The Python

CHAPTER XIV THE BROKEN INTERVIEW

IT took Craig Jurrice nearly fifty minutes to reach the Hotel Bragelonne. He had chosen to make the trip by cab. Traffic was heavy at this hour and the taxi was stalled frequently on its trip.

Hence Jurrice, when he reached the apartment hotel, was both impatient and annoyed. He strode into an elevator and was taken promptly to the sixth floor.

Clyde Burke arrived five minutes later. He entered the lobby and approached the desk. He arrived just in time to hear an argument between two clerks. One was rising from the telephone switchboard, where he was on temporary duty.

“You gave Mr. Jurrice the message then?” inquired the one behind the desk. “When was that?”

“When he stopped for his key,” replied the man from the switchboard. “See? It’s gone from the box.”

“Where’s the other one then?”

“There was only one message, that told him to wait for a second call.”

“I know there was only one message. I mean, where’s the other key?”

“That’s right — there should be two. Doesn’t Jurrice usually carry one, though?”

“Yes. That’s why there should be one here in the box. Unless, like most everybody, he forgets it occasionally and leaves it in his room when he locks the automatic door.”

“Then why worry about it? Jurrice has his key. I gave him the message. His call has come and he’s answering it from his apartment.”

Laughing, the clerk went back to the switchboard. His companion nodded, apparently realizing his own dumbness. He saw Clyde and waited for the reporter’s question.

“I should like to speak to Mr. Jurrice,” stated Clyde. “His apartment is 602, I believe?”

“Yes,” replied the clerk, “but his line’s busy. We’ll ring him later.”

Clyde took a chair. He felt relieved; for he had made speed in coming here. Clyde had haunted the steamship office all during the afternoon, keeping tabs on Jurrice’s stay in Roquil’s office. For this was actually Clyde’s day off at the Classic; and he was keeping to the special task of watching Jurrice.

Jurrice’s nervous behavior at the steamship office; his open speech in front of witnesses — these combined elements had made Clyde decide that the emergency had come.

If Jurrice intended to keep talking about Revoort, Clyde knew of a place where he could chatter in security. The game was to get Jurrice there.

The fact that Jurrice was talking on the telephone gave Clyde the assurance that all was well for the present. He did not see how Jurrice could be complicating matters by a telephone call. Had Clyde been able to listen in on that busy wire, his opinion might have changed.

IN the little living room of Suite 602, Craig Jurrice was making statements that concerned his connection with Louis Revoort. Moreover, he was repeating words that came across the wire, thus giving an indication of what was being said at the other end. For Jurrice, hard upon his return to the Bragelonne, had received a call from Revoort’s Cuban friend, Ramorez.

“You saw me at the steamship office?” Jurrice was saying. “Yes. I was there… Yes, inquiring for Revoort… I see; you decided not to speak to me there… Very wise… I said very wise, Senor Ramorez…

“Yes. I feel confident that you are Revoort’s friend… Yes, he told me that he would visit the mountain slopes of Vuelta Abajo… Also that he would have to go by boat upon the Cauto River… That is correct; he first went to the Isle of Pines… Positively, senor. You do not need to convince me any further…

“Ah! So you were to communicate with Revoort? I see… At the Legrand Hotel?… This is real news. I should like to know more about it… What’s that? You’re only a few blocks from here? Good… Certainly; it would be wiser for me to come and see you…

“Yes. I have pencil and paper… Carl Ramorez… The address? Yes… Yes… I have jotted it down… I know the place… You may expect me quite soon, senor…”

Jurrice completed the jotting with his pencil. He concluded his call and placed the French telephone upon its stand. His nervousness had eased; his pale face showed color. Though still worried about Revoort, Jurrice felt more confidence since hearing directly from this man Ramorez.

Jurrice had believed Revoort’s story of a rich Cuban who sought the reclaimed treasure. All along, Jurrice had wanted to know the man’s identity. Today — had he been able — he would have contacted Ramorez; but had not known who the man might be or where he was. To hear from Ramorez at this hour had been more than Jurrice had hoped.

Taking off his brown coat and vest, Jurrice hung the garments over his arm and started toward the door of his bedroom. He stopped long enough to pick up the sheet of paper on which he had written the Cuban’s name and address.

Passing through the open doorway, he turned on the bedroom light and closed the door behind him. He was whistling softly as he performed these actions; his closing of the door cut off the sound of the melody.

DOWNSTAIRS, Clyde Burke was becoming impatient. The clerk at the switchboard had found some other business; and had left his chair. When he returned, Clyde saw him pull out some plugs. Clyde wondered if Jurrice’s call had been concluded; but the clerk gave no such indication.

The man at the desk had strolled away when the other returned. Three or four minutes passed. Clyde decided to make another inquiry. He went over to the switchboard.

“What about Mr. Jurrice?” he questioned. “I thought you were going to tell him I was here.”

“Did you want to see Mr. Jurrice?”

“Certainly. Didn’t you hear me speak to the man at the desk?”

“No. What’s more, he didn’t tell me. Wait. I’ll ring Mr. Jurrice for you.”

The clerk plugged in and moved the switch. There was no response. The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Guess he’s on his way downstairs,” he declared. “Probably going out to dinner. He was talking on the telephone seven or eight minutes ago; but he doesn’t answer now.”

Clyde loitered in the lobby two minutes longer. Then, impatient when Jurrice did not appear, he entered an elevator and rode up to the sixth. Clyde found the door marked 602. He rang a bell. At first there was no response; but after a second attempt, Clyde heard a cheery response through the transom.

“Wait a minute!” It was Jurrice’s voice. “I’ll be there.”

One minute proved to be three. Finally the door opened; Jurrice appeared, attired in a blue-serge suit, carrying an overcoat and derby upon one arm. He clicked the light switch as he opened the door; then stepped out into the corridor to face his visitor.

Clyde saw a nervous twitch of Jurrice’s lips; he noted a strained face in the pale light. Jurrice, evidently, had not expected to encounter an unknown visitor.

“My name is Burke,” informed Clyde. “I’m from the New York Classic.”

“A reporter?” queried the man from 602, his voice a bit suspicious. “To see me?”

“Yes.” Clyde spoke confidentially and motioned toward the elevator. “We have just received an unconfirmed report that a friend of yours is safe. I refer to Louis Revoort.”

JURRICE’S eyes were sharp in the subdued light. They had reached the elevators; Clyde was ringing for a car.

“This is confidential,” added Clyde, “and the only way to gain further news is to go to the Classic office. Apparently, Revoort has not told the officers on the Tropical that he is still on board. He spoke only to a friend — evidently someone on the ship—”

“Is the Tropical in port?”

“Not yet. Moreover, Revoort may not land with the other passengers. Suppose you accompany me to the newspaper office.”

Jurrice was nodding as the elevator arrived. They descended in silence. In the lobby, Jurrice approached the desk and tossed a key toward the clerk behind the switchboard.

“You have the other key, Mr. Jurrice?” questioned the clerk.

“Certainly.” Jurrice drew the key from his pocket. “I had forgotten it the last time I went out. I have it now.”

Jurrice accompanied Clyde to the street. The reporter hailed a ready cab. They stepped aboard and Clyde gave the driver the address of the Classic. He began to talk to Jurrice as they rolled along.

“About Revoort,” stated Clyde. “This word from him was somewhat mysterious. Apparently a radiogram was sent from the ship to some friend who had been calling our office for news. When we—”

“Stop a moment,” interposed Jurrice. “I must make a telephone call. That corner drug store will do. Wait for me here; I won’t be long.”

The driver heard the statement. He pulled to the curb. Revoort alighted and entered the drug store. Clyde waited for five minutes; then became impatient. He leaned to the driver’s seat.

“What do you make of it, Moe?” inquired Clyde.

“Looks like a run-out,” returned the hackie, who was a sharp-faced fellow. “Better take a look in the drug store.”

Clyde followed the advice. He returned in a few minutes and spoke again to the driver.

“Jurrice pulled a fast one,” declared Clyde. “There’s a side door to that drug store. He must have ducked out. Let’s get back to the Bragelonne.”

The driver wheeled his cab. His face was as serious as Clyde’s. For Moe Shrevnitz, the hackie, was also in The Shadow’s service. His taxi had been waiting to give Jurrice further surety of safety. Moe was wondering why Jurrice had given them the slip.

At the Bragelonne, Clyde entered and inquired if Jurrice had returned. Both clerks were on duty; they said that they had not seen him. It was possible, though, that the man had gone past them.

The fellow at the switchboard rang the room, without an answer. Clyde remembered that he had done that once before, while Jurrice had been in the room; hence this was no proof that Jurrice had not returned.

Both clerks looked suspiciously at Clyde. The reporter decided that a trip upstairs would be unwise. He went out to the street, told Moe to remain in the vicinity, and chose the subway as his own route to the Classic office.

On the way, Clyde decided that Jurrice must have been suspicious of him; or else the man must have had some appointment which he had to keep. Either answer would do as an explanation of Craig Jurrice’s odd behavior.

There was another answer which never occurred to Clyde Burke. That answer happened to be the true one concerning Craig Jurrice. For the present — and for hours to come — that answer would remain unguessed.