The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER XXI. HARLOW TELLS

DOCTOR WESLEY HARLOW was a convincing speaker. He had proved that fact to-night, in his conversation in Folsom Satruff’s living room. Trapped under incriminating circumstances, his nerve was slow in returning. As it came back, however, Harlow gave voice to firm and certain discourse.

“I’ll tell my story,” he asserted. “I’ll tell what I know about Pug Hoffler and Rabbit Gorton. I’ll tell about others, too. I came here to-night for money. I came to get one hundred thousand dollars. But I didn’t come to steal it. I came to ask for it; and I did.”

The physician paused and his tone became steadier. It was taking an effort for him to continue, but Harlow was equal to the difficulty.

“There were facts which I did not want known,” he declared. “It is impossible now for me to prevent them from coming to light. So I’m going to talk before others have the chance. I’m going to get clear of all this miserable business.”

“That’s it,” encouraged Joe Cardona. Harlow ignored the detective’s words. He stared straight at Joe.

“There’s a gangster called Lefty Yates,” announced Harlow, “of whom you’ve probably heard. He’s wanted, I understand, for a couple of jobs.”

“Is Lefty Yates in this?” inquired Cardona in surprise. “Say — if I could get hold of that bird—”

“Lefty Yates is innocent,” asserted Harlow. “He is free from implication in this crime and from others with which he was supposed to be connected. He is trying to go straight — but the man he worked for won’t give him a chance.”

“You mean Tex Lowner,” prompted Cardona.

“I mean Tex Lowner,” agreed Harlow. “He can hang anything on Lefty Yates. The fellow hasn’t got a chance.”

“Say” — Cardona’s growl was a sharp one — “where do you get all this stuff about Lefty Yates? How did you come to know him?”

“He is my brother,” stated Wesley Harlow quietly.

THE statement was stunning to Joe Cardona. The detective, until now a challenger, suddenly realized that he had stepped beyond his depth. There was sincerity in Harlow’s tone, and it gave Cardona a glimmer of understanding regarding the physician’s connection with the underworld.

“His real name,” resumed Harlow, easily, “is Merle Harlow. I am thankful that he managed to maintain his alias. One man, however, learned the truth about my brother. That man was Tex Lowner.

“He came to me — Lowner did — and told me that he had the goods on Merle. He threatened exposure; threatened to turn Merle over to the law, just because the kid had gone straight and was away from New York.

“Lowner’s price was one hundred thousand dollars. I told him I could never get it. The amount was preposterous. Then Lowner brought up the fact that I was a friend of Folsom Satruff. He reminded me that Satruff had millions. I was amazed when I heard Lowner talk. I realized that the man had discovered that Satruff was Dorand.”

“I repeat: I was amazed. I thought that only two other men knew Satruff’s incognito, namely Tobias McEwen and Bartlett Okum. You remember” — Harlow turned to Satruff — “when you confided in me regarding your philanthropies and asked me to give you some minor aid in the distribution of funds. You told me then that only McEwen and Okum knew the truth.”

There was a pause; Cardona ended it with a gruff interjection that he addressed to Wesley Harlow.

“I know all about Tex Lowner,” asserted the detective. “I saw him up at your place. I thought you were working with him then. That put me wise, after Rabbit Gorton made his raid. You were in with Rabbit and Rabbit was in with Pug. You fixed it for Pug to pull the first raid, working for Rabbit. When Pug missed out, you brought Rabbit in here.

“No wonder Tex Lowner was on your trail” — Cardona paused to emit a heavy laugh — “when he and Rabbit were after each other’s scalp. Maybe Tex did try to tap you for a hundred thousand bucks. He ought to have been able to do it, knowing the game you were playing.”

Swelling, Cardona looked toward Folsom Satruff. He saw the philanthropist nodding. The detective turned back to Harlow.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” ridiculed Cardona, “to get your brother out of a jam. You were right when you said it was a lot of dough. Your stall won’t work, Harlow. You’re covering up your own trail — or at least you’re trying to.

“You saw a way to tap this vault.” Cardona waved his free hand toward the open container. “You bargained in the underworld and you got Rabbit Gorton interested. Tex Lowner wised up and came to you for a cut. He was in the racket — that was all.”

HARLOW stood dumb. His persuasive plea had failed. Harry Vincent, eyeing him, felt sympathy for the physician; yet Harry could not help but believe that Joe Cardona had hit the truth squarely. Folsom Satruff evidently held the same opinion, for the gray-haired philanthropist followed with his own remarks.

“You betrayed me, Harlow,” announced Satruff sadly. “Your own story proves it. An honest man, laboring under a situation such as you have outlined, would have come out with the truth. You did not need to use subterfuge to deal with me. Cardona has given you the lie.”

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Satruff,” blazed Harlow. “Every time I approached you, I realized that there was only one way to get money from you — namely, through your desire to aid in philanthropic work.”

“You called it philanthropy to seek blackmail money for a gangster?”

“Yes. The money was to be used to save my brother.”

“Enough of that, Harlow,” ordered Cardona. “We know why you pulled this hundred-thousand-dollar hokum. It was to get Mr. Satruff to open his vault. Come clean, Harlow. Don’t try to keep anything back.”

“I have come clean.”

“Yes?” Cardona snorted in contempt. “You’re the guy who killed Pug Hoffler. Why? Because you thought he was going to blab. You’re the guy who tried to kill Rabbit Gorton. Why? Because you thought he was going to blab, too.”

A triumphant look appeared upon Harlow’s sallow face. Cardona stared as he saw the expression. He realized that Harlow had gained a wedge that he sought. The physician’s eyes traveled to the spot where Bartlett Okum was standing. They came back to Joe Cardona.

“I killed Pug Hoffler,” stated Harlow, in the easy manner of a card player delivering a trump. “Yes. I killed him because he was dangerous. What’s more, Cardona, I was glad I killed him, because I did think he was going to talk.”

“That’s an admission,” proclaimed the detective. “Remember that, you witnesses—”

“Wait a moment,” interrupted Harlow. “I grabbed Rabbit Gorton, because I thought he was dangerous. I would have liked to kill him because I thought he was going to talk. There’s another admission for you. They prove nothing against me.”

“They prove you were on the inside,” remarked Cardona. “Working to give a tip-off.”

“Those facts,” corrected Harlow, with all his suavity returning, “prove nothing whatever against me. They prove that there was a man working on the inside. They prove that there was reason for that man to kill both Pug and Rabbit.

“Let me remind you, however, that when I shot Pug Hoffler, Bartlett Okum was ready to fire also. Let me add that it was Okum who killed Rabbit Gorton. I don’t know whether Tex Lowner got the Dorand information from Okum or whether Rabbit Gorton was the one who landed it. At any rate, both of those gangsters were after Satruff’s money. Both of them knew the truth.

“Here’s the proof of who is guilty.” With a dramatic gesture, Harlow pointed to the revolver that he had dropped upon the floor. “That gun belongs to Okum. I seized it when he entered the room to cover Satruff with it. Here” — taking advantage of Cardona’s momentary lack of attention, Harlow slipped his hand in his coat pocket — “is my own revolver. I never had it in my hand to-night.”

JOE CARDONA stared. Harlow had passed a perfect opportunity. Instead of whipping out his gun and starting to shoot, he was holding the revolver by the barrel, tendering the loaded weapon so that Cardona could take it. Mechanically, the detective received the snub-nosed gun.

“There is my proof of good faith,” declared Harlow. “I rest my case with you. The real culprit stands there, by the open vault. Look at him, Cardona. Look at Okum. He alone can tell you the game that he played. It reached its finish to-night. I was to be the innocent victim — I and my brother Merle.”

Joe Cardona saw that Bartlett Okum was trembling. The old secretary’s face was pale. Through the detective’s brain whirred statements that Commissioner Weston had made; statements that fitted in exactly with what Harlow had just said. Okum, like Harlow, could have been the traitor.

Cardona looked to Folsom Satruff. The millionaire’s forehead was furrowed with deep thought. Cardona saw Satruff’s eyes travel from Harlow to Okum. They rested firmly upon the secretary. Cardona left the question to Satruff’s judgment.

“What do you think, Mr. Satruff?” inquired the detective. “Do you think this may be true” — Cardona paused as he saw a doubtful expression appear upon the philanthropist’s face — “or do you think it is another of Harlow’s stalls?”

“I think,” declared Satruff, in a cold, firm tone, “that we should let Okum speak for himself. If he has been wrongfully accused, it will simply close the case which Harlow has made against himself. Harlow has shown himself to be a schemer. His own admissions place the entire burden of the guilt upon his own head.”

Satruff paused as he faced Okum. The millionaire was stern. His eyes seemed dominating as they met Okum’s. The old secretary seemed oblivious to all but his employer.

“Okum,” stated Satruff, “have you ever carried a gun on these premises?”

“No, sir,” replied the secretary weakly.

“Then that is not your gun?” quizzed Satruff.

“It is not, sir,” responded Okum in a firmer tone.

“Was Harlow holding that gun,” continued Satruff, “when you came in here? Tell me, Okum, if he was.”

“He was, sir.”

Satruff turned to Cardona. The millionaire’s face wore conviction. Cardona gained the same feeling; so did Harry Vincent.

“This,” announced Satruff in a righteous tone, “stands as proof of Harlow’s scheming guilt. It shows him as a crook who has tried to cloud the reputation of an innocent man. I leave the rest to you, Cardona. If you have further questions to ask Okum, put them forward now.”

“I have none,” stated Cardona. “Come, Harlow. You are under arrest.”

THE physician shrank instinctively toward the outer door of the strong-room. Cardona, pocketing his revolver, yanked out a pair of handcuffs. Satruff, also leaping forward, gripped Harlow’s shoulders while the detective clamped the irons on the doctor’s wrists.

The three were near the end of the room. Harry Vincent was beside the door to the passage. Bartlett Okum was still close to the vault. A sudden, gasping scream came from the secretary’s lips. Cardona and Satruff turned; like Harry Vincent, they viewed the wild expression of terror that had appeared upon Okum’s cadaverous features.

Not one man held a gun, now that Harlow was handcuffed. Thus, as all turned toward the passage door — the direction in which Okum’s eyes were staring — they felt a sickening feeling of helplessness when they viewed the being who stood there. Even Harry Vincent could not repress a shudder.

Just within the door stood a spectral shape in black. The Shadow, his sable-hued cloak spread from his shoulders, seemed like a creature from another world. The broad brim of the black hat obscured the features of the unknown phantom. Gloved hands held two mammoth automatics, at sight of which, the watchers instinctively cowered.

Most terrible of all, however, were the eyes of The Shadow. Blazing, scintillating orbs, they fastened themselves upon Bartlett Okum’s pallid face with a power that made the old secretary quiver.

Then came the sound of a whispered laugh, a frightful tone of mockery that shuddered to a weird crescendo, only to die with throbbing, ghoulish echoes as the aftermath.

The Shadow, supreme, had arrived to take the part of Doctor Wesley Harlow. He, the master invisible, was to resume the quiz of Bartlett Okum.