The visitor made no response. His hands still above his head, his eyes were gleaming in anger.
“You are an impostor,” accused Bosworth. “Your face shows it. You have played into my hands. You have only one chance for safety. That is to play fair. Who are you?”
A slow smile showed on the accused man’s face. He seemed to recognize the fact that he was trapped. Nevertheless, his tone was sarcastic as he replied to Sturgis Bosworth.
“I am not Baron von Tollsburg,” he stated. “I may as well be frank with you before I face Victor Venturi. Von Tollsburg is dead. I killed him.
“My own identity? It might surprise you, Bosworth. I have more than one identity. You should, therefore, be interested in the one that I have assumed for this particular work. I call myself Crix. Remember that name, Bosworth. Crix.
“An unusual name? Perhaps. Nevertheless, it is a good one. Shrewd crooks have obeyed Crix. He has always kept in the background. Smart men have known him only as Crix. I am Crix.
“Since you have learned my insidious identity, I may as well tell you more” — Crix, with a short pause, was rising as he spoke — “because it will mean much in your future life. Your future life, Bosworth, which will be very short.
“When Crix plots, Crix plots well. You may kill me if you wish, but the sound of your revolver shot will be your own death warrant. I have marked it as a signal for my men. They will leap to the aid of their master — to the aid of Crix. I am Crix, who killed Baron von Tollsburg, who killed Winston Collister. Crix, who will bring death to Sturgis Bosworth—”
The words broke off as Crix leaped across the table. He had caught Sturgis Bosworth at a moment when the man was tense because of the strange statements he had heard.
The millionaire pulled the trigger. The action was a moment late. Crix, in his swift leap, barely managed to strike Bosworth’s arm aside. Coming over the table, the attacker grappled with the man who had tried to shoot him.
The struggle lasted only a few seconds. Crix, with a powerful blow, staggered Bosworth. The millionaire fell back, still clutching the gun, but before he could raise the weapon, Crix had drawn his own revolver. Firing point blank, he shot Sturgis Bosworth in the body. The millionaire sank without a groan.
Crix turned toward the door, a fiendish look upon his face. The door was opening, and the murderer saw Caleb, Bosworth’s old servitor. The situation was identical with that which had occurred in Hartford. A servant coming to the rescue. Crix adopted the same alternative. With a fiendish smile, he pressed the trigger of his gun. Caleb dropped in his tracks.
Calmly, Crix pocketed his gun. He picked up the box and closed it. With absolute indifference, he stepped from the room and turned down a hallway that led to the side door of the house.
Tonight, Crix had planned more carefully than before. He had spoken the truth to Sturgis Bosworth. The first shot was a signal. If it and the second had not been heard, the third had certainly carried to listening ears, for the door had been opened when Crix discharged it.
This getaway was easy. Tonight the way to escape was guarded. Crix laughed fiendishly as he departed. Victor Venturi might be there; others might hear the shot within the house. They had been provided for. Turmoil was due to break within this home, and the strong hands of gangsters would be waging war for Crix!
Two million dollars was again the stake. Safely boxed, it was under the arm of the murderer, Crix!
CHAPTER XIV
THE SHADOW AIDS
VICTOR VENTURI was pacing back and forth in the front reception room of Sturgis Bosworth’s home. Nervous and perturbed, the sensitive Italian formed a marked contrast to his companion, Angelo, who was sitting silently in a high-backed chair.
The two had reached this residence after a swift ride in a taxicab. All the way to Montclair, Venturi had displayed his usual restlessness. He had prepared the card to be delivered to Sturgis Bosworth, and he was anxiously awaiting the outcome of the message.
Suddenly, Venturi ceased his pacing. He turned to his servant with a worried look in his eyes. The fact that Caleb, Bosworth’s footman, had said that a visitor was with the millionaire, had caused Venturi to be unusually tense.
“What was that, Angelo?” quizzed the sallow Italian. “Did I hear a shot?” Venturi’s servant assumed a listening attitude.
“There it is again!” exclaimed Venturi.
A moment later, a loud report came to the ears of both men. The correctness of Venturi’s claim was proven. A shot had undoubtedly been fired from the rear of the house.
“Come!” cried Venturi.
Followed by Angelo, the Italian emissary rushed in the direction from which the shot had come. He saw a hallway and an opened door beyond. Entering, Venturi stopped short as he saw two forms upon the floor.
Recognizing that the farther man must be Sturgis Bosworth, Venturi leaped forward and bent above the millionaire. He raised Bosworth’s head, and saw the man’s eyelids flicker. Dying lips moved.
“Crix” — Bosworth’s voice choked — “his — name is — Crix — he robbed—”
The lips stilled. Sturgis Bosworth was dead. With an exclamation of wrath, Victor Venturi leaped to his feet and made toward the door.
“Our man has escaped, Angelo!” he cried. “Come. We must capture him!”
The Italian stopped short at the door. He was confronted by a hard-faced man who swung a menacing revolver. A motion of the weapon sent Venturi back into the room.
“So you’re going after somebody?” came the question. “Take another guess, Venturi. You’ve got yourself to think about, right now.”
Threatening faces appeared behind the man with the gun. Bumps Jaffrey was here with his gang. The leader of the hoodlums grinned as his mob advanced. Turning, Bumps spoke to Skeeter Wolfe.
“Take a look upstairs, Skeeter,” he ordered. “If anybody makes a squawk, give them the works.”
Skeeter left to follow instructions. Bumps, confident that there would be no interference, gloated over the helplessness of the victims who stood before him.
“Stand up against the wall,” he commanded. “Move along — or you’ll get some hot lead quicker than you expect it.”
Venturi understood. Angelo, whose knowledge of English was limited, followed his master as Venturi backed slowly toward the wall. There was no mistaking Bumps Jaffrey’s purpose. The gang leader intended to murder this pair in cold blood.
“So you were after somebody, eh?” questioned Bumps, with an evil leer. “You didn’t know the guy was covered, eh? You wanted to get Crix, did you? Get Crix, eh? Well, you’ll get the works instead!”
Bumps was threatening the victims with his revolver. Beside him were four gangsters. Another was standing watch at the door. Two murdered men were lying on the floor. Their dead bodies were the handiwork of Crix, the master crook.
Bumps Jaffrey laughed. Before he left, he, too, would have his toll of victims. The orders were to blot out Victor Venturi and whoever might be with him.
“It’s curtains for you, Venturi,” announced the gang leader coldly. “You pulled a swift one, tonight, getting away from my gorillas down at the Dexter Hotel. Maybe you were an ace there; but you’re just a deuce spot here. Like some hot lead? All right. Try it!”
Up came the gang leader’s revolver. Victor Venturi, despite the pallor of his face, stared into the muzzle of the gun. It was Angelo who quailed. The servant did not possess the fortitude of the master.