“How so?” asked the secretary.
“They are from the two men whom I know,” explained Talbor. “Each contains the name of the man next beyond in the chain. Thus I know two men; I also have the names of two others. You will notice that the envelopes are coded, to tell from whom they came.
“Suppose that one of my friends should die suddenly. Suppose that he should have no opportunity to do what I am doing now — make a transfer of his certificate. What would happen?”
“The chain would be broken.”
“Precisely. But by opening the proper envelope, it would be possible for the man next in line to learn the name beyond the broken link. The breach would close automatically. Crime Incorporated would continue without interruption!”
There was triumph in the old man’s cackle. The secretary nodded his understanding. He realized the cleverness of his employer’s organization.
“We are sworn,” declared Barton Talbor, “not to open those envelopes except when actual emergency compels. My oath, Garwald, is transferred to you.”
“I understand.”
The old man shifted in his bed. From a table, he plucked a letter which had come in the afternoon mail. He drew out two sheets of paper. One contained letters in the block code; the other a succession of quaint circles.
“This came to-day,” declared Talbor. “It tells that crime has been successful. Can you guess to what crime it refers?”
“The murder of George Hobston?”
“Yes. That deed has been planted on Howard Norwyn. One member of our chain planned it. Others aided in its completion. All along the line, we have been waiting for that crime to be finished. Some one else now has the chance to suggest a master stroke. This time” — Talbor chortled huskily — “it will be my turn. No” — his tone saddened — “not mine. Yours, Garwald, as my successor.”
“You have a crime already planned?”
“Yes. One that can be accomplished only with the aid of Crime Incorporated. I shall reveal it to you, Garwald, and you can send your word along the chain. But first — most important — is the code. That depends upon a key, here” — Talbor tapped his forehead — “and if you bring paper and pencil, I shall reveal it to you.”
“There are two codes from this letter,” reminded Garwald, as he produced a notebook and a pencil. “One consists of circles; the other of blocks, like those which were with the certificate.”
“You must learn both,” stated Talbor. “The circled code is a blind. It is simple to decipher. So we use it for trivial, useless messages. The block code is the one of consequence. It will never be deciphered. It is too subtle. It will baffle the greatest of cryptogram experts; for it depends upon a special principle.”
“Why the useless code?”
“To mislead any who might find a message. Any experimenter would shift to the circles as the easy one to solve. Finding a useless message, he would think these codes to be a puzzler’s game. Finding the block code too difficult for ordinary solution, he would regard it as something of no importance. We are crafty, Garwald, we who form Crime Incorporated!”
Propping himself upon the pillows, the old man took the pencil in his scrawny right hand. Letter by letter, he formed the alphabetical arrangement of the codes: first the circles, then the blocks.
GARWALD stared as Talbor dealt with the second code. He realized at once that the old man had spoken true when he had stated that it would baffle experts. Simple though it was, the block code adhered to a principle that Garwald had never suspected.
Minutes passed. Old Talbor’s hand was slowing. It completed the final task. With a gasp, the old man settled backward. Garwald caught pencil and pad as they dropped from his loosened hands.
Barton Talbor’s breath was coming in long, choking wheezes. His feeble fingers were pressing at his throat. Staring at his stricken employer, watching the pallid face with its bluish, closed eyelids, Fullis Garwald realized that death was soon to come.
Standing with the certificate of Crime Incorporated in his hand, holding the coded names and by-laws, clutching the translated formula that the old man had inscribed in the notebook, Fullis Garwald smiled.
No longer did he seek to hide his evil nature. His curling lips were proof of Barton Talbor’s assumption. The servant, like the master, was a man of crime. Barton Talbor had passed his greatest legacy to an heir as evil as himself.
Soon, Fullis Garwald knew, Barton Talbor would recover strength. Then the old man would reveal his scheme for crime. After that, word would go forth along the chain of members who formed Crime Incorporated.
Days would pass before the new scheme would be perpetrated. Before that time arrived, Barton Talbor would he dead. In his place, the new Number One of Crime Incorporated, Fullis Garwald would reap the profits of Barton Talbor’s scheme.
Swirling mist crept into the gloomy room where plans were to precede death. The same chain that had worked toward the murder of George Hobston would soon work again. Unbroken, the links of Crime Incorporated would deal in profitable murder.
CHAPTER VIII
ONE WEEK LATER
IT was late afternoon. A chubby-faced man was seated at a flat-topped desk, staring meditatively through an office window. Beyond was the skyline of Manhattan. Towering buildings, shadowy shapes in the dusk, showed glimmering twinkles from their lighted windows.
The chubby man clicked a desk lamp. He set to work sorting a stack of clippings. He made a reference to penciled notations and began to inscribe a message that consisted of coded words in bluish ink.
This individual was Rutledge Mann. A contact agent of The Shadow, Mann was compiling data for his master. During the day, he had received reports from such workers as Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke. These were ready to be forwarded to The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann was gloomy. He knew that progress had been lacking. Harry Vincent’s travels through the Zenith Building had brought no results. Clyde Burke had learned nothing new at detective headquarters.
Clippings, gleaned from recent newspapers, showed that the search for Howard Norwyn still continued. Mann did not know that The Shadow had provided refuge for the missing man. Mann knew only that until some new phase of investigation developed regarding the Hobston murder, The Shadow would not be satisfied.
Mann referred to a penciled notation that marked a telephone number. Nodding to himself, he picked up the telephone and put in a call. A voice answered.
“Hello…” Mann’s tone was pleasant. “Is this Mr. Seth Deswig?… Good. My name is Rutledge Mann… Yes, I called before. I understood that you would arrive home this afternoon.
“Yes, I am an investment broker… Let me explain my business. It regards a client of mine… His name is Lamont Cranston… Yes, the millionaire. He is interested in the purchase of a certain stock… Middlebury Preferred… Yes, I was informed that you might have some shares of it.
“I see… You do not care to sell?… That is too bad. Mr. Cranston will be disappointed… Perhaps he may wish to see you in person. Would it be convenient?… Good. To-night, then… At your apartment… Yes, I shall inform Mr. Cranston…”
Rutledge Mann inked another brief message. He tucked it in a large envelope along with other sheets and clippings. He scanned the newspapers for a final check-up. He found no news item that he thought worthy of clipping.
IN one journal, Mann noted a brief item that referred to the estate of an old recluse named Barton Talbor. This man had died a few days ago. Mann thought nothing of this short account. To him, Barton Talbor was a person of no consequence, even though the old man had left large sums to some dozen-odd relatives.
Rutledge Mann never realized that he was passing up a clue of vital consequence. Had some hunch caused him to take interest in the affairs of Barton Talbor, Mann would have accomplished much for The Shadow’s cause. As it was, the investment broker merely tossed the newspaper in the wastebasket.