The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER III. DEATH STRIKES TWICE

TALLEYRAND PLACE was far from the neighborhood of the Wuhu Cafe. Situated close to the East River, it constituted one of Manhattan’s most exclusive districts. Here houses formed a miniature block about an inner courtyard. Lights above doorways threw a soft glow upon a tinkling fountain that gave the place an atmosphere of an Italian garden.

Only a few of these close-walled houses were occupied. The others had not been completed; and number twenty-eight stood in semi-isolation at a deep corner of the court. A light was burning above the front door; the house seemed to extend a welcome to some expected visitor.

Inside the house, an elderly man was seated in a comfortable living room. The antiquated furniture was of one design. Obviously it had been brought here from some older residence. Serene in his surroundings, the old gentleman was thumbing through typewritten pages. He looked up as a tall, pasty-faced man entered the room.

“Who was on the telephone, Basslett?” questioned the elderly man. “Was it David Callard?”

“Yes, sir,” responded Basslett, with a nod. “He was detained, sir. I–I think we can expect him shortly. Very shortly, Mr. Ralgood.”

“You are nervous, Basslett,” remarked Ralgood, eyeing the pale-faced fellow sharply. “Come, come, my man. Why should you be so troubled? You have shown signs of nervousness ever since I told you that I expected young Callard this evening.”

“It’s made me think of the old master, sir,” explained Basslett. The man’s pale lips twitched as he spoke.

“You see, sir, old Mr. Callard was none too friendly with his nephew. I have dreaded this meeting a bit — this meeting with young Mr. David, sir.”

“That is odd, Basslett. All was well between Milton Callard and his nephew when the young man departed for China a few years ago. That was the time when you last saw David.”

“I know, sir. But old Mr. Callard was quite incensed when David encountered that trouble in the Orient. He spoke harshly about David, sir; and wrote him a very indignant letter, sir.”

“You saw the letter, Basslett?”

“No, sir. But old Mr. Callard told me that he had reprimanded his nephew.”

RALGOOD nodded thoughtfully. He pointed Basslett to a chair. The tall man sat down and shifted uneasily. Slowly, Ralgood dipped his left hand into his coat pocket; he brought forth a folded letter.

Carefully, he produced a pair of spectacles, opened his eyes and adjusted the glasses to his nose.

“Basslett,” stated Ralgood, “when my friend, Milton Callard, died a few months ago, no one was surprised at his demise. All of us who knew him were convinced that his death was near. He was suffering from an incurable ailment. But I, for one, was astonished when I received this letter.”

“I understand, sir,” nodded Basslett.

“You should,” declared Ralgood, with a dry smile. “You were Milton Callard’s secretary. This letter was in your handwriting; for Milton Callard dictated it to you.”

Basslett nodded. Ralgood was glancing at the letter. Suddenly, the gray-haired man thrust the paper across to Basslett. The secretary received it with puzzled stare.

“Read it aloud,” suggested Ralgood. “Refresh your memory, Basslett.”

“‘Dear Luther,’” began Basslett, his voice quavering slightly. “‘Knowing that I am on my death bed, I am entrusting a mission of importance to you. Within this letter I am enclosing a bit of ribbon. I shall ask you to guard it from all eyes.’”

“Go on,” ordered Ralgood, as Basslett paused.

“‘On the fifth of December next,’” proceeded Basslett, as he read from the letter, “‘you will go to the office of Roger Mallikan, New York representative of the Indo-China Shipping Bureau. Be there at eleven o’clock sharp; show the ribbon to Mallikan and wait for others to appear. After three have arrived; Mallikan will realize what is to be done. Signed: Milton Callard.’”

Ralgood was nodding as Basslett ceased. Wisely, the old man peered toward Basslett.

“You wrote two other letters for Milton Callard?” questioned Ralgood. “Two others identical with this one?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Basslett, huskily. “Two others.”

“You saw the pieces of ribbon that went into the letters?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Milton Callard inserted the ribbons himself?”

“Yes, sir. He was too weak to write. His hands were almost paralyzed.”

“Who posted the letters? You or Milton Callard?”

“Mr. Callard, sir.”

Slowly, Ralgood reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. From it, he extracted a folded square of blue ribbon; a tiny object that measured no more than an inch in either direction. He held the ribbon in the light, but did not unfold it.

“THIS is my secret, Basslett,” declared Ralgood, solemnly. “I cannot show you what is on this ribbon; but in turn, I do not expect you to tell me the names of the men to whom Milton Callard mailed two other fragments. Is that plain?”

Basslett nodded in agreement.

“It is not yet December,” reminded Ralgood. “Therefore, I must wait to carry out Milton Callard’s instructions. But this matter is important even now. It is because of this letter and the ribbon that I insisted that you become my secretary shortly after Milton Callard’s death. I wanted to do my utmost to aid in the preservation of the secret.”

“I–I have been keeping the secret, sir,” blurted Basslett. “Old Mr. Callard told me to say nothing. Truly, Mr. Ralgood — truly—”

“You wrote to David Callard while he was imprisoned in China,” remarked Ralgood. “You admitted that yourself, Basslett.”

“Only because of his uncle’s death, sir,” pleaded Basslett. “That was necessary, sir. I told Mr. David nothing — nothing except that I would be in your employ afterward.”

Basslett’s tone had become one of marked sincerity. A flicker of doubt passed from Ralgood’s face. The gray-haired man nodded.

“That is why David wrote to me,” he decided. “You had mentioned me, Basslett, as a friend of his uncle. That is why he told me he would come here after his ship docked. He told me that he would arrive aboard the Tamalpais.”

Ralgood paused reflectively; then spoke slowly:

“David Callard gained an early release from prison on condition that he would return to the United States. He explained that fact in his letter. Yet it is surprising that he should have communicated with me, knowing beforehand that his uncle had disinherited him.”

“Very surprising, sir,” agreed Basslett. “Truly, I cannot understand his action.”

“I can understand the reason for his return,” asserted Ralgood, emphatically. “David Callard would want to claim a share of his uncle’s estate, despite the fact that he was cut off in the will.”

“But he can gain nothing, sir. The estate was less than fifty thousand dollars—”

“And all went to charity. But there is more to it than that, Basslett. Do you not realize that Milton Callard was worth more than mere thousands? He was worth millions!”

“So people said, sir; but the will—”

“The will means nothing, Basslett. Those trivial bequests to charity. Bah! Milton Callard had real wealth, Basslett. You should have known it, even though Milton probably told you but little of his affairs.”

“He told me very little, Mr. Ralgood.”

“But at least enough to let you know that he must be worth more than fifty thousand dollars. Any dolt would have recognized that fact. The case is obvious, Basslett. Milton Callard did not want his will to be contested. He placed a store of wealth somewhere, deciding to entrust it — after a reasonable time — to persons of his own choice. This ribbon is one of the three keys to a fortune, Basslett.”

“I understand, sir. Of course, you intend to keep it a secret from David Callard?”

“Positively. That is why I am discussing the matter with you before the young upstart arrives. Tell me something, Basslett. Who is this Roger Mallikan, of the Indo-China Shipping Bureau? Was he a friend of Milton Callard’s?”

“No, sir. Merely an acquaintance. It was Mallikan who sent word to old Mr. Callard that David had been imprisoned because of his indiscretions in China.”

“Did Milton and Mallikan ever meet?”

“Never, sir. Old Mr. Callard was quite ill at the time, sir.”

“Hm-m-m. Well, I suppose Mallikan is trustworthy. That is why I and two others were told to meet in his office on December fifth. Milton probably chose Mallikan in preference to some attorney. He never had any faith in lawyers. Nor did I, Basslett. They are legal thieves, the lot of them. Scoundrels who pretend—”

RALGOOD broke off suddenly. He was fingering the ribbon as he spoke, handling it in almost an idle fashion. Chancing to glance at Basslett, Ralgood spied the secretary leaning forward, unrestrained eagerness showing on his pallid features.

With an angry exclamation, Luther Ralgood came to his feet. Indignation flashed upon his stern features.

Basslett, gasping, slid sidewise from his chair. Clutching the side of a wide, curtained doorway, the secretary delivered a hunted look as his eyes met those of his new master.

“You are a traitor, Basslett!” denounced Ralgood, in a tone of fierce accusation. “I know now, why you seemed truthful sometimes; evasive at others. You have yielded information. Like myself, you have guessed that millions were at stake. Speak, you scoundrel! Tell the true facts of your treachery!”

Basslett was cringing, his hands half hidden by his coat. His face showed white in the bright light of the single table lamp that illuminated the room. His features were accentuated by the darkness of the curtains just behind him.

Ralgood strode forward.

Basslett whimpered; then suddenly uttered a harsh cry. From his coat pocket, the secretary whipped a small revolver. Ralgood stopped short, staring at the weapon.

“Give — give me the ribbon,” stammered Basslett. “At — at once. Place it here — in my hand.”

His free hand trembled as he extended it. Mechanically, Ralgood reached forward and let the ribbon drop into the secretary’s palm. A nervous chuckle sounded from Basslett’s lips as the traitor fumblingly opened the ribbon with his fingers.

He had wanted to see what word the ribbon bore; now his eyes were viewing it. Yet Basslett stared in perplexity.

Upon the ribbon were only two letters, stamped in faded gold: ES

Basslett’s gun hand was shaking as it lowered. Ralgood saw the weapon sink. The gray-haired man stiffened; then sprang forward upon the secretary. A startled gasp was all that Basslett could utter. The ribbon fluttered from his fingers and lay conspicuously blue upon the light-colored surface of an Oriental rug.

Ralgood had disarmed the secretary. Gripping the fellow’s arms, he drove Basslett back against the wall.

Basslett tried vainly to clutch his master’s throat. Failing, he sought to twist away.

He floundered against the side of the table that bore the lamp. There Basslett slipped and Ralgood pounced upon him with a sharp exclamation of triumph. Then came a stroke that stopped the follow-up of victory.

Three muffled shots boomed from a dark drapery. Bursts of flame from between the curtain and the side of the doorway, just behind Ralgood’s back. Ralgood’s cry of victory ended in a gasp as the gray-haired man jolted upward, like the victim of an electric shock.

Basslett, staring from against the wall, saw Ralgood’s face assume a pained-contorted expression. The secretary watched his master slump to the floor and roll face forward. Luther Ralgood was dying; a murderer had shot him in the back. Three bullets in quick succession, all from close range.

A HORRIFIED stare appeared upon Basslett’s face. The traitor secretary looked beyond Ralgood’s body to view a smoking gun muzzle that still projected from the curtain.

“You — you’ve killed him!” blurted Basslett, his eyes bulging toward the curtains. “I— I — you told me that murder would not be needed. You told me that — when I last heard from you! You — you promised — promised that you would not kill!”

The curtain swung forward. The man beyond was entering. A harsh chuckle sounded as an arm and shoulder moved into view. Basslett caught one glimpse of a face just past the drapery. Wildly, the secretary sprang past Ralgood’s body and stooped to grasp the ribbon that lay upon the floor.

“This is mine!” he cried. “This ribbon is mine, as much as yours. Murder was not in our bargain. You have killed despite your promise!”

As he spoke, the secretary made a frantic grab past the ribbon. He snatched up his own revolver from the floor. Remorse over the murder of Luther Ralgood had changed Basslett’s feeling. He wanted to settle scores with this killer to whom he had betrayed his master.

The curtain swung back as Basslett came up with the gun. A gloating cry escaped the secretary’s lips.

Maddened, Basslett thought that Ralgood’s slayer was about to flee. In that guess he was wrong. As Basslett sought to point his reclaimed gun, the killer’s revolver spurted new jets of flame. Thrice it boomed its muffled shots. The slugs ripped Basslett’s unprotected chest.

Staggering, the secretary wavered sidewise, his pale features showing the same sickened expression that Ralgood’s had displayed. Toward the curtains, then to the wall — there Basslett slumped. His body tumbled sidewise against the table; his arms flung wide as he twisted and pitched forward.

The table overturned as Basslett struck it. The lamp jounced toward the floor; its shade struck a chair arm and bounced away; the lamp itself landed upside down. The single bulb broke with a clatter; the room of death was plunged into darkness.

Murder had followed murder. Luther Ralgood had been slain in cold blood; Basslett, in turn, had been shot down by the killer who had bribed him to deeds of treachery. Death had struck twice in this secluded house. Crime had succeeded while The Shadow was already on his way.