“Well?”
“The police might try the same tactics on Dobey. He might decide to make a goat of me. Big shots of his type have no scruples when it comes to passing the buck.”
“Mob leaders don’t talk.”
“Not against their pals. But Dobey is no pal of mine. He’s a fox, that fellow. He would say anything under the proper persuasion. With all his bluff, he is yellow at heart. Like all professional murderers, he is a coward.”
“Why not go to him?”
“I could do that. Very easily. The sight of a gun would scare the daylights out of him.”
“Out of Dobey Blitz?”
“Certainly. Why do you think he bought that apartment house and put a strong-arm crew in charge? Because he’s scared for his yellow hide.”
“Then if you go to see him—”
“I’m not going,” interposed Marrick, emphatically. “At heart, Dobey is such a coward that he would start to crawl the moment I would begin to warn him. I might send you, though, Wally.”
“When?”
“Before you go to Hildreth’s. It might do you good — give you a chance to show your nerve. On the other hand, it might be better to wait until after you have brought the papers here. Perhaps you should not see Dobey at all.
“I’ll think it over, Wally.” Marrick had risen. “Go home and get some sleep. Forget all about to-morrow. Be in your apartment at six o’clock to-morrow afternoon. Wait there until I call you. Then do as I tell you.”
Wally nodded. Marrick ushered his visitor from the apartment. Returning, the broad-shouldered banker lighted a cigar and puffed thoughtfully as he resumed his chair.
A leer showed above Marrick’s protruding jaw. The man’s heavy brows formed a scowl. Dunwood Marrick was thinking of the morrow. A fighter, a challenger, a schemer who dealt in millions, Marrick showed by his expression that he would be ready for what might come.
CHAPTER XVII. MOVES FROM THE DARK
AT half past-seven the next evening, Detective Joe Cardona entered the exclusive Cobalt Club. He asked to see Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth. He was ushered into the card room where he found three men seated at the table. The eagle-eyed commissioner was among them.
“Well?” Barth was sharp with the question as he walked to a corner with the detective. “What have you to report?”
“A hunch,” responded Cardona.
The detective’s statement would not have gone across with ex-Commissioner Weston. The former official had wanted facts, not hunches, although he had not been adverse to theories. But Barth, to Cardona’s satisfaction, seemed pleased at the detective’s statement.
Cardona had found the new commissioner’s soft spots. Anything that savored of the unusual seemed to appeal to Barth. Cardona’s talk about Dobey Blitz had been pure hokum; yet it had registered. The detective was ready to try the same method to-night; but this time he felt more confidence. For Joe had been given what he thought was a genuine lead.
“A hunch, eh?” gleamed Barth. “Something in the order of a premonition? This interests me exceedingly. Proceed, Cardona.”
“You’ve talked a bit regarding a link,” asserted Cardona. “A hook-up between that South American bond swindle and this bank robbery. You told me to keep that idea in mind, didn’t you?”
“I recall some such statement,” nodded Barth. “I certainly know that the theory sounded plausible. Hildreth seemed to like it; so did other bankers to whom I mentioned the matter.”
“Well,” said Cardona, “I talked it over with a newspaper reporter.”
“What!” exclaimed Barth. “This is outrageous! I don’t speak to you for publication. That theory was not for the press!”
“Don’t worry, commissioner. The guy I talked to knows how to keep mum. Fellow named Clyde Burke, with the Classic.”
“That atrocious tabloid journal? Tut-tut, Cardona! You should end all contact with representatives of that yellow scandal sheet.”
“I talked to Burke — not to the Classic. The idea sort of hit him. He came back to see me. He gave me a suggestion that hit between the eyes.”
“Concerning Dobey Blitz?”
“Indirectly. Burke asked me what I’d done about tracing the murderers of Rudolph Zellwood. He said they must have gone out under orders from Dobey Blitz. He figured that they would be back in town.”
“Why so?”
“Because they pulled their job so neatly. The bank robbers that didn’t get killed probably scrammed. It wasn’t safe for Dobey to have them around. But the killers of Zellwood — Burke figured two of them — well, there’s every reason why they should be back.”
“Because they know New York?”
“Yes. They could hide out better here. I agreed with Burke. Then he popped another thought. Those fellows did a smart job killing Zellwood, didn’t they?”
“They performed a heinous crime,” corrected Barth. “From a criminal standpoint, I suppose it could be termed smart.”
“Well,” added Cardona, “Burke said they could have done another that was even better. The murder of Sigby Rund.”
“The murder?” questioned Barth. “Rund was not murdered. He was a suicide.”
“He landed on the street outside of the Halbar Building,” admitted Cardona. “That doesn’t mean he jumped from his office window. Two mugs could have pitched him out — just as easy as they stowed Zellwood in that upper berth.”
THE statement registered. Barth’s eyes gleamed. This, in his opinion, was masterful deduction. Not being acquainted with Clyde Burke, he was ready to give all the credit for the theory to Joe Cardona.
“You must find those murderers!” exclaimed the commissioner. “Locate them at once, Cardona. Scour the underworld. Those fiends must not be allowed to run at large.”
“I don’t like to use the dragnet,” objected Joe. “They might be smart enough to give us the slip. We want to grab them quiet-like, particularly because I’ve got a hunch who they are.”
“You know the scoundrels?”
“I know a pair that would fill the bilclass="underline" Ox Hogart and Jake Packler. You see, Burke and I talked it over — he knows the underworld pretty good — and we began talking about crooks that palled together. Fellows big enough and tough enough to pull jobs like those killings. I happened to mention Jake and Ox as a couple of dock-wallopers who made trouble in their time. They sounded like the pair I wanted.”
“Then use the dragnet.”
“I’ve done better, commissioner, for the present. I sent out a dozen stool-pigeons to take a squint around the hangouts. I’m going back to headquarters, to wait for word from them.”
“A capital plan, Cardona. I feared that you might come here empty-handed for this appointment. It pleases me to learn of your progress.”
“It may help me to close in on Dobey Blitz.”
“It may indeed. Return to headquarters, Cardona. Communicate with me frequently, here at the club. I am waiting for Mr. Cranston. He is to make our fourth at bridge. We expect him at half past eight.”
Cardona left the Cobalt Club, muttering to himself. He pictured Wainwright Barth, seated at a bridge table, peering through pince-nez spectacles. Joe could not imagine the old commissioner, Ralph Weston, indulging in a card game while his sleuths were hot on the trail of crime.
WAINWRIGHT BARTH was waiting for Lamont Cranston. The commissioner had forgotten his grievance toward the millionaire. He had invited Cranston by telephone; the millionaire had promised to be at the club by eight thirty. Barth fancied that he had not yet left his New Jersey home. Barth was wrong.
At the very moment when Barth had mentioned Cranston’s name to Cardona, a limousine was stopping on a narrow thoroughfare of the East Side. It was Lamont Cranston’s car. Stanley, the chauffeur, heard the voice of his master telling him to wait.