Clausey whistled. He remembered the telephone operator’s testimony in the Hotel Goliath; how she had heard Burton Blissip try to pronounce a word: “Merk.” Cardona had taken it for Mexico. Cardona was wrong. Mullrick was the name.
The detective wrote the name upon a slip of paper. He pocketed it with a smile. This was his clew; one that he could look up, and then pop on Joe Cardona.
“We’ll put that in your testimony, Lowder,” said Clausey, to the servant. “Go back to sleep. You need more rest.”
Lowder rolled back upon the couch. Jim Clausey resumed his vigil, wide awake. He would follow this clew when he returned to Manhattan. A man would be out to relieve him by nine o’clock. This was something better than the thankless job of trailing Slugs Raffney, the gang leader who was lying low.
Elation was the spirit that Jim Clausey had imbibed. He had gained a spoken clew; a name which Sidney Cooperdale had pronounced, and which Lowder had recalled. The trail of a murderer opened up before Jim Clausey’s eyes.
The detective was sure that he would get one man who had killed three: the slayer of Roy Selbrig, Burton Blissip, and Sidney Cooperdale. He, Jim Clausey, would uncover the man from Mexico, the assassin who wore the gray fedora.
He knew the name: Mullrick. Jim Clausey would find success where Joe Cardona had encountered only failure. Jim Clausey possessed the spoken clew!
CHAPTER XV
UNDER COVER
AT eight o’clock in the morning, Harland Mullrick, attired in dressing gown, was scanning the front page of a morning newspaper. Glaring headlines screamed murder.
The death of Sidney Cooperdale, former member of archaeological expeditions, was a startling event. The introduction of a venomous snake into his home through the medium of a hollow cane denoted the hand of an insidious murderer.
Mullrick reread the story. It did not contain details regarding the naja haje, or Egyptian cobra. Professor Scudder had not arrived at Cooperdale’s until after the departure of the reporters who had covered the story.
Nevertheless, the news men had stressed the fact that the suspected murderer was a man who wore a gray fedora. They had caught up Cardona’s train of argument, and had stressed the testimony given by Lowder, Cooperdale’s servant.
Mullrick noted one paragraph in particular. It included a statement made by Lowder. The servant had told the police that he had heard his master call someone in New York. It was accepted that this must have been the man with the gray fedora.
Mullrick laid the newspaper aside. He stared from the window. The day was clear and placid; this, to Harland Mullrick, was not enjoyable. The world seemed too fresh. Mullrick, whose thoughts frequently centered on the morbid, did not like it. He felt no exuberance.
“Pascual!” Mullrick called to his Mexican servant. “Prepare breakfast. Did you arrange for those evening newspapers to be delivered here at noon?”
“Si, senor.”
“Bueno.”
Mullrick seated himself beside the living-room table. He did not intend to leave the apartment until after the later newspapers had arrived. He wanted to know more of Lowder’s testimony.
Mullrick had assumed, last night, that Cooperdale had been alone when he had called by telephone. The fact that Lowder had overheard Cooperdale summon a guest to his home was something that required closer study.
While he waited for breakfast, Mullrick began to drum upon a book that lay on the table. He suddenly became aware that it was the volume on the Aztec conquest. He opened the heavy book and removed the folded sheet of paper. Underneath the crossed-out names of Roy Selbrig and Burton Blissip, he wrote:
Sidney Cooperdale.
With a nervous laugh, Mullrick slowly crossed out this name. It marked the passing of the third man who knew the secret location of the lost mines of Durango. Mullrick still held the paper. Then, with a bitter smile upon his lips, he carefully inscribed the name of the fourth:
Donald Gershawl.
While he gripped the paper with his left hand, Mullrick clenched his right fist. He stared fiercely at the final name — the only one uncrossed — then gripped the paper as though about to tear it. At that moment, Pascual called. Hearing the servant’s quick footsteps, Mullrick dropped back in his chair and placidly refolded the sheet of paper.
“El desayuno, senor.”
Pascual gave the announcement of breakfast from the doorway of an adjoining room. Mullrick arose. As Pascual turned, Mullrick dropped the folded paper in the Aztec volume and closed the big book.
The telephone bell tingled while Mullrick was eating breakfast. It was Jerry Herston on the wire. The ex-detective’s voice was anxious.
“Have you read—”
“Yes,” interrupted Mullrick suavely. “I have read the morning newspaper.”
“I’m not kidding you, Mullrick,” came Herston’s worried tone. “This is going to kick up trouble. That fellow Lowder — the hat—”
“Don’t worry, Jerry. Remember, I was with you last night! I met you after dinner. Let’s see — what time was it?”
“Call it seven o’clock. Listen, though. If that telephone call Lowder is talking about was to you, it’s time you began to worry for yourself. He might have heard your name.”
“Never mind, Jerry,” laughed Mullrick. “Give me another call later on in the day. Along toward evening. We’ll have dinner together.”
A LOOK of anxiety began to appear upon Mullrick’s face as the man from Mexico went back to finish his cup of coffee. Something that Jerry Herston had said annoyed him. It was the reference to the fact that Lowder might have heard his name.
Mullrick now remembered that Cooperdale had used his name over the telephone. As Mullrick recalled it, the pronouncement had been made at the finish of the telephone call. This dominating thought became more pressing. Mullrick began to dress immediately after breakfast.
“Pascual,” he ordered from his bedroom. “Call Senor Herston’s hotel. Tell him I would like to speak to him.”
The Mexican went to the telephone. He had learned sufficient parrot English to make a call of this sort. He returned with the information that Senor Herston had gone out.
“It doesn’t matter,” decided Mullrick. “I’m going out, too. I’ll be out a long while, Pascual. I’ll call you on the telephone. If Senor Herston calls or comes in, tell him to wait to hear from me at his hotel.”
“Si, senor.”
Glancing from the living-room window, Mullrick chanced to see a policeman walking by on the other side of the street. The officer was looking toward the apartment house. Mullrick drew back from the window. He was nervous. He went to the entry and put on his hat and coat. He departed abruptly.
As he reached the street door, Mullrick regained his composure. He peered out and saw that the policeman was not in sight. He decided that his apprehensions were at fault. He turned, as though intending to go back to his apartment. Then, with a short laugh, he decided to stroll abroad.
MORNING waned. Shortly before noon, a steady-faced man appeared at the Belisarius Arms. It was Detective Jim Clausey. The sleuth entered the building. He noted Mullrick’s name in the lobby. He went up to the fourth floor.
As he approached the door of Apartment 4H, Clausey stepped back out of sight. The door opened, and Pascual stepped out to pick up a newspaper that had been delivered.
Clausey caught a flash of the Mexican’s face. The detective, however, was not observed by Pascual. Clausey grinned. He had a hunch that if Harland Mullrick were inside, he might come out; if outside, he might come in. Clausey decided to wait.
The detective had learned Mullrick’s address and telephone number through inquiry at the telephone company. The name was an unusual one: the sight of a Mexican servant convinced Clausey that he was on the right trail. Clausey still detailed to the hunting of Slugs Raffney, did not have to report at headquarters for the present.