“But he may know that already!”
“Then why is he going to Garauca?”
Sigby Rund stood momentarily silent. His fists were clenched; his lips were twitching. He seemed to be weighing Curwood’s question, grasping its significance.
“I see.” Rund nodded slowly. “You think there is a chance that Weston is in the dark about me. You think that he may be going to Garauca to pick up evidence there.”
“Precisely.”
“You may be right, Curwood. In that case, I can sit tight for the present. Days — weeks will pass before Weston can lay his finger on me.”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re right, Curwood. Just the same, I am worried, particularly since this fellow Corlaza arrived in New York. Look here, Curwood. Weston is going to Garauca; but the newspapers don’t say just how soon. Suppose he has gained more information already. Suppose he is ready to quiz me now. If such is the case, he will land on me before he starts. He will try to get the name of the big boy who sent me to Garauca. Learning that name, he will rip things wide in New York. When he arrives in Garauca, he will be a hero.”
“You have pictured a possibility, Rund,” declared Curwood, slowly. “If it is fact, your position will be most unfortunate. At the same time, the odds are in your favor. It is not likely that Weston will question you before he leaves for Garauca.”
“Then you advise me to sit tight?”
“Yes. Should Weston summon you or arrest you, refer to me as your attorney. That is the best advice that I can give at present.”
Rund nodded. He motioned toward the door. Curwood arose and walked with him into the outer office.
Rund spoke to the stenographer.
“There will be no letters, Miss Saylor,” he said. “You may go.” Then, to Curwood: “I shall stay here in the office for a while. I want to think matters over. Should I decide to call you again—”
“I shall be at my home,” put in Curwood. “Here let me write the telephone number for you.”
The lawyer drew one of his cards from his pocket. He scrawled his home number. Rund took the card.
He stepped aside to let Curwood and the stenographer pass to the hall. Then, as an afterthought, he strolled with them to the elevator, talking to Curwood in a nonchalant tone.
The lawyer and the stenographer entered an elevator. The doors clanged. Rund walked back to his offices. He entered the outer door and closed it; but he failed to press the latch. He turned out the light; then went into his private office and left the door ajar.
STANDING by the window, Rund stared downward. A white cornice projected outward, two floors below. Staring beyond the cornice, Rund watched the moving lights in the tiny streets. His thoughts became detached. Minutes passed before a slight noise made him turn and walk to his desk.
Rund listened. He heard no new sound. Rubbing his forehead nervously, he shoved Curwood’s card under a corner of the blotter; then went to a small safe in the corner of the room. He opened the steel door and drew out a packet of letters. He carried these to the desk, laid them on the blotter and rubbed his chin.
This stack of correspondence contained envelopes that bore the picturesque postage stamps of Garauca.
It was plain that there were papers here that could prove incriminating. Rund was considering whether he should destroy them or place them in Curwood’s possession.
There was a pad of paper beyond the blotter. Rund reached out, tore off a sheet and brought it toward him. He performed this action with his left hand. With his right, he then drew a fountain pen from his vest pocket.
Nervously, Rund began to scrawl a note on the sheet of paper. He stopped at the end of a sentence. Pen in hand, he looked up toward the door of his private office. Staring, he saw two men — one half way to the desk, the other by the door.
AS Sigby Rund was transfixed by alarm, the lights went out. The man at the door had pressed the switch.
Simultaneously, the second intruder reached the desk with a long, swift leap.
Rund dropped his fountain pen as he thrust his chair back from the desk. Coming to his feet, he raised his hands to grapple, while his lips voiced a sudden outcry. Both were futile. Clutching hands caught Rund’s throat. They ended his scream while they choked away his strength.
The second invader arrived. He, too, fell upon the unfortunate victim. Rund’s body sagged limply.
Whispered growls sounded in the darkness. One man was urging the other to drag Rund’s form to the window. Together, they drew their victim to that objective.
Then, lifting the half-choked man between them, the powerful assassins moved backward. Rund’s eyes, bulging as they stared, saw blackness ahead, with distant lights far beyond. His lips emitted a gargling protest.
“Go.”
The command came as Rund tried to gasp a call for help. Brawny arms swung forward. They catapulted the victim’s body head foremost through the broad, opened window. Arms and legs clawing and kicking, Rund’s form cleared the cornice two floors below.
Lessening in size as it whirled on its mad downward flight, Rund’s body sped from the view of the men who had launched it on the death plunge. Unable to see the finish of the fall, because of the cornice which Rund had passed, the assassins stepped back from the window.
Flashlights glimmered in the darkness of the private office. Papers crinkled; the door of the safe thudded shut. Then came departing footsteps. The outer door closed to bring silence to the suite where no one remained.
CHAPTER II. THE LAW IS BALKED
WHILE death was in the making, high in the Halbar Building, two men were engaged in a conversation that involved the name of Sigby Rund. These men were Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Marinez Corlaza, representative of the Garaucan government. They were holding their discussion in the little office of the commissioner’s apartment.
Weston and Corlaza formed a contrast. The police commissioner, bulky behind his flat-topped desk, was a man of military appearance. His steady face, with its short-clipped mustache, gave him a firm expression. His attitude was dynamic; every gesture denoted him as a man of action.
The emissary from Garauca was of a different type. Marinez Corlaza was a South American who had gained the poise of a European diplomat. Smooth-faced and shrewd-eyed, he was both suave and courteous. When he spoke, his manner denoted reservation. His statements dealt with suppositions rather than with facts.
“To my country,” asserted Corlaza, “there will come much honor when you have arrived there, senor. The people of Garauca have felt a great debt to you. When you have come to take command of the new National Police, they will know that security can be their gain.”
“I am counting upon the support of the public,” responded Weston. “It is your assurance that has made me form my decision. I have long considered a leave of absence from my post as police commissioner of New York. It was the matter of the bond swindles that made me delay my departure.
“Even now, I would not feel entitled to a vacation. Frankly, I have reached the limit of my investigation here in New York. I have accepted the post as National Police Chief in Garauca only because I feel that I can accomplish more in Garauca than in New York. But before I leave here, I must make a final endeavor to uncover the financial interests that backed the Garaucan bond issue. It was my hope, Senor Corlaza, that you might have brought me useful information.”
“Such was impossible.” Corlaza shook his head. “In our country, senor, we were governed by a virtual dictatorship. President Birafel controlled the entire country. Offenders against his regime were sentenced to imprisonment or death. He forced the members of his cabinet to do his bidding.”