She turned to Inspector Burks, flinging a volley of words at him.
“This man is a crook, not a detective. I hired him to help me catch those murderers. I showed him the place where they were hiding what they stole. Jerry — Mr. Davis — had whispered many things to me. He was a good man — I wanted to see him revenged — and there was big reward out for his murderers. This pig, Banton, is right. We were going to split it. But he found out that they had so much money on board their boat. He was like the greedy hog. He was going to steal it — what you call hijack it — and then put me out of the way — whoof — so I would never tell nothing.”
“Now I get you,” said Burks. “Up to your old tricks, eh, Banton? You’re hooked on a murder charge now. You and you’re little pals here have been killing guys tonight. They were murderers, but the law don’t even allow that.”
He turned to Rosa Carpita.
“You better come clean — all the way, sweetheart! You did tip us off tonight, didn’t you? You figured your big boy friend, Banton, was going to cross you?”
Rosa Carpita started to speak, then held her tongue for a moment. A crafty look came into her dark eyes.
“It is right,” she said haltingly. “I did what you call tip you off. I knew that the big brave cops would be more generous than this fat pig, Banton. I knew that the reward would be mine for catching these murderers.”
Banton exploded into a scornful abuse. His voice was a sneer.
“She’s lying,” he said. “She’s got a tongue like a corkscrew. I thought she’d done it, too, first off. But she was in the closet, you say. That’s where I put her, an’ she didn’t have a chance to send up any rockets. One of my own mugs must have done it because he loved me.”
Inspector Burks scratched his head. The whole thing was mystifying. It would take hours to unsnarl. Rosa Carpita had changed her story suddenly — changed it when she saw a chance of getting the reward money. Burks’s puzzled speculations were abruptly interrupted.
From somewhere below decks a thumping noise sounded. It increased in violence, became steady, monotonous.
Thump, thump, thump!
It sounded like spirit knocking; like some of the ghosts of the dead come back to haunt the ship. The cops and coast guardsmen stared at each other in startled wonder. Then Burks voiced a harsh question.
“What the hell’s that?”
Chapter XXIII
THE thumping continued, and Burks gathered his men and went with them to discover its cause. They followed a passageway that led from the stairs at the foot of the yacht’s saloon, and the thumping grew louder.
“It’s somebody pounding,” said Burks. “Some guy’s trying to signal us.”
They walked quietly, tracing the thumping at last to the metal door of a closet. The door was locked, apparently on the outside. The thumping was repeated as monotonously as before. Then a man’s hoarse voice spoke behind the door, faint, muffled.
“Help — let me out! Help!”
Two stout-muscled cops seized the knob of the door and succeeded in forcing the lock. The door opened. Behind it was one of the yacht’s storage closets, and there, standing against the wall, hands and feet bound, was a man. He was a tall man, white-haired, well dressed, distinguished-looking. His face was honest. He was obviously a prisoner.
“Thank heaven,” he groaned. “I thought they would murder me, too.”
Burks was aggressive at first. “Who are you?” he said.
Then his manner became more respectful. When the tall man’s hands were untied, he fumbled in his pocket, brought out a wallet, and drew forth a card. This he presented to Inspector Burks.
On it was the name: “Carleton Madder, State Bank Examiner.”
Madder drew credentials from his pocket, adding these to the card.
“They kidnapped me,” he said. “They wanted help in disposing of stolen bonds. Then they planned to murder me afterward. They locked me in the closet when the attack began.”
Madder’s manner and appearance carried conviction. His credentials were above reproach. Burks nodded and handed them back.
When Madder was brought to the cabin above, Honer, the only surviving banker, stared at him blankly, but, whatever his thoughts, he kept them to himself.
The police and coast guardsmen continued their search of the yacht. They found hundreds of thousands in stolen cash, securities, and jewels — the loot of the murder band. It was transferred to the police boat, kept under heavy guard, to be rushed back to city vaults for safe-keeping before being returned to its owners. Coast guard boats attached hawsers to the two battle-ravaged vessels and made ready to tow them back to port. The death-torch killers would never rob or kill again.
Inspector Burks, Commissioner Foster, and the tall, dignified bank examiner named Madder, smoked in the cabin of the patrol boat as it sped away, its quest ended.
Inspector Burks voiced a question which seemed to be preying on his mind, and Madder, the bank examiner, hazarded an answer.
“I’m wondering about Spencer and Cox,” the inspector said. “Those were the two bank employees who were supposed to have made a get-away after the first raid. If they weren’t guilty what happened to them? Do you suppose—”
Madder, staring at the inspector, nodded.
“I suppose just what you do, inspector. They were the corpses found by the police alongside Davis’s body. The murderers had transferred their own watches and jewelry to their victim’s pockets to make it seem that they themselves were the ones who had died instead of the two employees whom they brutally murdered.”
“And the last two corpses — the ones we thought were von Blund and Marsh? Who could they be?”
THE tall bank examiner shrugged. “Underworld characters probably. The murderers must have had one or more criminal aides in such a well organized plot. We know now that they brought their loot directly to the bank in an ordinary armored car. Who were its drivers? I became suspicious myself when I saw the car come with a load which wasn’t accounted for on the books of the bank. I wasn’t satisfied with the explanation. They probably killed these criminal aides when they were of no further use and would only be in the way. Those were the corpses you found in place of von Blund and Marsh.”
Burks shook his head vigorously, offering an objection.
“What good would it have done, man, to take the cash to the bank vault? Answer me that?”
The tall bank examiner was leisurely in his reply. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke through his nose.
“It’s only a theory, of course,” he said. “But I overheard a few things. Osterhout and von Blund were former Prussian officers. One was a flyer. Both were men of action and daring. It is my belief that they transferred their loot to the roof of the bank building through a special shaftway leading from the vault. On the roof it was picked up by a plane and taken to the yacht.”
“Impossible! Fantastic!” said Burks.
“Perhaps — but I think subsequent investigation of the vault and the roof may prove that my theory is correct.”
Burks was still pondering this amazing explanation when the boat docked. The bank examiner was fidgeting to be off.
“I’ve a report to draw up and turn in,” he said. “You can call me later if you want me to testify.”
Unmolested, he leaped to the pier and strode away into the darkness, while the cops began to unload the loot to waiting armored cars summoned by radio.
For a moment Inspector Burks was preoccupied, then suddenly he stiffened and listened.
A faint whistle, eerie yet melodious, floated back across the dock. It seemed to fill the whole air, seemed to have a strange, ventriloquistic note like the call of some wild bird.