Maxwell Grant
The Crime Crypt
CHAPTER I. A MAN OF MURDER
THE glare of a Manhattan evening flushed Times Square. Standing amid the brilliant illumination of the Rialto, a young man surveyed the bright lights as though they were a sight that he had long forgotten.
Lost among the myriads who strolled this dense district, the young man remained unnoticed by those who passed him. Yet there was something in his bearing that would have attracted attention had people paused to look at him. His suave, mustached face; his shrewd, roving eyes; these were tokens of a clever schemer — a man whose mind was trained to think in crime.
The young man noted a huge clock dial that glittered from the far side of Broadway. It told the time as twenty minutes after eight. The observer shrugged his shoulders, strolled leisurely along the street and hailed a taxicab. He gave the driver an uptown address.
Twenty minutes later, the cab stopped in front of an old brownstone house. The young man alighted and paid the driver. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. A solemn-faced servant opened the door. The menial stepped back and bowed as the young man entered.
“Good evening, Mr. Havelock,” said the servant. “Your uncle is awaiting your arrival. His attorney is here, sir.”
“Very well, Calhoun,” responded the young man. “I shall join them. Are they in the living room?”
“Yes, sir.”
The young man crossed the hall, opened a door and entered a lighted room. Two gray-haired men looked up as he came in. One — a stooped shouldered old fellow — arose to greet the visitor.
“Ah, Martin!” he exclaimed. “We have been awaiting you. This is Jason Thunig, my attorney” — he was indicating the other gray-haired man as he spoke — “and this, Jason, is my nephew, Martin Havelock.”
JASON THUNIG arose to shake hands with Martin Havelock. To the lawyer, the young man appeared clean cut. He liked the friendly smile that Havelock wore. All traces of the schemer had faded from the young man’s visage during the cab ride from Times Square.
“Martin Havelock!” remarked Thunig. “Back in New York, after all these years. Cecil Armsbury’s nephew — in the flesh. You are to be congratulated, Cecil” — Thunig turned to the stoop-shouldered man — “on having so fine a young man as your one surviving relative.”
“Martin and I have become friends already,” asserted Cecil Armsbury, as he took a chair and waved the others to seats. “I was greatly pleased when he arrived from Mexico, two days ago. I have seen him but occasionally, however” — old Armsbury was smiling — “because the lights of Broadway have lured him downtown each evening.”
“New York interests me,” admitted Martin Havelock. “I haven’t seen the old town in a good many years. It is quite a change from Mexico. However, Uncle Cecil, I remembered my appointment. Here I am.”
The three men settled back in their chairs. Armsbury and Thunig were smoking cigars. Martin Havelock lighted a cigarette and puffed it idly while he surveyed the faces of his uncle and the attorney.
“Your arrival, Martin,” remarked old Cecil Armsbury, “has proven a most fortunate one. I have recently put my affairs in order; and Jason Thunig has come up to discuss all the matters which concern my estate.”
“Not a very complex task,” declared Thunig, with a smile. “This home — your holdings in stocks and bonds — those constitute your entire fortune, Cecil.”
“The value?”
“Between thirty and forty thousand dollars.”
“Perhaps a trifle more,” remarked Armsbury. “The few curios which I still possess may bring fair value. Ah!” The old man shook his head sadly. “The treasures which I once owned! I was forced to sell them, Martin, to finance the many excursions which I made throughout the world.”
“You were always a spender, Cecil,” agreed Jason Thunig. “Nevertheless, you have managed to retain a tidy sum of wealth. Your estate is a well-arranged one. The securities are sound. This property has held its value.”
“You are heir to it all, Martin,” said Armsbury, smiling in kindly fashion as he turned toward his nephew. “You — my one living relative.”
“I appreciate it, Uncle Cecil,” declared Havelock, in a voice which echoed the old man’s friendly tone.
“My one hope, however, is that my inheritance shall be long delayed. In fact, uncle, chance might make you my heir. All of my Mexican mining properties are willed to you. They are worth many thousands — those mines in Hidalgo.”
“The old usually die before the young, Martin.”
“Perhaps. My father died young — my mother also. However, uncle, my purpose here is to enjoy a visit with you. I shall stay as long as possible; after that, back to Mexico. My interests are too extensive to neglect.”
“You are wise, Martin,” nodded Jason Thunig, sagely. “It is excellent to know that you have done so well. A stranger in a foreign land, you met with great success. Commendable, Martin. Commendable!”
THE door of the living room opened as Thunig ceased speaking. It was Calhoun who entered. The old servant was carrying a tray which bore a glass of water and a bottle of large white tablets. The three men watched him set the tray upon a table. Solemnly, Calhoun opened the bottle and poured out three tablets which he dropped into the glass of water.
“Your medicine, sir,” he said, turning to Cecil Armsbury. “About this evening, sir — do you require me further?”
“No, Calhoun,” returned Armsbury. “You may go.”
The servant stalked from the room. Cecil Armsbury settled back to puff at his cigar. His voice took on a reflective tone.
“Years have gone rapidly,” he declared. “I have traveled far and often. To many strange lands. Those days of journeying are ended. I am growing old. My medicine! Bah!”
The old man scowled as he stretched forward a clawed hand and picked up the glass. The tablets had dissolved while he was speaking. The water appeared almost as clear as before.
“Every night,” mused Armsbury. “Three tablets in a glass of water. A stimulus for my weakening heart. I wonder why Calhoun did not put in the tablets before he brought the glass in here. He usually does so.”
The old man paused and frowned speculatively. “Calhoun is sometimes absent-minded. If he put three tablets in before he entered — and three here — that would be a double dose.”
“Would it be serious?” questioned Thunig, anxiously.
“Probably fatal.” Armsbury laughed at Thunig’s expression of alarm. “But do not worry. I can rely upon Calhoun.”
“Perhaps it would be best to prepare another glass —”
“Foolishness, Jason,” scoffed Armsbury. “If I worried over every possibility of error that might mean my life, I should live a burdensome existence. No, no. I have escaped death at the hands of wild African savages. I have eluded well-aimed Tartar arrows. I passed through the Boxer uprising in China. Folly, Jason, to think that a servant’s error could possibly end my adventurous career! After these tablets have thoroughly dissolved, I shall take this medicine as is.”
With a quiet laugh, old Armsbury placed the glass upon the table. Thunig eyed it anxiously; then puffed at his cigar. Martin Havelock, idly lighting another cigarette, showed little interest in the trend of conversation.
“Do you wish these statements, Cecil?” questioned Jason Thunig, extending an envelope as he spoke to Armsbury.
“No, indeed, Jason,” returned the old man. “You are my attorney. Keep them.”
“Very well.” Thunig rose. “I must leave you, Cecil — and you, Martin. I am expected downtown before half past ten.”
Armsbury and his nephew arose. The old man conducted the lawyer to the door and Martin Havelock followed. The nephew watched while his uncle showed Thunig to the front door. Calhoun had evidently gone out.