There had been Burke’s interview with Doctor Palermo; following that, the stirring incidents in the taxicab. The very next afternoon, Burke had received the first message from his mysterious employer, and it had caused the former reporter to make important changes in his usual routine of life.
He had been instructed to close the clipping office, and to find new lodgings. He had been warned to tell no one of his plans.
In accordance with these instructions, Burke had moved to a rooming house more than a mile from his former lodging. He had taken a new office in the downtown section of Manhattan, and no name appeared upon the door.
He was on his way there now, confident that he had followed the orders correctly.
Burke had sent in a full report of the doings at Palermo’s. His memory had been singularly clear the next morning, and he had left his detailed description at the Jonas office before noon. Thus Clarendon was fully conversant with the situation.
Burke had escaped death once, and a gunman had died. That fact presaged new attacks.
It was a warm day, Burke noted, as he trudged from the subway station toward his new office. He had chosen an old, obscure building, and his office was an inside room. It seemed stifling when he entered.
He removed his coat, and hung it over the back of a chair.
Then he glanced at the single window, which was closed. An open window would mean loose clippings fluttering about in any vagrant breeze. Still, there would not be much wind from the court, and the room was insufferably hot.
Burke went to the window, and unfastened the lock. He tried to pull up the sash, but it would not budge.
It had evidently been closed all winter. For a minute, Burke tugged in vain; then he felt the window yield slightly, and he prepared for the final effort that would raise the sash.
“P-s-s-t!”
The low, whistling whisper came from the doorway. Burke turned suddenly.
A man had opened the door, and was standing there. He was a young fellow, good-looking, and of powerful build. He was in his shirt sleeves.
“Don’t open that window!” exclaimed the man, in a low voice. “Turn back to it, again, and pretend to pull at it.”
Burke obeyed. The man’s tone betokened some important purpose.
The man had not stepped inside the door; apparently he did not wish to be seen.
“That’s right!” The voice from the doorway spoke its approval. “You’ve done enough, now. Give it up, and sit at your desk for a minute. Don’t look this way.”
Burke did as he was told. He felt like a movie actor in front of the camera, following the director’s instructions. He busied himself at his desk, and tried to conduct himself in an indifferent manner.
“Back to the window,” came the next order. “Try again; but fail. Rub your forehead, as though you were very warm.”
Burke went through the pantomime.
“I am closing the door,” came the voice. “Work at the window a few seconds longer. Then walk away, as though you were going for the janitor. Leave the office, and come to Room 463.”
BURKE kept up the pretense. Finally, with a grimace of disgust, he turned away from the window.
Stepping out of the light, he quickly picked up his hat and coat and left the office. He went to the room designated.
It was a sparsely furnished office, with an alcove in one corner. The man who had conversed with him was awaiting his arrival. Without a word, he handed Burke a sealed envelope. The newspaperman opened it. Within was a message:
EKRUB: YLER YLLUF NO EHT NAM OHW SEVIG UOY SIHT. NODNERALC.
Within a few seconds after Burke’s keen eyes had begun to scan the carefully lettered words, the writing disappeared completely. The code was a simple one. Reversed, the words were: BURKE: Rely fully on the man who gives you this. CLARENDON.
But if any other person had opened the envelope, the message would have faded away before he had realized that the words were spelled backward.
Burke’s companion evidently knew the contents of the note. He extended his hand, and as Burke shook it, the man introduced himself.
“My name,” he said, “is Harry Vincent. You and I are engaged in the same work. Before I tell you more, let me show you something that will interest you.”
He drew Burke to the alcove, which had a small, high window. He handed the newspaperman a pair of opera glasses.
“Look through the glasses, Burke,” he said. “Third window to the right— next floor above — across the court.”
Clyde Burke focused the opera glasses. The sun was shining into the window indicated. Clyde’s magnified vision discovered something that he could not have observed without the aid of the glasses.
A man was standing back from the window. Beside him was the dim outline of what appeared to be a tripod. Mounted on the structure was a rodlike device with a large, cumbersome muzzle.
“A rifle,” explained Harry Vincent, as Clyde was about to question him. “A rifle, fitted with a silencer. It’s trained directly on the window of your office. Had you opened that window — well, a few days from now, they would have discovered your body.”
“But how—”
“How did I discover it?” Harry smiled. “I have been watching you, Burke— watching both you and your surroundings. I was here to warn you.
“We are working for the same cause, and to-day I expect that we will receive definite instructions. You are safe here.
“While we wait, I shall acquaint you with important facts.”
THEY went back into the office, and Clyde Burke’s face showed eagerness as he awaited Harry Vincent’s next words.
“I have just come from Florida,” said Harry. “I was sent there, a few days ago, to investigate the death of Lloyd Harriman — who presumably committed suicide a few months ago.”
“And you discovered—” Burke could not suppress his interest.
“Nothing that would hold in a court of law,” returned Harry, “but I learned much that was of value. I am fully convinced that Lloyd Harriman was cleverly murdered, after he had first been subjected to a holdup that had not brought the results expected.”
“Murdered by whom?”
Harry Vincent shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But while Harriman was in Florida, there were two other men there—”
“Was Horace Chatham one?”
“Well, he was there also. I refer to two men besides Chatham. One was a gentleman of reputed underworld connections, known as Gunner Macklin. The other was a prominent neurologist called Doctor Albert Palermo.”
“And they—”
“Apparently they were not acquaintances. Macklin is one of the smoothest figures of gangdom. No one has the goods on him.
“Doctor Palermo possesses a high reputation. But it is my theory that the two worked together. While one — probably Macklin — put an end to Lloyd Harriman’s life, the other — therefore, Palermo — made a systematic search of Harriman’s apartment.
“I feel positive that they made a considerable haul between them, in cash, or marketable securities. At the same time, there is no evidence that they obtained the most important article they were after.”
“The purple sapphire?”
“Exactly.”
Burke became contemplative.
“If you obtained all this evidence,” he began, “it would seem to me — “
“I obtained no evidence,” interrupted Harry. “I have only indications. I was working upon information given me — upon suspicions, which were partly the result of your study through old newspaper files.
“I was recalled, to make contact with you. A gangster, disguised as a taxi driver, made an attempt upon your life, a few nights ago. The gangster is dead; but we believe that he was acting upon orders from Gunner Macklin, who, in turn, was following the dictates of Doctor Palermo.”