“You have quite a collection?”
“Yes.”
“All threats?”
“No. A few are tips. One in particular enabled us to forestall a plot against the Fascist delegate to America. That is why the note addressed to you is both right and wrong.”
“How?”
“Because,” said Cardona, “we have connected Double Z with Fascisti matters. That fits in. But previously, he seemed to favor the Italian government. Now, however, if your idea is correct, he opposes it.”
“Most peculiar!”
“Yes. But Double Z is eccentric, don’t forget that. I’ll tell you what I want to do, Mr. Farmington. I’m going to take notes of everything you have told me, just in case there may be a clew somewhere in it. This may be dangerous business.”
“It doesn’t worry me!” declared Farmington emphatically. “Nevertheless, we must capture this scoundrel. Make your notes, and I shall check them.”
Farmington sat down at the desk and leaned back in the large chair. Cardona began to make notations, exactly following the statements which the millionaire gave him.
While Cardona was at work, Farmington unlocked a lower drawer of the desk and opened a cigar box.
He brought out a cigar and cut off the cud. He flipped the bit of tobacco toward the ash receiver, and lighted his cigar in a methodical manner.
“I don’t recall your telling me about this morning,” remarked the detective. “You went directly to the office?”
“Yes. After an eight-o’clock breakfast.”
“When did the conference begin?”
“At nine thirty.”
“When did it end?”
“Ten fifteen.”
“And the evening newspapers were notified—”
“Immediately.”
“Did anything happen after that?”
Farmington chewed the end of his cigar as he reflected. He was leaning back in his chair, and Cardona noted the firmness of his profile.
“Nothing else,” came Farmington’s reply.
“All right,” declared the detective. “I’ll read all my notes. Afterward, we can see if we’ve missed anything.”
He began in a monotonous tone. Occasionally he looked up to see if Philip Farmington was listening. The millionaire had turned away slightly, so his profile was no longer visible. His head was leaning back; his hand was resting on the desk, holding the cigar.
Cardona went on until he finished reading. He waited for Farmington to finish considering it. At last Cardona’s patience ended.
“Anything else?” he questioned.
Philip Farmington did not reply.
“Satisfactory?” questioned Cardona.
No reply.
SURPRISED, Cardona frowned. He arose and stepped toward the seated millionaire. He advanced only three paces. He stopped stock-still, too amazed to move farther forward. He could now see the face of Philip Farmington, and it was his view of that countenance that astounded him.
Philip Farmington was staring at the wall with glazed, wide-open eyes. Upon his face had come a grayish pallor that matched the thin wisp of cigar smoke which curled upward from the hand upon the desk.
The firm features of the millionaire had taken a ghastly appearance that Cardona had never before observed upon the face of any man.
Startled, the detective stood motionless. Then, while a strange sensation brought incredible realization, Cardona reached forward and grasped the shoulders of the seated man.
The firm clutch brought results.
The millionaire’s body gave way beneath the pressure. It slumped down into the chair. The arms dropped lifelessly, and the lighted cigar rolled upon the floor. The head with the staring eyes fell back, and the gruesome gaze turned unseeingly toward the ceiling.
A deep gasp came from Detective Joe Cardona.
Philip Farmington was dead!
CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW PREPARES
THE strange death of Philip Farmington, millionaire international banker, was tremendous news. The circumstances under which it had occurred, in the presence of Detective Joe Cardona during a discussion of the mysterious Double Z, brought stern realization to both police and press. It was obvious that a man who had previously dealt only in eccentricities had now become a shrewd, insidious killer.
What — who — was Double Z?
Was he a gangster, who had suddenly given up the usual undercover methods of crime?
Was he a tool of some one higher up — a blind to mislead police investigators?
Was he a maniac, who knew the ways of the underworld — who, after contenting himself with writing his eccentric letters, had now launched into a career of murder and thievery?
Was he a supermind — a criminal who had been waiting for the right opportunity to begin murder and destruction?
Was he a man entirely unknown in gangdom, who had suddenly developed criminal tendencies?
Was he a foreign agent bent on a campaign of terrorism, with New York as, its center?
These questions remained unanswered.
It was certain that Double Z, whoever he might be, must come under one or more of these classifications.
His paradoxical actions and unexplainable purposes marked him either as a person who obeyed any criminal impulse, or as a man gifted with remarkable genius.
In either event, the police had but one course: To track down this slayer before he loosed his evil powers throughout a wider range.
Everywhere one went, the talk was of Double Z. This was particularly evident at the exclusive Cobalt Club, where Philip Farmington had been a prominent member. The death of the international banker had cast a pall over the spirits of his friends.
The Cobalt Club was a gloomy place at best. Now, for once, its members were loquacious; but their talk was morbid. The death of Philip Farmington presaged future threats, directed at other men of wealth.
A small, tense group was discussing the matter in the club lounge. Half a dozen men had gathered together. Barnaby Hotchkiss, the lumber magnate, was speaking.
“It looks like an international plot,” he said emphatically. “The anti-Fascists are bad enough, but if the Bolsheviks are mixed in it—”
“That might be troublesome for you, eh?” quizzed Blaine Glover, the famous steamship man.
“Yes,” admitted Hotchkiss. “I have been successful in prohibiting the importation of lumber from Russia. That cheap Bolshevik timber was a menace. We’ve stopped a lot of it now. They don’t like it in Moscow.”
“I don’t think this can go far,” said Blaine Glover optimistically. “There’s nothing to be gained by attacking individuals.”
“Look at it from Farmington’s viewpoint,” Hotchkiss put in sourly.
“Well, Farmington’s dead.”
“Yes. That’s just the trouble. Who will be next?”
The words brought nods of understanding from other members of the group.
“No one is safe,” observed Stephen Baum, the chain-store director. “If this crazy man sets out to kill, they cannot stop him. How was Farmington murdered?”
“Poisoned,” declared Glover. “They discovered that right away. I read the report of the toxicologist in tonight’s Sphere—”
“Yes, but who administered the poison? How? Where?”
Glover shrugged his shoulders.
“They haven’t figured that out, yet,” he said.
“I believe they have discovered the nature of the poison,” declared Matthew Wade, the multimillionaire.
“That, at least, is one step in the right direction.”
“How does that help?” asked Hotchkiss.
“Certain poisons are peculiar to certain countries,” said Wade. “This one, from the description I have read, resembles a very virulent, but little-used, poison found in India. I heard of such a poison during my last visit to Bombay, when I was cruising around the world on one of your ships, Glover.”