Caulkins picked up the message from Double Z. He spread it and pointed to the signature.
“Who is Double Z?” he asked.
“I shall tell you, Caulkins,” replied Tolland. “His name is an important one. There is method in everything he does even in that signature. What does it represent to you?”
“Double Z. Two initials. I can think of no one who would have such initials.”
Judge Tolland seized the paper.
“Look now!” he declared, moving his finger across the signature. “Does that mean anything to you?
Forget Double Z. Think of a big man — a powerful, prominent man whose initials are—”
Caulkins suddenly stiffened. A startled look of incredulity came into his widening eyes. Before he could reply, Tolland picked up a pen and paper from the table and wrote a series of short lines, inscribing his signature beneath.
“There!” he exclaimed in a voice of indignation. “There is the name of the fiend — the merciless murderer! I have written it, with my signature beneath. That is my statement to you. Tell your paper; tell the police. When it is safe, you can count on me to testify!”
Caulkins leaped to the telephone. He dialed a number. He stood, with both papers on the table before him, studying one and then the other, his eyes bulging, his breath coming in anxious gasps.
“Classic?”
His question came in a wildly eager whisper. Judge Tolland, eyes gleaming expectantly, stood close beside the reporter, tense and hopeful.
“City desk,” ordered Caulkins.
A pause. Both men were strained. The time it took for the connection seemed interminable. It was a matter of seconds only, but to Tolland those seconds were hours.
A voice came over the wire. Tolland saw Caulkins clutch the phone more firmly. The reporter’s lips began to move, and Tolland’s hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned close to catch the words from the other end of the line.
Vindication! His opportunity was here. After months of persecution, he had decided upon the vital step.
Within the next few minutes the persecution which had threatened him would be ended.
For Caulkins was about to reveal the identity of the man called Double Z — reveal it so all the world would know the secret of that man who gloried in crime.
CHAPTER III. DOUBLE Z STRIKES
THE reporter at the city desk in the Classic office placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and called to the city editor.
“Caulkins on the phone, Mr. Ward.”
“Just a minute, Gaynor.”
The reporter spoke into the telephone. Again he called to the city editor.
“Says it’s urgent, Mr. Ward.”
The city editor came grumbling to the desk.
“Time he called up,” he said. “Expected him in an hour ago. We want that Wise Owl copy in a hurry.”
He took the swivel chair as Gaynor slipped out of the way, and picked up the telephone.
“Yeah?” he growled.
Words came breathlessly from Caulkins.
“Biggest scoop ever, boss,” was what Ward heard. “I’ve located Judge Tolland—”
“Where?”
“Right here with me now. In a hideout on East Eightieth Street. Listen: This Double Z business—”
“Wait, I’ll put Gaynor on, if you can’t get in with the story.”
“No, no, boss!” came the protest. “Wait until I give you the dope. I’m afraid something may happen if I don’t get it off my chest quick. Judge Tolland is alive. He’s given me a statement. He knows who Double Z is. Don’t think I’m crazy, boss! Double Z is—”
The voice broke off. Simultaneously, Ward heard the sound of a revolver shot over the wire. Three more followed in rapid succession. There was a clatter of a telephone falling.
“Hello! Hello!” called the city editor.
Vague sounds came through the receiver. Ward fancied that he heard a gasp. A sharp click ended the chaos. The phone was hung up at the other end.
“Gaynor!” shouted the city editor. “Try to locate where that call came from — the phone number! Quick! I heard shooting.”
He singled out another reporter.
“Up to Eightieth Street, Briggs,” he said. “East Eightieth. Take Stewart along with you. Try to locate Caulkins. He was calling from somewhere up there. There was shooting in the place where he called from.”
The alert city editor spotted another man.
“Get police headquarters, Perry. Tell them what you just heard. Shooting up on Eightieth Street. Caulkins is there.”
Ward sagged back in his chair, his excitement passed. He became meditative, giving no thought to the scurrying men who were on their way to do his bidding. He leaned forward to the desk and wrote a concise memorandum of what he had just heard.
Then he pushed pencil and paper aside while he checked his recollections. He tilted back in his chair and looked across the room at the clock. He glanced toward the typewriter desks. Harwood, star rewrite man, was sitting idle.
“Say, Harwood,” said the city editor in a matter-of-fact tone, “do a Wise Owl column. Anything you want. It’s your job from now on. I don’t think Caulkins will be with us any longer.”
THE city editor of the Classic was correct in his prophecy. A few hours later, the lifeless body of Joel Caulkins was discovered in the third story of an old house on Eightieth Street. No shots had been heard in the vicinity.
Police had arrived at the place by a process of elimination. The owner of a little store had seen a car pull away from the building where no car had stopped for months. The place was supposed to be empty. The statement had warranted a search. The body of the ex-Wise Owl was found there.
Acting Inspector Fennimann was accustomed to reporters from the Classic. He considered most of them a nuisance. The tabloid newspaper was always after sensational stories, and the Wise Owl revelations, a page of presumably inside stuff, was not liked at headquarters.
But on this particular night, after he had received a report from Detective Sergeant Wentworth, the acting inspector was surprised to receive a visit from Dale Ward, city editor of the Classic.
The editor received a cordial welcome. In a few minutes he and Fennimann were in close conference, chewing fat cigars while they talked.
“I heard the shots that killed Caulkins,” explained Ward. “But it was what happened before then that is most important. He was in a hurry when he called me. Before they bumped him off, he told me that Judge Tolland was there with him.”
“Judge Tolland!” Fennimann raised his eyebrows incredulously. “That’s impossible, Ward! If Tolland was anywhere around New York, we’d have located him before this. Say! You aren’t going to run any stuff like that, are you?”
“That wasn’t all that Caulkins said. He told me that Tolland knew all about Double Z. He was just going to let me know who Double Z was when—”
Ward stopped as the door opened. In stepped the familiar form of Joe Cardona, the dark-visaged detective whose reputation as a crime investigator was known throughout New York.
“I’m glad you’re here, Joe!” exclaimed Fennimann. “This Caulkins killing has got me worried — with Inspector Klein away and you off on an other job. This is Mr. Ward, city editor of the Classic. What about this Caulkins case, Joe — have you seen Wentworth?”
“Yes,” replied Cardona tersely, while he was solemnly shaking hands with Ward.
“I stopped at East Eightieth Street on my way home from the Bronx. I’ve seen the place — the body — and Wentworth’s report. Happened to call here while you were out, and they told me about the murder.”
Fennimann turned to Ward.
“Tell Joe what you told me,” he said.
Cardona was expressionless while he heard the city editor’s statement. Then he became thoughtful. He scratched his chin and turned toward the newspaperman.