Jermyn obeyed the order. With the telephone in his hand, Hendrix paused long enough to make another statement to Martin Powell.
“Alvarez Legira is playing a game,” declared the financier. “He has pretended that his schemes are legitimate. Actually, he has been angling to obtain the sum of ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars!” cried Powell.
“Yes,” continued Hendrix, “that is the amount at stake. Everything has been arranged for Legira to receive it upon demand. Yet the funds have not been actually delivered to him. I am the only one who can frustrate his schemes. When I lift this receiver, it means the beginning of the end.
“As matters now stand, Legira has access to the millions. When I have completed this telephone call, the schemer will find his chances ended. It will be an impossibility for Alvarez Legira ever to obtain the money.”
HENDRIX was speaking dramatically. His flabby face registered triumph. Portly and lethargic, Hendrix had none of the appearance that denotes a clever man. Nevertheless, he was about to score a victory over the shrewd Legira.
The ticking clock showed ten minutes before the hour. Hendrix smiled. There was ample time. He enjoyed this triumph in which he was playing the principal role, with Powell and Jermyn as awestruck spectators.
The financier looked at Powell; then at Jermyn. There, his gaze froze. Hendrix noted that Jermyn’s face had paled; that the man was not listening to what his master was saying; that he was staring wild-eyed toward the door of the office.
Martin Powell caught the change in the financier’s expression. He saw Hendrix glance toward the door; instinctively, the investigator did the same.
The hallway beyond was dark, due to an unlighted turn that led into the office. Some one was standing in that hall — a man whose face was indistinguishable in the gloom. But it was not that fact that interested the gazers.
The man’s hand was in plain view. It held a shining revolver. The weapon was directed toward John Hendrix, threatening death, should he make a single move!
CHAPTER XII
DEATH IN THE DARK
A LONG, tense series of moments followed. The three men in the office of the financier’s apartment formed a startled tableau. Jermyn, closest to the door, was standing petrified with fear. Powell, seated beside the desk, was solemn and tense. Hendrix, telephone in hand, was plainly startled.
Not a word was spoken from the little hallway. The man there held the three at his mercy. He made no announcement of his intention. He seemed content for the moment to hold matters as they were.
Ten minutes of nine!
The thought worried Hendrix. Unless this call went through, Legira could obtain the money from Cody. Was that the purpose of this threat? Had some accomplice arrived to hold these men at bay until Legira’s work had ended?
Hardly so, thought Hendrix. He realized that Legira could not have known of that special message to Cody, telling him to hold the delivery of the funds until after nine o’clock.
Angered, despite his bewilderment, Hendrix tried to scan the face behind the gun. He suddenly decided that it might be Legira, back again. Had the South American seen Martin Powell enter here?
The man was still in darkness, keeping well away so his face could not be seen. That gave Hendrix the cue. He doubted that the man would dare to fire. The financier gained sudden boldness. He spoke deliberately.
“Legira,” he said. “Legira, or whoever you are, it will do you no good to threaten. We outnumber you three to one. A shot here will spread the alarm. Murder will not help you. Put away that gun and leave this place.”
From the corner of his eye, Hendrix noted that Jermyn was edging toward the door. The quiet words that the financier had uttered had changed Jermyn’s fear to loyalty. It was obvious what Jermyn intended. He was ready to attack to save his master. If Jermyn could divert attention, all would be well.
Hendrix saw Jermyn’s gaze turn in his direction. The financier nodded, almost imperceptibly. At the same moment, his hand tightened on the receiver of the telephone. Jermyn trembled as though restrained by a leash. With sudden boldness, Hendrix started to lift the receiver from the hook.
Events followed with confused rapidity. John Hendrix had not placed false reliance in his faithful servant. Like a wild man, Jermyn sprang toward the door, throwing his body between the revolver and his master.
Martin Powell was on his feet, leaping toward the wall close by the door, where a little alcove offered momentary shelter. The investigator was pulling a short automatic from his pocket even as he moved.
With the telephone in his hand, Hendrix was diving for safety, the long wire stringing after him as his portly body swung around the edge of the desk. A few feet would mean safety from wild shots.
THE attack had been a swift one — its speed sufficient to startle the invader. Each of the three men had followed his own dictates. A prearranged plan could not have been more effectively executed.
Jermyn was the attacker. Powell was planning to aid him. Hendrix, intent upon making the warning call, was choosing the nearest point of safety.
The keenest thought of this swift action was Jermyn’s bold deed of thrusting himself between the invader and Hendrix. Instinctively, Jermyn knew that the financier would be the first intended victim.
In this he was right. The foeman was ready to kill; but he was anxious to stop Hendrix from phoning, no matter what the cost might be. Yet he could not shoot Hendrix without first disposing of Jermyn.
Had Hendrix remained at the desk, the enemy might have been thwarted. It was the financier’s instinctive action of leaping for safety that caused his own undoing.
Jermyn was some six feet from his enemy. He was covering the chair in which Hendrix sat. But when the portly financier sprang away from that spot, he automatically removed himself from the coverage which Jermyn was affording.
The man in the hallway saw the bulky form. He swung his revolver away from Jermyn. He fired twice at the moving target. Hendrix, at the edge of the desk, plunged headlong. The telephone shot from his grasp and struck the wall.
Now Jermyn was grappling with the enemy. The sound of those shots had maddened the faithful employee. He was fighting with terrific frenzy, grappling for the revolver, seeking to dominate the man who had shot his master.
Into the room staggered the pair, Jermyn’s left hand holding the other man’s right wrist so the revolver pointed upward. Martin Powell, grim-faced, was watching his chance. Let those strugglers break for an instant, and it would mean death to the invader.
Luck was with the enemy. Chance had given him his opportunity to shoot John Hendrix. Again, the wiles of fate were to serve him well in this fight with Jermyn.
The brawlers crashed against the wall. The light switch was beside them. Martin Powell could not see the invader’s face, for Jermyn was crushing him toward the wall. But the investigator did see that free left hand as it encountered the switch.
Click!
The room was in total darkness as the invader saw his opportunity. It was a struggle in the dark. Powell could not distinguish Jermyn from his foe.
The men crashed across the room at an angle. They were away from the wall. Powell dashed toward the light switch. His hand fumbled in the dark. Try as desperately as he could, the switch evaded him.
Meanwhile the men were struggling, rolling on the floor. Harsh, fierce cries came from the fighters. In the midst of long, weird seconds, Powell’s fingers touched the metal switch. Before he could press it, a muffled shot came from the center of the room.
On went the light. Powell looked. Jermyn was sprawled upon the floor. Crouched beside him was the panting enemy. The man looked up, a menacing glance in his eye.