“What do you make of it, Garwald?” questioned Talbor.
“Make of it?”
“Yes. Do you think that Howard Norwyn murdered George Hobston?”
“Most certainly. The evidence is apparent.”
“Ah!” The old man’s eyes gleamed. “You have been reading previous accounts, eh, Garwald?”
“Yes,” confessed the secretary, “I must admit that I have.”
“Good.” Talbor settled back into the pillows. “Very good. I am glad to learn it. Now let us see. I am Barton Talbor — an old man — dying. You are my secretary, Fullis Garwald, nursing me in my last illness.
“In your spare time, you read news concerning crime. You read about a murder. Good. Why do you read about murders, Garwald?”
Fullis Garwald made no reply. He stared at Barton Talbor and blinked in owlish fashion. The old man chuckled.
“I’ll tell you why,” asserted Talbor. “You read about murders because they interest you. The reason murder interests you is because you have considered murder yourself!”
Garwald nearly forgot himself. He stepped toward the bed, his fists clenching. A look of sudden fury came upon his face and faded. Talbor chortled.
“You would like to kill me,” laughed the old man. “You would kill me, if you thought that the blame could be shifted to some one else. But you have decided to let me die; and you hope that you will be alone here when I pass to another world.”
Garwald made no response to the impeachment. He betrayed no new sign of nervousness. He waited quietly to hear what else Talbor might say.
“You think, Garwald,” declared the old man, “that I have wealth hidden in this room. You would like to find it; to rob my heirs of their due. I can’t blame you, Garwald. My relatives are a shoddy lot; but they will get my money just the same. It is stowed in safe deposit vaults. My lawyer has the keys, along with my will.
“I’m sorry for you, Garwald. I’ve seen you eyeing this room, looking for some hiding place. So I’m going to help you out. Go, there, to the mantel. Press it, as I tell you.”
FULLIS GARWALD hesitated. A frown showed upon his solemn face. Hesitation ended, he turned and followed the old man’s bidding. He reached the mantelpiece that projected above the old fire place.
“Press inward,” ordered Barton Talbor, with eyes half closed. “Then to the left. Inward again. To the right. Draw outward—”
Garwald was following the instructions. As a climax to the old man’s final statement, a sharp click sounded from the fire place. Garwald stooped to see that the rear of the fire place had dropped. Something white showed in the cavity beyond.
“Bring out the envelope,” came Talbor’s order. “Then close the fire place. It will lock automatically. Carry the envelope here.”
Garwald obeyed. He appeared at the bedside, holding the large envelope that he had found behind the fire place. Talbor gripped it with his scrawny hands and opened it with ripping fingers. From the inside, he drew two objects. One was a smaller envelope; the other, a folded paper. He retained the envelope and passed the paper to Garwald.
“Open it,” ordered Talbor.
Garwald did so. To his surprise, the sheet of paper resembled a stock certificate. He started to read its wording; he arrived no further than the title.
There, in large printing, he observed the statement:
CRIME INCORPORATED
A chuckle came from Barton Talbor. The old man’s eyes had opened. His hands were holding the envelope; they gestured toward a chair beside the bed. Fullis Garwald sat down. He listened while the old man spoke.
“Garwald,” declared Talbor, in a solemn tone, “I have left my heirs half a million dollars. I am giving you a legacy worth twice that amount. The certificate that you now hold will mean your fortune.
“Crime Incorporated. A wonderful name, eh, Garwald? A wonderful organization, also. One that you can appreciate. Particularly when you learn its history from the founder — namely, myself — Barton Talbor.”
Garwald had folded the document. He was staring intently at his aged employer. Keen enthusiasm was showing on his usually solemn countenance.
“I have made my fortune,” stated Barton Talbor. “I gained my wealth through crime. Not ordinary crime; but craft. Subtle methods were my forte when I was younger.
“I learned that there were others, as crooked as myself. Also, like myself, they kept their methods covered. It occurred to me that men of our ilk should be banded into a cooperative organization. That, Garwald, was the beginning of Crime Incorporated.
“I was the founder; but all are equal. I chose two men; I knew that both were crooked. I told them each my scheme. I gained their cooperation. These two men do not know each other. I am the only link between them.
“I issued myself this share of stock in Crime Incorporated. To each of them, I gave similar certificates. I supplied them with codes for correspondence. Thus we formed a chain of three, with myself as the connection.
“Each of them, in turn, solicited another member. Those new members gained one man apiece. That plan has continued, until Crime Incorporated now numbers more than twenty chosen persons, each a crafty master of crime, in his own right.”
THE old man paused to rest upon the pillows. He cackled reminiscently. With eyes shut, he continued:
“I saw at once that stock bearing the name Crime Incorporated would be a dangerous possession. So I changed the name on the other certificates. I am the only man who owns a share of the original stock. The others bear the title Aztec Mines, a name which struck my fancy. But every holder of such stock knows its true meaning. Aztec Mines is simply a synonym for Crime Incorporated.
“This envelope contains the names of my two original associates. With it are details — by-laws and procedures — all in special code. Every member of Crime Incorporated holds a share labeled Aztec Mines; also the names of the two men whom he knows; and a coded table of instructions.”
Talbor paused wearily. The explanation had tired him. Garwald, observing the opportunity, interposed a question.
“What is the purpose of Crime Incorporated?” he asked. “How does the organization operate?”
“We further subtle crime,” explained Talbor, slowly. “One member sees opportunity for great gain. He sends coded messages to his two contacts. They copy the note and send it along. A statement of planned crime goes through the entire chain.
“Then come the replies. Each member adds his own suggestion. If cooperation is required, volunteers make known their readiness. We call ourselves by numbers — not by names.”
“And of all the twenty,” questioned Garwald, “you know only two?”
“Yes. Each man knows but two. Those at the end of the chain know only one, until they gain new members. Some times, a message goes along the line, suggesting names of members to be solicited. But they must be followed up by those at the ends of the chain.”
Again, Barton Talbor paused. Fullis Garwald unfolded the certificate of holding in Crime Incorporated. He was beginning to understand the value of this sheet of paper.
“Each share is transferable,” remarked Talbor, opening his eyes. “That certificate, Garwald, is my legacy to you. In this envelope, you will find the names of the two men whom I know. We shall send them messages to-night, informing them that Fullis Garwald has replaced Barton Talbor as holder of certificate number one.”
GARWALD opened the envelope as Talbor thrust it in his hands. He found a sheet of paper, with a peculiar code of oddly-blocked letters. He also found two smaller envelopes. He was about to open one when Talbor stopped him with the clutch of a scrawny hand.
“No, no!” exclaimed the old man. “Those are for emergency only!”