“Thank you,” rejoined Cranston, turning in from the window. He extracted a cigarette from the case.
“Glance down there, senor. A rather terrifying avenue to death — but a certain one.”
“That is so.” Corlaza nodded as he took a cigarette for himself and snapped the case. “Well, senor, to some persons, death is welcome. This man Rund needed death. He took the easiest course.”
Both speakers turned at a sound from the outer office. Weston and Cardona had moved in that direction.
A brusque man had arrived. It was Detective Sergeant Markham. With the headquarters man was a mild, middle-aged man who proved to be Tyson Curwood. The lawyer shook hands with the police commissioner.
“You were Sigby Rund’s attorney?” questioned Weston.
“No,” responded Curwood, in a half-doubtful tone. “I do not believe he had an attorney. But Rund was planning to retain me when I talked with him this afternoon.”
“How late this afternoon?”
“Shortly before six o’clock.”
“Where?”
“In this office.”
“Ah!” Weston uttered the exclamation in sudden satisfaction. “Then you were the last person who saw Sigby Rund alive?
“Possibly,” agreed Curwood. “I and his stenographer, Miss Saylor. He walked to the elevator with us. He said that he was returning to his office.”
“Nobody else here when you left?” put in Cardona.
“No one,” replied Curwood.
“Sigby Rund leaped from this window,” stated Weston, simply. “Since you saw him so shortly before his death, Mr. Curwood, we would like to know the details of your interview with him. How did Rund act? What was his behavior?”
“He was worried,” declared Curwood, slowly. “I came here at his request. He was out when I arrived, so I waited his return. When he came in, he exhibited immediate nervousness.”
“On what account?”
“Because of the newspaper reports.” Curwood paused; then spoke with frank emphasis. “Rund was not my client, although he indicated that he intended to retain me very soon. Hence, commissioner, I am at liberty to speak without the slightest reservation. Sigby Rund admitted to me that he went to Garauca six months ago and conducted negotiations with President Birafel.”
“In reference to the bond issue?”
“Yes. Rund represented American financial interests. They employed him later to sell the bonds to big buyers. But Rund did not tell me the names of those who employed him; nor did he divulge the names of those to whom he made the sales.”
“Then why did he call you in?”
“Because, commissioner, he feared that you intended to quiz him. He wanted to know if you could make him talk. I said that you could not — unless you held actual proof against him. I advised him to sit tight.”
“And what was Rund’s reaction?”
“He seemed a bit reassured; but he was nervous again when I left. He said he intended to remain here and think things over. I gave him the card with the phone number of my apartment house.”
Weston pondered. Curwood watched him pace back and forth across the room. The commissioner was convinced by the simplicity of the lawyer’s statements. He was disappointed, however, that Curwood had learned no more concerning Rund’s affairs. After a short while, Weston put another question.
“Do you think, Mr. Curwood,” he questioned, “that Rund’s uneasiness was sufficient to have warranted his act of suicide?”
“I do,” nodded Curwood. “While he was talking from that chair, he suddenly got up and went to the window. It made me squeamish to see him standing there, looking down toward the street. I began to ask him questions. That brought him back.”
“The window was open?”
“Yes. I had been standing there myself, before Rund came in.”
Weston walked over to the desk and drew up the chair. He reached for the pad of paper, tore off a sheet and laid it on the blotter before him. Then, in methodical fashion, he drew a fountain pen from his pocket, and removed the cap.
“Suicide,” remarked Weston, emphatically, as he wrote upon the paper. “That, of course, is obvious. Cardona, I am giving you the address of an expert who can open this safe of Rund’s. Attend to it promptly and hold all the contents for my examination. Right now, I shall see what these desk drawers contain.”
As Weston handed the paper to Cardona, an interruption came in the quiet voice of Lamont Cranston.
The calm-faced traveler had walked over to the safe and was stooping there.
“Wait a few minutes, commissioner,” was Cranston’s suggestion. “Perhaps you will not need the expert. Let me try it for a while.”
“You think you can open it?” questioned Weston, in astonishment.
“Possibly” — Cranston paused as he fingered the dial — “because I know the model. I had a safe of this type. It gave me so much trouble that I experimented with it and could sometimes locate a combination that some one else had arranged.”
Weston and the others watched while Cranston manipulated. When first efforts failed, Weston decided to look through the desk. He brought out a few packets of letters; none of them proved to be of consequence. The commissioner arose from the desk.
“No luck, eh, Cranston?” he questioned. “Well, Cardona, you had better get the expert—”
A smile was showing upon Cranston’s thin lips. No one saw the smile, for the globe-trotter’s face was toward the safe. Those supple fingers had long since found the combination to Rund’s antiquated safe; but Cranston had stalled to make his task look like a difficult one. Deftly, he twisted the knob. The door swung open, as if by luck, just as Cardona was about to leave the office.
“He’s got it!” exclaimed Weston, bounding forward. “George! I didn’t think you could do it, Cranston! Come — let us see what this box contains.”
Parcels of securities, correspondence and documents came into view. Aided by Markham and Cardona, Weston began to sort them on the desk. The commissioner growled in disappointed fashion as the search revealed no signs of Garaucan bonds.
Lamont Cranston had strolled into the outer office to wash his hands at a wash-stand. Marinez Corlaza, following, found the globe-trotter standing with a towel near the outer door of the suite.
“My compliments,” purred Corlaza. “You are quite versatile, Senor Cranston. Perhaps you would make an excellent detective.”
“Why not a criminal?” returned Cranston, with a thin smile. “They are the ones who open safes.”
“You jest, senor. It would not be a compliment to suggest that you would be a criminal. Say, rather, a detective. If you could find clues to crime as easily as you have found combinations to safes—”
“Clues to crime?” interposed Cranston. “They are here, too, senor. For instance, the death of Sigby Rund. They call it suicide” — pausing, Cranston placed the towel upon the rack and turned to face the South American — “but I call it murder.”
“Murder!” Corlaza’s eyebrows narrowed as his lips gasped the word. “Murder! A man leaping from a window?”
“Look, senor” — Cranston pointed to the brass plate of the electric light switch, by the door of the outer office — “do you see how smudged this metal is?”
“Yes.”
“The switch plate in the inner office is polished.”
“But how does that mean murder?”
“Here is another switch plate — also smudged — which supports my theory. You ask why the clean one, in the inner office, means murder? I shall tell you.
“Some one entered that inner office and turned out the light. Sigby Rund was attacked and overpowered in the darkness. Later, the light was turned on again. Then, the assassins were careful to wipe the light switch.”
Marinez Corlaza stared shrewdly at the masklike countenance of Lamont Cranston. Calmly, the globe-trotter resumed his statements.