that you acted as agent between an American financier and President Birafel—”

“But he may know that already!”

“Then why is he going to Garauca?”

Sigby Rund stood momentarily silent. His fists were clenched; his lips were twitching. He seemed to be weighing Curwood’s question, grasping its significance.

“I see.” Rund nodded slowly. “You think there is a chance that Weston is in the dark about me. You think that he may be going to Garauca to pick up evidence there.”

“Precisely.”

“You may be right, Curwood. In that case, I can sit tight for the present. Days — weeks will pass before Weston can lay his finger on me.”

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re right, Curwood. Just the same, I am worried, particularly since this fellow Corlaza arrived in New York. Look here, Curwood. Weston is going to Garauca; but the newspapers don’t say just how soon. Suppose he has gained more information already. Suppose he is ready to quiz me now. If such is the case, he will land on me before he starts. He will try to get the name of the big boy who sent me to Garauca. Learning that name, he will rip things wide in New York. When he arrives in Garauca, he will be a hero.”

“You have pictured a possibility, Rund,” declared Curwood, slowly. “If it is fact, your position will be most unfortunate. At the same time, the odds are in your favor. It is not likely that Weston will question you before he leaves for Garauca.”

“Then you advise me to sit tight?”

“Yes. Should Weston summon you or arrest you, refer to me as your attorney. That is the best advice that I can give at present.”

Rund nodded. He motioned toward the door. Curwood arose and walked with him into the outer office.

Rund spoke to the stenographer.

“There will be no letters, Miss Saylor,” he said. “You may go.” Then, to Curwood: “I shall stay here in the office for a while. I want to think matters over. Should I decide to call you again—”

“I shall be at my home,” put in Curwood. “Here let me write the telephone number for you.”

The lawyer drew one of his cards from his pocket. He scrawled his home number. Rund took the card.

He stepped aside to let Curwood and the stenographer pass to the hall. Then, as an afterthought, he strolled with them to the elevator, talking to Curwood in a nonchalant tone.

The lawyer and the stenographer entered an elevator. The doors clanged. Rund walked back to his offices. He entered the outer door and closed it; but he failed to press the latch. He turned out the light; then went into his private office and left the door ajar.

STANDING by the window, Rund stared downward. A white cornice projected outward, two floors below. Staring beyond the cornice, Rund watched the moving lights in the tiny streets. His thoughts became detached. Minutes passed before a slight noise made him turn and walk to his desk.

Rund listened. He heard no new sound. Rubbing his forehead nervously, he shoved Curwood’s card under a corner of the blotter; then went to a small safe in the corner of the room. He opened the steel door and drew out a packet of letters. He carried these to the desk, laid them on the blotter and rubbed his chin.

This stack of correspondence contained envelopes that bore the picturesque postage stamps of Garauca.

It was plain that there were papers here that could prove incriminating. Rund was considering whether he should destroy them or place them in Curwood’s possession.

There was a pad of paper beyond the blotter. Rund reached out, tore off a sheet and brought it toward him. He performed this action with his left hand. With his right, he then drew a fountain pen from his vest pocket.

Nervously, Rund began to scrawl a note on the sheet of paper. He stopped at the end of a sentence. Pen in hand, he looked up toward the door of his private office. Staring, he saw two men — one half way to the desk, the other by the door.

AS Sigby Rund was transfixed by alarm, the lights went out. The man at the door had pressed the switch.

Simultaneously, the second intruder reached the desk with a long, swift leap.

Rund dropped his fountain pen as he thrust his chair back from the desk. Coming to his feet, he raised his hands to grapple, while his lips voiced a sudden outcry. Both were futile. Clutching hands caught Rund’s throat. They ended his scream while they choked away his strength.

The second invader arrived. He, too, fell upon the unfortunate victim. Rund’s body sagged limply.

Whispered growls sounded in the darkness. One man was urging the other to drag Rund’s form to the window. Together, they drew their victim to that objective.

Then, lifting the half-choked man between them, the powerful assassins moved backward. Rund’s eyes, bulging as they stared, saw blackness ahead, with distant lights far beyond. His lips emitted a gargling protest.

“Go.”

The command came as Rund tried to gasp a call for help. Brawny arms swung forward. They catapulted the victim’s body head foremost through the broad, opened window. Arms and legs clawing and kicking, Rund’s form cleared the cornice two floors below.

Lessening in size as it whirled on its mad downward flight, Rund’s body sped from the view of the men who had launched it on the death plunge. Unable to see the finish of the fall, because of the cornice which Rund had passed, the assassins stepped back from the window.

Flashlights glimmered in the darkness of the private office. Papers crinkled; the door of the safe thudded shut. Then came departing footsteps. The outer door closed to bring silence to the suite where no one remained.