Hugo von Tollsburg
Winston Collister picked up the paper that bore the name. He also examined the document that lay upon the desk, to compare the signatures.
“I shall keep this, baron,” he declared, “as your receipt for the money. That, of course, is understood. The main purpose of the signature is to finally establish your identity. I thank you for your courtesy, baron—”
Collister’s voice broke off. The millionaire was making a closer comparison of the signatures. The visitor watched him, with shrewd eyes gleaming. Standing with hands in his coat pockets, the man who called himself Von Tollsburg clutched the packet of thousand-dollar bills with his left hand, while his right moved significantly in his other pocket.
“Perhaps I am in error, baron,” Collister was saying slowly. “Perhaps I am mistaken — but — these signatures do not conform so closely as I had expected.”
He glanced up suddenly, and was quick enough to catch the antagonistic gleam in his visitor’s eyes. The suave man’s expression was changing, but too late. In one brief moment, Winston Collister’s suspicions crystallized into firm understanding.
“The signatures” — Collister’s voice became frigid — “are enough, Baron von Tollsburg! They tell me that you are not the man to whom I should deliver the money. Your eyes tell me the rest. You are an impostor — a false emissary!”
Collister’s hand shot out to grip the visitor’s wrist. The man was too quick; he stepped away. With surprising agility, Winston Collister made a lunge toward the false emissary, and with it, the millionaire uttered a loud shout for help.
“Ogden! Ducroe!” was his cry. “Come here at once to my study!” The call was loud enough to be heard throughout the house. Collister’s quick thrust enabled him to catch the impostor’s left arm. The false baron managed to break away and dash to the table, where he seized the paper upon which he had written the forged signature of a dead man. He thrust the paper into his left pocket, with the packet that contained two million dollars of Collister’s money.
He swung to meet Collister’s next attack, and with the motion he brought his right hand from his pocket. A revolver gleamed in his clenched fist.
AS Winston Collister leaped forward, the door of the study burst open, and two men appeared. They were the servants, Ogden and Ducroe.
Their arrival ended all opportunity for flight without bloodshed. The false Von Tollsburg, who until this moment had sought to make quick getaway, now acted with furious venom.
His eyes blazed as his finger pressed the trigger of the revolver. A shot burst forth, and Winston Collister’s leap came to an end. The millionaire crumpled, a bullet through his heart.
The men at the door did not hesitate. The sight of their master falling dead spurred them to wild effort. They leaped across the room in an attempt to seize the killer.
Had the false Von Tollsburg moved toward them, he would have fallen before the fury of their attack. Instead, however, he drew away; and as he backed across the room, he fired four quick shots.
Two were aimed at Ducroe, and they dropped the man before he had traveled six feet. Ogden was coming on with frenzy, but he, too, was destined to receive the murderer’s bullets. The final pair of shots, delivered at close range, brought the footman to the floor.
Three sprawled forms lay as tribute to the killer’s fell work. The path to the doorway was open. The false Von Tollsburg did not hesitate to use it. Three times a murderer within the space of a single minute, he made a swift dash toward safety.
Followed by screams that came from women on the second floor, the murderer headed toward the front door. That barrier opened as he neared it, and two young men in dress suits confronted the escaping killer. They were Collister’s sons, returned from town at this dramatic moment.
The fleeing man was upon them. He raised his revolver and fired his sixth shot at the first of his antagonists. The other Collister boy struck at the upraised wrist, and in that action saved his brother’s life. The aim was diverted, and the bullet lodged in the shoulder of the one toward whom it was delivered, instead of striking him in the heart.
With one foe down, the murderer grappled with the other. The Collister youth was wiry and powerful; for a moment he resisted the killer’s attack. Then, the murderer’s right hand came free, and he struck with his revolver. The weapon met young Collister’s skull, and the youth collapsed.
The delay at the door brought the fleeing man face to face with the most crucial situation he had yet encountered. As he ran down the steps between the huge colonial pillars, the impostor saw that his path was barred by a man in uniform. A patrolman had heard the shots, and was running up the walk with drawn revolver.
Seeing the gleaming revolver in the murderer’s hand, the officer stopped short and fired. His first shot was wide; the second also missed its target, although the bullet whistled close by the ear of the approaching killer. There was no response from the murderer’s gun; the chambers of the revolver were empty.
The policeman did not realize that fact; and it was his ignorance that made him prey to the murderer’s ruse. The third shot from the patrolman’s gun would surely have reached its mark; but the officer, seeing the barrel of a revolver thrust directly toward his face, dodged instinctively before firing.
In a trice, the killer was upon him. In their writhing struggle, the gun was wrested from the officer’s grasp. A shot resounded, and the policeman fell, slain by a bullet from his own revolver.
The murderer was on his way. Scurrying across the avenue, he gained the lawn beyond, followed by shouts of men who were hastening up the street. People were arriving upon the scene; but the sight of the slain policeman made them hesitate to follow the man who had escaped.
Screams from the Collister mansion told of fiendish work within. The rescuers who had seen the departing murderer preferred the light of the house to the darkness of the lawn on the other side of the avenue.
Smashing his way through all resistance, the impostor had escaped. Only Winston Collister — now dead — could have told the reason for the mad deeds of murder. For the false Baron von Tollsburg, fleeing through the night, had used madness only because method had failed.
In his pocket was the fortune he had come to gain. He had carried away the sum of two million dollars!
CHAPTER VII
THE MYSTERIOUS INVESTIGATOR
INSPECTOR GOLSHARK, of the Hartford police force, was standing in the center of Winston Collister’s study. The frown upon his face showed his perplexity. Silent detectives and policemen were gathered about, none offering a suggestion.
“It’s a tough case,” growled the inspector. “If we had one person who could tell us something, it would be different. But with Collister dead — with the two servants dead—”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. He glanced at the men about him, muttered something about a flock of dummies, and called police headquarters.
“Nothing doing on the guy that got away?” he questioned. “Yeah, he’s had pretty near an hour now. Round up all the suspects you can get. That’s the only chance. Plenty of people saw him — no one got a good-enough look at him.”
A policeman entered the room and spoke to the inspector. Golshark listened. A gentleman had arrived to see Winston Collister. He claimed to be a friend of the dead millionaire.
“Show him in,” growled the inspector. “We’ll be having a lot like him. Might as well be ready for them.”
A few minutes later, a tall, well-dressed man entered the study. Golshark glanced at the arrival, and then stared. The visitor was a man of unusual and distinctive countenance. One could not have told his exact age. Forty years might have been a fair estimate, but a guess would have been speculative. The face that the inspector saw wore a quiet, motionless expression; and its features appeared as though they had been chiseled by a sculptor.