The hatchet-faced sleuth resumed his seat and stared idly from the window. It was a gloomy, fog-laden day. Dusk was settling. Tharbel, however, seemed indifferent to the weather. Departing from his usual custom, he became somewhat loquacious. Clyde Burke motioned to the other reporters to listen. The Classic representative knew Junius Tharbel’s ways.
“I’VE been county detective for upward of fifty years,” began Tharbel, in a reminiscent tone. “I’ve seen cases in my time; cases as tough as this one. It doesn’t pay to let them throw you.
“I’m out to find a man who calls himself Jarvis Moxton. Mox. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know when I say that name is phony. Jarvis Moxton does not exist. But there’s some one — somewhere — who has been playing the part of an old man called Mox.
“He’s gone from Darport, this murderer, Mox. He’ll bob up some other place, and he’ll get back here if we have to bring him. That’s why I’m not saying much. That’s why I’m waiting. That’s why I’m going hunting.”
The outside gloom seemed to increase while Tharbel delivered his slow, speculative tones. There was a confidence in the county detective’s manner that proved impressive to the listeners.
“The break is due soon,” resumed Tharbel. “You’ll be seeing it — all three of you. Joel Neswick is staying here in Darport, to give his testimony when I want it. There’ll be another witness, too—”
Tharbel broke off as if he had said enough. He swung back in his chair. He glanced toward the doorway.
“I guess Fatty Harman will be in from his lodge pretty soon,” he remarked. “He’ll pick up his friend, and they’ll come to get me. Maybe I’ll get some shooting in early tomorrow. There’s murders and crime all the while, but the hunting season doesn’t last long.”
Footsteps began to clatter on the stairs. Tharbel arose and pointed to the single light which illuminated his office. He spoke to the reporters.
“Stick around if you want,” he said. “If any phone calls come in, tell them I’m out at Harman’s. If you go, the operator will know where to switch the calls. This sounds like my two friends.”
At that moment, two men entered the office. A look of surprise appeared upon Tharbel’s face; it changed to a challenge as the county detective recognized Joe Cardona.
The New York sleuth was accompanied by a tall, dignified man, who studied Junius Tharbel with a steady gaze. Joe Cardona, about to make the introduction, caught himself as he spied the reporters.
“I want to talk with you, Tharbel,” was his greeting. “What I’ve got to say is important. If you don’t want these reporters around—”
“It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Tharbel, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tone. “Whatever you’ve got to say, Cardona, can be said here. This isn’t New York; it’s Darport. However, if you want privacy, I’ll arrange it for you.”
Rising from his chair, the county detective marched to a door and opened it. He turned on the light in an adjoining room, as shabby as his regular office. He motioned to Cardona and his companion to enter.
Tharbel sat down at a desk as rattley as the one he usually used. Cardona, facing him squarely, answered his ironical challenge.
“If you don’t mind the reporters,” he declared, in a cold tone, “neither do I. If they’re here to get a story, I’m willing to give it to them.”
“Suits me,” rejoined Tharbel.
“O.K.” Cardona swung to the door of Tharbel’s regular office. “Come in, boys. Here’s something for your sheets.”
FOLLOWING Clyde Burke, the reporters flocked into the front room. Assuming a dramatic pose, Cardona began his statement. Before introducing his companion, he set forth a quick resume of the case on which he and Tharbel were working.
“A man named Schuyler Harlew,” declared Cardona, “was murdered in New York. He knew an inventor named Peter Greerson, who disappeared.”
“Then came Joel Neswick, another inventor. He showed up here in Darport, to keep an appointment with Jarvis Moxton — otherwise known as Mox. After Mox tried to kill Neswick, we got the story.”
“I got it,” interposed Tharbel.
“And I got it, too,” returned Cardona, “after I talked with Neswick. Our theory, now, is that Greerson came here and was murdered. Neswick came here and was rescued. But don’t forget one thing, Tharbel. The theory is based entirely upon Neswick’s story.”
“Yes,” admitted Tharbel. “Neswick says he had a note — a card of admittance to Mox.”
“Yes.”
“But he doesn’t have it now. It went to Mox, from whom it had come, through Schuyler Harlew.”
“Yes.”
“All right.” Cardona’s voice rose triumphantly. “Only one thing is needed, Tharbel. That’s further testimony to support what Neswick has said. Without it, Neswick’s story can fall flat. Am I right?”
“I suppose so,” admitted Tharbel cautiously.
“Can you produce such testimony?” demanded Cardona.
“No,” replied Tharbel.
“Well, I can!” exclaimed Cardona. “I’ll let the man speak in his own behalf.
“Gentlemen, this is Cuthbert Challick, an inventor, recently returned from Maine. I’ll let him nail the clincher in his own words!”
All stared toward Challick. Even Junius Tharbel looked astounded for the moment. Cardona was elated. With arms folded, he listened while Challick spoke.
“Schuyler Harlew came to see me a month ago,” announced Challick, in a firm, dignified voice. “In Portland, Maine, he requested me to visit a man named Jarvis Moxton, who lived in Darport. I agreed to do so, upon my return to New York. From Harlew, I received a note, to serve as introduction.”
“A note signed by Mox!” blurted Cardona. “This is it!”
With a flourish, the ace detective planted the paper upon Tharbel’s tumble-down desk. Reporters leaped forward to view it.
Tharbel studied the paper with apparent interest.
“This,” he remarked, “will corroborate Neswick’s story — provided, of course, that the note resembles Neswick’s. It simply proves what I have learned—”
“What you have learned,” snorted Cardona, “I have proven!”
The reporters looked at one another. Cardona saw their glances. He knew that credit was coming to him; that Tharbel’s prestige was due for a jolt. The New York sleuth had brought the evidence that Tharbel needed.
THE telephone bell rang in the other room. Methodically, Tharbel arose to answer it. When he returned, his face wore an expression of triumph that outshone Joe Cardona’s.
“Give Cardona credit,” said Tharbel, to the reporters. “He has brought in something useful. It is a corroboration — a written paper. In the meantime, I have not been idle. I, too, have gained a scrap of paper — a very useful one. I have it here. I shall read it.”
He drew a scrawled slip from his pocket, and held it in the light. In a pauseless voice, he read these words:
“You want Mox. I can tell you where he is. In Albany. He calls himself Hoyt Wyngarth.”
Tharbel planked the paper on the table. He faced the other men and smiled sourly. It was evident that he had another surprise to spring.
“This note,” he said, “reached my hands last night. I sent a man to Albany to-day. The call that I just received was by long distance. I have been expecting it. Hoyt Wyngarth is a prisoner. He will arrive here tomorrow morning.”
Junius Tharbel chuckled gloatingly as he looked at Joe Cardona. The New York ace had played a trump; he had brought a new and useful witness. But the county detective had countered with a dazzling thrust.