The Python

CHAPTER XIII MOVES AT DUSK

THAT same afternoon found Albert Thurney standing at the window of his fourteenth-floor apartment. It was after five o’clock; a clouded, sultry day had brought haziness to Manhattan. Through the gloom of approaching dusk, Thurney could see the glow of blue lights in the distant loft building.

Neon bulbs were wavering. Straining, Thurney caught the signal. A smile showed on his light-complexioned face. So intent was Thurney that he did not hear the approach of footsteps from an inner room of his apartment. He started suddenly when a voice spoke beside him.

“Pardon, Mr. Thurney.” The speaker was a droop-faced man who walked with a catlike tread. “I did not wish to disturb you while you watched the lights.”

“It’s all right, Warring,” approved Thurney, stepping back from the window. “The signals are working now that darkness has arrived. It’s time they were moving.”

“Quite so, Mr. Thurney. If I might venture to say so, sir, I would suggest that the one weakness in the system is the signal method. Contact is limited only to nighttime—”

“The Python has no weakness, Warring,” interrupted Thurney, his tone disapproving. “Moreover, it is not your business, as my valet, to criticize or make undue comment.”

“Pardon again,” bowed Warring. “I was worried, sir, because of the telegram that you received from Norfolk.”

“Duronne’s wire?” laughed Thurney. “The one that passed me the news about the phony swag? Well, Warring, the very fact that Duronne communicated with me is proof that contacts can be made without the lights. Moreover, I made a telephoned report regarding the telegram. The flash-backs from the signal tower have begun. The Python knows everything, Warring.”

“I do believe he does, sir.”

There was profound admiration in Warring’s tone as the valet eyed his master. Thurney, apparently, did not notice it. He was placing a cigarette in its holder.

“Work for me, Warring,” he remarked. “You stay here while I am out. There may be other telegrams — perhaps a call from Warthrope. You see, Warring” — Thurney nudged his thumb toward the window — “those signals were for me. They mean a job that can’t wait too long.”

LEAVING his apartment, Thurney hailed a taxi and gave an address on Sixth Avenue, not many squares north of Forty-second Street. He alighted at the entrance of a towering skyscraper and rode by an express elevator to the fortieth floor. He walked to a corner office and read the elaborate legend on the door:

Entering the outer office, Thurney found a lone stenographer. He asked the girl if Mr. Bornick happened to be in his office. The stenographer nodded. Thurney took a chair while the girl went along an inner corridor.

Only one of several small offices was lighted; its door was ajar. The stenographer rapped and entered. Lester Bornick was seated at a huge mahogany desk, staring from the window, which had an eastern exposure.

In his hand, the lawyer held a pad. On it, he was jotting dots and dashes while he watched the slight flicker of distant blue lights.

Suddenly sensing the girl’s arrival, Bornick swung quickly in his swivel chair. For a moment, his lips seemed about to deliver an angry outburst; then Bornick quickly regained his calm. He tossed the pad into an open drawer of the desk.

“Mr. Thurney is here, sir,” stated the stenographer. “Does he have an appointment with you?”

“Thurney?” queried Bornick. “Albert Thurney? Ah, yes — I recall him. Young chap, isn’t he? Light-complexioned?”

The girl nodded.

“Humph.” Bornick stroked his chin. “I promised to see him at his apartment again; I suppose he was tired of waiting to hear from me. Very well — show him in.”

The stenographer went out and told Thurney he could enter Bornick’s office. Alone at her desk, she pondered over the notes that Bornick had been making. This was the second time that she had surprised the lawyer in such an action. Although she had not noticed the blue lights, the stenographer felt sure that Bornick must have been watching something from the window.

Moreover, the girl wondered why Bornick had been remaining so late in his office. Her duty ended at six o’clock; for the past week, Bornick had stayed after she had gone.

The girl was new to the late shift; nevertheless she had noticed the lawyer’s habits and considered it odd because Bornick’s daily business affairs were invariably completed before five o’clock.

WHILE the stenographer was still puzzling over the matter, the outer door opened and a weary, hollow-cheeked man entered. He removed his hat to reveal a shining bald pate. He bowed and introduced himself as Danton Califax.

“Mr. Bornick is expecting you,” acknowledged the stenographer. “Have a chair, Mr. Califax, while I tell him that you are here.”

She went to Bornick’s office. This time her rap was answered by a sharp command to enter. Opening the door, the girl found Thurney in conference with Bornick.

“Mr. Califax is here.”

“Tell him to come in,” ordered Bornick.

As soon as the door closed behind the girl, Bornick arose and strode to the side of the room. He opened another door and pointed to a hallway that joined the main corridor. Thurney arose, nodding, and made his exit. Bornick closed the door and went back to his desk. He was seated there when Califax entered.

“Sorry to have kept you here late, Bornick,” began Califax. “But I am troubled about this matter of Revoort. That catastrophe aboard the steamship Tropical may have concerned him.”

“Perhaps it did,” agreed Bornick, “but why should it concern you, Califax? I thought you had decided to wait until Revoort called to see you; and to let the matter pass if he did not arrive.”

“So I did decide. But Jurrice called me today and he seemed quite alarmed. He received a report at noon; apparently Revoort is missing. Jurrice thinks the man met with foul play.”

“Not at all an unlikely theory. Again, I ask you, why do you feel concerned?”

“Because,” declared Califax, deliberately, “I believe that we should inform the police — or the port authorities — regarding what we know of Revoort. I am convinced, Bornick, that the fire aboard the Tropical was of incendiary origin, started by rascals who sought Revoort’s wealth.”

“I see.” Bornick smiled. “Jurrice, however, does not want you to inform the law.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he called me also. He was disturbed by your statement that you believed all should be made public. I told him that I would talk to you this afternoon.”

“You mean that you agreed with Jurrice?”

“Absolutely. For the present, Califax, no one should make a statement. Give the authorities time to start their investigation. Let them seek facts. If mystery clouds the issue, then make your statement. In spite of Jurrice.

“Right now, however, you would be taking a most unwise course. You are not involved in any manner. You merely chanced to know that one passenger aboard the Tropical was supposed to have a fortune with him.

“Perhaps Revoort is safe. His wealth may be on board, secure from harm. You were never in his confidence; it was Jurrice — not Revoort — who talked to you. I am still your counselor, Califax. I advise no hasty step.”

THE convincing words brought a slow nod from Califax. Bornick perched his elbow on the desk and wagged a heavy finger.

“If Jurrice calls you again,” he stated, “state that you have given me full discretion in this matter. Let me handle Jurrice, while I watch the reports concerning Revoort. Should the time come to speak, the duty will be mine.”

“I suppose you are right, Bornick,” decided Califax. “After all, the whole thing lies between Jurrice and Revoort. Yet if robbery is uncovered, I shall be ill at ease. There have been many jewel thefts lately. I have gems of my own; and they may be sought.”

“Don’t worry.” Bornick shook his head. “Certain of those past robberies concerned my own clients; and I know for a fact that the crooks were after large hauls. They knew the extent of the valuables before they went after them.”

“Some persons have seen my gems,” reminded Califax. “One man in particular, whom I did not like. A young upstart, who still persists in calling upon my niece, Patricia. I believe you met him, Califax — the fellow’s name was Thurney. Albert Thurney.”

“I know him,” nodded Bornick. “I called at his apartment a few times, to look over some plans for a stock company which he wants to promote. Mining enterprises, that look quite substantial; but I think his game may be to have me recommend him to my friends.

“Should I do so, I would have difficulty in checking on his later activities. He might offer bad stocks along with the good. He might have various swindles up his sleeve.”

“Could he be looking for opportunities to rob?”

“I don’t think so, Califax. No, this chap Thurney doesn’t strike me as bad as all that. Forget the fellow; I’m keeping an eye on him.”

Bornick arose, shook hands with his visitor and ushered Califax to the door. Returning to his desk, the lawyer took the swivel chair and turned to the window. He sat with one hand on the telephone, delaying some intended call while he watched to see if blue lights blinked again.

MEANWHILE, Albert Thurney had reached a new destination. This was a crowded office in Manhattan’s downtown section. Close to Wall Street, with broad windows fronting on a thoroughfare, this office had become a thronging point for anxious-eyed persons who were watched by curious crowds outside the door. It was the headquarters of the Coastal Mercantile Marine, owners of the steamship Tropical.

Thurney gained admittance because of his businesslike manner. Strolling to a quiet corner, he watched men behind the counter as they talked to worried persons who had friends and relatives aboard the steamship. The employees were assuring everyone that the Tropical would arrive within a few hours.

A list of passengers had been posted; most of these names were checked as those of persons who were safe. The captain of the Tropical had radioed all obtainable information; it was possible, however, that some passengers had been absent from the roll calls.

AMONG the group about the board was a tall man with heavy mustache, whose face was dark-complexioned. He was not conspicuous, for several South Americans were present and he looked like one of their number. In fact, Thurney did not notice him as he walked over to the counter and spoke confidentially to a clerk.

“My name,” informed the dark man in an undertone, “is Carl Ramorez. I am concerned about a passenger named Louis Revoort, who may be missing from the Tropical.”

He ceased his smoothly purred English to give the clerk a card. “Here is my address. Kindly notify me at once if you receive definite word of Mr. Revoort.”

The clerk nodded and pocketed the card. Ramorez went back to study the board. A wiry young man arrived at the counter and introduced himself as Clyde Burke of the Classic. The clerk asked him to wait and see the office manager.

“Here he comes now,” concluded the clerk, pointing to a door marked “Private,” which had opened. “Stay right here, Mr. Burke. I shall introduce you to Mr. Roquil.”

The manager was coming from his office; with him was a talkative, pale-faced man. Sounds of the fellow’s speech reached three listeners: Thurney, Ramorez and Burke.

“There must be some way of learning!” was the pale-faced man’s protest. “I must know about my friend, Louis Revoort! At once, I tell you! It is vital!”

“Be calm, Mr. Jurrice,” insisted the manager. “The Tropical will arrive within a few hours. I can give you a pass to visit the pier.”

“That won’t do!” returned Jurrice. “You must radio the ship and get word back to me. At once!”

“Very well. I shall do so. Do you wish to remain in my office?”

“No. I shall be at my apartment. You have the name — the Bragelonne — and the number of my suite is 602.”

“All right, Mr. Jurrice.”

Feverishly, Jurrice pushed his way toward the door. Clyde Burke turned promptly, about to follow him; but the clerk gripped Clyde’s arm and began to introduce the reporter to the manager. Clyde could do nothing but remain, to gain a statement for the Classic.

“That fellow Jurrice has been in my office for hours,” explained Roquil. “That is why I could not see you before, Mr. Burke. Here — I have prepared a typewritten statement from the company. Let us go over it together.”

CARL RAMOREZ had heard Craig Jurrice state his name and address. A gleam had come upon the Cuban’s dark, mustached face. The crowd had closed after Jurrice’s departure.

Ramorez suddenly began to fight his way through. This action was observed by Thurney. The Coilmaster’s lips tightened, in expression of a sudden guess.

Again the throng had jammed; it was as futile for Thurney to pursue Ramorez as for the Cuban to overtake Jurrice. However, Thurney lost no time in forcing his way to the street.

Once there, he hurried to a corner drug store and found a telephone booth. He dialed a number. The response was an odd croak from the receiver.

“Four,” spoke Thurney, by way of identification. “Jurrice returning to his apartment. Half an hour needed for trip. Observed by man who may be the Cuban. Observer also left steamship office. All.”

Again the croak. This time it was an acknowledgment. Thurney hung up and left the cigar store. He returned to the steamship office, where Clyde Burke was still engaged with Roquil. Thurney waited a few minutes; then saw the reporter leave.

Cornering the manager, Thurney asked for a pass to the pier. His tone was anxious; Roquil supposed him to be one who had friends aboard the Tropical. Thurney received the pass without question. Smiling his satisfaction, The Python’s Coilmaster strolled from the office.

Warring, the valet, had mentioned a weak point when he had spoken of the weakness in The Python’s contact system. That blue-lighted signal tower, the strongest weapon in The Python’s arsenal, was useless during daylight hours. Thurney had recognized the fact, despite his statement that The Python had no weaknesses.

The Python’s time of strength was night; and early darkness had brought his period of power. Many hours had been lost; but the set-back had been regained.

Albert Thurney had taken on the task of watching Craig Jurrice, to learn if the man had contacted Revoort’s unknown Cuban friend.

Luck had favored Thurney. He had heard Jurrice talk; he had spotted a man who might be the Cuban. Contact, perhaps, was coming soon. Thurney had reported the fact to the croaking man across the wire. The Python had gained news which might well prove useful in his insidious schemes.