“Now it’s becoming more confusing,” objected Burke. “If we reject Doctor Palermo—”
“We are not rejecting him,” returned Clarendon. “It is possible, of course, that Palermo was also duped.
But, there are also other possibilities.
“For example: Palermo may be shielding the false Horace Chatham. Or Chatham may have dropped out of the picture after he left Palermo’s apartment. Or—”
The speaker stopped. He simply spread his hands in an expressive gesture. Somehow, Burke understood the significance more thoroughly than if Clarendon had spoken.
“Perhaps,” murmured the former reporter, “perhaps something happened to Horace Chatham when he was with Doctor Palermo!”
“Exactly.” Clarendon spoke firmly. “That is why, Burke, I expect you to resume an old role tonight — that of a newspaper reporter, seeking an interview. You will call on Doctor Palermo, and question him regarding Horace Chatham.
“Keep all these theories in the back of your head. Use your own judgment; but I would suggest that your theme be the subject of Chatham’s mental condition at the time he called on the eminent psychoanalyst.
“If all is progressing nicely, you may bring up the question of”— the voice almost whispered its final words—”the purple sapphire.”
Clyde Burke was tense for a moment. Then he grinned. It was the greatest assignment he had ever had.
It was like a part in a play— only this was a real drama, with a hidden purpose.
“You can say that you are connected with the Daily Sphere,” came Clarendon’s suggestion. “Many of your friends are there — from the old Clarion staff.”
THE two men descended to the street. As they walked toward Broadway, Clarendon spoke steadily to his companion, in a low, whispered voice that echoed strangely in Burke’s ear.
“Tonight is important,” were the words. “Remember that, Burke! If you uncover important facts, it will be the beginning of a desperate struggle.
“There will be danger — but you are not the man to fear it. Yet danger requires caution.
“Should any strange events develop, you will not see me again— that is, not as George Clarendon.
Instead, you will receive messages— usually written messages.
“These messages will be written in a special ink, Burke. You will reply in kind. A bottle of the ink is on your desk, where I placed it.
“Each word in every message will be written backward. You will write your words backward when you answer.
“Perhaps you are wondering at such a simple code. Yet it serves its purpose; for all messages written with that ink fade completely away a few minutes after they are exposed to the air.”
The men were nearing Broadway. They had reached the fringe of the afternoon crowd. As they turned to cross the street, Clyde Burke was looking straight ahead, toward the surging traffic. Clarendon’s whispering voice was scarcely audible above the din.
“Leave all replies at the Jonas office,” came the final words, “and remember — when you receive a message, read it immediately. For it will fade into nothingness. The words will disappear from your sight, just as I am disappearing—”
It was less than one second before Burke realized that he was no longer listening to the voice of George Clarendon. He turned quickly to look at the man beside him. There was no one there.
Burke glanced up and down the street, peering into the faces of the passers-by. Clarendon was gone.
Yet, while Burke stood alone on the curb, his ears caught the sound of a laugh that he remembered.
Burke looked in vain for the author of the laugh. Then he crossed the street, and mingled, still wondering, with the Broadway throng.
His mysterious companion had vanished like a shadow — yet not even a shadow remained to betray his presence!
CHAPTER V. A STRANGE INTERVIEW
THE elevator reached the fortieth floor of the Marimba Apartments and Clyde Burke was left alone in the anteroom. He had already been announced. Now the newspaperman studied the door before him with observant eyes. He was impressed by the massiveness of its construction.
He rang the bell and waited. There was something uncanny in the way the door opened.
Entering, Burke felt a sinking feeling. The dimly-lighted hallway, with its huge bookcases, seemed like the entrance to a medieval castle.
As the newspaperman walked along the thickly carpeted passage, the door opened at the other end, and he beheld a robed figure standing there.
The form of the man seemed like some inquisitor, until Burke had approached more closely. Then he identified the man’s garment as a physician’s gown, but instead of being the usual white, the gown was a deep yellow.
“Mr. Burke?”
The question came in a modulated voice. As Burke acknowledged it, he realized that he was in the presence of a most unusual person, and surmised correctly that it was Doctor Palermo.
The physician ushered Burke into the paneled room, and invited him to take a chair. Burke accepted the cigar that was offered.
These ceremonies over, Doctor Palermo stood in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, and waited. There was nothing questioning in his attitude. He merely expected the visitor to state his business.
“I appreciate this reception,” began Burke. “It occurred to me, to-day, that you might be willing to grant me an interview—”
“On what subject?” came the doctor’s interruption.
“On the subject of Horace Chatham,” answered Burke frankly.
Doctor Palermo laughed, without changing the steady impression of his lips.
“I have stated all that I know about Chatham,” he said, in carefully accented words. “He was here the afternoon before he visited Seth Wilkinson. You will find my statements in the newspapers. That is all that I have deemed it necessary to say.”
He bowed slightly, as though he wished the interview to be concluded. Burke merely leaned back in his chair, blew a puff of smoke from his cigar, and eyed the doctor rather curiously.
“There are certain factors in the case of Horace Chatham,” he said, “that brought me here tonight. I understand perfectly that you have given a complete statement of Chatham’s visit in this apartment.
“But I think — in fact, I feel sure — that Chatham was governed by certain emotions unknown to you.”
“If so,” returned Palermo coldly, “it would not interest me to know them now.”
“And it would interest me to know your opinion regarding them.”
THE young journalist met the physician’s gaze unflinching. Burke’s physical appearance was deceiving, but his indomitable spirit could be seen in his eyes.
Palermo recognized it. He realized that he was dealing with a man of purpose. For a moment a trace of anger came upon his features; then he suddenly softened, and seemed to express real interest in Burke’s words.
“Very well,” said Doctor Palermo, in an indulgent tone. “Tell me what you have ascertained regarding Horace Chatham.”
“Doctor Palermo,” said Burke, “I have met many men who have committed crimes. I have invariably found that they are either extremely hardened, or excessively emotional.
“If — as is well conceded — a murder was committed by Horace Chatham the night after he was here, it seems to me that you would have detected something in his manner that would have warned you.
“That has been covered in my statement to the police,” retorted Doctor Palermo. “Chatham was emotional that evening. But the inspiring motive of his emotion was money. He could talk of nothing else.
He was almost incoherent—”
“Yet,” interposed Burke, “it now appears that Chatham did not lack money. His finances were in reasonably good shape. If he killed Wilkinson for the sake of thirty thousand dollars, he was wasting his efforts.”