The Key

CHAPTER XII A CLIENT ADVISES

ON the following afternoon, a tall, cadaverous man entered the lobby of the Bylend Building. He purchased a newspaper at the stand; he paused to glance at the headlines. The murders of Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton were still in the news, but no new killings had been reported.

The tall man was Lester Dorrington. He was returning to his offices after lunching at his club. His expressionless face revealed nothing of his thoughts as he strolled toward the express elevator that awaited passengers for the twentieth floor and those above that level.

When Dorrington’s footsteps clicked along the corridor of the twenty-fourth floor, a door opened across the way from the lawyer’s suite. Peering eyes watched Dorrington pass. A detective, stationed by Joe Cardona, was watching the lawyer’s return.

From the time that he had left his house that morning, during the lunch period that he had spent at the club, Lester Dorrington had been under police surveillance. Yet there was nothing in the lawyer’s attitude that indicated suspicion of that fact.

Arriving in his inner office, Lester Dorrington began to study papers that were upon his desk. While the solemn-faced attorney was thus engaged, a ring came from the private telephone. Dorrington went to the little cabinet in the corner. He brought out the telephone and answered the call.

“What’s that?” he questioned, sharply, as he recognized the voice over the wire. “Ace Feldon? I didn’t tell him to come to see me… I see… He wants to talk to me, eh? Put him on the wire… What’s that? Well… All right… Send him down…”

Dorrington deposited the telephone in the cabinet. He strode swiftly across the luxurious private office and locked the door that led to the outer rooms. Dorrington had half a dozen workers in his general office, with lesser associates in private rooms of his extensive suite. He did not want to be disturbed by any of them.

Coming back to the corner by the little telephone cabinet, Dorrington unlocked the door of a closet. He pressed a shelf upward. A click followed. A panel raised in the rear of the closet.

The opening showed a spiral staircase.

DULL footsteps were clanging down the stairway. Dorrington stepped back into the office. A hard-faced, big-fisted man appeared from the open panel. His thick lips wore a pleased smile.

“Hello, Dorrington,” growled the arrival.

“Hello, Feldon,” responded the lawyer, dryly. “Sit down. I shall talk with you immediately.”

As the hard-faced man sauntered to a chair, the lawyer stepped into the closet and closed the panel. He left the door open, then came back to his desk. Taking his swivel chair, he stared coldly at his visitor.

“Hope you ain’t sore because I dropped in,” began “Ace” Feldon. “Say, Dorrington — that staircase is a swell gag. I knew most lawyers have got a good way out of their offices. You’ve got a couple here on this floor. But that office upstairs is the best stunt yet.”

“This was the first time you used it,” reminded Dorrington. “Your previous visits, Feldon, did not require secrecy.”

“That’s right,” nodded Feldon. “You always told me, Dorrington, that if I wanted to see you on the q.t., all I had to do was drop in on a guy named Loven, who has his office on the floor above this. But I never figured that you’d have a way between. It’s a pip, Dorrington, that staircase is.”

“I appreciate your commendation,” declared Dorrington. “Now that we have discussed the staircase, let me hear the reason for your unexpected visit.”

Ace Feldon shifted in his chair. Hard-boiled though he was, this toughened fellow was ill-at-ease as he met Dorrington’s searching gaze. Feldon fumbled with a hat that he was holding in his hands. Then, with a tone that indicated final decision, he put a definite question.

“Listen, Dorrington,” he growled. “What’s the idea of picking Whitey Calban to do your bumping for you? What was wrong with me?”

“Calban?” questioned Dorrington, in apparent surprise. “I haven’t seen the man for months, Feldon.”

“That ain’t the point,” retorted Ace. “Maybe you haven’t seen him; but you’re using him.”

“For crime?”

“Yes. For murder.”

Dorrington smiled slightly as he shook his head. The lawyer was accepting the statement as preposterous.

ACE FELDON, now that he had begun, was not ready to desist.

“Listen, Dorrington,” he stated, “you’ve represented Whitey Calban and you’ve represented me. Both of us are smooth workers. The bulls don’t mean nothin’ in our sweet young lives. If you wanted anythin’ done — along our line — it’s a sure bet that either Whitey or I would pull it for you.”

“Granted,” agreed Dorrington. “Murder, however, is something which I have found entirely unnecessary so far as my business is concerned. I have represented killers; but I have never hired them.”

“There’s a difference between Whitey Calban and me,” resumed Feldon, steadily ignoring Dorrington’s statement. “I’ll tell you what the difference is. I’m a square shooter, but Whitey Calban ain’t. I’ve got it in for that guy Calban.”

“So I have heard,” remarked Dorrington. “Feuds between gangleaders are not unusual. It seems to be part of the racket.”

“I ain’t one that goes out of my way to find trouble,” retorted Ace Feldon. “There’s just one reason why I’ve got it in for that louse Calban. He’s a double-crosser, that’s why. And when a guy like Calban begins to slip one over on a friend of mine, I do somethin’ about it. Savvy?”

“I take it then,” observed Dorrington, mildly, “that you have come here to discuss certain activities of Whitey Calban’s.”

“You’ve got me right, Dorrington. Dead right. Listen; if I’m workin’ for a big shot and usin’ a bunch of gorillas to help me with the jobs, I ain’t goin’ to spill nothin’ to the heels in my mob, am I?

“You bet I’m not. Neither is any other guy that’s on the level. But Calban ain’t a straight shooter. He’s been blabbin’ to the crew, lettin’ his gorillas know who’s hirin’ him. That ain’t good policy, particularly when the work ain’t finished yet. Calban’s the mug who bumped Verbeck an’ Durton.”

“Quite interesting.”

“It ought to be — to you — since Calban’s spilled it to his mob that he croaked those lawyers because you told him to!”

Lester Dorrington sat rigid as a statue. Not a muscle twitched upon the lawyer’s cadaverous face. Dorrington’s eyes were fixed steadily upon Ace Feldon. The gangleader nodded sourly.

“Calban let it slip,” he insisted. “He yapped the facts to his gorillas last night, down at their hideout. Told ‘em last night was a lay-off but tonight there’d be another job. Then he got mouthy and spilled your name as the guy that’s backin’ him.”

“Quite odd,” observed Dorrington. “Quite odd, Feldon, that you should tell me this.”

“Tell you that Whitey Calban’s a double-crosser? Put you wise because you’re a friend of mine?”

“No. That part of your story is plain. What puzzles me is how you happen to know so much concerning Calban and his gang.”

“That ain’t no riddle,” snorted Feldon. “I ain’t never liked Whitey Calban; but that wasn’t no reason why I should try to make trouble for him. It was reason enough though, for me to want to watch the guy.

“There’s a fellow named Steve Quigg who used to work for me when I had my squad of gorillas. Calban never knew that Quigg was with my crew. When I busted up the outfit, he signed with Calban. But Quigg sees me right along. He knows that Calban is a louse. That’s why he tips me off to what Whitey’s mob is doin’.”

“So Quigg serves you as undercover man?”

“Right. But I ain’t never tried to pull nothin’ on Calban. Just keepin’ a line on him, that’s all. When Steve Quigg calls me up to-day an’ tells me that Calban’s told his mob about you, I figured it was time you knew it.

“Suppose that job goes sour tonight. Suppose the bulls grab Calban. He’s goin’ to blab, ain’t he? He’ll tell the bulls that you’re the guy that hired him. But he’ll never admit he squealed. He’ll lay it on some of the gorillas that he talked to.

“I’m tellin’ you — Calban’s a double crosser. You’ve got the proof of it right now. You’ve treated me good, Dorrington. I’m your friend an’ you know it. I’m puttin’ you wise.”

LESTER DORRINGTON was leaning upon his elbows. Staring squarely across the desk, he spoke firmly to Ace Feldon.

“Thank you for the information,” stated the poker-faced lawyer. “I can assure you, however, that it is unnecessary. Outside of the legal case in which I represented Whitey Calban, I have had nothing whatever to do with the man.”

A buzzer sounded as Lester Dorrington ceased speaking. The attorney waved his hand toward the closet. It was the sign for Ace Feldon to depart. Some one in the outer office required an interview with Dorrington.

“I ain’t askin’ nothin’,” declared Feldon as he rose from his chair and slapped his hat upon his head. “But I’m tellin’ you, Dorrington, it works both ways. If Whitey Calban is workin’ for you, he’s pulled a fast one, talkin’ to those loud-mouthed gorillas.

“If he ain’t workin’ for you, he’s a real double-crosser. A louse like him ain’t fit to live. You’re a real guy, Dorrington, an’ I’ll leave this with you: anythin’ that I may be doin’ will be on your account. Savvy?”

The gangleader had reached the closet. There were knocks at the panel of Dorrington’s office door. The lawyer had no time to reply. He shoved Ace Feldon through the panel and pulled down the shelf that locked the secret barrier. Closing the door of the closet, he went to answer the knock at the outer door.

Important clients were awaiting. Within five minutes after Ace Feldon’s departure, Lester Dorrington was engaged in prolonged conference. Afternoon waned, while the discussion continued. Dusk settled; lights were turned on; it was six o’clock when the conference was ended.

Alone, ready to leave his office, Lester Dorrington stood by his desk. He was recalling his interview with Ace Feldon; for once, doubt seemed to register itself upon Dorrington’s cadaverous countenance. The attorney was pondering upon the situation as Feldon had outlined it.

At last, a knowing smile traced itself faintly on Lester Dorrington’s lips. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, turned out the light and departed from his office. He told a secretary that he was going to his home on Long Island; that he could be reached there in case of urgent messages.

On his way to the Pennsylvania Station, Lester Dorrington was trailed by two of Cardona’s men. The lawyer did not appear to notice the stalking sleuths. Close-mouthed, crafty in every dealing, Lester Dorrington showed no concern regarding events that were to come.