“Right!” decided Fetzler. “That’s why we’re starting now. Before we go, buzz Ham Cruther and tell him to get his mob outside.”
“We won’t need the gang—”
“Not so long as only Vorber and Marchelle are involved; but if young Wycliff comes back, or if an alarm is given—”
Ward Fetzler did not complete the statement. Martin Hamprell was satisfied. He took the telephone from Fetzler’s, hand and put in a call for Ham Cruther.
Men of murder had decided. The fate of the missing deed was in the balance. It rested now between Miles Vorber and Paul Marchelle. Whichever one should finally gain it, the result would be the same so far as these fiends were concerned.
Backed by a squad of gangsters, Ward Fetzler and Martin Hamprell were setting forth to gain the spoils of murder, ready to commit new crime to win their game of evil!
CHAPTER XXII
THE FATAL SHOT
WITHIN the old Wycliff mansion, Miles Vorber was standing in his suspicious attitude. The old servant was in the lower hall. His scrawny hand was upon the telephone. His eyes gazed toward the closed front door.
Miles Vorber expected the return of Paul Marchelle. He knew that the young lawyer had suspected the trick which he had worked this afternoon.
Two courses lay open to the old servant. One was to wait and risk an encounter should Marchelle return; the other was to trust to the slim chance that the lawyer had actually gone along with Howard Wycliff.
Vorber had considered both these plans; now he was debating a middle course. He was wondering about the risk involved. Still staring at the door, he made his decision. He lifted the telephone. He called a number. There was no answer.
A wise smile appeared upon Vorber’s thin lips. He had called the apartment of Felix Gerwin, an ex-judge, who was a friend of Paul Marchelle. Knowing that Gerwin was not at home, Vorber was free to try his scheme.
He called another number — the home of Garret Slader. Vorber heard the old lawyer’s voice over the wire.
“Hello,” said the servant. “This is Vorber, sir — speaking from Mr. Wycliff’s—”
Before Vorber could complete his sentence, Slader delivered an abrupt interruption. Vorber heard him state that he would call Howard Wycliff to the telephone. A scowl appeared upon Vorber’s face. The servant had not intended to ask for Howard Wycliff. Nevertheless, he waited until the voice of his new master came over the wire.
“Hello, Vorber. What is it?”
“I wanted to speak to Mr. Marchelle, sir,” said the servant. “There was a call for him; I was asked to deliver the message.”
“I can take it,” declared Howard Wycliff.
“But if Mr. Marchelle is there” — Vorber’s protest was a weak one — “I can give him the message—”
“Mr. Marchelle is here,” came Howard Wycliff’s terse voice. “He is busy. Give me the message, Vorber.”
“Judge Gerwin called,” stammered the servant. “He said — he said for Mr. Marchelle to call him at his home. Not now — the judge will not be there until ten o’clock — but after that—”
“Very well, Vorber.”
The telephone clicked abruptly. Howard Wycliff had terminated the conversation.
Vorber thought the matter was ended. He would have been disillusioned had he been able to see across the wire!
STANDING in Garrett Slader’s living room, telephone in hand, Howard Wycliff was facing Slader and Doctor Keyes. His face wore a troubled look.
“What is the matter,” Howard questioned Slader.
“A great deal,” explained Howard. “That call was from Vorber. He wanted to know if Marchelle was here.”
“You told us that Marchelle remained at your house.”
“He is there, but Vorber does not know it. I had not intended to talk about this until I heard from Paul. But with this call from Vorber — well, I am frankly worried.”
Howard Wycliff paced across the room. He stopped short and faced the other men. Briefly, he gave the situation.
“Paul Marchelle,” he said, “believes that Vorber has located the missing deed. Paul and I both are convinced that Vorber has a key to the library door. Vorber acted suspiciously tonight. As soon as Paul and I went out, Paul doubled back to see what Vorber was doing.”
“Then Marchelle should be there at present,” said Slader.
“Unless harm has befallen him,” returned Howard. “Vorber’s call — his pretended anxiety to learn if Paul were here—”
“May be a bluff,” completed Doctor Keyes.
“We must go to your house at once!” announced Garrett Slader. “Come, Howard. We will start in your car!” The decision was an unusual one for the old, lethargic lawyer to make. It proved that Garrett Slader still possessed spirit when a friend’s welfare was concerned. It was Doctor Barton Keyes who proved reluctant.
“We must be cautious,” warned the physician. “Suppose we call the police. I am worried about this man Vorber. This evil business makes me wonder about—”
“About what?” queried Howard Wycliff.
“About your father’s death,” asserted Keyes. “If Vorber is seeking that missing deed, he may have had some hand in your father’s illness. I have been puzzled by Doctor Arberg’s death. Gentlemen, I insist that we call detective headquarters.”
“Suit yourself,” said Garrett Slader. “Howard and I are leaving at once. There’s the telephone, Keyes. Call the police if you wish. Your own car is outside. You can follow us.”
With this, Garrett Slader strode from the room. Howard Wycliff followed promptly. Barton Keyes remained alone. He picked up the telephone to make a call.
BACK at the Wycliff mansion, Miles Vorber was pacing the hall outside the library door. At last the servant turned toward the stairs. As he did so, two motions became apparent: one above, the other below. Vorber saw neither.
The front door, which without Vorber noting it, was already ajar, now opened slowly. Paul Marchelle entered softly and waited while he watched Vorber ascend the steps.
At the landing above, two burning eyes that had been watching Vorber became no longer noticeable. A blackened shape disappeared into the gloom above.
Miles Vorber continued upward. He reached the third floor, unconscious of a blackened shape that glided ahead of him, unhearing soft footsteps that followed his course. He reached his isolated room. He unlocked the door. He listened intently; then turned on the light.
Leaving the door ajar, that he might hear any outside noise, Vorber went to one of the alcoves. From it, he brought forth the missing table. This piece of furniture had long, thick legs, and a thin, solid top.
Setting the table upside down upon the floor, Vorber placed his foot against the top and wrenched at one of the legs. The sound of cracking wood followed; the leg came away in Vorber’s grasp.
The top of the leg was apparently solid, as Vorber examined it in the light. But when the old servant hewed at it with a large-bladed pocket knife, he gained immediate results. Scraping the wood, he discovered that the top of the leg was fitted with a plug. The wooden stopper pried loose under the pressure of the knife.
A gloating smile lighted Vorber’s face. Thrusting his fingers into the cavity, Vorber drew forth a long, tight roll of heavy paper.
The missing deed was in his hand! He had uncovered Cyril Wycliff’s hiding place — a hollow leg in the most unlikely piece of furniture that had graced the old man’s library!
Between his scrawny hands, Vorber unrolled the deed. He began to read it. He saw that it referred to property in Utah.
Suddenly, Vorber’s eyes became fixed. His hands were rigid. His head moved slowly upward and turned toward the door. His fingers froze upon the paper which they held.