The Road Of Crime

CHAPTER XIX THE DEMAND

To Graham Wellerton’s dazed eyes, Carma’s painted face was a sneering mask. The young man stood stock-still as the woman strolled past him, entered the living room and settled herself in a comfortable chair. Despairingly, Graham followed. Carma greeted him with a coarse laugh.

“Not glad to see your long-lost wife, eh?” the woman jeered. “Thought you’d double-crossed me, big boy?”

“When it comes to double-crossing,” returned Graham huskily, “you are the real artist.”

Carma took the words as a compliment. She tilted back her head and laughed. She lighted a cigarette, then eyed Graham with a cold glare of malice.

“You’re worth a lot of dough, aren’t you?” questioned the woman.

“That’s my affair,” retorted Graham.

“Spending it pretty free, I hear,” was Carma’s remark. “Doing nice things around this place. Gone goody-goody, haven’t you?”

Graham made no reply.

“Well” — Carma’s tone became scoffing — “you can spend it the way you want — provided I get my share. I’m giving you a break. Pay me off and we’re quits.”

Graham maintained his silence.

“Fifty-fifty,” Carma kept talking. “That’s on the original amount. Get the idea, big boy?”

“Your demands are moderate, aren’t they?” quizzed Graham, in a sarcastic tone.

“They are,” agreed Carma. “That’s not all gravy — by a long shot. I’m not the only one who is coming in for a big profit.”

“You mean—”

“That this may be a hick town, but there’s people here who know their onions. Get that? Flatter yourself, old bean — you fooled me right enough. I’d never have looked for you here, but someone sent for me.”

“Someone in Southwark?”

“Someone in Southwark,” sneered Carma. “Laugh that off. A small-town bozo with big-town ideas.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Guess for yourself.”

“You mean — someone who learned that I was crooked? How could anyone here have landed that fact?”

“I’m not telling all I know,” Carma laughed. “You muffed things a bit — that’s all — around the time your uncle took the bump. Thought you had good friends in this burg — people who wouldn’t get envious when they saw you throwing your cash away, like the sap you are.

“Well, someone got ideas — and I’m not telling you how or why. The finish of the big idea was to bring me here. Little Carma has a way of getting dough — so far as you’re concerned. You’ve heard my terms. I want five million dollars.”

“How soon?” questioned Graham sharply.

“Pretty quick,” taunted Carma. “You’d, better start thinking about it pronto. Fix it up tomorrow. Then you can go down to see your lawyer the day after. I’m staying at the Southwark House. Carma Urstead is my name — Carma Wellerton to you.”

“When are you coming back here?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“And you expect me to have all the arrangements prepared?”

“Yes. Settle the way you’ll divide. When I show up, give me the figures. If it’s on the level, we’ll make a legal settlement the next day. You and I and the lawyer. If you don’t come through, I’ll cook you.”

Carma rose defiantly. She strode toward the door of the room. Graham followed her. At the front door, he put a short, abrupt question:

“Who told you I was here in Southwark?” demanded Graham. “Who looked you up in New York?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” returned the woman. “You’ve got a noodle. Use it. The more you think, the more you’ll know it’s pay up. It won’t do you any good to argue with the man who brought me here. He has you tied up — and he knows everything. It’s curtains, big boy.”

Carma turned and opened the door. As she walked defiantly from the porch, Graham Wellerton slammed the door. He paced back and forth, fuming. Malice dominated his thoughts. All his past resentment toward the world surged violently through his brain.

As he pondered over Carma’s words, Graham became enraged. He noted that it was not quite eleven o’clock. Seizing his hat and coat, he stormed from the front door, rounded the bank building and strode in the direction of Ralph Delkin’s home.

In his fury, Graham, did not notice a coupe parked near his house. The car rolled silently along the street after Graham had disappeared from view. When the young man neared Delkin’s home, the car was on that street, its lights extinguished. Harry Vincent was watching from a distance.

Lights were showing in Delkin’s living-room windows. Graham rapped at the door. Eunice opened it. Staring beyond the girl, Graham, saw Ralph Delkin.

Without a word to Eunice, the young man strode forward to encounter the manufacturer. Delkin arose from his chair and stood in surprise as he faced the intruder.

“What is the matter, Graham?” he questioned.

“The matter!” Graham looked at Delkin, then at Eunice, who had entered the room. “I’ve been double-crossed — that’s all. Misplaced confidence.”

“What has happened?”

There was a peevishness in Delkin’s tone. The man seemed worried and Graham took it as a sign of guilt. In cold, scoffing terms, he broke loose with an outpour of indignation.

“My wife is in town,” he asserted. “She has come here to demand money. She told me how she discovered where I was. Someone in Southwark sent for her.”

“Someone in Southwark!” echoed Delkin feebly.

“Someone who has learned about my past,” declared Graham. “Someone who has seen a way to make me pay out millions. It’s blackmail, of the meanest kind.”

“This is most unfortunate,” observed Delkin.

“For me, yes,” sneered Graham. “But not for the man who is to profit by his treachery. Someone has squealed — and there’s only one man in Southwark who knows the facts about me — only one to whom I have revealed my past life.”

“You are accusing me?” queried Delkin harshly.

“No,” scoffed Graham. “You are accusing yourself. I was right when I was crooked. I trusted no one then. I refused your friendship because I suspected everyone who ever pretended to be my friend. You’re no worse than a lot of others, Delkin, but you’re no better. Carma put me wise without realizing it. You’re the one who framed this game!”

“Get out of my house!” ordered Delkin indignantly. “Get out, before I call the police!”

“You won’t call anyone,” retorted Graham. “You’re playing too big a game—”

“Graham!” It was Eunice who interrupted. “You know well that my father would not betray you. You must not talk this way!”

Graham paid no attention to the girl’s words. Face to face with Ralph Delkin, he poured out his contempt of the man whom he had branded as a traitor.

“I told you to destroy those notes,” declared Graham. “You refused. Why? I’ll tell you. Because they were made out to my uncle; because they bore dates that will stand as proof of the robbery I committed. Where are the notes now?”

“At the factory,” asserted Delkin.

“I want them,” said Graham. “At once.”

“You will not get them by demand,” returned Delkin. “Wait until you have come to your senses. This is outrageous—”

“So you’re keeping them, eh?” jeered Graham. “Well — go ahead. They don’t matter. Carma is your trump card. She’s here — to make me pay. I know your financial situation, Delkin. I’ve been ready to offer you aid should you request it.

“Instead of coming to me fairly, you turned crook yourself. Thought you could lie under cover and pick up a lot of easy cash. Didn’t trust me, because I told you that I’d been a crook. Well, the damage is done. I hope you’re satisfied. I warn you, though, that I’m going to fight this game to the end.”

TURNING, Graham thrust himself past Eunice and reached the door. He swung to deliver a last tirade before departing. His face bore the sordid venom that had characterized it during his career of crime. The words that spat from Graham’s lips were filled with malice.

“I warned you when you first offered me your friendship,” Graham reminded. “I warned you that you would be sorry — both of you. I softened; but I’m toughened again. I’m warning you now — to look out!

“You’ll hear from me, Ralph Delkin — and you’ll never forget the revenge that will be mine. You’ve joined in a blackmail plot, and if I don’t come through, you’ll tell the world that I was mixed in crime.”

“You won’t have to tell the world” — Graham’s tone was bitter — “because I’ll attend to that myself. You’ll learn just how tough I can be. When I strike, you will feel it.”

As Graham glowered, Eunice Delkin stepped forward. She advanced straight to the young man and looked steadily into his eyes. Graham stared coldly. He expected to see antagonism in Eunice’s glance; instead, he observed nothing more than sorrowful disapproval.

“Graham,” said Eunice quietly, “you cannot mean these things that you have said. You know that there is no revenge in your heart. You know that father and I are your friends.”

Graham Wellerton could not face this mild criticism. His tight fists loosened, his heart seemed to sink. Bitterness began to fade. Graham knew that the girl was right. Yet the last vestiges of resentment came in a final surge, and with that emotion, Graham Wellerton turned on his heel and stalked out into the night.

The tense scene was at an end. Graham Wellerton had capitulated, although he had managed not to show it. Rebuked at heart, he turned his footsteps homeward, fighting hard to balance his regard for Eunice with his resentment toward Ralph Delkin. In that effort, Graham was failing. Right feeling was triumphing over malice, despite the ordeal which Graham had undergone.

RALPH DELKIN, standing in his living room, was pale and troubled when Eunice approached her father; the man spoke in a tone of worriment.

“Graham Wellerton intends to do us harm,” asserted Delkin. “I am worried, Eunice — worried—”

“There is nothing to worry about, father,” interposed the girl quietly. “Graham will come to his senses. Reason will tell him that you are his real friend — that you would not betray him.”

“I must have advice,” declared Delkin. “If I should call Harwin Dowser now—”

“Never!” exclaimed Eunice in alarm.

“Dowser is Graham’s attorney,” admitted Delkin. “Nevertheless, I know him well. His services can be mine for the asking.”

“It is not that, father,” decided Eunice firmly. “Remember our promise to Graham; that we would tell no one of his past. Graham has accused you of betraying him — surely, you would not do so now, even though you might speak in confidence to a lawyer.”

Ralph Delkin nodded thoughtfully. He slumped into a chair. His gaze seemed far away. Eunice wondered what was passing in her father’s mind.

“Promise me,” said the girl, “that you will say nothing unless Graham makes some attempt to follow his foolish threat. Will you promise, father?”

Delkin gave a slow nod. He was staring toward the door; Eunice was watching him. Neither knew that other eyes were upon them; that an intruder was spying through the half-opened window. This stormy scene with Graham Wellerton had been observed by an outsider who had more than a passing interest in the affair!

When Eunice left her father alone, Ralph Delkin still seemed in a dazed state. The girl knew that he was pondering over the vague threat which Graham Wellerton had made. She felt sure, however, that all would be well.

There was one, however, in Southwark, who understood that some great calamity was threatening. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was that man. At midnight, Harry stopped in the telegraph office to send a telegram to Rutledge Mann, in New York.

There was nothing in the telegram to indicate it as other than an ordinary message pertaining to some minor business. Actually, however, the wording of the wire had a special significance. That telegram was an emergency message to The Shadow — a prompt report to tell the master of darkness that grim events were in the making.

Harry Vincent knew that The Shadow would respond. Whatever might occur in Southwark, The Shadow’s might would be here to play a vital part!