Maxwell Grant
The Creeper
CHAPTER I. CRIME’S GOAL
DUSK had dulled Manhattan. Shaded skyscrapers stood bleak against the darkening sky. Where lights appeared in windows, they were scarcely noticeable, for daylight had not fully faded. Most windows, though, were dark; it was after five o’clock and many offices had closed for the day.
Street lamps shone from the ground below the buildings; blinking electric signs were flashing early messages to homeward-wending workers. Darkness, however, had not yet gained full reign; man-made lights lacked the setting that they required as background for their nightly brilliance.
It was that hour of transition that comes daily to New York — when sunlight no longer shimmers on reflecting spires; yet the sky is still too clear to reflect the feeble, budding glow of the metropolis. Soon observers from high towers would watch the growing sparkle of increasing light; for the present, Manhattan lay beneath a pall.
Near the window of a fortieth-story office, a typist was busy at her desk. The machine was clicking steadily; the girl had no interest in watching the outdoor scene. Finishing a long day’s work, she was looking forward to a speedy subway ride at the end of the traffic rush.
The office lights were on; the typist was attentive to her work. So engrossed was she that the opening of the door from the corridor did not disturb her. It was not until a man’s voice spoke that the girl realized that some one had entered. She swung about with a startled gasp; then smiled sheepishly as she recognized her employer.
“Working late, Miss Chapwell?” came the pleasant query.
“Yes, Mr. Parrin,” replied the typist. “The other girls left at five; I told them that I would remain until you came in.”
“In case of important messages?”
“Yes, sir. There are also some letters for you to sign.”
The girl finished the last few lines of the sheet that she was typing and placed it with others in a basket on the desk. Parrin glanced rapidly over the letters, signing each in turn. The girl sealed them in stamped envelopes, ready for the mail.
“A telephone call at five-twenty,” stated Miss Chapwell. “The speaker refused to give his name. Simply hung up when he learned that you were not here, Mr. Parrin.”
“Was it a long-distance call?”
“I don’t think so. More like a local call.”
Parrin shrugged his shoulders, as though the matter were one of little consequence. The typist had gathered up hat and coat; she was starting for the door with the letters. Suddenly she stopped.
“I almost forgot about Mr. Carning,” she stated. “He is here, sir. He came in at half-past five. I told him to wait in your office.”
“Very well. Good night, Miss Chapwell.”
The girl went out through the door to the hall. The glass panel showed its lettered statement; then, as the door closed behind the departing typist, those words appeared in dull reverse. They were still legible to Parrin, however. He chuckled as he noted them:
INTERSTATE SALES CORPORATION
Rickard Parrin
Manager
SWINGING about, Parrin crossed the outer office and entered a door marked “Private.” The office within was lighted; a man seated by the window waved a hand in silent greeting. It was Carning, the arrival whom the typist had mentioned.
Parrin seemed to take the visitor’s presence as something he had expected, for he seated himself at the desk and lighted a cigar while he surveyed Carning without comment.
Rickard Parrin looked the part of a sales executive. He was deliberate in manner, yet possessed of forceful expression. His build was bulky; his face long-jawed and firm-set. Hook-nosed, with an outthrust lower lip, Parrin looked like a challenger. He formed a contrast to his visitor.
For Carning was a dry, dull-faced fellow whose whole manner denoted laziness. The cigarette that he was smoking hung loose from his pasty lips. His expression was one of weariness, accentuated by half-closed eyelids. But Carning was not so indolent as he appeared. From between his slitted eyelids, he peered shrewdly; this fact indicated that his indolence was purely a pose.
“I didn’t expect you, Carning,” stated Parrin, abruptly. “Still, it’s all right, since you’re here. Nothing suspicious about members of my sales force blowing in after five o’clock.”
“You told me you wanted to talk to me, Rick,” returned Carning. “When I didn’t hear from you over at the room, I thought maybe you’d forgotten me. That’s why I came over here.”
“I don’t forget anything, Carning. I was detained at an advertising office. I have to deal with those fellows to keep up a front; and they’re tough to get away from. But I should have been back here at five. A call came in.”
“Not since I’ve been here, Rick.”
“It was before you came in; and I ought to have been on hand to answer it.”
“It was from—”
“From The Creeper.” Rick spoke in a low tone, following Carning’s pause. “That’s his way — he always hangs up if I’m not on hand to answer.”
“He’ll call again, won’t he?”
“Sure. That is, maybe. On the other hand, he may come here.”
Carning’s eyes opened wide. Rick grinned as he saw the fellow shift uneasily. With a shake of his head, the hook-nosed man gestured with one hand. His motion indicated that Carning was to remain where he sat.
“Don’t worry,” assured Rick. “The Creeper won’t mind you being here. He knows you’re on the pay roll.”
“But if he wants to talk to you—”
“He won’t. He’ll leave a message. I have a hunch that telephone call was just to tell me that I’d better stay around. He probably has a lot to say to-day. Something big is coming, Carning.”
THE man by the window nodded. Rick Parrin noticed the pasty face against the darkened pane.
Outside, dusk had deepened. Sparkles of light were plainly evident from distant buildings. The very atmosphere had become foreboding.
“I picked an office here in the Dolban Building,” remarked Rick, “just because they don’t bother you with red tape until after nine o’clock. That gives The Creeper a chance to come in and out when I’m here late. Some things can’t be told over the telephone, Carning.
“Particularly what’s coming to-night. I think we’re about due for the pay-off. Not all at once; there’ll be a build-up to it, like there always is. But this is the date that The Creeper’s been waiting for. He slipped me that news not so long ago.”
“He lets you in on a lot, Rick?”
“No. That’s the funny part about it, Carning. Figure it for yourself and you’ll see that I’m only one card in his hand. What have I got? A front, to make me look like a big sales executive. Half a dozen salesmen — like you — on the road, working for me. Sure, we get wind of soft pickings; and we do some heavy work, too, when The Creeper needs us. But we’re just one of his bets, Carning. That’s all.”
“It sounds likely, Rick. I guess there’s no racket The Creeper will pass up. Not if there’s dough in it.”
“Big dough! Con games, blackmail, robbery — they’re all the same to The Creeper. Say — remember that time Gus was out at the millionaire’s home in Cleveland? Gus was just a visiting advertising delegate, who heard a few things said there, along with others. He slipped the word to me; it was meat for The Creeper. Blackmail that trip.”
“And burglary down in Miami, Rick. The time that Tyler sold the carload of metalware. He spotted the layout of the jewelry department in the store, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. But none of us had anything to do with the job that came afterward. The Creeper put somebody else on it. That’s his way, Carning. But it’s not wise to talk too much about—”