The Unseen Killer

CHAPTER I. PLANS COMPLETED

“THAT’S Trip Burgan—”

“The gambler, eh? He looks like a big shot, all right.”

“Looks like one? He is one. Riding easy on the dough he’s taken in—”

The comments were audible to “Trip” Burgan as he strolled through the lobby of the Hotel Revano. A cold smile appeared upon the gambler’s lips. The expression changed, however, as Trip entered the elevator and turned toward the door. Those who could still see him from the lobby observed an emotionless countenance.

The term “poker-faced” applied to Trip Burgan. His sallow visage was one that maintained a fixed appearance. Only his eyes were shifty; but Trip had gained the habit of changing his gaze in a natural fashion that proved deceptive to those who observed it.

The cold smile reappeared when Trip stepped from the elevator at the sixth floor. This showed that the gambler had not forgotten the comments from the lobby loungers. Those statements were to Trip’s liking, particularly the reference to the fact that he was “riding easy.” For Trip, retired from active practice at the gaming table, had been seeking to establish that very impression.

Arriving at a doorway near the end of a corridor, Trip inserted a key and turned the lock. He stepped into a thickly furnished living room, just as a thickset man bounded up from a chair to see who was entering. A sheepish grin showed on the fellow’s thick-lipped face.

“Ought to have known it was you, Trip,” remarked the man, apologetically. “Guess I was kind of half asleep here in the chair. You clicking the key woke me up.”

“All right, Chuck,” returned Trip, in a brusque tone. “Well, what’s doing? Is he here yet?”

“Crofton?”

Trip Burgan’s eyes narrowed. His face formed a scowl that made Chuck shift uneasily. The hard-faced fellow began to stammer apologies for his blunder. Trip cut him short.

“Listen, you mug,” spat the gambler. “Forget that name. Understand? You’ve never heard of Miles Crofton. He’s never been here. Get it?”

“Sure, Trip — but when I’m talking to you—”

“Let me mention the name if anybody does.” Trip paused abruptly to fling aside hat, coat and scarf. Then, reverting to his original question, he snapped: “Well, is he here?”

“Sure,” returned “Chuck.” “In the next room. I showed him in there about fifteen minutes ago.”

“All right. I’m going in to see him. If anybody asks for me, I’m busy.”

WITH that admonition, Trip Burgan opened the door to the next room and entered. He closed the barrier behind him.

Across the room, which was one of the bedrooms of Trip’s apartment, a man was standing at the window, looking toward Broadway, half a block distant. The visitor turned when he heard Trip close the door.

Miles Crofton formed an odd contrast to Trip Burgan. Both men had expressionless faces; but there the likeness ended. Where Trip looked the part of a crafty schemer, Crofton had the appearance of a deliberate thinker.

Though Crofton’s countenance betrayed no emotion, his whole bearing was one that would inspire the confidence of associates. It was not until Trip delivered a slight grin that Crofton relaxed. Even then, his facial expression did not lose its seriousness.

“Had to give Chuck a call-down,” remarked Trip, as he waved his visitor to a chair. “I told him never to mention your name, not even to me; but he forgot it when I came in. He won’t do it again, though.”

Crofton nodded.

“Well,” queried Trip, “what’s doing up at the professor’s? Everything set?”

“For to-night.”

“Yeah?” exclaimed Trip, when he heard Crofton’s matter-of-fact statement. “Say! That’s the ticket! I didn’t think he was going to pull the stunt until next week. What made him set it ahead?”

“Findlay Warlock came in to see him.”

“Still singing his hard-luck song?” questioned Trip. “How he’s counting on the prof to come through with the new invention?”

“Yes,” replied Crofton. “Warlock talked while I was working in the lab. Professor Lessep told him that the new apparatus was ready. Warlock persuaded him immediately to make the test to-night.”

As Crofton paused, his stolidness impressed Trip with the idea that something might be wrong.

Poker-faced, the gambler studied his visitor; then questioned:

“Don’t you like the idea? Aren’t you set for it?”

“I’m ready,” replied Crofton seriously. “It was something Warlock said that bothers me. Just before he left, he told Professor Lessep that he’s invited the police commissioner.”

“Great!” exclaimed Trip. “Say — that’s going to spread the thing wide! Plenty of publicity—”

“Perhaps too much,” interposed Crofton.

“How come?” questioned Trip.

“To begin with,” replied Crofton, “the commissioner may be suspicious of the whole experiment. After it goes through — supposing there’s no hitch — he may start an investigation of my past.”

“What if he does? What’ll he find out? War hero — soldier of fortune — stunt flier—”

“That part’s all right. But he may learn that I was a pal of Rouser Tukin.”

“How? You kept in the clear when Rouser pulled that bank job. A couple of cops got killed, but Rouser was bumped in the fight. He’s not around to talk.”

“They’re still looking for some of the mob.”

“But they haven’t found them. Anyway, who’s going to blab your name? Nobody’s got anything on you.”

“You never can tell what some stool pigeon has heard. Listen, Trip: I don’t want this thing to stir up too much hullabaloo right at the start.”

“It won’t.” Trip seemed positive. “But you’re wise to look at it that way, Crofton. You’ll have to lay low in a hurry. But that’s all set. The hideout’s ready. Steer there as soon as you leave the prof’s.”

“The hideout,” repeated Crofton. He indulged in a slight chuckle. “It seems funny, calling it a hideout. It’s necessary, though. All right” — he shrugged his shoulders — “we can take a chance on the commissioner. Maybe he won’t make any trouble up at Lessep’s.”

“He’s a dumb egg,” assured Trip. “The old commissioner, Ralph Weston, might mean something. But this guy Wainwright Barth — well, maybe he’s as cuckoo as Professor Lessep. He won’t get wind of anything.”

“He might trace you, Trip—”

“How?”

“Through Professor Lessep.”

TRIP BURGAN arose and stalked over by the window. The fading afternoon light revealed an ugly twist to his lips as the gambler faced Miles Crofton.

“The old prof won’t blab,” asserted Trip. “It would queer him if he did. I slipped him dough when he needed it. If it wasn’t for that, this new invention would be listed as a flop along with the others.

“What’s more, I’ve been playing a steady game. I picked this hotel because it wasn’t too cheap nor too ritzy. Just the place where a guy like myself would stop if he had retired. Nobody’s got anything on me.

“I fixed it so you got in with the prof as his assistant. But what if he says so? I’ll deny it; he’ll have no proof to back it up. He’d only put himself in trouble.

“But that’s not all. After you fade out, I’m going to keep away from where you are. Chuck Galla fixed the hideout. He’ll have his own men planted there after you move into the joint to-night. If the bulls begin to quiz me, Chuck will keep away from here and I’ll play dumb.

“If the prof begins to weaken, we’ll find out about it soon enough. There’ll be a way to handle him. You’re not seeing me any more; and I’m not seeing you” — Trip paused to deliver a slight grin — “in fact, nobody’s seeing you. It looks to me like we’re all set.”

“We are.” Crofton rose as he spoke. “I just wanted to sound you out, Trip. I’ve been studying Professor Lessep at close range. I feel sure that he won’t crimp the game. As you say, it would queer him worse than any one else.

“But I wanted to make sure that you weren’t overconfident. It may sound funny for me to say that, after the risks I’ve taken to grab off coin. But I’ve always studied consequences and given them their full value, even when everything looks like a set-up. That’s why I’m still alive.

“The weak link lies between you and Professor Lessep. There’s always a weak link. My policy is to look for it. I wanted to be sure you saw it. You’ve seen it and you’ll be ready for it. That settles the matter. The commissioner won’t worry me.”

Crofton strolled toward the door that led to the living room. Trip followed. He stopped his visitor with a low-voiced question. This time it was Trip who expressed concern.

“You’re sure the apparatus will work?” he questioned. “The old prof won’t get excited and bungle it?”

“Not a chance,” returned Crofton. “We tested it after Warlock left to-day. Lessep has it timed to the exact second. I’ve taken your word for it that the prof will keep mum. You can take mine that he won’t slip when he works his experiment.”

“There’ll be no worry after to-night,” assured Trip. “Listen, Crofton. In a pinch, you can blow in on the old prof. End the whole game before he makes up his mind to blab. Let him know that he’s got plenty to lose—”

Crofton was nodding as he opened the door. Trip broke off so that Chuck would not hear the finish of the sentence. Solemnly, the ex-gambler shook hands with his visitor. Then Trip opened the door, peered into the hall and gave Crofton the signal to stroll forth.

AS soon as he had closed the door Trip Burgan turned to Chuck Galla. Trip made no effort to suppress the enthusiasm that he felt. His hard lips widened; he showed an elation that amazed his underling.

“Give the gang the tip, Chuck,” ordered Trip. “We’re going to cover the hideout, beginning with to-night.”

“You mean Croft—”

Trip laughed as Chuck caught himself before completing Crofton’s name.

“Crofton’s the guy,” informed Trip. “He’s going in there. But nobody’s going to see him go in; and nobody’s going to see him when he comes out. That’s why I told you to fix the hideout the way I described it.

“We’re in the big dough, Chuck. You’ll get plenty by the time we’re through. The best of it is that we can sit back while Crofton’s doing the work. All we’ve got to do is cover up. Make it easy for him.”

Chuck looked puzzled.

“Can’t figure it, eh?” chuckled Trip. “Well, you haven’t heard anything yet. We’re playing the old professor for a sap, to begin with. If the thing works — well, after to-night, it will be a cinch. Crofton bringing in the gravy—”

“But the bulls—”

“They’ll never find him.” Again a chuckle from Trip as he spoke. “They can’t find him. Nobody can find him after to-night.”

“Give me the low-down, Trip.”

“All right. Listen.”

Chuck sat down, still puzzled. Trip began to speak in a steady, convincing tone. As Chuck listened, his eyes began to blink. He looked at Trip, wondering if the gambler had gone insane.

But Trip’s persuasive voice belied all madness. In spite of himself, Chuck began to be convinced. Doubt became bewilderment. In turn, bewilderment changed to amazement. But with amazement came belief.

Nodding mechanically, Chuck was sitting upright in his chair when Trip completed his statements and his orders. The gambler’s hand clamped upon the underling’s shoulder. Chuck arose; Trip moved him toward the door.

“You’ve got it now,” declared Trip, steadily. “So keep it in your noodle, where it belongs. You’re in on something big, Chuck. Get going. Fix things at the hideout.”

With an effort, Chuck snapped out of his trance. He left and took an elevator to the lobby. Dusk had settled when Chuck Galla came out into the street. The lieutenant started away at a steady pace.

But as he walked along, Chuck mumbled to himself. He was repeating words that he had heard from Trip. Chuck was strengthening his conviction that the impossible could be true.

For from Trip Burgan, Chuck Galla had learned the details of new plans for crime. He had heard a plot that had seemed incredible; a scheme that all the power of the law could not combat.