“Remember this, inspector. I am an attorney and a highly paid one. I represent criminals; I never employ them. To think that I would summon a crook to my office to give him orders is as preposterous as to suppose that you would issue instructions to gangsters while giving a third degree.
“Ace Feldon had it in for Whitey Calban. When such feuds exist, they usually result in death. It was not my business to worry about a crook’s plans. Ace was gunning for Whitey. Steve Quigg was with Ace. It was natural that Steve would tip Ace off to the coming job. That was the logical time for Feldon to have his battle out with Calban.”
“But he let Calban get away with murder!”
“Why not? What did Keith mean to Feldon?”
“Nothing, I guess,” admitted Cardona.
“You’re wrong,” snapped Dorrington, with a suddenness that jolted the acting inspector. “Feldon was fool enough to believe that Calban was actually working for me. Therefore, Feldon assumed that Keith was a man whom I wanted killed. That’s why he let Calban do the job before he stepped in to fight it out with the man he hated!”
AGAIN, Cardona was lost. Dorrington had come through with another unexpected statement. The attorney had switched his conversation in bewildering fashion. His theories fitted with a remarkable perfection.
“Cardona,” suggested Dorrington, in a serious tone, “you should spend more time in analyzing the criminal mind. As a detective — still persisting in your stupid third degree — you have committed the blunder of meeting single-tracked brains head on.
“I understand the real working of the thinking machines that crooks possess. Of course, I have a decided advantage. Such clients as Whitey Calban and Ace Feldon invariably confide in me. Perhaps, some time, I may be able to give you definite advice in the correct way to deal with such fellows. Frankly, I should be pleased to do so.”
Cardona arose from his chair. He felt that the interview was due for a prompt ending. He could not tell whether Dorrington was using sincerity or sarcasm. As Cardona turned toward the door, the lawyer joined him and conducted the sleuth to the outer office.
“Call me in advance next time you wish to see me,” suggested Dorrington, in a friendly tone. “I shall then be able to give you a definite appointment, with more time at our disposal.
“Of course, if you must see me on short notice, I can always spare you time. Either here or at my home on Long Island. You will always be welcome, inspector.”
Cardona received the lawyer’s extended hand. The shake completed, the acting inspector turned toward the hallway, while Dorrington went back into his office. Quietly, without a click, the lawyer turned the key in the well-oiled lock.
Lester Dorrington’s cadaverous face was placid. In matter-of-fact fashion, the brainy lawyer went to the cabinet, removed the private telephone and dialed Loven’s office on the floor above.
“My visitor has left,” announced Dorrington, in an even tone. “Tell Squeezer to come down. I can talk with him without further interruption.”
Dorrington hung up. He unlocked the door of the closet; he raised the secret panel. Returning to his desk, the solemn-faced lawyer helped himself to another cigar. He lighted the perfecto with nonchalant ease and drew long puffs while he awaited the arrival of Squeezer.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BAIT
“I WAS a sap, that’s all.”
Joe Cardona was rueful as he made the admission. Two listeners heard his statement. One was Commissioner Ralph Weston; the other was Kelwood Markin.
The trio had assembled in the old attorney’s living room. Though it was not yet five o’clock, the room was illuminated by lamps. Closed shutters and hanging draperies cut out all daylight.
“I went back to headquarters,” said Cardona, “feeling like a fool. I was ready to choke a reporter who butted in while I was there — Burke of the Classic. Then I got your call, commissioner, saying to meet you here.”
“I thought it wise to hold conference with Mr. Markin,” declared Weston, “even though we did have to disturb his afternoon nap. The death of Kingsley Keith most certainly appears to be another link in the chain of crime. Particularly since you found a safe deposit key in Keith’s office.”
“One that Thaddeus could not identify,” nodded Cardona. “It belongs to a box at the University Trust Company. So far as I can see, Keith was another of the dupes.”
During the short, gloomy silence that followed, Ralph Weston’s face clouded. The commissioner stared hard at his ace detective.
“You had a good reason for seeing Dorrington,” said Weston to Cardona, “but your results were by no means satisfactory. Let me see that report again, Cardona. You are sure that you remembered all the details of your conversation?”
“Just about,” returned Cardona, bluntly. “If I was trying to ease it for myself, I wouldn’t have left it as raw as it is. Dorrington twisted me just the way he wanted. I wasn’t in his office to accuse him of murder. He talked suspiciously about himself. Had the jump in everything he said.”
“Dorrington is crafty,” asserted Markin, wisely. “That is why I fear him. This house, commissioner, is my citadel. I have not been out of it since murder began. My only visitor has been George Tharxell, the one man I can trust, excepting Howland.”
“You’re sure of them?” quizzed Cardona.
“Yes,” stated Markin. “Nevertheless, I feel ill-at-ease even though I am protected—”
The old lawyer broke off. A ring at the door had made him start. The three men sat silent; Weston ceased reading the report that Cardona had given him. A rap at the door; Howland entered at Markin’s summons.
“Mr. Tharxell,” announced Howland. “Shall I show him in, sir?”
“At once!” exclaimed Markin. “I had not expected him so soon. Perhaps he has the information that I told him to get.”
A QUIET man of methodical appearance was ushered into the living room. Markin introduced Tharxell to Weston and Cardona. He pointed his partner to a chair. Tharxell sat down, produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Markin. The old attorney’s face lighted.
“It’s here!” he exclaimed. “It fits!”
“What’s that?” quizzed Weston.
“Dorrington’s activities in handling estates,” replied Markin. “I told Tharxell to look up the records. Dorrington is a criminal lawyer. Estates are not ordinarily in his line. During the past five years he has not handled more than a dozen of any consequence.
“It occurred to me, commissioner, that I had opened Rufus Gilwood’s safe deposit box less than one week after the old millionaire had died. Verbeck did the same with Torrence Dilgin’s box. Tell me” — Markin turned to Cardona — “what about Durton’s key? What about Keith’s? Did you find out when they were used at their respective banks?”
“Yes,” returned Cardona. “The banks told me the particular dates on which each of those keys were brought with papers of identity. Keith’s is there in the report, commissioner—”
“Twelfth of December, two years ago,” announced Weston.
“And Durton’s was used in June of the same year,” recalled Cardona. “June the ninth, as I remember it.”
“Let’s see,” chuckled Markin, running his forefinger down the list. “Ah! Here we have them. Parkinson Watts, the importer, died on the fifth of June that year. Hector Mell, Wall Street wizard, died on the seventh of December.”
“Then Watts,” exclaimed Weston, “was the man who gave the key to Durton. Mell was the dupe who handed one to Keith!”
“It appears so.” Markin passed the list to Weston. “It seems more than mere coincidence, commissioner. “There are not many estates in Dorrington’s list.”