“For Junius Tharbel, maybe,” interposed Cardona. “He’s a guy that plays for them. He can get them — in a bum town like Darport, where anybody that stays up after nine is probably a crook. If we had a curfew bell here in New York, I could round up a lot of thugs myself.”
“There must be a way out.”
“There is.” Joe was emphatic as he spoke. “I’ll tell you the kind of break I’d like to get, inspector. I found out about Greerson. I didn’t know where he’d gone, but I know now that he went to Darport to see Mox.
“Tharbel puts me down as a sap by playing his trump. He gets Neswick. He brings the whole thing out. Neswick came to see Mox. The old gent tried to kill him. Murder is out in the open.
“What I’d like to get is a higher trump than Tharbel’s. I’d like to find another inventor like Neswick — one who knew Schuyler Harlew — one who was going to see Mox — but one who hasn’t started yet. That would be a trump card over Tharbel’s. He thinks Neswick’s testimony is O.K., and so do I. If I can play right down his alley, and bring in the kind of evidence he wants to—”
There was an interruption. Detective Sergeant Markham was at the door. He waved to Cardona.
“Fellow to see you, Joe,” he said. “Wise-looking bloke. He’s been reading the newspapers, and wants to talk to you about the Darport case—”
“Bring him in here,” snorted Cardona.
“See?” This was to Inspector Klein. “Even Markham calls it the Darport case. Where do I rate?”
Before the inspector could reply, the visitor had arrived at the door of the office. Cardona and Klein found themselves facing a tall man whose erect posture and steady gaze marked him as an individual of intelligence. His features were the sharp ones that denoted a thinker. His manner was calm and dignified. In his early forties, this gentleman gave the impression of being one who had reached the prime of life.
“Detective Cardona?” inquired the visitor, in a mellow voice.
“Right,” returned Joe. “Do you want to see me?”
“Yes.” The man extended a card. Joe received it and read the name aloud: “Cuthbert Challick.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Challick,” expressed Cardona, extending his hand. “This is Inspector Klein.”
CARDONA noted the pressure of the gentleman’s handshake. He was impressed by Challick’s virility. The visitor, after shaking hands with Klein, calmly seated himself with the air of one who has an important story to tell.
“I have just returned to New York,” began Challick. “I spend most of my time out of town; in Maine, Florida, and sometimes abroad. The first news that greeted me in the local newspapers was that of crime which began with the murder of one Schuyler Harlew, and ended with the flight of Jarvis Moxton — called Mox — from his home in Darport.”
“I am handling the New York end of the case,” interposed Cardona.
“So I understand,” asserted Challick. “That is why I have come to you. I am particularly interested in the testimony which the newspapers have attributed to a man named Joel Neswick. He, it appears, knew Harlew, and was told by Harlew to visit Mox. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” replied Cardona. “Neswick’s an inventor.”
“So am I,” declared Challick calmly. “I have been working on various inventions; some of them have proven profitable. My most recent experiments, however, have been with conical mirrors intended to gain heat power from the rays of the sun. My plans have reached the point of practicability.
“That, I suppose, is why I was visited by Schuyler Harlew, who made a special trip to Portland, Maine—”
“You knew Harlew?” Cardona blurted the question.
“Certainly,” assured Challick. “I knew him only as the representative of a man who wished to purchase full rights to my invention—”
“Jarvis Moxton?”
“Mox, according to his own signature.”
Drawing his hand from his inside pocket, Cuthbert Challick passed a folded note to Joe Cardona. The detective opened it. With eager eyes, he read:
Admit the bearer to my house. This will serve as his introduction. Mox.
“You received this from Schuyler Harlew?” questioned Cardona, looking up from the scrawled lines.
“Yes,” answered Challick. “More than a month ago. I promised to see Mox immediately upon my return to New York. I was to go to Darport after my arrival here. You can imagine my amazement to learn that Harlew had been murdered; that Mox was a fugitive from justice.”
“I want you to go with me to Darport,” announced Cardona.
“I am quite anxious to do so,” agreed Challick. “This matter is of utmost importance to me. You must understand that I was assured a prompt purchase of my invention. I want to know what lies in back of it all.”
“You’ll learn,” said Cardona grimly. “This is great news you’ve brought me, Mr. Challick.”
Turning to Inspector Klein, the star detective brought his fist upon the desk with a resounding punch. There was triumph in Cardona’s eyes.
“I’ve got the edge now, inspector!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got what Junius Tharbel needs — a man whose testimony will bear out what Neswick said; and one who has the proof which Neswick couldn’t show — this note!”
Inspector Klein nodded.
“If this doesn’t blast that wise hick loose,” added Cardona, “I don’t know what will! He thinks he showed me up; he’s going to find out different. Tharbel trumped my ace; this time I’ll cover his deuce spot.”
Cardona turned to Cuthbert Challick. The tall inventor was looking on with an air that indicated perplexity. He seemed to be just on the verge of understanding the excited remarks that Cardona had uttered.
“We’re going to Darport,” announced Cardona. “You and I, Mr. Challick, to get the low-down on this crime.”
Challick nodded his agreement. Cardona’s swarthy features registered an elated smile.
The break had come in Cardona’s favor. In Cuthbert Challick and the letter which the inventor had brought, the ace detective had gained the trump he wanted!
CHAPTER XIII
THARBEL COUNTERS
THAT same afternoon found Junius Tharbel seated at his rickety desk. The back window showed the county jail, the side window opened on a stretch of ground that was vacant for a distance of forty feet, beyond it a row of trees.
The gum-chewing county detective seemed to be awaiting the arrival of some one. Two reporters entered. They did not rouse Tharbel from his reverie. Clyde Burke arrived.
“Hello, Tharbel,” greeted the Classic reporter.
“Hello,” returned the county detective. “Well, what do you want to ask me about? Let’s hear it.”
“No questions,” said Clyde. “I don’t ask them. If you have a statement, I’ll listen to it.”
Tharbel chuckled.
“You’re all right, Burke,” he said. “Just for that, I’ll give you a statement. Get ready.”
The other reporters showed immediate interest. They crowded close to Tharbel’s desk. The county detective arose solemnly and went to a closet. He brought forth a rifle and placed it on the desk.
“Nice Winchester, eh?” he questioned. “Well, here’s my statement. I’m going hunting.”
Clyde Burke laughed. The other reporters looked puzzled. Tharbel’s hatchet-face formed a wry smile.
“Yes, sir,” repeated the county detective. “I’m going hunting. Out to Hollis Harman’s lodge. He and another fellow are coming here to get me. We start with the dogs at daybreak.”
“What about Moxton?” questioned one of the reporters. “You’re not dropping the case, are you? With somebody prowling around his house last night?”
“That’s three questions,” returned Tharbel sourly. “I don’t have to answer any one of them. You heard my statement. I’m going hunting.”