Seth Wilkinson now recognized his companion. In a few short seconds, the masquerader had destroyed the illusion which he had so artfully created.
“Palermo!”
Wilkinson began to rise as he uttered the name of recognition. His hands were on the table; he was pushing back his chair. Yet he was acting slowly, as a man waking from a daze.
Palermo’s response was instantaneous. He had been on guard throughout his interview with Wilkinson, constantly expecting an emergency such as this one.
He moved to action with a speed that gave the lethargic Wilkinson no opportunity to defend himself.
From beneath his coat, Palermo whipped out a long, thin-bladed knife. With a swift motion, he buried the steel shaft in the other man’s body.
A short cry came from Seth Wilkinson; then the huge man fell sidewise, and his body struck the desk. It hung there for a moment; then toppled to the floor.
The evil smile still remained on the corners of Palermo’s mouth. The murderer stood there, admiring the work that he had done.
Then, with calm indifference, he picked up the note that Wilkinson had given him, and placed it in his pocket. Stooping over the body, Palermo withdrew the knife, carefully covering it with his handkerchief before he put it in his pocket. Then he went to the door, opened it, and entered the living room.
Just as he closed the door behind him, a man appeared at the other side of the room. It was Wilkinson’s servingman.
The smile vanished from Palermo’s lips. Once again, he was the perfect duplicate of Horace Chatham.
“Did you call me, sir?” questioned the man. “That is, did Mr. Wilkinson call me?”
“Yes,” came the calm reply. “He simply wanted you to get my hat and coat, and show me to the elevator.
He was busy writing, so I left him.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man brought the coat and hat, and helped Palermo put them on. Then he led the way to the elevator, and waited there until the guest had left.
In the lobby of the Grampian Apartments, Palermo instructed the doorman to call a taxi. He acted the part of Horace Chatham, and simulated great nervousness and impatience. He stumbled as he entered the cab, and gave the destination, “Grand Central Station,” in a voice loud enough for the doorman to hear.
Shortly afterward, the form of Horace Chatham mingled with the crowd in the concourse of New York’s great railway terminal. The man disappeared unobtrusively toward the Lexington Avenue entrance. He walked a few blocks, then hailed another cab from the darkness.
When the vehicle drew up at the Marimba Apartments, it was Doctor Palermo, hat and coat upon his arm, who stepped to the curb.
There was no hallman on duty after midnight. The former elevator operator was gone; his shift had ended at twelve. Thus the attendant who took Doctor Palermo to the fortieth floor was not surprised to see the physician. He did not know that no one had seen Doctor Palermo leave the building that evening.
CHAPTER III. TWO MEN INVESTIGATE
THE murder of Seth Wilkinson was front-page news. From Times to tabloids, the event was retold to the readers of the daily journals. Involving the name of Horace Chatham, a man as socially prominent and as wealthy as Wilkinson, the story was of double interest to New Yorkers.
The police were sure that they knew the murderer. The one problem was to find him.
Seth Wilkinson’s manservant had undergone a grueling quiz, and his account had remained the same. Ten minutes after Chatham had left Wilkinson’s apartment, the man had found the body of his master.
Only Chatham had entered the apartment that night. No one else could have come or gone, without the servant observing him.
The hallman of the Grampian Apartments corroborated this testimony.
He had noticed the nervousness exhibited by Horace Chatham. He told how the clubman had stumbled when he entered the cab. He had felt sure then that something was wrong.
When Wilkinson’s servant had spread the alarm, a short while later, the hallman had recalled the incidents of Chatham’s departure.
The police had discovered the motive for the murder. The note signed by Horace Chatham was sufficient evidence that some business transaction had led to the killing.
In the reconstruction of the crime, the scene in Seth Wilkinson’s study was fully visualized; and the terse tabloid writers made good use of it.
Chatham, they believed, had given Wilkinson his note for thirty thousand dollars. Perhaps it was to pay a gambling debt, for both men were inveterate gamesters. Whatever the purpose of the transaction, it must have led to a sudden quarrel; and in the fraction of a minute, Horace Chatham had killed his friend.
While the police had lost all traces of Chatham after the cab driver had deposited him at the Grand Central Station, they had been quite fortunate in discovering his actions prior to the time of the murder.
Horace Chatham lived uptown, in an old brownstone residence that had been the home of his family for many years. His unmarried sister and two servants were the only other occupants of the house. They testified that he had left there at noon.
He had lunched at the Argo Club, had remained there most of the afternoon, and had eaten an early dinner. He had been seen at a theatrical ticket agency, and at the Forty-third Street Theater.
After that, he had returned to the Argo Club; and had been overheard telephoning to Seth Wilkinson.
The only break in the chain of circumstances lay during the interval between Chatham’s dinner at the Argo Club and his arrival at the ticket agency. This period was not accounted for until late in the afternoon following the murder.
Then the police received a phone call from Doctor Albert Palermo, of the Marimba Apartments. The physician informed them that Horace Chatham had called upon him before eight o’clock, and had left his apartment for the theater.
A DETECTIVE from headquarters called upon Doctor Palermo, and found the physician quite willing to supply the missing link in Chatham’s actions.
Doctor Palermo was known as a nerve specialist. He testified that Horace Chatham had come to consult him. He added that, while it might ordinarily be unethical for a doctor to reveal his patient’s troubles, he was under no restraint in the case of Horace Chatham.
The clubman had simply stated that he was worried over financial problems, and had not stated their nature. Doctor Palermo had merely advised him to think of other matters for a few days; then, if his problems still troubled him, to return. Palermo had been under the impression that Chatham was exaggerating his situation.
It was not an unusual case; many of Palermo’s patients had temporary problems that involved money, and he had found that wealthy persons invariably magnified their financial difficulties.
The detective who visited the Marimba Apartments also interviewed the elevator operator and the hallman. From them he ascertained almost the exact time of Chatham’s arrival and departure.
Thus it was definitely understood that Horace Chatham had been ill at ease during the day before the murder; that he had worried about money; and that all had led up to his encounter with Seth Wilkinson.
The question that now occupied the front pages was that of Horace Chatham’s actions following the murder.
Had Wilkinson given him thirty thousand dollars in cash? Wilkinson was known to have kept that much money in his apartment. Perhaps the sight of the money had maddened Chatham.
Yet the police could discover nothing to prove that Chatham was in financial straits. His affairs were involved, it was true; but he had bank accounts that totaled considerably more than thirty thousand dollars.