GARWALD produced a clipping from his pocket. It was Barton Talbor’s obituary notice. He passed the item to Ferrar. The pale-faced collector nodded. The clipping convinced him.
“How much money are you asking?” he inquired.
“I do not want money,” replied Garwald, with a touch of shrewdness in his voice. “I would prefer gems from your collection — on the same terms that you promised Barton Talbor.”
“But your circumstances are moderate.”
“Frankly, they are. I am simply following advice that Barton Talbor gave me. He said that all collectors have gems that mean but little to them. He added that collectors frequently purchase more than their means allow.
“It follows that a collector, like yourself, would give greater value in jewels than in cash, when purchasing a rare item. I can readily dispose of gems. So I would prefer to exchange, rather than to sell.”
Gaston Ferrar frowned momentarily; then he leaned back and laughed. Garwald’s calm frankness amused him. It did more; it gained his full confidence. He picked up the jewel case, removed the mounted emerald and smiled as he saw the beauty of the gem. Replacing the case upon the desk, he arose and went to a safe located in the wall.
“You shall have your terms,” he laughed, as he turned the combination. “I shall abide by my offer to Barton Talbor. I shall show you my entire collection; then I shall pick out gems from which you can choose. You are right; I can spare gems more than money. I promise you that I shall give you value beyond that of the emerald.”
Ferrar produced a long, flat jewel box. He turned to face Garwald. His lips trembled; his arms began to shake. Fullis Garwald had risen. In his right hand he was holding a revolver.
“What — what—”
Ferrar’s exclamation came in a gasp. It brought a command from Garwald. In response to the crook’s order, Ferrar staggered to his chair and dropped the jewel box upon the desk.
“You fool!” spat Garwald. “You have fallen for the game. Not my game, mind you, but Talbor’s. This is what he intended to do. He baited you with that emerald, so that he could capture your entire collection.
“Why do you think he wanted his name kept quiet? Why do you think he insisted that he would speak of the ‘green’ — not of the ‘emerald’? Simply to make his path an easy one. That is all.”
Ferrar sat stupefied. Garwald’s face showed its evil leer. Suddenly, the collector broke forth with a challenge.
“You cannot escape from here!” he exclaimed. “If you take the jewels you will be traced. You must have been Talbor’s secretary. The law will find you.”
“Not through your testimony,” scoffed Garwald. “You will never speak, Ferrar. I am here to murder you — in that very chair where you now sit.”
THE fiendish words had the very effect that Garwald wanted. With death facing him, Ferrar took recourse to desperation. He howled for his servant.
“Larmond!” he cried. “Help me! It’s murder — murder—”
Garwald stood rigid. He had purposely refrained from firing. A shot might have sent the servant scurrying for help. A cry, however, was bringing him on the run. Footsteps sounded outside the closed door as Ferrar began to rise. Garwald swung a quick glance. He saw the door knob turning. Swinging his eyes toward Ferrar, he fired point blank.
Ferrar collapsed in his chair. The bullet had been aimed straight for his heart. Garwald did not wait to witness the result. Turning, he covered the servant, who was caught flat-footed in the doorway. With a hideous laugh, Garwald pressed finger to revolver trigger.
Larmond made a frantic dive for cover, just as the revolver spurted. Garwald saw the servant stagger. He heard his body clatter in the hall. Pocketing his revolver, the murderer leaped to the safe. Jewel boxes came forth in his eager hands. Garwald packed them in his pockets. He added the box that was on the table; for the finish, he seized the little case that held the Siamese emerald. He started for the door of the room.
A look of startled surprise appeared upon Garwald’s morbid face as the killer reached the outer room. Larmond, the servant, was not in sight. Leaping to the door of another room, Garwald saw the man slumped at a table, telephone and receiver in his hands.
Too late, Garwald realized that his shot had merely crippled Larmond. The wounded man had managed to reach the telephone. He had given the alarm. Fiercely, Garwald raised his revolver. Larmond, seeing him, tried to move from the table. He sprawled upon the floor. Garwald furiously fired two bullets into his helpless body.
Positive that his shots had not been heard outside the penthouse, Garwald had lingered in Ferrar’s room. Larmond’s call for help had changed the situation. Even while Garwald was backing from the spot where the servant’s body lay, the door of the anteroom opened. Swinging, Garwald saw a man who was evidently the house detective; beyond the fellow, the open door of the elevator with the operator standing at the control.
Garwald whirled to fire. The house dick, not expecting the sudden attack, made a plunge back toward the elevator. Two bullets whistled from Garwald’s gun as the detective made the car. The third shot flattened itself against a closing door of the elevator.
Reaching the anteroom on the run, Garwald observed a bolted door at the right. He yanked back the bolt; opened the door and sprang down a stairway. With long leaps, he gained the hall below. He was on the twenty-fourth floor. Straight ahead was the path to the elevators.
Garwald fired as a man poked his head around the corner. This time a shot responded. The house dick had alighted at the floor below. He was exchanging bullets with the killer. One of Garwald’s shots nicked the detective’s arm. As the man staggered out of sight, Garwald sprang forward.
THE dick was diving for the stairway that led to the floors below. Garwald aimed toward him; he dropped as an elevator door clanged open and a uniformed policeman came into view. Garwald backed toward the hall, firing as he retreated. The second operator — like the one who had brought the house dick — slammed the door as a protection against the fire.
Garwald was in the corridor. He was trapped. A policeman from the elevator; the house dick on the stairs; both could hold him until reinforcements came. Garwald, however, made no new attack. Panting as he ducked back into the corridor, he reached the door of 2410.
A quick glance told him that he was momentarily free from observation. He pressed the door; it opened inward. Garwald was in Professor Devine’s entry. Breathless, he closed the door behind him. Pocketing his revolver, he scurried for the window.
Whistles were sounding from Seventh Avenue. Whines of police sirens answered the shrill blasts. The alarm had been sounded. Fullis Garwald had no time to lose. He had come here for a purpose. He saw the trolley-bar resting on the radiator. He gripped it with one hand as he clambered to the sill.
Blackness ruled below. The side street was an asphalt ribbon at the bottom of a gaping chasm. Garwald hesitated; for the first time he seemed to sense the sounds from the avenue. Gripping the bar with both hands, he swung his body from the window.
Wheels clicked as the weight of Garwald’s body sent the car-like bar whizzing down the cable-line. Gathering momentum, Fullis Garwald became a rocketing form that sped swaying toward the roof of the old building opposite. The trip was a matter of brief seconds. Garwald’s flight carried him above the parapet; it ended as he released himself upon the solid roof.
Swiftly though Fullis Garwald had acted, there was another who moved as rapidly. Professor Langwood Devine, coming from his bedroom, hobbled with remarkable speed to the window. He saw Garwald’s figure tumbling upon the opposite roof. The old man chuckled.