The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER II. THE LAW IS BALKED

WHILE death was in the making, high in the Halbar Building, two men were engaged in a conversation that involved the name of Sigby Rund. These men were Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Marinez Corlaza, representative of the Garaucan government. They were holding their discussion in the little office of the commissioner’s apartment.

Weston and Corlaza formed a contrast. The police commissioner, bulky behind his flat-topped desk, was a man of military appearance. His steady face, with its short-clipped mustache, gave him a firm expression. His attitude was dynamic; every gesture denoted him as a man of action.

The emissary from Garauca was of a different type. Marinez Corlaza was a South American who had gained the poise of a European diplomat. Smooth-faced and shrewd-eyed, he was both suave and courteous. When he spoke, his manner denoted reservation. His statements dealt with suppositions rather than with facts.

“To my country,” asserted Corlaza, “there will come much honor when you have arrived there, senor. The people of Garauca have felt a great debt to you. When you have come to take command of the new National Police, they will know that security can be their gain.”

“I am counting upon the support of the public,” responded Weston. “It is your assurance that has made me form my decision. I have long considered a leave of absence from my post as police commissioner of New York. It was the matter of the bond swindles that made me delay my departure.

“Even now, I would not feel entitled to a vacation. Frankly, I have reached the limit of my investigation here in New York. I have accepted the post as National Police Chief in Garauca only because I feel that I can accomplish more in Garauca than in New York. But before I leave here, I must make a final endeavor to uncover the financial interests that backed the Garaucan bond issue. It was my hope, Senor Corlaza, that you might have brought me useful information.”

“Such was impossible.” Corlaza shook his head. “In our country, senor, we were governed by a virtual dictatorship. President Birafel controlled the entire country. Offenders against his regime were sentenced to imprisonment or death. He forced the members of his cabinet to do his bidding.”

“But the bond issue—”

“Was entirely handled by Birafel. No one — not even the Secretary of Finance — knew the amount of issue. There were rumors that all was not well. But rumors, senor, could not go far in Garauca while Birafel was president.”

“So I understood,” nodded Weston. “But here in America, we do not suppress rumors. We investigate them. That is how I happened to uncover the scandal of the bond issue. I learned that Garaucan bonds were being sold by brokers of doubtful status. I discovered that they were selling under par.

“I came to the conclusion that the financial interests that had backed the Garaucan bond issue must have been guilty of some conspiracy. Although I could not determine the amount of the bond issue, it seemed apparent that President Birafel, in return for a loan of say ten million dollars, had turned over bonds that totaled double that sum.”

“That is our opinion, senor,” agreed Corlaza. “But there was no way to make Birafel admit his guilt.”

“I can understand that,” stated Weston. “In fact, I did not count upon any aid from your country. Then came the break. Birafel lost his nerve. He fled. Your cabinet took over the government and sought my aid. I have granted it; yet in all our negotiations, I have not received any information that can assist the investigation of New York bond sales.”

“Certainly not, senor,” asserted Corlaza. “President Birafel destroyed all records upon his flight from Garauca. We found a rifled treasury. No member of the new government dared make a drastic step; for all were under suspicion of being Birafel adherents. We moved with caution, senor, until some one suggested that we seek your aid.”

“And you are sure that my presence will curb political unrest?”

“Most certainly, senor. All factions will know that you are impartial. You will be free from the criticism that hovers over every other official, namely that he may be a secret agent of the tyrant, Birafel.”

Weston nodded. He strummed thoughtfully upon the top of the desk. The fingers of his firm hand seemed ready to grip the loose reins of Garaucan affairs.

UPON the desk lay an evening paper with the same screaming headlines that had brought terror to Sigby Rund. Weston eyed the huge type. He heard Corlaza speak.

“To-morrow, senor,” came the South American’s tones, “the newspapers in Garauca City will proclaim the news brought by the cables. There, the populace will be asking how soon you will come to Garauca—”

“I am thinking of New York,” interposed Weston. “I knew that this story would result, when I announced to the press that I had accepted the appointment which you offered. These headlines have been read by the very men whom I seek — the ones who were responsible for the deal with Birafel.”

“They will fear you now,” assured Corlaza. “You are going to Garauca, senor. With the power that you will gain there, you may trace these men. When you return from Garauca—”

“When I return?” Weston smiled. “I am thinking of the present, Senor Corlaza, not of the future.”

Opening a desk drawer, the commissioner brought out a small batch of reports. He thumbed these while Corlaza watched. Finding the name he wanted, Weston put a question.

“You have heard of a man named Sigby Rund?” he asked. “An American, who was in Garauca some six months ago?”

“Yes,” nodded Corlaza.

“Rund conducted negotiations with Birafel,” announced Weston. “Rund is also a stock promoter. It is possible that he was the agent for the financial interests that backed the stuffed bond issue.”

“I know that, senor. Yet we have been unable to learn the truth concerning Rund. But you, senor—”

“I have avoided questioning him. I knew that he would be too smart to talk.”

“But could you not have forced him to—”

“There was no charge upon which I could legally arrest him, or detain him for a sufficient period. Rund has been the key. He has been within my grasp.”

“It is too bad, Senor Weston.” The words came in a purr from Corlaza’s throat. “Too bad that this is not Garauca. There you could make Senor Rund — this key — speak.”

“I can make him speak here,” returned Weston, as he tapped his forefinger on the newspaper. “Right here in New York, now that the press has informed the public regarding my acceptance of your post.”

“Ah! Because you are going to Garauca?”

“Because Rund has learned that I am going there. He has covered his tracks here in New York. But he must surely know that my power as National Police Chief in Garauca will enable me to gain proof against him.”

“Certainly, senor. After you arrive in Garauca. You are right. This man Rund will be very worried.”

“And that,” proclaimed Weston, with a thump of his fist, “is why I intend to question him to-night. He will be ready to weaken. If he proves stubborn, I shall detain him.”

“Ah — and leave for Garauca at once!”

“Precisely. In fact, Senor Corlaza, the chief reason why I accepted your offer so willingly was because I saw that it would enable me to trap Rund. The man’s morale will sag from the moment he sees these headlines.”

“Marvelous, senor! It is like the move of a master. To deliver a stroke close by, you first appear to move far away. Yet by so doing, you gain sure victory!”

Corlaza’s teeth were gleaming between thin, curving lips. The glisten of his eyes was indicative of his admiration for Weston’s strategy. The police commissioner was lifting a desk telephone from its hook.

His finger was turning the dial.

“I am calling Rund,” he remarked quietly. “When he answers, I shall pass it off as a wrong number. He will not know my voice. I want to see if he is still in his office.”

BOTH men remained silent while the sound of a ring came over the wire. Weston hung up.

“Gone,” he remarked. “That is good.”

“Good?” questioned Corlaza, in surprise. “But senor, if you are anxious to detain him—”

“He will be going to his apartment. I have men stationed there. Rund is walking into a trap that I arranged during his absence.”

“Ah, senor! You are clever. Once you are in charge of our National Police, there will be trouble for those who have brought evil to Garauca.”

As Corlaza completed this brief acclaim, raps sounded at the door of the little office. Weston called for entry. His man appeared to announce that Mr. Lamont Cranston was calling.

“Show him in!” exclaimed Weston. “At once!” Then, to Corlaza: “This gentleman will interest you, senor. He has traveled everywhere. I believe he knows your country, Garauca.”

Weston arose. Corlaza followed suit. They turned toward the door as a tall, steady-faced arrival appeared in view. Weston extended a hand; then introduced Lamont Cranston to Marinez Corlaza.

THE tall visitor gazed squarely into the countenance of Marinez Corlaza. He saw every detail of the South American’s smooth physiognomy. One glance gave him a lasting impression of the curling smile — of the dark eyes, that peered from between sallow cheeks and blackened brows.

Corlaza, on his part, was swift in his impression of Lamont Cranston. The man from Garauca was amazed. He found himself staring into a visage so immobile that it seemed masklike; into burning eyes that bored from the sides of a hawklike nose. Cranston’s handshake was a viselike grip.

As Commissioner Weston resumed his seat behind the desk, Cranston stepped to a chair. Corlaza suddenly awoke to the fact that he was standing alone in the center of the room, still staring at this remarkable arrival. Rather uneasily, Corlaza returned to his own chair.

“You will dine with us, Cranston?” questioned Weston. “I should like to have you talk with Senor Corlaza. You have probably visited his country — Garauca — and I suppose you will have much to chat about.”

“I can be with you for about an hour and a half,” returned Cranston. “After that, I have an appointment.”

“Too bad,” observed Weston, in a disappointed tone. “However, there will be time for a brief conversation. Since I am going to Garauca shortly, I should like to listen in on a discussion between you two. It might give me a more varied view of what lies ahead.

“Suppose we talk here for a few minutes longer. I am expecting a police call. It should come at any minute. In the meantime, I shall prepare to leave with you.”

Stepping to a closet, the commissioner appeared with hat, coat and cane. He set the walking stick against the side of the desk. It slipped and fell; Cranston stooped and replaced it, in its standing position.

It was a Malacca cane, with hooked handle that ended in a gold tip. The wood, though solid, had the appearance of being made in telescopic sections. Cranston still eyed the cane as he stepped back to his chair. He seemed to be admiring its workmanship.

Corlaza was watching Cranston. Weston’s friend was attired in evening clothes; his seated form made a blotched outline against the dull background of the chair. The form cast a long stretch of blackness that ended in a perfect duplication of the silhouette that Corlaza noted.

Upon the wall, that hawklike outline showed as distinctly as if it had been a living presence of its own. It was almost an enshrouding pall, a semblance so real that Corlaza paused, expecting to see it move clear of the wall.

While the South American stared, a ring came from the desk. It was the telephone. Weston turned to answer the call. Corlaza shifted his gaze in that direction. It was then that Cranston’s keen eyes moved to watch Corlaza.

“Hello… Yes…” Weston was speaking eagerly. “At the apartment… What’s that? You’re not there?… I told you… When?… Ten minutes ago? Yes… Yes… Expect me at once.

“Yes. I am leaving right away…”

DROPPING the telephone in place, Weston stood leaning on the desk. He looked at Lamont Cranston, who met his eyes with a quiet gaze. Then the commissioner turned suddenly to Marinez Corlaza.

“What is it?” questioned the Garaucan. “Have they found the man you wanted? Did they arrest Sigby Rund?”

“They have found him,” returned Weston, soberly, “but they did not arrest him. They were too late.”

“You mean that he has done something you did not expect?”

“Yes. Sigby Rund has committed suicide.”

“At his apartment?”

“No. He plunged from the window of his office. A drop of thirty-five stories.”

As he made this announcement, Weston reached for hat and coat and motioned for the others to do the same. When he picked up his Malacca cane, the commissioner stepped to the door and opened it.

“I should like both of you to accompany me to the Halbar Building,” he suggested. “The inspector called from Rund’s office. We may find much of interest there — much that pertains to the Garaucan bond swindle.”

The visitors preceded the commissioner. They reached the street and stepped to a limousine where a uniformed man was saluting. The trio formed a cluster before the opening door. The light from the front of Weston’s apartment house produced strange splotches of darkness as the group was momentarily motionless.

Across the sidewalk stretched the same odd streak of blackness that had shown on the wall in the commissioner’s little office. The profile of a hawklike silhouette showed in weird outline, once more the symbol of a personality.

For that silhouette represented a being other than Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting friend of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. A sinister outline, etched like a fragment of night itself, the blackened profile symbolized the master of darkness: The Shadow.

Supersleuth, mysterious thwarter of crime, The Shadow was traveling with Ralph Weston and Marinez Corlaza on their way to investigate the affairs of Sigby Rund.