The mysterious physician’s face rapidly underwent a surprising transformation. More and more it came to resemble the countenance of Horace Chatham, until it was impossible to distinguish any great differences between the face of the living man and that of the victim in the chair.
The only contrast was the hair. Doctor Palermo overcame that discrepancy by bringing forth a box full of wigs. He selected one that closely resembled Chatham’s dark, bushy hair.
When he had placed this on his head, Palermo stood before the mirror and chuckled maliciously as he studied his handiwork.
Palermo snapped his fingers twice. A panel opened in the wall, and from this concealed door stepped forth a tall, powerful, brown-skinned man. Palermo pointed to the body and uttered a few words in a foreign tongue.
The dark man placed his massive hands under Chatham’s shoulders, and lifted the victim with ease. He carried the body through the panel, and it closed after him, leaving a solid wall.
The murderer had taken away his victim. No trace of the tragedy remained— except Chatham’s hat and overcoat, which lay upon a chair in the corner.
Doctor Palermo disposed of these by donning them. Then he went to a small filing cabinet, and ran through the cards to the letter C.
“Chatham, Horace,” he read, half-aloud. “Spends much time at the Argo Club.”
The physician chuckled. “A good place to be after the theater,” he observed.
One last glance in the mirror. Then Doctor Palermo stood in deep thought. He went back to the filing cabinet, and again glanced at the card that bore the name of Horace Chatham.
He referred to a list of names in the lower corner of the card, and made a quick inspection of other cards in the cabinet.
Something that he discovered there pleased him, for he momentarily forgot the part that he was playing, and his expression was far different from any that had ever been displayed by Horace Chatham. It was an ugly, leering grin, that was most evident at the corners of Palermo’s mouth.
The look passed away, and Palermo again became the double of Horace Chatham.
The physician went to the anteroom, and summoned the elevator. His face was haggard and worried as he looked at the operator.
In the hall, he summoned a cab, and stayed within the door until the vehicle had reached the curb.
Then, with a furtive glance, Palermo hurried across the sidewalk, entered the cab, and was driven away.
“Funny bloke,” observed the elevator operator, speaking to the hallman. “You’d remember him if you saw him again, wouldn’t you?”
“I remember faces, and I remember names,” was the reply. “I’ll know him if he comes again. Horace Chatham — to see Doctor Palermo.”
The disguise had stood its first test. Already two men were positive that the man who had left the Marimba Apartments was Horace Chatham.
CHAPTER II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
“GOOD evening, Mr. Chatham.”
The speaker was a clerk in a theatrical ticket office on Broadway. He was addressing a man who had just entered, and who approached the counter with a rather gloomy expression on his face.
The man smiled rather wearily at the greeting.
“Good evening,” he said. “Have you anything good for tomorrow night? I’d like to see ‘Cat’s Paws’ at the Forty-third Street Theater.”
“I can fix it for the fourth row, center,” replied the clerk. “But — er— didn’t you see that show, Mr.
Chatham? I sold you a ticket for it, last week.”
“Yes, I saw it,” replied the man quickly, “and I recommended it to a friend of mine. Promised to get a ticket for him.”
He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and purchased the ticket for “Cat’s Paws.” Along with the money, he held another ticket, and the clerk smiled when he saw it. For he had sold that ticket — for a show tonight — to Chatham, the day before.
The clerk smiled as the man in evening clothes hurried from the office.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he remarked to a companion behind the counter. “That guy Chatham paid a premium price for a ticket to the show at the Embassy, tonight. The first act is half over; yet he comes in here, buying a ticket for another show, on his way to the theater.
“Some birds don’t know what it means to get in before a show starts!”
Doctor Palermo was smiling to himself as he hurried toward the Embassy Theater. He had tested the character of Horace Chatham, and it had stood the test.
The clerk at the ticket office would remember that Chatham had stopped in just before nine o’clock.
Buying a ticket for “Cat’s Paws” had been a lucky stroke. The clerk would remember that, also.
Entering the lobby of the Embassy, Palermo had another opportunity to make use of his false identity.
The assistant manager, standing by the ticket box, recognized him as Chatham, and nodded in greeting.
Palermo returned the nod, and entered the theater. There he watched the show, and remained until the final curtain.
After the show he called a cab, and directed the driver to take him to the Argo Club.
IN the darkness of the cab Palermo temporarily dropped his impersonation of Horace Chatham. Some plan was passing through his mind, and his own peculiar smile appeared upon his lips.
“Ten minutes at the club,” he said softly. “That will be sufficient. I can call Wilkinson from there. He will surely be at home. If he is not, I can wait a little while.”
When the cab stopped at the Argo Club, the man who stepped forth was Horace Chatham to perfection.
The doorman spoke in greeting as he came through the door, and Palermo exchanged nods with two club members who were sitting in the hallway.
Then he strolled through the lounge and the library, staring straight ahead, as though in deep thought.
He was sure that more than one of Chatham’s friends observed him; but he did not tarry long enough to become engaged in conversation with any one. Instead, he went to a telephone in the corner of the hallway, and called a number.
“Mr. Wilkinson?” he asked. It was Horace Chatham’s voice that came from Palermo’s lips. “Ah! Glad you are in. Must see you tonight. Very important.
“What’s that? Good! I’m at the Argo Club. I’ll come up to see you right away, Wilkinson.”
There was a cigar stand by the telephone. Palermo noted that the clerk had overheard the conversation.
He purchased three cigars — of a brand that he had found in Chatham’s pocket — then pulled a notebook from his pocket, and pretended to read an address from a page.
“Seth Wilkinson, Grampian Apartments,” he mumbled.
Outside the Argo Club, Palermo called for a cab, and told the doorman his destination. The attendant repeated the name of the Grampian Apartments to the taxi driver.
Half an hour later, Doctor Palermo arrived at the uptown residence of Seth Wilkinson, and was ushered into the living room of a pretentious apartment. He knew the place perfectly. He had been there before, but never in the character of Horace Chatham.
The masquerader suppressed a smile, as he waited for Wilkinson’s appearance. Wilkinson knew both Horace Chatham and Albert Palermo. This was to be a crucial test.
“Hello, Chatham.”
Seth Wilkinson had entered the room. Palermo arose and shook hands. Then he resumed his seat, while Wilkinson took a chair close by, and looked at him as though expecting a statement.
Palermo did not hesitate. He played the part of Chatham to perfection when he spoke.
“Wilkinson,” he said earnestly, “I have a favor to ask you. It concerns a man who is a mutual friend of ours — Doctor Albert Palermo.”
Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. Something in his sharp gaze caused the speaker to stop.