“And if no one gets it? If Duro Metal goes in the scrap heap? That means the same? Two hundred grand?”
“Certainly. If you can prove that it is actually forgotten.”
“Let me have a memo on that, Mr. Dreblin. With your signature.”
Dreblin hesitated. His heavy lip’s straightened. His brow showed a scowl.
“I signed your paper,” chuckled Nethro. “It’s your turn to put something in writing.”
Dreblin strode to the desk. Hesitating no longer, he picked up a pen and scrawled off the statement that the investigator wanted.
Nethro was looking at his watch when Dreblin handed him the paper. Smiling, the investigator tucked the memo in his left vest pocket.
“I’ll drop in at this time tomorrow night,” informed Nethro, pulling out the bookcase. “Nine o’clock. We’ll have more to talk about then. Goodnight, Mr. Dreblin.”
Nethro departed by the secret exit. The bookcase clicked shut behind him. Philo Dreblin stood in speculation; then went to the door, unlocked it and called for Hastings. The secretary appeared.
“Letters,” rumbled Dreblin. “Have your pad ready, Hastings, while I dictate them.”
Seated at his desk, the huge man went through the routine of dictating business letters to branch offices of the Calthite Company. But as he rumbled along, Philo Dreblin registered suppressed elation upon his rugged features.
Apparently, the secret visit of Kip Nethro had turned out to Dreblin’s liking. For the alloy manufacturer’s real thoughts concerned the morrow, when his new campaign would begin against the trio who sought two million dollars.
CHAPTER II
FIVE O’CLOCK DEATH
EARLY dusk had settled over Manhattan. The day had been a cloudy one, and the sky had blackened with each succeeding hour of afternoon. Lights were twinkling from myriad windows where electricity had supplanted the fading illumination of day.
A man was seated at a battered table in a small, paneled office. The room looked antiquated; it was located only a few stories above the street. This little office, in an old-fashioned building, was the inner room of the suite occupied by Jeremy Lentz.
The inventor was the man at the table. Before him lay a mass of spread-out blueprints. Lentz, sour-faced and bespectacled, was studying the blueprints. His lips protruded as he pursed them. Mechanically, the inventor drew a cigarette from a pack that lay on the table beside him.
The cigarette was of the cork-tipped variety. The trade-mark imprinted upon it was a small blue crown. This was Lentz’s regular brand. An ash tray cluttered with stumps was evidence that the inventor was a heavy smoker.
Bluish smoke was curling from the ash tray as Lentz lighted his fresh cigarette. Careless in habit, Lentz let the old stumps smolder in the metal ash tray. The odor of burning cork mingled with that of tobacco; but the heavy atmosphere did not appear to bother the inventor.
Standing up from the table, Lentz looked about and noticed the settling darkness. He glanced at a wrist watch and seemed surprised to note that it was not quite five o’clock. The closeness to the hour, however, reminded him of something. Lentz went to the door of the office and opened it.
A stenographer was seated at a small desk in the outside reception room. The girl was putting away a stack of old letters. She looked up as Lentz opened the door.
“You may leave now, Miss Farthington,” informed the inventor, in a mild tone. “I shall not require you any longer.”
“Aren’t you going to file the blueprints?” questioned the girl.
“I can attend to that myself,” returned Lentz. “I shall be here until six o’clock.”
Abruptly, the inventor went back into the inner office, closing the door behind him. The stenographer put away the letters, donned hat and coat, then went out into the hallway.
LENTZ’S office was the last door on this corridor. Directly opposite it was the door of an unoccupied office. Beyond these doors, the corridor terminated in a window that opened above an alleyway three floors below.
The window was at the girl’s left as she stepped out into the hall. Hence she turned right in order to approach the elevators.
The corridor was dim, for it had not been lighted, despite the gloom of the day. As the stenographer reached the main portion of the hall, she stepped squarely into the path of a man coming from an elevator. The man moved quickly aside. The stenographer passed him and rang the elevator bell.
At that moment, the girl wondered if the visitor happened to be coming to Lentz’s office. Turning back, she was just in time to see him opening the door that led into the inventor’s offices.
She noticed that the man was tall and stoop-shouldered. His coat, a light gray, was visible in the gloom of the corridor. But the stenographer could catch no glimpse of the man’s face.
Before the girl could start back to the office to find out who the arrival was, the door of an elevator banged open and the operator called “Down.” The stenographer decided not to return to the office. Instead, she took the elevator and descended.
The lobby of the little building was not a pretentious one; yet there was a fair flow of people passing through it, most of them outward bound. Lentz’s stenographer went out with other home-goers. It seemed as though nearly every one was leaving before five, on this afternoon.
FIVE minutes passed. A short, stubby man jostled his way into the building, carrying a stack of cigar boxes. He managed to grab loose boxes that were toppling as someone brushed against him.
Twisting aside, the stubby man avoided the final members of the crowd and paused beside a table where the elevator dispatcher was standing.
“Nearly bowled you over,” chuckled the dispatcher. “Would have been too bad if you’d busted up some of those fancy boxes. Got an extra smoke today, bud?”
A grin appeared upon the stubby man’s red face as he used his chin to indicate the breast pocket of his overcoat. The dispatcher reached in and extracted a wrapped cigar, which he transferred to a pocket of his uniform.
“Take another,” suggested the stubby man, in a gruff voice. “I’ve got plenty.”
The dispatcher helped himself.
“Kind of hoped you’d be in today,” he remarked. “But I’d given you up, this late. What’s the idea hitting here as late as five? Most everybody’s gone out.”
“I’ve got to see one customer,” informed the stubby man, in his hoarse tones. “Fellow named Lentz. Ain’t gone out, has he?”
“Don’t think so,” returned the dispatcher. “His stenog breezed by about five minutes ago. But I think he’s still up there. Usually stays late. I check off anybody that goes in or out after six o’clock. He’s a regular late-stayer, Lentz is. Hello there, Terry.”
The last remark was addressed to a newcomer. The stubby cigar salesman turned about to see a uniformed policeman who had entered the lobby. The officer was obviously the patrolman covering the beat that included this office building.
“Hello,” returned the cop. “What’re you doing? Buying some cigars?”
“Not me,” laughed the dispatcher. “Meet this guy, Terry. He sells the offices in this building. What did you say your name was, bud? I’ve forgotten.”
“Garsher,” informed the stubby man. “George Garsher. I do a business in high-grade cigars. Try a couple of smokes, officer. They’re in the outside pocket of my overcoat.”
The cop nodded solemnly and helped himself to two of Garsher’s perfectos. His eyes opened as he saw the bands that proclaimed the cigars to be an imported brand.
Just then an elevator door whammed open and a flood of passengers came from the car. The dispatcher nudged Garsher, who nodded and walked aboard.
The dispatcher turned to chat with the bluecoat. Both forgot Garsher; neither noted the people from the elevator. Thus they failed to see a stoop-shouldered fellow in a gray coat who walked out briskly with the throng.