Maxwell Grant
The Death Triangle
CHAPTER I
DEATH AWAITS
“THERE’S the spot. Ease in.”
The rakish sedan came to a sharp stop. The driver had responded instantly to the voice of the man beside him. The car turned and rolled into a parking space between two old buildings.
The driver, with a deft turn of the wheel, backed the sedan against a wall. He turned off the motor and extinguished the lights. Silent, sullen men listened in the darkness.
While they waited, their watching eyes were turned toward the street. Taxicabs and other vehicles rolled by, following the narrow thoroughfare that formed a straight line through New York’s upper East Side.
This was an old district of Manhattan. It was filled with buildings which had once been pretentious homes, but which had now been altered into apartment houses of a cheaper sort. It was the type of district where one might expect to find an idle automobile, lying in wait for some unknown purpose. This fact accounted for the precaution of the men in the sedan. Their leader, the man beside the driver, was anxious to make sure that the car was not under surveillance.
Satisfied, at last, that he and his men were unobserved, the leader began to speak in a low growl. His instructions were terse and specific.
“The fire escape is just in back of this building,” he explained. “The kitchen is one window to the right. You’ll get my signal if I need you—”
“Sh-h!” came a warning whisper from the rear seat. “Wait a minute, Mitts.”
THE man in back was peering from the side of the sedan. Two who sat beside him craned their necks in the same direction. Tough fists tightened on the handles of revolvers. Strained silence added to suspense. At last, the warner spoke again.
“Guess I was goofy, Mitts,” he remarked. “Thought I saw somebody, but I was wrong.”
“Whereabouts?” quizzed “Mitts.”
“Out by the front corner of the building,” responded the man in back. “I didn’t see nobody — but I sorta saw somethin’ blot out that light across the street. It wasn’t nothin’ important, though. I’ve been lookin’ close since then.”
“There’s nobody out there,” growled another fellow in the rear.
“Keep your eyes open, anyway,” ordered Mitts. “Remember what I told you. One window to the right of the fire escape—”
“Which floor, Mitts?”
“The third.”
With his final statement, the man beside the driver alighted from the sedan and moved off through the darkness. Those in the car remained silent. Toughened, experienced mobsters, the four were waiting until their chief had left the vicinity. Later, they would watch for the signal from behind the house.
The departing leader did not appear in view until he had reached the street. There, he went up the front steps of the building, and entered an open door. He stood in the dim light of an apartment-house lobby which had once been the vestibule of a home.
Picking from the name cards beside a row of push buttons, the gang leader pressed. The name on the card was Ralph Lorskin. This was the name to which the visitor referred when he heard a voice through the old-fashioned telephone receiver which hung from the wall.
“Mr. Lorskin?” he questioned.
“Yes,” came the cautious reply. “Who is calling?”
“Hello, Sparkles,” growled the visitor, with a low laugh. “This is Mitts Cordy.”
“Come up,” was the prompt order that came through the wall phone.
Mitts Cordy turned toward the outer door. He was a big man, with an iron jaw, and hard, close-lidded eyes. He glanced keenly toward the street to make sure that no outsider was watching him. Then, as the buzz came from the door, he swung quickly and entered the decadent inner hall.
Two flights up a pair of gloomy stairs brought Mitts Cordy to the rear apartment on the third floor. The gang leader rapped. The door opened. Mitts entered to face a tall, stoop-shouldered individual who gave a gold-toothed smile of greeting.
“Hello, Sparkles,” said the gang leader, as Lorskin shut the door. “Everything all set?”
“You’re asking me?” returned Sparkles. “How about the mob?”
“Outside and waiting.”
“Good.”
THE two men sat down. Mitts Cordy pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to “Sparkles” Lorskin. The stoop-shouldered man declined. He picked up a pipe from the table beside him.
“This is better,” he said. “I’m playing the part of a recluse — an unapproachable chap who doesn’t like to go out. Lives alone, puffs his pipe, and admires his collection of rare gems.”
With this statement, Sparkles produced a box from beneath the table. He opened it to display a glittering array of jewels. Mitts Cordy showed both eagerness and surprise.
“Say, Sparkles!” he exclaimed. “I thought you had fenced all that stuff. What’s the idea—”
“Bait,” interposed Sparkles. “The longer I keep these gems, the easier they are to sell — without experiencing difficulties. In the meantime, they have enabled me to gain the envy of certain collectors who occasionally visit this apartment. I expect one tonight. That is why I wanted you on the job.”
“To knock off a jewelry collector?” snorted Mitts. “Say, Sparkles, that don’t seem like very much of a lay, unless—”
“Unless what?” Sparkles smiled as he spoke.
“Unless he’s bringing a lot of jewelry with him,” added Mitts. “Is that the gag?”
“Partly,” returned the pretended collector. “More important, however, is the money which this man may be carrying. I estimate that it will be in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars.”
“Twenty grand!” Mitts whistled. “I’d bump off a regiment for that dough!”
“This is no regiment,” returned Sparkles. “As a matter of fact, the job is an extremely easy one. I expect the man to appear by nine o’clock, if not before then. You will be surprised when I tell you who he is.”
REACHING to the table, Sparkles picked up an old newspaper and displayed the portrait of an elderly man with a large white beard.
Mitts looked puzzled.
“The old doctor with the Santa Claus whiskers?” he questioned. “You showed me his picture last night, Sparkles — I thought it was a joke when you told me I might meet him some day.”
“Doctor Johan Arberg,” declared Sparkles quietly. “The Danish specialist from Copenhagen. A blood specialist — here in America attending the medical conference in Chicago.”
“A doctor,” repeated Mitts, “in Chicago. If this guy is in Chicago—”
“He is not in Chicago, tonight,” interrupted Sparkles. “He is in New York. He is coming here. He sails within a few days — that is, he is scheduled to sail — for Denmark. He has made an appointment to visit me this evening.
“Doctor Arberg has one other interest besides medicine. He collects precious stones. He frequently visits obscure collectors like myself” — Sparkles grinned — “and tempts them with a display of wealth. If they happen to be in financial straits — as I am supposed to be — they often fall for the lure of cash.”
“I get you,” laughed Mitts. “You’ve got the jewels, and you want the cash, too. Old Kris Kringle will leave his dough here.”
“Exactly. Furthermore, he will take a short one-trip ride at your request. That will be the end of Johan Arberg.”
“O.K., Sparkles,” grinned Mitts. “You’re paying for the job; but I don’t see where you need a crew to handle one old guy.”
“I don’t,” returned Sparkles. “That part of it is easy. I’m thinking about what might happen afterward. When Doctor Arberg fails to show up in Copenhagen, there’s going to be a search for him. Somewhere between Chicago and Copenhagen. A long trail, nevertheless, it would look bad if the police found that I skipped out on the same night that Arberg disappeared.