The solution of the mystery obviously lay in tracing Chatham; in bringing him back to New York.
It was believed that he had fled to Canada. The police of Canadian cities were given full information.
A man with thirty thousand dollars in his possession could travel anywhere, yet New York police were confident that Chatham would soon be discovered, for he possessed none of the attributes found in the usual criminal, and would, sooner or later, fail in his efforts to keep his identity unknown.
Certain newspapers commented upon the fact that there were now three names of prominent New Yorkers involved in affairs of homicide.
Less than two months before, Lloyd Harriman had committed suicide in Florida. Like Seth Wilkinson, Harriman had been a friend of Horace Chatham. One tabloid screamed this fact in lurid headlines.
Had Horace Chatham been concerned in Lloyd Harriman’s death? Had Harriman committed suicide, or—
The question stopped there, but the inference was plain.
Perhaps Chatham had killed Harriman also. Braved by one successful murder, he would have possessed the nerve to kill another man.
But even the tabloid restrained from making further imputation.
THREE days had gone by, without a trace of Horace Chatham. Yet the hue and cry still persisted.
Perhaps the hectic columns that told of the Wilkinson murder were becoming tiresome to the public at large; but to one man, they were most enjoyable. This individual sat at his desk in a small office on Forty-eighth Street, with piles of newspaper clippings in front of him, and smiled as he ran his scissors through the pages of the afternoon newspapers.
The reversed letters on the glass door of the office proclaimed his name and occupation: CLYDE BURKE
Clipping Bureau
Burke finished his search through the newspapers, then sat back in his chair, and lighted his pipe. He seemed well contented with life.
Burke was a man not yet thirty years of age, but his firm, well-molded features indicated long experience.
He was light in weight, almost frail in build; yet his eyes and his face showed a determination found in men who seek action.
One would have supposed that Burke, through keen imagination, found an outlet for his natural desire of action by visualizing the events that he read as he clipped newspapers.
Even now, it was evident that he was putting together the items of the Wilkinson murder; that his keen mind was formulating firm opinions. In fact, he was so engrossed with thought that he did not see the door of the office open.
He started suddenly as he realized that another man was in the room. When he recognized his visitor, he scrambled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.
“Mr. Clarendon!”
The man whom Burke addressed stood silent and smiling. Yet his smile was as strange as his appearance.
He was tall and wiry, with slightly stooped shoulders. His white hands had long, slender fingers, with pointed nails. His face was pale, and almost masklike.
It was the solemnity of the face that made the smile so peculiar; for like the other features, the smile seemed part of a chiseled countenance.
The man bore an expression that would have resembled death, but for the remarkable light that shone in his deep, piercing eyes. They were like living coals.
He glanced at the piles of clippings, and his eyes seemed to flash approval. Burke grinned.
“They’re all yours, Mr. Clarendon,” he said. “I was just waiting for word from you. All ready to send.”
“They include the back dates?”
“Yes. I went through the morgue at the Daily Sphere, and found everything that concerned Harriman, as well as Wilkinson and Chatham.
“I haven’t missed anything. I’ve been extremely careful in their arrangement. I’ve done a lot of work on this case; still, I’m being overpaid.”
“Forget that.”
“I can’t forget it, Mr. Clarendon.” Burke’s eyes expressed both appreciation and admiration. “I’ve been waiting to see you, always hoping that I could tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me.”
“Just what have I done for you?” The same mirthless smile remained on Clarendon’s face.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Clarendon,” said Burke earnestly. “When I lost my job, the time the Evening Clarion was taken over by the Daily Sphere, I was down and out. I didn’t know where to turn. I was a good police reporter, but there were too many of them in New York.
“When you called me up, and told me you would pay the expenses for starting this clipping bureau, I figured that it would just about make me a living.
“Your second offer — to pay me a salary for sending you any clippings that you might require — meant a lot to me. You said that you would fix the figure.
“Since then, you have been sending me a hundred dollars every week. If I had billed you as a customer, you would have received the same clippings for one-tenth the amount you pay. No wonder I’m grateful.
“Yet I don’t feel right about it. I actually owe you more than two thousand dollars.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” came the frank reply.
“BURKE”—George Clarendon’s voice was firm and expressive—”I have paid you well because I wanted intelligent cooperation. You have done your part.
“This is only the second time that you have met me. I want your honest opinion. Do you trust me?”
“Positively!”
“Would you work for me, faithfully, without question?”
“I would.”
“Keeping all our dealings confidential—”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I can tell you my real purpose in setting you up in business. Burke, I am a criminologist. I have my own way of dealing with crime. Those who work for me must always obey me implicitly—”
Burke nodded.
“- even though they may not understand my motives.” Clarendon’s voice was firm, almost severe. “Even though they may face danger!”
A look of enjoyment appeared upon Burke’s visage. He sensed adventure. The smile remained upon George Clarendon’s lips, as though the man with the masklike face knew what was passing in Burke’s mind.
It was the sealing of a bargain. From that moment, the ex-reporter was the henchman of George Clarendon. For a full minute the men looked at each other with mutual understanding. Then Clarendon pointed to the clippings on the desk.
“You have read them thoroughly?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of the case?”
“It’s an unusual one,” said Burke, thoughtfully puffing at his pipe. “I’ve gone into it carefully, Mr.
Clarendon. It seems obvious that Chatham murdered Wilkinson, yet—”
“Yet you would like to reject the obvious.”
“Exactly so.”
“Why?”
“Because the motive doesn’t seem sufficient.”
George Clarendon nodded. Thus encouraged, Burke went into his story.
“Chatham must have had money,” he said. “Yet he borrowed thirty thousand dollars from Wilkinson. His note was accepted. Wilkinson put it away.
“Six months, Chatham would have to pay that note; yet he murdered Wilkinson on the spot. It seemed a foolish thing to do. He could have waited a while, if murder was necessary.”
“But suppose a sudden quarrel occurred?”
“That’s just it. Chatham showed great presence of mind when he encountered Wilkinson’s servant, outside the room. The testimony showed that he came out quietly, without haste.
“Therefore, I am wondering why Chatham didn’t take time to open the metal box and take out the note he gave to Wilkinson.”
“Have you mentioned that to any one, Burke?”
“No, sir. You impressed me with the fact that I should say nothing regarding any case on which you desired clippings. That was a reasonable request, and I have abided by it.”