“You are merely the agent,” returned Bewkel quietly. “I am making the purchase through you — not from you. I thank you for your advice; but I do not choose to follow it.”
Mungren nodded.
“Do you have the option with you?” he questioned.
“No,” replied Bewkel. “It is in a safe-deposit vault. I am prepared to deliver it here tomorrow morning. What about the payment? How do you wish it?”
“A certified check will do,” returned Mungren. “I suppose you can arrange that at the bank when you go there tomorrow for the option.”
“That is what I intend to do.”
“Very well. Nevertheless, I still feel that my advice should be heeded—”
Bewkel waved his hand in interruption as he arose from his chair.
“I went over that matter last night,” he declared. “I was talking with” — he paused without mentioning a name — “with another person interested in Electro Oceanic. I have considered the same advice that you have given me. My answer is that I intend to utilize my option.”
Bewkel looked at his watch. Mungren, watching him, began to chew his lips in nervous fashion. He steadied as Bewkel glanced in his direction.
“You will join me at dinner?” questioned Bewkel. “I am going to the Merrimac Club; after that, to my home.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” returned Mungren. “Unfortunately, I cannot accept it. I put in a long-distance call to Chicago, a short while ago. I may have to stay here an hour or more.”
Bewkel was turning toward the door. Mungren followed him. The two walked through the passage back to the anteroom. On the way, Mungren again became persistent.
“Suppose,” he suggested, “that you give this further thought, Mr. Bewkel. Perhaps—”
“My decision is made,” interrupted Bewkel, strongly. “I want no further discussion upon the matter. I shall be here tomorrow morning, with the option and the money. That is settled.”
“Very well,” agreed Mungren.
They were at the outer door. Bewkel continued on. Mungren watched him; then turned to the girl at the switchboard.
“You may go,” he said. “Leave the connection to my office open. I may receive a late call.”
Turning, Logan Mungren started back toward his office. On the way, he drew a large handkerchief from his hip pocket and mopped his bald brow. The securities promoter appeared nervous. His face was pale as he entered his spacious office and resumed his place at his desk.
Then came a change. With an effort, Logan Mungren altered his expression. Determination replaced worry. An ugly smile appeared upon Mungren’s thick lips. The securities man picked up a telephone and called a number.
“Hello…” Mungren paused as he recognized the voice at the other end. “Yes, this is Mungren… Yes… The sale is to be made… Positively. A final decision…
“He has left… The Merrimac Club… Yes… For dinner. Then home… Yes…”
Mungren replaced the telephone on the desk. His expression showed a gloating, as though mere conversation across the wire had given him new confidence.
His qualms were ended. To eliminate their return, Mungren drew bottle and glass from a desk drawer and poured himself a drink, which he drained with a quick swallow. His lips formed their twisted smile.
All signs of faltering were gone. Logan Mungren had revealed himself — while alone — as a man of evil. For the telephone call which he had made was more than a mere passing conversation of facts.
Through that call, Logan Mungren had played his part in crime. His announcement regarding the option was the forerunner of doom. Logan Mungren, by his act, had sent a death warrant for Maurice Bewkel!
CHAPTER VII
AGAIN THE CIRCLE
MAURICE BEWKEL had finished dinner. Strolling through the spacious lobby of the Merrimac Club, he paused at the cigar stand and purchased a perfecto. Lighting the cigar, he left the club by the main door.
Bewkel presented a dignified appearance as he strolled up Fifth Avenue. The gray-haired man carried his gold-headed cane in easy swinging fashion. His face wore a pleased expression. A man of big business affairs, Bewkel had confidence in his own decisions.
Turning a corner, Bewkel, as he started westward, decided to continue on his walk. Taxicabs were available, but he did not choose to hail one. The lights of the Times Square area formed a glow ahead as Bewkel strolled along the side street.
This was a one-way thoroughfare, with eastward traffic. A taxicab came hurtling along; a young man, staring from the window, caught sight of Maurice Bewkel striding past in the opposite direction. He called to the driver and the cab came to a stop.
The young man alighted. It was Wilton Byres. The secretary, though crafty of expression, appeared a trifle pale. He paid the driver and started along the sidewalk in the direction that Maurice Bewkel had taken. The gray-haired man was nearing the next corner. He was well ahead of Byres.
Crossing the avenue, Bewkel passed a store located on the corner. A handful of people were looking in the window, watching a man who was demonstrating the merits of a new safety razor. Bewkel glanced toward the window, then kept on.
The demonstrator, looking from the window as he worked, caught a full view of Bewkel’s face. He snapped open the razor, removed its blade for the benefit of the onlookers, and placed the blade in a box that was on a little stand.
Moving the stand a trifle, he pressed his finger against a small switch that was beneath it. Not a single onlooker caught the action. Maurice Bewkel, in particular, had passed from view. Again looking from the window, the demonstrator gave occasional glances from a small angle which was at the side. Through this, he could catch a glimpse of a distant sign with white lights at its corners and along its borders.
Wilton Byres passed. The young man who worked as secretary for Felix Tressler was gaining as he followed Maurice Bewkel’s footsteps. He did not notice the window demonstrator; nor did the man glance at him.
GREEN lights! They appeared as if by magic upon the corners of the huge electric sign. The window demonstrator saw them and a faint smile appeared upon his lips as he turned to pick out another blade for the safety razor.
Other eyes saw those lights. A Chinatown bus barker, stationed at a corner a few blocks away, was glancing upward as he chattered, his gaze upon the blazing corners that showed green. A pushcart peddler, wheeling his wares homeward along a side street, was turning sly glances backward toward the signal light.
Panhandlers, of indiscriminate appearance, were noting that token that blazed against the sky. At the Hotel Zenith, the ever-busy doorman was alert.
Taxi-driver — soft-drink seller — they were but others in the scattered group of watchers. While crowds moved by unnoticing, the minions of the circle of death were following the call that came to them.
Blink — blink — blink — a pause. Then three new blinks from the border lights. These were the flashes that the various watchers had awaited. They told the location where the quarry was located. Roving agents of the death circle began their shambling courses toward spots where they could head off the progress of Maurice Bewkel.
A quick blink; a rapid one. These were another signal. Bewkel had passed a restaurant further along the block. The cashier by the window had sent a signal by pressing a button beneath the cash register.
The uniformed doorman at the Hotel Zenith became alert. He knew the meaning of this signal. Maurice Bewkel had reached a corner. If he took one turn, his course would bring him in this direction. For a moment, the doorman forgot his job. He was staring from the center of the sidewalk as a tall man jostled against him.