“I will hear your own report on the matter which I entrusted to you.”
“You know already, Master, that the man, Peter Carlo, failed. I cannot say what evidence he left behind. But your orders regarding the other, Blondie Hahn, were carried out. He brought the man Carlo to Wu King’s Bar, and I interviewed them in the private room. I instructed Carlo, and he set out. I then paid Hahn his price. It was a waste of good money, but I obey. Ah Fu and Chung Chow did the rest . . . there are now only three Scarlet Brides left to us. . . .”
It was an hour after dawn when Nayland Smith and Mark Hepburn stood looking down at two stone slabs upon which two bodies lay.
One of the departed in life had been a small but very muscular Italian with uncommonly large, powerful hands. He presented a spectacle, owing to his many injuries, which must have revolted all but the toughest. There was a sound of dripping water.
“You have prepared your report, Doctor?” said Nayland Smith, addressing a plump, red-faced person who was smiling amiably at the exhibits as though he loved them.
“Certainly, Mr. Smith,” the police doctor returned cheerily. “It is quite clear that Number One, here (I call him Number One because he was brought in an hour ahead of the other), died as the result of a fall from a great height——”
“Very great height,” rapped Nayland Smith. “Fortieth floor of the Regal Tower.”
“So I understand. Remarkable. He has two bullet wounds:
one in his right hand and one in his shoulder. These would not have caused death, of course. It was the fall which killed him—quite naturally. I believe he was wearing black silk gloves. An electric torch and a telescopic rod of very bright metal were found near the body.”
Nayland Smith turned to a police officer who stood at his elbow.
“I am told, Inspector, that you have now checked up on this man’s history: there is no doubt about his identity?”
“None at all,” drawled the inspector, who was chewing gum. “He’s Peter Carlo, known as ‘The Fly’—one of the most expert upper-storey men in New York. He could have climbed the outside of the Statue of Liberty if there’d been anything worth stealing at the top. He always wore a black silk mask and silk gloves. The rod was to reach into rooms he couldn’t actually enter. He was so clever he could lift a lady’s ring from a dressing-table fifteen feet away!”
“I don’t doubt it,” muttered Mark Hepburn. “So much for Peter Carlo. And now . . .”
He turned to the second slab.
Upon it lay the body of a huge blond man of Teutonic type. His hands were so swollen that two glittering diamonds which adorned them had become deeply embedded in the puffy fingers. Sodden garments clung to his great frame. Scarlet spots were discernible on both of the hairy hands, and there was a scarlet discolouration on his throat. The glare of his china-blue eyes set in that bloated caricature of what had been a truculently strong face afforded a sight even more dreadful than that of the shattered body of Peter Carlo.
“Brought it from the river just north of Manhattan Bridge ten minutes before you arrived,” explained Inspector McGrew, chewing industriously. “May be no connection, but I thought you’d like to see him.”
He glanced around, meeting a curiously piercing glance from Federal Agent Smith as he did so. Federal Agent Smith had steely eyes set in a sun-browned face framed, now, in the fur collar of his topcoat; a disconcerting person, in Inspector McGrew’s opinion.
“Now, here,” explained the smiling police surgeon, “we have a really mysterious case! Although his body was hauled out of East River, he was not drowned——”
“Why do you say so?” Smith demanded.
“It’s obvious.” The surgeon became enthusiastic and, stepping forward, laid a finger on the bloated, discoloured skin. “Note the vivid scarlet urticarial rash which characterizes the oedema. This man died from some toxic agency: he was thrown into the river. A post-mortem examination will tell us more, but of this much I am sure. And I understand, Inspector”—glancing over his shoulder—”that he, also, is well known to the police?”
“Well known to the police!” echoed Inspector McGrew, “he’s well known all over New York. This is Blondie Hahn, one of the big shots of the old days. He was booking agent for ‘most all the gunmen that remain in town. These times, I guess he had a monopoly. He ran a downtown restaurant, and although we knew his game, he had strong political protection.”
“You are prepared to make your report, Doctor?” said Smith rapidly. “I examined Carlo shortly after he was found. I presume we can now search the person and garments of Hahn.”
“That’s been done already,” Inspector McGrew replied. “The stuff is on the table inside.”
The grey-blue eyes of Federal Agent Smith glared out from the haggard brown mask of his face. Inspector McGrew was a hard man, but he found himself transfixed by that icy stare.
“Those were not my orders!”
“It had been done before the Federal instructions came through.”
“I want to know by whose authority!” The speaker’s piercing glance never left McGrew’s face. “I won’t be interfered with in this way. You are dealing, Inspector, not with the operations of a common, successful crook, but with something bigger, vastly bigger than you even imagine. Any orders you receive from me must be carried out to the letter.”
“I’m sorry,” said the inspector, an expression he had not used for many years, unless possibly to his wife; “but we didn’t know you were interested in Hahn, and the boys just went through with the routine.”
“Show me these things.”
Inspector McGrew opened a door, and Nayland Smith walked through to an inner room, followed by Hepburn and the inspector. In the doorway he turned, and addressing a grim-looking man in oilskins:
“I understand,” he said, “that you were in charge of the boat which recovered the body. I shall want to see you later.”
On a large, plain, pine table two sets of exhibits were displayed. The first consisted of a nearly empty packet of Lucky Strike cigarettes, a lighter, a black silk mask, black silk gloves, a quill tooth-pick, three one-dollar bills, and an eight-inch metal baton—which contained fifteen feet of telescopic rods. Smith examined these, the sole possessions found upon Fly Carlo, quickly but carefully. He had seen them already.
“You understand,” McGrew explained, “Hahn had only just been brought in—our routine was interrupted.”
“Forget your ordinary routine,” came rapidly. “From now on your routine is my routine.”
Federal Officer Smith transferred his attention to the second set of exhibits. These were more numerous than interesting. There was a very formidable magazine pistol of German manufacture; a small pear-shaped object easily identified as a hand grenade; a gold cigar-case decorated with a crest; a body-belt, the pockets of which had been emptied of their contents: ten twenty-dollar gold pieces; an aluminium lighter, two silk handkerchiefs; a diamond pin; a bunch of keys; a packet of chewing gum; and a large shagreen wallet, the contents of which had been removed. These were: a number of letters, and a photograph sodden by immersion. There was, lastly, a limp carton which had once contained playing cards, and two thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.
“Where was the diamond pin?” snapped Nayland Smith.
“He always wore it in his coat like a badge,” Inspector McGrew replied.
“Where were the dollar bills?”
“Right in the card-holder?”
“Can you think of any reason,” Smith asked “why a man should carry money in a card-holder?”
“No,” the inspector admitted; “I can’t.”
“Assuming that this money had just been sent to him, can you think of any reason why it should be sent in such a way?”
“No.”