“For fear the mob will bungle the job,” replied Steve. “And for another reason. He’s worried that they’ll beat it with the swag. Double-cross him. So he decides he’d better travel with them” — spoon joined saltcellar — “and take no chances either way.”
“Logical,” nodded Flix.
“That’s the way it works,” said Steve. “Well, Murson, to begin with, throws a bluff that he’s leaving for Washington. Then he goes up there with the outfit. They turn berserk and Murson does the same. It’s curtains for Luftus and his servant.
“The bulls get there. Barry tries to squawk. Who’s the first person he mentions? Murson. He says, ‘Murson brought’ — and then he croaks. What did Murson bring? The Mob. That’s simple, isn’t it?”
Flix and Daykin were nodding. But Jack Targon’s eyes were steadily, fixed upon Steve Zurk’s face. A grim smile began to form on Jack’s lips. The former confidence man became narrow in his gaze. Then, suddenly, Jack changed his expression. He lighted a cigarette and puffed in meditative fashion, as though disinterested in the case under discussion.
“I’m no dick,” asserted Steve, suddenly. He pushed spoon, saltcellar and glass aside. “Maybe Murson didn’t go up with that outfit; but if he didn’t, he probably stuck around outside and was ready to meet them when they came out. At least, that’s the way a guy like him would have worked it.
“One way or the other. With the mob or waiting for them. What Barry said makes it look like he was with them. It’s possible that he brought the fellows up to the penthouse; then went out, leaving them to do the dirty work. Barry’s statement would cover that.
“But the law has pinned it on Murson and I think they’ve got the goods. They’ve hit a tough snag, though. I was looking at the evening newspapers, just before lunch. None of the elevator operators at the apartment knew Murson, although they said they’d seen a guy like his picture come in there yesterday afternoon.”
“Do you think it was Murson?” inquired Flix.
“Sure,” said Steve. “He probably went up to look over the lay. Make sure the swag was there. But when he hit with his helpers, he used the service elevator.”
A pause. A waiter brought dessert. As the four men began to eat. Galen Flix made final comment.
“THE police are watching all outgoing trains,” he stated. “They are also on watch at tubes, ferries and bridges. The evening papers commented on that fact — something that the morning journals did not mention.
“Unquestionably, Murson will be apprehended. My worry was that he might not be the right man. But from what you have told us, Zurk, the law appears to be on the proper trail. What do you think of Zurk’s opinion, Targon?”
“Steve knows his stuff,” commented Jack, in a casual tone. “He’s the one to give the opinion. Not me. Anyway, I hope they grab this bird Murson.”
“So do I,” declared Flix — while Daykin nodded. Then, in an affable tone, the advertising man added:
“Both Mr. Daykin and myself must apologize for bringing up this discussion. We know that crime is a subject that you two gentlemen find distasteful.
“But, under the circumstances, we felt a meeting desirable. Because Luftus was our mutual friend you understand. Let us forget the matter. How is our friend Perry Delhugh? Have either of you seen him lately?”
“I dropped in on him last night,” declared Steve. “Along about seven o’clock. No — it was later than that. After eight, I guess. I stayed there about an hour — maybe longer.”
“I expect to call on him this evening,” declared Jack. His eyes were narrowing on Steve as he spoke. “Just for a short chat.”
Conversation turned to business. Flix and Daykin talked while their companions listened. All the while, Steve’s eyes were steady on either Flix or Daykin. He seemed to be avoiding Jack Targon’s gaze.
That was a fact that Jack alone noted. But Jack made no comment. At times, his lips pursed in knowing fashion. For Jack, despite his silence, had gained a definite opinion of his own.
His expression showed that he saw bluff behind the comments that Steve had made; that he believed the dark-faced man had concentrated on the theory of Murson’s guilt in order to avoid too much discussion.
For Jack Targon knew Steve Zurk. He understood the secrets of Steve’s past. He realized that he could easily have dropped remarks that might have worried his former pal. But Jack’s silence was expressive. It showed that for the present, at least, he had decided to keep his real opinions to himself.
CHAPTER XI. THE HUNTED MAN
AT the time when four men were concluding their lunch in a Manhattan hotel, a fast train was speeding eastward toward the Jersey City terminal of the Central Railroad of New Jersey.
This was a Baltimore and Ohio limited that had left Washington about five hours earlier. Its eastern terminal was the depot of the Jersey Central; and passengers in the dining car were finishing their lunch in anticipation of a prompt arrival in Jersey City.
Among those in the dining car was a long-faced, dark-haired man with bushy brows and heavy mustache. Glancing from the window, he saw that the limited was nearing the long bridge that crossed Newark Bay. The man arose and went back to the club car.
Under his arm this individual carried a book that he had been reading. That accounted in part for the fact that he had not perused the morning newspapers in the club car. There was another angle, also, to his choice of reading.
Among the newspapers on the train, this traveler had not spied any of the New York dailies. He had passed up Washington, Baltimore and Philadelphia newspapers with a mere glance; then had reverted to his book instead.
In the club car, the long-faced man sat down beside a table. He looked up momentarily as another person arrived from the dining car. He observed a quiet-faced young chap who sat down and looked from the window.
Realizing that they were nearly to the end of the run, the long-faced man put aside his book. Then, on the table beside him, he chanced to spy a New York newspaper.
Some one must have brought the journal aboard. It was a morning newspaper that might have been purchased by a passenger who boarded the train at Philadelphia. The long-faced man picked up the newspaper. A suppressed exclamation came from the lips beneath his mustache.
Staring at the front page of the newspaper, the long-faced traveler had recognized his own photograph.
Above it was the caption: “Wanted on Murder Charge.” Below it was his own name in small capital letters:
ADOLPH MURSON
A shudder came to Murson’s shoulders. Wild-eyed, the broker looked about. No one had apparently noticed the tremor that had quaked his frame. Avidly, Murson began to read the column that appeared beside his name. It was an account of murder in the penthouse of Theobald Luftus.
“Jersey City!” came the porter’s announcement. “Last stop—”
MURSON rose unsteadily. His bags had gone out to the vestibule. Clutching the telltale newspaper, the broker jammed it into his overcoat pocket. He moved to the door as the train coasted into the terminal.
Stepping from the club car, Murson saw the line of heavy busses that meet all incoming trains of the B.O. From his pocket he pulled a cardboard ticket that bore a large figure 1. He recalled that he had arranged to go uptown by bus.
His bag had already gone aboard the rear of the bus when Murson arrived and handed the ticket to the driver. Entering the bus, the broker slumped into a deep leather seat and muffled the collar of his overcoat about his chin.
He was a hunted man. Wanted for a part in robbery and murder. Face quivering, Murson tried to cover up his identity. He drew the newspaper from his pocket, glanced at the picture and tried to steady himself.