The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER IX. MR. JARVIS KNIGHT

SHORTLY before noon, a taxicab stopped in front of the Hotel Goliath. A stockily built man alighted and entered the lobby. He had no luggage; the suit that he wore was poorly fitted and looked like a ready-made affair that might have come directly from a clothing store dummy.

Arriving at the desk, the new guest spoke quietly to the clerk. He announced himself as Jarvis Knight; and stated that he had reserved Suite 3612. The clerk glanced curiously at the guest’s attire, then noted that the man’s face was a keen one. Jarvis Knight had the look of an Englishman who had traveled.

“You came in on the Doranic?” inquired the clerk, as he pushed a registration card across the desk.

“Yes,” replied the arrival. “We were delayed a short time by the fog. We docked later than expected.”

“Indeed? Your luggage is here already, sir.”

“I was fortunate in having a prompt customs inspection. I did not leave the ship immediately. You know how it is: Friends met en voyage. ‘Goodbye, old chappie. See you on some other crossing’ — and things like that.”

Jarvis Knight delivered a quiet laugh as he spoke. He applied his signature; the clerk bowed pleasantly.

But he could not help observing that the guest appeared tired. He decided that the last night on the Doranic must have been a “large” one.

The stocky man stood stolidly in the elevator that took him to the thirty-sixth floor. The elevator operator glanced at him; he, too, observed the firmness of the new guest’s square-jawed face. He recognized the man as an Englishman.

The clerk had passed the key directly across the desk, since Jarvis Knight had no hand luggage that would require a bell boy’s services. Arriving at 3612, the square-jawed man unlocked the door and entered. He found himself in the outer room of his suite. Two wardrobe trunks were standing in the corner; beside them, a large suitcase.

There were key’s upon a writing desk. Captain Murgin had sent them up along with the luggage. The square-jawed man unlocked the suitcase; then did the same with both wardrobe trunks.

He picked out a suit and placed it on the bed. He pulled odds and ends from his coat pocket and laid them on the writing desk. A small wad of American bills, a few coins and some time-tables constituted all the contents of his pockets.

He detached a heavy wrist watch and put it with the articles on the writing desk. He started to take off the suit that he was wearing; then stopped suddenly as he heard the ring of the telephone that stood upon a table in a corner opposite the trunks.

“Hello…” The square-jawed man spoke briskly, as soon as he had lifted the receiver. “Yes… Yes, this is Mr. Knight… That’s correct. Jarvis Knight, of London.”

“My word!” The speaker laughed pleasantly. “I had no idea that I would hear from you so promptly…

Certainly, Mr. Marquette… Yes, come over immediately… An excellent idea. Come right to the room.”

The receiver clicked. The square-jawed man went to the suitcase and brought out a wallet that lay upon a stack of shirts. He was about to draw some cards from the wallet when he heard a noise behind him.

Wheeling about, he faced the door of the inner room.

Framed there was a sharp-faced man whose lips wore a disdainful smile. The intruder was holding a leveled revolver. He had entered ahead of the new guest; obviously, he had been lurking here in ambush.

SHARP eyes glittered as the man with the revolver delivered a gruff greeting. His sharp face showed triumph, which the square-jawed man did not share.

“Good day, Mr. Jarvis Knight,” remarked the armed man, in a sarcastic tone. “I fancied that you would be coming here. I prepared for your arrival.”

The square-jawed man made no response. He still held the wallet that he had taken from the suitcase.

His face remained bluff as he eyed the gun in the others hand.

Once again, Eric Delka was facing Jed Barthue. This time, each had the opportunity to size the other up by daylight. It was no game of blind man’s buff. The drama was different from that aboard the Doranic.

“You were kind enough,” declared “Sharp-face,” gruffly, “to invite a gentleman to call on Jarvis Knight. That was most considerate. He will meet Jarvis Knight when he arrives. But not the Jarvis Knight who spoke to him over the telephone.”

Sharp-face was moving forward as he delivered this decision. Square-jaw stared stolidly into the muzzle of his enemy’s revolver. His muscles tightened then, with a sudden sprint, he dived straight for the man who had him covered.

The attack was unexpected. The unarmed man was a trifle heavier than his adversary, though both were strongly built. The square-jawed man grabbed for the gun; the sharp-faced fighter lost it in the struggle.

Back and forth they surged across the room. Odds were with the husky who had registered as Jarvis Knight. He had offset the advantage of the intruder’s revolver, he was driving his opponent toward the far wall of the room.

They clashed against a radiator; then tumbled toward the window sill beyond it. The window had been raised by the porters who had brought up the trunks and suitcase. The fighters were on the edge of an opening that showed a sheer wall to the street below.

The end of the struggle came with unexpected swiftness. “Square-jaw” drove a powerful blow with his heavy right fist. Sharp-face twisted his head; the fist went by. Then the man who had lost his gun seized a momentary advantage. His opponent was off balance; he had a lucky opportunity.

Though the lighter of the pair, he managed a tremendous upward heave as he caught his adversary beneath the arms. Snapping backward, he sent his husky foeman head foremost toward the open window.

A gasp came from the lips of the man who had registered as Jarvis Knight. The cry was too late; so was the wild flounder that the man made with his arms. Outward through the window went the square-jawed man, leaving his sharp-faced conqueror sprawled upon the sill, staring downward, face aghast.

Spinning down the granite-faced wall of the Hotel Goliath was a toy figure that whirled pitifully. A receding cry was fading toward the street. The man at the window stood transfixed; his hands tightened on the ledge as he saw the hurtling body reach its journey’s end.

A sprawled splotch on the sidewalk marked the finish of the tragedy. Ten minutes before, a man had entered the Hotel Goliath, to register as Jarvis Knight. That man had been hurled from his room on the thirty-sixth floor. In his place stood another, who had come there to snare him.

THE new Jarvis Knight laughed gruffly. He moved unsteadily from the window; then looked about and showed a wise grin on his curled lips. He drew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, extracted a cigarette and lighted it. With a few puffs, his strain ended.

He began to move about hastily. His first action was to take off the drab suit that he was wearing. He donned the clothes that the dead man had laid on the bed. They fitted him comfortably. He took the money and papers from the pockets of his discarded suit and transferred them to his new clothes.

As a final thought, he removed his wrist watch and buried it under clothing in the open suitcase. He picked up the dead man’s watch and placed it on his wrist; then carefully counted the other’s money and pocketed it — bills in trousers, coins in vest.

Two objects lay on the floor. One was the revolver which the victor had used to back his surprise attack.

The other was the wallet which the vanquished man had dropped in the fray.

The new Jarvis Knight buried the revolver as he had hidden his wrist watch. Hurriedly he pulled cards and papers from the wallet and began to examine them. He picked out ones he wanted and replaced the others. He slipped the chosen cards into his inside coat pocket and tossed the wallet back into the suitcase.

There was a rap at the door. The sharp-faced man looked about nervously; then walked over and turned the knob. A stocky, dark-faced man entered and nodded. He did not speak until the door was closed.

Then he questioned, with a slight smile:

“Mr. Jarvis Knight?”

“Yes,” returned the sharp-faced man, his gruffness modulated. “You are Mr. Marquette?”

“The same.” Vic produced two cards and handed them to his host, eyeing the other man carefully. “These will complete the introduction.”

“Thanks,” replied the Britisher. He produced the cards that he had placed in his inside pocket. “These are my credentials. Look them over; after that, we can forget that I am Eric Delka.”

“A good idea,” agreed Marquette. “You might as well be Jarvis Knight to everybody. Those who know you’re Delka don’t need to be told.” The Englishman nodded. He began to cough suddenly; then groped in the suitcase for a handkerchief. Finding one, he removed it; then shut the top of the suitcase and clicked the lock,

“Beastly night, last night,” he remarked. “The fog about did me in. I can’t seem to get the huskiness from my throat. It catches my whole voice at times.”

“You didn’t sound husky over the telephone,” recalled Marquette.

“It’s the draught from this outlandish window,” decided Knight. He walked over and drew down the heavy sash. “You love your fresh air here in the States. In London, we keep our sashes closed when bad weather is about.”

“Funny for a Londoner to be bitten by a fog,” laughed Marquette. “It was a bad one last night, though.”

“Worse than a pea-souper,” agreed Knight. He looked sharply toward the door as he heard someone rap; then questioned: “Who can that be?”

“Detective Cardona, from New York Headquarters,” explained Marquette. “I told him to meet me here. I’ll answer it, Knight.”

THE secret service operative opened the door to admit Joe Cardona. The swarthy-faced detective looked like someone who was bringing news. He shook hands and nodded wisely as Marquette introduced the Englishman as Jarvis Knight. Then Cardona nudged his thumb upward.

“A guy just jumped off the roof of this hotel,” informed Cardona. “On this side of the building. I saw the crowd when I was coming by. I stopped to check up.”

“Any clue to the man’s identity?” questioned Marquette.

“No,” replied Cardona. “First off, he flattened like a pancake. Not a chance of recognizing him. The patrolman couldn’t find a single paper on him. No money. Nothing.”

The man who called himself Jarvis Knight was lighting a cigarette while the detective spoke. Softening his harsh tone, he questioned: “What proof is there that the chap came from the roof? Are you sure he did not fall from some room?”

“The odds are against it,” returned Cardona. “They’ve got an open terrace here on the fortieth floor. They don’t watch the place like they should. About a week ago, a fellow jumped off before they could stop him.”

“I see,” nodded Knight. “This blighter must have read about it in the daily journals. The previous suicide gave him his inspiration. Do I size it?”

“Just about. That’s the way those goofs do it. They need nerve for suicide. They like to pick spots that somebody tried before them.”

Vic Marquette nodded his agreement with Joe Cardona’s statement. A pursed smile flickered on the lips of Jarvis Knight: then faded as the sharp-featured Englishman puffed at his cigarette. Strolling across the room, Knight glanced through the closed window then shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss the subject of suicide. Vic Marquette advanced and spoke in a confidential tone. The operative’s words were half a suggestion, half a request.

“We ought to talk matters over, Knight,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to tell you. I brought Cardona here because he happened to be in on some of it. Suppose we get to business?”

“It’s quite agreeable,” acknowledged Knight, turning from the window. “Am I correct in my conjecture that you have gained information concerning this chap Sailor Martz?”

“You’ve guessed it,” replied Vic, with a nod toward Cardona. “We landed Sailor, but he was dead.”

“Let me have the details.” Knight waved his visitors to chairs; but himself remained standing by the window. “After that, I shall relate some facts of my own knowledge.”

VIC MARQUETTE began the story. Knight listened, his gaze fixed in a meditative stare toward Manhattan’s sky line. At times, the Englishman’s lips showed their pursed smile; at other intervals, Knight delivered abrupt nods.

All the while, his expression showed him to be intent. Joe Cardona noted it and the detective gathered an increasing hunch that Jarvis Knight was speculating on the future as he listened to Vic’s recital of the past.

Joe Cardona was right. The Englishman who held the credentials of Eric Delka was formulating definite plans. He was basing his coming actions upon the assurance that he had gained from Joe Cardona; namely, that the supposed suicide from the Goliath roof would not be identified.

There was reason for Knight’s well-guarded smile. Chance opportunity had enabled him to dispose of the one man who could have balked his purpose. Established as Inspector Eric Delka, of Scotland Yard, this man who had struck from ambush could foresee success to the enterprise that had brought him to New York.