He floor-boarded the throttle, and skidded at the corner with the car lurching far over against the springs, the tires shrieking a protest.
He drove like a crazy man, getting to the apartment where Ruby Orman spent the time when she was not sob-sistering for her newspaper. He knew he could beat the elevator up the three flights of stairs, and took them two at a time.
The door of the apartment was closed. Sid banged his fist upon it in a peremptory knock and then rattled the knob.
“Oh, Ruby!” he called softly.
A canary was singing in the apartment. Aside from that, there was no faintest suggestion of sound.
Sid turned the knob, pushed his shoulder against the door. It was unlocked. He walked into the apartment. The canary perked its head upon one side, chirped a welcome, then fluttered nervously to the other side of the cage.
Sid strode through the little sitting room to the dining room and kitchenette. The telephone was fastened to the wall here.
But the receiver was not dangling. It had been neatly replaced on its hook. But there was a pile of garments just below the telephone which made Sid stagger against the wall for a brief second before he dared to examine them.
He knew that skirt, that businesslike jacket, knew the sash, the shoes... He stepped forward.
They were Ruby’s clothes, all right, lying there in a crumpled heap on the floor.
And at the sight Sid Rodney went berserk.
He flung himself from room to room, ripping open closet doors. For a wild moment he fought back his desire to smash things, tear clothes, rip doors from hinges.
Then he got a grip on himself, sank into a chair at the table, lit a cigarette with trembling hand. He must think.
Soloman had had something put in his hair, a powder which irritated... Ruby had seen that powder, flicked there — a casual gesture, probably, like a cigarette ash. The powder had irritated... Ruby had told some one person something of Rodney’s theory. Powder had been applied to her hair... She had known of it... She had telephoned... She had an appointment... And it had become cold... Then the clothes at the foot of the telephone...
And the chair in which Sid Rodney had been sitting was flung back upon its shivering legs as he leaped from the table — flung back by the violence of the motion with which he had gone into action.
He gained the door in three strides, took the stairs on the run, climbed into his automobile, and drove like some mythical dust jinni scurrying forward on the crest of a March wind.
He whizzed through street intersections, disregarded alike traffic laws and arterial stops, swung down a wide street given over to exclusive residences, and came to a stop before a large house constructed along the conventional lines of English architecture.
He jumped from the machine, ran rapidly up the steps, held his finger against the doorbell.
A man in livery came to the door, regarded him with grave yet passive disapproval.
“This is the residence of P. H. Dangerfield?”
“Yes.”
“His secretary, Mr. Sands, is here?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see him,” said Sid, and started to walk into the door.
The servant’s impassive face changed expression by not so much as a flicker, but he moved his broad bulk in such a manner as to stand between the detective and the stairs.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, the library to the left is the reception room. If you will give me your name and wait there I’ll tell Mr. Sands that you are here. Then, if he wishes to see you, you will be notified.”
There was a very perceptible emphasis upon the word “if.”
Sid Rodney glanced over the man’s shoulder at the stairs.
“He’s upstairs, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, in the office, sir.”
Sid Rodney started up.
The servant moved with swiftness, once more blocking the way.
“I beg your pardon, sir!”
His eyes were hard, his voice firm.
Sid Rodney shook his head impatiently, as a fighter shakes the perspiration out of his eyes, as a charging bull shakes aside some minor obstruction.
“To hell with that stuff! I haven’t got time!”
And Sid Rodney pushed the servant to one side.
The man made a futile grab at Sid’s coat.
“Not so fast...”
Sid didn’t even look back. “Faster, then!” he said, with a cold grin.
The arm flashed around and down. The liveried servant spun, clutched at the cloth, missed, and went backward down the few steps to the landing.
Rodney was halfway up the stairs by the time the servant had scrambled over to hands and knees.
“Oh, Sands!” called Rodney.
There was no answer.
Rodney grunted, tried a door — a bedroom; another door — a bath; another door — the office.
It seemed vacant. A desk, a swivel chair, a leather-covered couch, several sectional bookcases, some luxuriously comfortable chairs, a filing case or two... and Sid Rodney jumped back with a startled exclamation.
A suit of clothes was spread out on the couch.
He ran toward it.
It was the checkered suit Sands had been wearing at the time of the interview at police headquarters. It was quite empty, was arranged after the manner of a suit spread out upon the couch in the same position a man would have assumed had he been resting.
Rodney bent over it.
There was no necktie around the collar of the shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were in the coat. The vest was buttoned over the shirt. The shoes were on the floor by the side of the couch, arranged as though they had been taken off by some man about to lie down.
Chapter VII
A Fiend Is Unmasked
Sid Rodney went through the pockets with swift fingers. He found a typewritten note upon a bit of folded paper. It bore his name and he opened and read it with staring eyes.
Sid Rodney, Ruby Orman, and Bob Sands, each one to be visited by the mysterious agency which has removed the others. This is no demand for money. This is a sentence of death.
Sid Rodney put the paper in his own pocket, took the watch from the suit, checked the time with the time of his own watch. They were identical as far as the position of the hands was concerned.
Sid Rodney replaced the watch, started through the rest of the pockets, found a cigarette case, an automatic lighter, a knife, fountain pen and pencil, a ring of keys, a wallet.
He opened the wallet.
It was crammed with bills, bills of large denomination. There were some papers as well, a letter in feminine handwriting, evidently written by an old friend, a railroad folder, a prospectus of an Oriental tour.
There was another object, an oblong of yellow paper, printed upon, with blanks left for data and signature. It was backed with carbon compound so as to enable a duplicate impression to be made, and written upon with pencil.
Sid studied it.
It was an express receipt for the shipment of a crate of machinery from George Huntley to Samuel Grove at 6372 Milpas Street. The address of the sender was given as 753 Washington Boulevard.
Sid puckered his forehead.
No. 753 Washington Boulevard was the address of Albert Crome.
Sid opened the cigarette case. Rather a peculiar odor struck his nostrils. There was a tobacco odor, also another odor, a peculiar, nostril-puckering odor.
He broke open one of the cigarettes.
So far as he could determine, the tobacco was of the ordinary variety, although there was a peculiar smell to it.