The Crevice Part 13

CHAPTER IX

GONE!

Guy Morrow, after a sleepless night, presented himself at Henry Blaine's office the next morning. The great detective, observing his young subordinate with shrewd, kindly eyes, noted in one swift glance his changed demeanor: his pallor, and the new lines graven about the firm mouth, which added strength and maturity to his face. If he guessed the reason for the metamorphosis, Blaine gave no sign, but listened without comment until Morrow had completed his report.

"You obeyed my instructions?" he asked at length. "When you discovered the forgery outfit in the cellar of Brunell's shop, you left everything just as it had been--left no possible trace of your presence?"

"Yes, sir. There's not a sign left to show any one had disturbed the place. I am sure of that."

"Not a foot-print in the earth of the cellar steps?"

"No, sir."

"And the outfit--was there any evidence it had been used lately?"

"No--everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell's past performances, in the life he gave up long ago."

Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but Blaine shook his head.

"Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one's possession, Guy, simply as a souvenir--a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the neighborhood, but another man has--a man Brunell's daughter seems to dislike and fear?"

"Yes, sir. There's one significant fact about him, too--his name. He's Charley Pennold. It didn't occur to me for some time after Miss Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I traced Brunell by."

"Charley Pennold!" Blaine repeated thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of him. He's old Walter Pennold's nephew. The boy was running straight the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I'm going to take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man Paddington. I'll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself."

"You're going to take me off the Brunell trail!" Morrow's astonishment and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was all-revealing. "But I'll have to go back and make some sort of explanation for leaving so abruptly, won't I? Will it pay to arouse their suspicions--that is, sir, unless you've got some special reason for doing so?"

Blaine's slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the anxious young man before him.

"No. You will go back, of course, and explain that you have obtained a clerkship which necessitates your moving downtown. Make your peace with Miss Brunell if you like, but remember, Guy, don't mix sentiment and business. It won't do. I may have to put you back on the job there in a few days, and I know I can depend on you not to lose your head.

She's a young girl and a pretty one; but don't forget she's the daughter of Jimmy Brunell, the man we're trying to get! Pennington Lawton had a daughter, too; remember that--and she's been defrauded of everything in the world but her lover and her faith in her father's memory." His voice had gradually grown deeper and more stern, and he added in brisk, businesslike tones, far removed from the personal element. "Now get back to the Bronx. Come to me to-morrow morning, and I'll have the data in the Paddington matter ready for you."

The young detective had scarcely taken his departure, when Ramon Hamilton appeared. He was in some excitement, and glanced nervously behind him as he entered, as if almost in fear of possible pursuit.

"Mr. Blaine," he began, "I'm confident that we're suspected. Here's a note that came to me from President Mallowe this morning. He asks if I inadvertently carried away with me that letter of Pennington Lawton's written from Long Bay two years ago, in which I had shown such an interest during our interview the other day. He has been unable to find it since my departure. That's a rather broad hint, it seems to me."

"I should not consider it as such," the detective responded. "Guilty conscience, Mr. Hamilton!"

"That's not all!" the young lawyer went on. "He says that a curious burglary was committed at his offices the night after my interview with him--his watchman was chloroformed, and the safe in his private office opened and rifled, yet nothing was taken, with the possible exception of that letter. Mallowe asks me, openly, if I knew of an ulterior motive which any one might have possessed in acquiring it, and even remarks that he is thinking of putting you, Mr. Blaine, on the mysterious attempt at robbery. That would be a joke, wouldn't it, if it wasn't really, in my estimation at least, a covert threat. Why should he, Mallowe, take me into his confidence about an affair which took place in his private office? He did not make the excuse of pretending to retain me as his attorney. I think he was merely warning me that he was suspicious of me."

"Probably a mere coincidence," Blaine observed easily.

"I wonder if you'll think so when I tell you that twice since yesterday my life has been attempted." Ramon spoke quietly enough, but there was a slight trembling in his tones.

"What!" Blaine started forward in his chair, then sank back with an incredulous smile, which none but he could have known was forced.

"Surely you imagine it, Mr. Hamilton. Since your automobile accident, when you were run down and so nearly killed on the evening you sent for me to undertake Miss Lawton's case, you may well be nervous."

As he spoke he glanced at the other's broken arm, which was still swathed in bandages.

"But these were no accidents, Mr. Blaine, and I have always doubted that the first one was, as you know. Yesterday afternoon, a new client's case called me down to the sixth ward, at four o'clock. In order to reach my client's address it was necessary to pa.s.s through the street in which that shooting affray occurred which filled the papers last evening. Two men darted out of a house, shot presumably at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions without waiting to see if either of the shots took effect. You know that isn't usual with the members of rival gangs down there. Remember, too, Mr.

Blaine, that it was prearranged for me to walk alone through that street at just that psychological moment. It seemed to me that neither man shot at the other, but both fired point-blank at me. I dismissed the idea from my mind as absurd, the next minute, and would have thought no more about it, beyond congratulating myself on my fortunate escape, had not the second attempt been made."

"The sixth ward--" Blaine remarked, meditatively. "That's Timothy Carlis' stamping ground, of course. But go on, Mr. Hamilton. What was the second incident?"

"Late last night, I had a telephone message from my club that my best friend, Gordon Brooke, had been taken suddenly ill with a serious attack of heart-trouble, and wanted me. Brooke has heart-disease and he might go off with it at any time, so I posted over immediately. The club is only a few blocks away from my home, so I didn't wait to call my machine or a taxi, but started over. Just a little way from the club, three men sprang upon me and attempted to hold me up. I fought them off, and when they came at me again, three to one, the idea flashed upon me that this was a fresh attempt to a.s.sa.s.sinate me.

"I shouted for help, and then ran. When I reached the club I found Brooke there, sitting in a poker game and quite as well as usual. No telephone message had been sent to me from him. I tried this morning, before I came to you, to have the number traced, but without success.

Do you blame me now, Mr. Blaine, for believing, after these three manifestations, that my life is in actual danger?"

"I do not." The detective touched an electric b.u.t.ton on his desk. "I think it will be advisable for you to have a guard, for the next few days, at least."

"A guard!" Ramon repeated, indignantly. "I'm not a coward. Any man would be disturbed, to put it mildly, over the conviction that his life was threatened every hour, but it was of her I was thinking--of Anita! I could not bear to think of leaving her alone to face the world, penniless and hedged in on all sides by enemies. But I want no guard! I can take care of myself as well as the next man. Look at the perils and dangers you have faced in your unceasing warfare against malefactors of every grade. It is common knowledge that you have invariably refused to be guarded."

"The years during which I have been constantly face to face with sudden death have made me disregard the possibility of it. But I shall not insist in your case, Mr. Hamilton, if you do not wish it; and allow me to tell you that I admire your spirit. However, I should like to have you leave town for a few days, if your clients can spare you."

"Leave town? Run away?" Ramon started indignantly from his chair, but Blaine waved him back with a fatherly hand.

"Not at all. On a commission for me, in Miss Lawton's interests. Mr.

Hamilton, you have known the Lawtons for several years, have you not?"

"Ever since I can remember," the young lawyer said with renewed eagerness.

"Two years ago, in August, Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at 'The Breakers,' at Long Bay, were they not?"

"Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the week-end."

"I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each page; then bring it back to me."

"Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?"

asked Ramon quickly.

"Perhaps," the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently, "I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with that used for the letter."

A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in response to Blaine's touch upon the bell.

"There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir," he announced. "A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing you. He isn't one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to a.s.sent to an interview with him."

He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of surprised interest.

"Tell him I will see him in five minutes," he said. When the operative had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.

"Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened Pennington Lawton's life ten years ago, the man whose name was mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton met his death: Herbert Armstrong!"

"Good heavens!" Ramon exclaimed. "What brings him here now? I thought he had disappeared utterly. Do you think it could have been he in the library that night, come to take revenge for that fancied wrong, at last?"

"That is what I'm going to find out," the detective responded, with a touch of grimness in his tones.

"But you don't mean--it isn't possible that Mr. Lawton was murdered!