The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER X. SILVER RUPEES

“SAILOR MARTZ was secondary. Loss of him means nothing. If you had captured the bounder alive, I doubt that he could have furnished a solitary clue.”

The statement came from Jarvis Knight. The Englishman presented it as a verdict when Vic Marquette had completed his tale of adventure on the New York waterfront.

“Sailor knew nothing?” queried Marquette, in apparent astonishment. “Why the reports from Scotland Yard stressed the point that Sailor was with the spy ring.”

“The reports,” corrected Knight, calmly, “declared that Martz was working for Jed Barthue.”

“And Jed Barthue was named as the spy—”

“Not quite.” Knight’s lips curled in a smile. “Jed Barthue was a rover, the go-between. He made contacts in various countries. That is why he has come to the United States.”

Marquette nodded. This was in conformity with what he had learned; but apparently there was more to be told. The secret service operative leaned back in his chair and motioned for the Britisher to continue.

“Some months ago,” stated Knight, “the French concern, Freres Gautier, reported the theft of important documents in their possession. These pertained to an improved model of the famous seventy-five millimeter guns used by the French army.”

“I know about that,” nodded Marquette. “The Gautier outfit had begun to manufacture them for the French government. The stolen plans were sold to the Salavani arms corporation, which promptly began to produce them in Italy.”

“Precisely. That fact was interesting to the investigators of various governments, including British agents. Scotland Yard was informed that Jed Barthue had been traced to both Paris and Rome during the time of the theft and the sale.”

“He was seen in both capitals?”

“No. Barthue has a way of staying under cover. It was known only that he had dealt with parties in France and Italy. We decided that he might be in England. We learned that he was; but our discovery came too late.”

“After the theft from the admiralty office?”

“Yes. Models of a new compression gun disappeared most mysteriously. Where they went remained unknown. How they were taken proved a riddle. But Barthue was definitely implicated. We decided that he had come to the States.”

Knight paused in his story. From his vest pocket he drew forth a few coins and jingled them while he considered his next statement.

“VARIOUS suppositions,” he declared, slowly, “supported our belief that Barthue had chosen America as his next destination. The man is something other than an ordinary adventurer. He is the type of spy who seeks lucrative employment.

“While European manufacturers are not averse to purchasing secrets that belong to firms in other countries, none of them would dare to back an espionage service. Relations are too strained to permit such practice.

“Barthue, we decided, must have been financed from some other source. By a simple process of elimination, we determined that his employers were probably Americans. Outside of the improved French 75s and the British compression guns, there were no startling developments in European munitions manufacture. Thus Barthue logically had an opportunity to report to his headquarters.”

Knight was stacking the coins in his left hand, absent-mindedly clinking them. He picked out one, glanced at it curiously; then retained it in his right hand while he used his left to replace the others in his vest pocket.

“Furthermore,” resumed the Britisher, “Jed Barthue had a new world to conquer. Your American government had dissolved the relationships between domestic firms and those of foreign countries, it had become common news that new manufacturers, certified by the United States government, were about to produce new inventions that might be of important consequence in warfare.”

“That’s right,” acknowledged Marquette. “What’s more, most of them have been tied up under one banner. They’re all part of a large holding company: Wesdren Enterprises. Caleb Wesdren is the president. With one man at the head of the different companies, there is more security for the plans and models.”

“The eggs are in one basket,” chuckled Knight. Silver gleamed as he tossed his coin and caught it in his right hand. “A matter of protection, from one standpoint, yes. Also a remarkable opportunity for a clever beggar like Jed Barthue.”

“I get it,” nodded Vic. “If he can crack Wesdren’s crib, he’ll have the whole works. Just what Senator Releston said. Well, even if we can’t spot this Jed Barthue when we meet him, we ought to be able to stop him.”

“You are becoming forgetful, Marquette,” remarked Knight toying with the coin. To Cardona, the silver disk looked like a fifty-cent piece. “Let us agree that Jed Barthue has come to America for purposes of theft. But I must remind you that I prefaced my remarks by stating that he is an agent — not a plotter.”

“Sure. You said that some American was backing him. That’s logical enough. Sailor Martz was working for Barthue; Sailor pulled something with a bunch of crooks who went out aboard a ship called the Zouave. They started a mutiny and got theirs. I’ll agree that an American could be the big shot. But he’s got to use Barthue for the job.”

“Does he?” Knight smiled scornfully and shook his head. “That does not follow, Marquette. Why should Barthue be used for theft when his duty will come later?”

“Don’t you get it, Vic?” chimed in Cardona. “I see the lay already. Barthue’s the peddler. He’s over here to grab the stuff when it’s handed to him.”

“I get it,” growled Marquette. “But just the same, Barthue ought to be a lead to the big shot.”

“Quite the reverse, old top,” chuckled Knight. “The head of the ring might he the lead to Barthue; but that makes it the other way about.”

“Which means we’ve got to watch for trouble at Wesdren’s. To cover anybody who shows up there.”

“Just so. I can assure you” — again the curled smile accompanied Knight’s words — “that when Jed Barthue receives stolen goods, the rascal promptly places himself beyond capture.”

MARQUETTE paced back and forth across the room. He was nodding his full understanding. He finally paused, seated himself again, and spoke in a decisive tone.

“Senator Releston went down to Washington, last night,” informed the secret service operative. “Caleb Wesdren left early this morning. I’m going this afternoon. I want you to go with me, Knight.”

“I shall he pleased to accompany you.”

“We’ll make an appointment with the senator and Wesdren for tomorrow. Then we’ll have a chance to look over the job that this fellow Jollister has done.”

“Who, may I ask, is Jollister?”

“An expert on safes and vaults. He just finished fixing Wesdren’s strong room.”

“The place that will house the models?”

“Yes. Maybe we’ll see Jollister when we’re down there. He’s somewhere around New York, at present. But he’s due in Washington. If Jollister—”

Marquette broke off. Someone was rapping at the door. Knight delivered a quizzical look as he spun the coin that he was holding in his hand. Then he stepped across the room and opened the door. A bell boy was standing in the hall.

“Mr. Jarvis Knight?”

The hell hop put the question in a rough tone. Knight eyed the fellow and noted his shifty eyes and nervous twitch. The uniformed attendant was Cady.

“I am Jarvis Knight.” The Englishman’s tone was deliberate, despite its slight gruffness. “Why did you come here?”

CADY had edged one hand to the sharp-cut vest of his bell hop’s uniform. He lifted an edge of the red cloth. His thumb pressed an object that hooked like a rounded badge.

Knight’s sharp eyes saw the motion. They recognized the imprint of the silver disk that Cady showed.

The badge was a coin; its surface the reverse side of an Indian rupee. Cady caught Knight’s glance.

Shifting, the fake bell hop hunched his belt. The badge went from view beneath the gaudy red vest.

“I ask you again” — Knight’s tone was gruff — “who told you to come here? I did not summon you—”

As he spoke, the sharp-faced Britisher opened his hand almost beneath Cady’s eyes. The bell hop saw the gleam of silver. He stared at the profile of the British monarch, on the obverse side of a silver rupee.

Knight gave the coin a slight flip. It turned over and showed the reverse which matched Cady’s badge.

The rat-faced arrival grinned; his lips lost their twitch.

“Brought up a message for you, sir,” informed Cady. He fumbled beneath his brass-buttoned coat. “Here it is, Mr. Knight. Thought maybe there might be an answer.”

Knight received the envelope that Cady proffered. Stepping back into the room, he tore open the flap and drew out a message, which he read carefully.

Cady, at the door, stared toward Vic Marquette and Joe Cardona, noticing them for the first time.

The fake bell hop met Vic’s gaze; but when his eyes turned to Joe’s, the nervous twitch reappeared on Cady’s face. For a moment, he appeared ready to bolt; then, with an effort, he held his ground.

“Any answer, Mr. Knight?”

The Englishman shook his head to Cady’s strained question. He glanced at the fake bell boy; then pointed toward the suit that he had taken off before Marquette and Cardona had arrived.

“Have this pressed at once,” he ordered. “Within the next half hour. Be prompt, my good fellow. I am packing shortly.”

Cady muttered a reply as he picked up the discarded clothing. The action gave him a quick out. He took it.

Knight followed Cady to the door and closed the barrier when the man had gone. Strolling back, he gave another spin to the rupee. It jounced from his fingers and bounded along the carpet to where Joe Cardona was seated. The detective picked up the coin and glanced at it.

“What’s this?” queried Cardona. “A shilling?”

“A rupee,” replied Knight, receiving the coin. “Worth a few pence more than a shilling. I happened to have it with me when I returned from India, where I operated with the C.I.D. I’ve carried it since; as a lucky piece, you know.”

Knight pocketed the coin, he swung briskly into a new subject: the matter of train times to Washington.

Marquette stated that he would be leaving at half past two. Knight glanced at the wrist watch that he was wearing; the one which he had picked up from the writing desk.

“The bally thing has stopped,” he remarked. “I must have forgotten to wind it. What time do you have?”

“Quarter past one,” replied Marquette, glancing at his own watch. “I’ll have to be packing, if I want to catch the two-thirty. Let’s go, Cardona. You’ll meet me on the train, Knight?”

“Positively.” Knight shook hands as he accompanied his visitors to the door. “It won’t take me long to pack, since I have scarcely unpacked for a starter. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

As soon as Marquette and Cardona had left. Knight pulled out the envelope that Cady had given him. He had thrust the message in his pocket after his first perusal. Seating himself at the writing desk, he gave it a more careful study.

The message was in code. It formed a cryptogram that consisted entirely of numbers, separated by dashes. Knight smiled as he studied the symbols. All the numbers were between one and twenty-six.

Drawing a pencil from his pocket, Knight began to make check marks through the message. He had not quite completed his task when he heard a cautious rap at the door. Hastily, Knight pocketed the message. He opened the door to find Cady back again, with the suit unpressed.

“Come in,” ordered Knight, abruptly. “Give me that suit. You blighter! Coming here so boldly!”

“I didn’t know Joe Cardona would be here,” pleaded Cady. “I hadn’t figured on nobody. Who was the other guy?”

“A secret service man named Marquette.”

“He looked like a Fed. Say, Jed, you’d better slip me that answer in a hurry. I don’t want to hang around here no longer.”

Knight glowered as he heard Cady’s words. He gripped the fellow by one arm and spat low, hissed words.

“Who told you to call me Jed? Listen, you idiot; I’m Jarvis Knight! Move along now. There’ll be no answer today.

“But the chief expects one—”

“Of course he does. Have him locate me in Washington. I’m going there this afternoon. I’ll send him an answer later. You know what was in that note you gave me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know the code; but it was something about Delka — that maybe he got off that boat — off the Zouave—”

“You say ‘maybe’?” Knight sneered. “Let me give you some real news. Delka did escape from the Zouave. He was here.”

“Passing himself as Knight?”

“Certainly. But I was wise enough to anticipate it. I had a fierce struggle with him. That is when you should have arrived, you dummy.”

“What happened to him?”

“I pitched him out the window!”

“Whew!” Cady stood openmouthed. “Say — you don’t mean that guy that they thought jumped off the roof—”

“It was Delka. And the detective — Cardona — was one of those who saw the body.”

“Does he suspect?”

“No. Delka had taken his papers from his pockets. He was about to change attire. But Cardona is no one’s fool. He eyed you closely, my man.”

Cady nodded, worried.

“And that,” added Knight, “is why we must make no blunder. You must leave here at once. I believe that Cardona is suspicious of you.”

“I guess he thinks I’m trailing Delka.”

“Precisely. And suppose he apprehends you before you have opportunity to leave the hotel? What would you do about it?”

“I’d put up a bluff.”

“Certainly. But suppose you had my reply on your person?”

“I get it. The works would be gummed. Say” — Cady caught himself before repeating the name Jed — “say, you’re as beany as they say you are. O.K. You’ll be seeing somebody in Washington.”

Cady ducked for the door. Knight stopped him, motioned the fake bell hop back and opened the door himself. He took a look along the corridor; then motioned Cady out.

Returning to the room, the Englishman called the porter and paced about until the man arrived.

“I am departing for Washington,” he told the attendant. “See to it that my luggage is delivered immediately to the baggage room in the Pennsylvania depot. I shall be there myself to attend to its transportation. The name is Jarvis Knight.”

THE Englishman left the suite and descended to the lobby. Carefully avoiding the desk, he went to the cashier’s cage and paid for one night. The cashier seemed surprised when he discovered that the guest had only arrived a few hours before.

“If you speak to the clerk, Mr. Knight,” he suggested, “he will call the manager. A rebate can be arranged, since you are checking out on the same day that you came here.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” responded Knight, brusquely. “By the way, I might just as well leave the key here, without delaying myself to stop at the desk.”

The clerk who had seen the original guest who signed as Jarvis Knight did not recognize the substitute who passed the desk. The second Mr. Knight left the Hotel Goliath unquestioned by the one person who might have challenged him.

FIVE minutes after that departure, Joe Cardona came into the hotel lobby. Looking about, the swarthy detective spied a cadaverous fellow lounging by the desk. Cardona knew the man. He was Hyslop, a house dick in the employ of the Hotel Goliath.

“Hello, Bill,” greeted Cardona, approaching the hotel detective. “Say, there’s something you can do for me. There’s a guy I’m looking for that used to work places as a bell hop. I’ve got a hunch he may have grabbed a job here.”

“Yeah?” queried Hyslop, arching thin eyebrows. “What was the bird’s name?”

“Don’t know it. That’s the trouble. Best way to describe him is that he looks like a rat and has a twitchy face.”

Hyslop nodded wisely. He gestured to the bell captain, who approached to join the conference. Hyslop introduced the fellow to Cardona.

“Looks like Joe here is looking for Cady,” informed the house dick. “Tell him about the guy, Jerry.”

A tall man had entered the lobby and was crossing to the desk. Keen eyes, peering from a masklike face, observed Cardona and the others. The stranger stopped close by. He stood unnoticed, as strangely stealthy as when he had left the bridge of the Steamship Zouave. The stranger was The Shadow. He had returned to New York.

“Parker Cady was a funny mug,” the bell captain was telling Cardona. “Only been on the job a couple of days. Five minutes ago, he turned in his uniform and walked out. Acted like he was sore about something.”

“I asked Jerry if he thought the guy had pulled something,” put in Hyslop. “But Jerry wasn’t sure, so we let him slide. We’ve got his address where he used to live; but I guess you won’t find him there if he’s taken it on the lam.”

“Maybe he handed you a phony moniker,” suggested Joe.

“Not likely,” said the house dick. “We check close on new employees. The guy may be phony; but his name’s straight. Come on over to the office; we’ll check on it.”

THE trio departed. A clerk noticed the silent stranger by the desk, and approached him. The Shadow made quiet inquiry concerning a friend.

“Odd that I should have forgotten the chap’s name,” he remarked. “He just arrived today, by the Doranic. I believe that he is stopping here—”

The clerk nodded and went away. Such inquiries were not entirely unusual; they were accepted if the questioner appeared to be a person of importance. Soon the clerk returned.

“A Mr. Jarvis Knight was here,” he stated. “He registered from London; but he left unexpectedly. He has gone to Washington; but he left no forwarding address.”

The Shadow strolled from the lobby. A soft laugh whispered from his fixed lips. He had picked a dozen possible hotels as possible destinations for either Eric Delka or Jed Barthue. The Goliath had been his third choice.

The sudden departure of Jarvis Knight was significant. It gave The Shadow the lead he wanted. The Shadow, too, had found a new objective. Washington would be his destination.