Yet a single paper — with plan alone — meant nothing. Weston continued his hopeless study of the chart; then, suddenly, his curiosity began to act. He wondered about the visitor who was waiting. Thrusting the penciled paper into a desk drawer, Weston summoned Grady.
“Bring the man in,” ordered the commissioner.
Grady went out; he returned with a solemn-faced chap who wore an overcoat buttoned around his neck and who handled his hat in servile fashion as he fumbled it between his hands.
THE visitor was perhaps forty-five years of age; his appearance was unimpressive; but he stood with worried expression until Grady had left at the commissioner’s order. Then he approached.
“I have come from Mr. Dagron, sir,” he announced, in a polite and methodical tone, “From Mr. Ganford Dagron. I am his secretary—”
“Ganford Dagron,” interposed Weston. “You mean the famous financier who retired a few years ago?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the visitor. “Mr. Dagron gave up active interests after the government ruled against further railroad mergers.”
“I remember,” declared Weston, tersely. “What does Mr. Dagron want?”
“He is in great fear, sir,” declared the visitor, in an awed tone. “He has received some strange warnings. He has not told me the nature of the message; but it worries him. He stays in his library, sir, at night; he does not retire. This evening, he was very troubled. At midnight, he called me and ordered me to come to you. He says that he must see you, commissioner, at once; he added that your visit must be made with strictest secrecy.
“I came in the limousine, sir; but I left it around the corner, at Mr. Dagron’s order. He did not wish his car to be seen in front of this apartment. He was afraid, even, to telephone to you. He asks that you come with me; he wants no other officers to accompany us—”
“Wait a moment!” snapped Weston. “What does Ganford Dagron mean by giving all these instructions? He must be a doddering old fool, to think that he can impose all these conditions without explanation.”
“He is quite alert, sir,” assured the solemn-faced visitor, as he leaned forward on Weston’s desk. “You see, he has many valuables in the house. I think that he fears his protective measures are not sufficient. Some one — I believe — is seeking to rob him!”
A pen projected from an inkwell on Weston’s desk; near it was a pad. Dagron’s secretary reached for these; while Weston watched, the man began to draw lines.
“The house is like this, sir,” explained the secretary. “The living room is here; the library — where Mr. Dagron stays — is next to it. This corridor leads—”
An exclamation burst from Weston’s lips. The commissioner’s eyes were staring. Line for line, room for room, Dagron’s secretary was drawing a replica of the plan which had been found on Squawky Sugler!
“Stop!” Weston opened the desk drawer. He drew out the penciled sheet. “Is this the complete plan of the ground floor at Dagron’s home?”
The standing man nodded. He appeared dumfounded. Weston tore away the sheet on which the secretary was making marks; he added it to the penciled paper.
“I’m going with you,” he announced. “Come along.”
Summoning Grady, Weston called for hat and coat. He spoke terse words to his man:
“I’m going to the home of Ganford Dagron. I shall probably be late returning. Don’t wait up for me Grady.”
“Very well, commissioner.”
WESTON left with his visitor. They found the limousine waiting around the corner. A man was at the wheel; he drove northward and finally reached a street where an old mansion showed among smaller buildings. The chauffeur drove to the rear; the car rolled through a gate and stopped in an old-fashioned courtyard. The secretary ushered the commissioner into the rear entrance.
They went through a passage. Weston’s conductor rapped upon a door. A cracked voice responded:
“What is it, Henley?”
“The police commissioner, sir.”
“Have him enter. At once.”
Henley opened the door. Weston stepped into an old-fashioned library, where rows of towering bookcases lined the walls to the ceiling. An old man, with shocky white hair, was seated at a chess board. He waved Weston to a chair.
“I understand that you are worried,” remarked Weston. He had recognized Ganford Dagron immediately upon entering. “I have come to learn the trouble.”
“I am greatly worried,” admitted the old man, in a crackly tone. “I have enemies — terrible enemies — men who seek my life, as well as my treasure. This” — he pointed to the chess board — “is my solace. Only by concentration upon such a game can I escape my troubles.”
Weston smiled; Dagron noticed the expression.
“Crime threatens, yet I play a game.” Dagron chuckled. “You think that is odd? Not at all, commissioner. Not at all. Crime is a game.” The old man’s eyes were flashing through their slitted lids. “A great game, commissioner — greater than chess. Yet” — Dagron paused thoughtfully — “chess and crime have much in common.”
Rising, the old man stalked toward the bookcase. He opened it inward, like a door. He motioned to Weston to follow him into a lighted room that adjoined the library. Intrigued, despite his perplexity, the commissioner followed. The door swung shut after they had entered. They stood in a room with paneled walls; looking, Weston could not discern the place through which they had entered.
“Look at this board, commissioner.” Dagron pointed to a table with a glass, checkered surface. “Here — take this chair. You will be interested, I assure you.”
The commissioner surveyed the board before him. He was puzzled as he noticed the map beneath the glass. He realized that it showed streets and buildings. He was also astonished by the array of pieces on the board. Reds, blues and greens — all were of a shape. But among them were white men of a different formation.
“Interesting, eh?” Dagron chortled. “It should be — to you, commissioner. There in the center is the vault room of the Impregnable Trust Company. Three weeks ago, a shipment of Colombian platinum was stored there. The value of the metal — I believe I am correct — is four million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Weston looked up. He stared at Dagron’s face. It seemed gray and fiendish in this light. Weston wondered if the old man were insane. He looked at the board again, as Ganford Dagron pointed.
“The reds are prepared to move,” crackled the old man. “They are raiders — swift and certain. They are protected by the mobs — the greens — by the spies and snipers, who are blue.
“Against them” — Dagron paused in sneering fashion — “are the whites — pitiful whites who represent the forces of the law.”
The fascination of the board had caught Weston unaware. The commissioner was studying the obvious perfection of the game before him. It was only of a sudden that he realized who must be its author. Straightening, he flung his challenge to the gloating fiend before him.
“You!” blurted the commissioner. “You — you are The Crime Master!”
DAGRON leered. Weston’s hand shot toward his pocket. It stopped at sight of Dagron’s eyes. Turning, Weston saw that the door had opened. Henley and another man — Weston recognized the chauffeur — were covering him with revolvers.
“I have capable assistants,” snarled Dagron. “Henley — my secretary — was the one who hoaxed you here. Woodling — who serves as my chauffeur — is equally able. He, my dear commissioner, will be your jailor.”
The men approached. Woodling thrust his revolver into the small of Weston’s back while Henley calmly produced a revolver from the commissioner’s pocket.