CHAPTER XII
THE THIRD LETTER
“THIS is getting too close, Mullrick.” It was Jerry Herston who spoke from his chair in Mullrick’s living room. He was referring to the news accounts, which told of Burton Blissip’s death. It was the evening following the stir at the Hotel Goliath.
“Close?” Mullrick’s question was a trifle sarcastic. “Close to whom, Jerry?”
“To you!” blurted the ex-detective. “Say, Mullrick, I’ve got the brains to see it, even if you haven’t.”
“Regarding last night,” remarked Mullrick suavely. “I met you shortly before eight o’clock, didn’t I, Jerry?”
“Yes,” agreed Herston.
“That is, by your watch,” added Mullrick. “Your friend Holwell happened to notice the time also. He had no watch of his own. I imagine his testimony will hold.”
“No alibi will hold, Mullrick, if this goes on—”
“Of course, Jerry,” interposed Mullrick, “it was my actual intention to be with you at eight. Therefore your conscience need not be worried. I merely chanced to fall asleep in my chair. Pascual failed to waken me. Hence I might well have been with you at eight o’clock. Stick to what your watch said.”
“Don’t worry about me,” argued Jerry. “Worry about yourself. Cardona’s after the guy with the gray fedora—”
“Who might be anyone—”
“And he’s got another tip. He figures that the bird with the gray hat has been to Mexico. Laugh that one off!”
Mullrick did laugh, but Herston felt that the tone was hollow. The ex-detective got up and walked about the room.
Harland Mullrick quietly picked up the book that dealt with the conquest of the Aztecs. From it, he calmly drew forth the folded paper. While Jerry Herston was staring gloomily from the window, Mullrick looked at the crossed-out name of Roy Selbrig. Beneath it, he wrote the name of Burton Blissip.
Solemnly, he drew a line through the name. He replaced the paper in the book, and put the heavy volume on the table.
“Going out?” queried Herston suddenly. “Or do you want to meet me downtown again?”
“I’ll go out with you,” responded Mullrick. “Just a few minutes, Jerry. I want to write a letter.”
He sat down at the table and folded a sheet of blank paper. He placed it in an envelope which he addressed to himself. Then, in brief, methodical fashion, Mullrick inscribed an actual note. Its wording was as follows:
DEAR MR. COOPERDALE: I have in mind a project which refers to Mexico. Knowing that you have been in that country, I should like to discuss matters with you. The time and place will be at your convenience. My telephone is Gotham 9-7194. Inasmuch as this may mean a sizable profit for both of us, I am relying upon you to destroy this letter after reading it. A telephone call from you will indicate to me that you have done so. I am counting upon your good faith in this matter as the opportunity which I present is one that must be discussed only by ourselves.
The letter went into another envelope, which Mullrick sealed and addressed to Sidney Cooperdale, Kewson, Long Island. He placed a stamp upon the envelope and pocketed it. He handed the first envelope to Pascual, when the servant entered.
“Mail this, Pascual, mio amigo,” said Mullrick. “You can leave it by the telephone until you are ready to go out. Do not forget the stamp.”
“Si, senor,” responded the servant.
His precaution taken, Mullrick prepared to leave. He decided to change his necktie. That completed, he brushed his hair in front of a mirror, and finally decided that he was sufficiently presentable for a tour of the bright lights.
Mullrick called for coats and hats. As he donned his gray fedora, he turned to the mirror and adjusted the hat at its side angle. He smiled wanly as he looked at Jerry Herston.
“Like that hat?” he asked.
“I’d like to see it in the ash can,” growled the ex-detective. “Look at mine. I threw my old gray bonnet out. I’m wearing a derby instead.”
“Not even a soft hat,” laughed Mullrick. “Particularly one which an English doorman might happen to call a fedora. Jerry, for a man who’s been a detective, I can’t understand how you concede those headquarters men the possibility of trailing anyone with only a gray hat as a clew.”
“And Mexico,” reminded Jerry.
“Or Mexico, either,” stated Mullrick. “Some day, Jerry, I’ll tell you a lot you don’t know. Well — let’s forget it for the time.”
The two men left the apartment house. On the street, Mullrick glanced cautiously in both directions. Jerry Herston noted the action.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Vampiros,” chuckled Mullrick. He stared up at the apartment house. “Pascual thinks he has seen them. Huge bats, as big as human beings. None here tonight.” Mullrick lowered his gaze. “Quick, Jerry! Grab that cab!”
The two men hopped into a passing taxi. Mullrick gave a destination. He changed it after they had gone a few blocks. The driver veered and took another street.
“What’s the idea?” quizzed Herston.
“That’s just it,” said Mullrick solemnly. “You think of some things, Jerry; you totally forget others. I merely want to learn if we are being followed.”
“There’s a cab in back of us.”
IN the following cab, a pair of burning eyes were staring toward the vehicle ahead. It was not Harry Vincent who was trailing Harland Mullrick this evening. The Shadow had taken up the work himself.
He saw Mullrick’s ruse. His quick eyes noted an avenue ahead of the side street along which the cabs were rolling. They also detected an alleyway on the right.
“Stop here, driver,” came The Shadow’s order, in a quiet tone.
The driver pulled to a stop. He stared in bewilderment as a ten-dollar bill fluttered upon the wheel. He looked about for the passenger. There was no one in the cab. The driver rubbed his head. He had not even remembered the passenger entering the cab, back by the Belisarius Arms. This departure — with the payment of a big fee for a short ride — was even more astounding.
The Shadow was moving swiftly through the alleyway at which the cab had stopped. He was beating Harland Mullrick’s game. Mullrick thought that he was being followed.
To find out, Mullrick would probably choose a sure and effective way. At the avenue, he would tell his driver to turn right for one square, then right again at the next side street. The ruse would give positive evidence of any pursuit.
The Shadow, cutting through at the middle of the block, reached the next street. He saw two cabs standing in front of a small hotel. He stepped into the first of the vehicles. In a quiet voice, he ordered the drowsy driver to start.
“Take it slowly,” were The Shadow’s added words. “I am in no hurry.”
The cab moved slowly from the curb. A few moments later came proof that The Shadow’s surmise of Harland Mullrick’s method was correct. The cab containing Mullrick and Herston whisked by The Shadow’s taxi. Mullrick had performed his doubling tactics.
Within their cab, Mullrick and Herston laughed as they neared the next avenue. Mullrick ordered the driver to turn left. The man obeyed.
“Showed you something, eh, Jerry?” questioned Mullrick. “If that fellow was following us, he’d have shown it when we turned off the avenue.”
Neither man had any suspicion of the cab which had pulled away from the little hotel just before they had arrived. Thus they did no more than glance casually behind. The Shadow’s new cab, in the traffic of the avenue, seemed innocent.
MULLRICK ordered the driver to stop near a large Forty-second Street restaurant. As the two passengers alighted, Mullrick remembered the letter in his pocket.