“At noon, yesterday, a young man came into the office and demanded to see me. He said he was a taxi driver — which proved to be true, so far as I can learn — and that he was going to sue a client of mine. His story sounded so convincing that the girl in the outside office was alarmed.”
JOE CARDONA smiled. He remembered the indifferent way in which he had been received by that very girl. He pictured the same taxi driver as a glib sort.
“When the fellow came in here, Joe,” continued Blefken, “he refused to give his name. He admitted that his story was a bluff. His real purpose was to deliver a letter to me, in person — and he made it plain that I must let no one know about it!”
“What was the letter?”
“I’m getting to that. The taxi driver said that it had been given to him by a man in the dark. The fellow had approached him, and had seemed very nervous.
“The stranger had told the driver to get the letter to me before the next evening — and in payment, he had given the man a hundred-dollar bill. The taxi driver produced it. He wanted it changed.”
Cardona laughed. He scented a hoax.
“No, Joe!” said Blefken, with a faint smile. “It wasn’t a counterfeit bill. I sent it out to be changed — told the girl to take it to a certain teller at my bank.
“I didn’t say a word about where I had gotten the bill. But I know that particular teller well. If it went by him, it would be genuine. It went by. The change came back.
“Meanwhile the taxi man was convincing me that he was playing the game fair. He said that the man who gave him the letter had climbed into his cab to plead with him.
“The stranger said the letter must get to me; that he was afraid to mail it; that lives were at stake; that he trusted the driver to bring it here. He suggested the story that the driver told, and the fellow certainly went through with it convincingly.
“The result is that I have the letter, and I’m positive that no one — except yourself — knows that I received it. That is, no one except the bearer and the man who sent it, although I doubt that the writer has seen the taxi man since.”
“Did the cab driver describe the man who gave him the letter?” asked Cardona.
“No. He simply said he was nervous, and seemed in earnest in his pleading. He wouldn’t tell where the event occurred. He was under full instructions.”
“You should have kept him here!”
“I should have. But I was anxious to see the letter, and the man seemed straight in his story. I let him go. Then I read the letter. Here it is.”
Reaching in his pocket, the lawyer produced a crumpled sheet of blue paper and an opened envelope. He gave both to Cardona.
The detective looked at the envelope first. It bore no marks. Then he referred to the letter. It was written in a hasty scrawl, some of the words being almost unintelligible. Cardona’s eye went to the bottom of the page. An exclamation burst from his lips. He looked up in astonishment.
“From—”
“Shh,” warned Blefken, alarmed at the loudness of the detective’s tone.
“From Jerry Middleton!” whispered Cardona.
The lawyer nodded.
“You’re sure it’s actually his handwriting?”
Blefken nodded.
“I happened to have a letter from Middleton,” he replied. “It was in connection with a legal case, and I looked in the file. I don’t think that any one but myself would have recalled the fact that the old letter was here in the office.
“The signature is genuine; what is more, it is signed ‘Gerald Middleton’ — and the man is usually spoken of as ‘Jerry Middleton.’ So much so, in fact, that I was surprised to see the signature in this form, and was anxious to check with the other letter!”
“You know Middleton?” Cardona questioned.
“No. I think perhaps I have met him. That is all.”
“That accounts for the signature.”
There was silence as Cardona read the letter. Then, as though forgetting that Blefken had also perused it, the detective read the message in a low voice that was scarcely audible:
“DEAR MR. BLEFKEN:
“You will be suprised to receive this note from me. Take it seriosly. Tell no one!
“There is great danger. I cannot tell you where. I know, and yet I do not know. I must see you, but am afraid. Not for myself, because I have passed that stage of apprehension. For you.
“I have tried to warn others. My warnings mean death. So keep this to yourself, I beseech you. I am afraid to write what I want to say, because you would not believe it.
“I shall come to your home to-morrow night. Be there unless you see danger. Then be away. I leave it to your judgment.
GERALD MIDDLETON.”
“WHAT do you make of it, Joe?” questioned Blefken.
“A strange letter.” Cardona’s reply was thoughtful. “Strange, from a man like Middleton. He’s worth money! Educated! A traveler! I thought he was back in town. Have you inquired?”
“No, indeed,” replied the attorney promptly. “I took the letter seriously, Joe. I’m leaving it to you to investigate.”
Cardona nodded. He was still studying the letter. Now he shook his head, in a puzzled way.
“What is it, Joe?” asked the attorney.
“Bad spelling,” commented Cardona. “He writes ‘surprised’ without the first ‘r.’ Also, ‘seriously’ without putting in the ‘u’—”
“I noticed that,” responded Blefken. “But notice such words as ‘apprehension’ and ‘beseech.’ The whole letter appears to be the work of an intelligent man, whose mind ran faster than his pen, except when he wrote unusual words. They are more carefully inscribed than the others.
“I know something of handwriting, Joe! A scrawl like that shows education. An ignorant faker would have avoided certain words. An intelligent forger would have been more careful.
“See, also, how the sentences change. All the man’s thoughts are not registered. A lot can be implied.”
“That sounds logical,” admitted Cardona. “Perhaps the man was under some great nervous strain—”
“Unquestionably.”
“Or else—”
“What?” Blefken waited.
“A drug addict!”
“Hardly! The letter is not flighty enough for that.”
“You missed my point,” said Cardona. “I have seen plenty of dope fiends. When they are not under the influence of the drug, they are nervous, changeable, and annoyed. I’ll bet this fellow’s a ‘coke’!”
The detective’s words were so emphatic that Blefken nodded his agreement.
“Well,” said Cardona, “if he really means what he says, we can find out a lot about him.”
“How? By tracing the cab driver?” asked Blefken.
“No. By waiting for him at your home tonight.”
“You think he’ll be there?”
“We can see.”
“Hm-m-m,” observed Charles Blefken thoughtfully. “To-day is Thursday. I’m not doing much tonight, Joe. I expected to have a bridge game with three other men. Serious bridge, you know. Could you be there?”
“Certainly! But in what capacity?”
“Not as Santa Claus,” said Blefken, smiling, referring to the whiskers. “It wouldn’t be well for you to be in evidence, disguised or not disguised.
“I’ll tell you what! You come early and we’ll find a place to keep you out of sight.”
“Just one point,” objected Cardona. “This fellow Middleton isn’t going to show up if there’s a lot of people at the house. You know that. I can’t picture him walking in the front door.”
“Why not? He doesn’t say anything about a secret meeting in the letter.”
“No; but we can take it for granted that he expects you will be by yourself.”
“I’ll fix that, Joe. You’ve been in my house. There’s a number of rooms on the first floor, you remember. One we call the card room. I’ll be in there with the crowd.