Urvin nodded. He wondered what Cubitt was doing here. He hoped that the man and his companion would not linger long.
After all, Urvin reflected, their presence would mean no complication. They would leave when Barton Schofield decided to retire. The only lingering doubt which Urvin held was that concerning the identity of George Cubitt’s companion.
Had Hugo Urvin looked in on the sun porch — an act which very sagely he did not perform — he would have learned the identity of the man who had come with Cubitt. That identity would have given Urvin real worry. The swarthy, stocky man with the firm face was none other than Detective Joe Cardona.
OUT on the sun porch, George Cubitt was introducing the sleuth to the old banker. Barton Schofield, his gray face wearied, pointed to chairs. His visitors sat down. Cardona had closed the door behind him. He motioned to Cubitt to speak.
“Mr. Schofield,” explained the young lawyer, “Detective Cardona is investigating the death of Westley Hartnett.”
“Ah!” Schofield’s tired eyes came to life. “You have taken up that good work? Poor Hartnett” — the light faded in Schofield’s face — “poor Hartnett. I hope that you can find the villain who slew him.”
“We have learned something, Mr. Schofield,” declared Cardona. “We are indebted to Mr. Cubitt here for a real clew. I want him to tell you about it.”
Schofield turned toward Cubitt. The young lawyer leaned forward in his chair.
“Mr. Schofield,” he asserted, “we have learned that Westley Hartnett, in handling your financial matters, had dealings with Blaine Goodall, the president of the Huxley Corporation.”
“Of course,” said Schofield, becoming less lethargic. “Goodall was here with Hartnett — not so many nights ago. They came to discuss Huxley stock with me.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Cubitt, turning to Cardona. “You see? I was right. This connects the two deaths.”
“The deaths?”
The question came from Barton Schofield. The old man’s eyes expressed alarm. The banker was staring from Cardona to Cubitt.
“Certainly, the deaths,” declared the detective. “Westley Hartnett was killed. Blaine Goodall was killed—”
Cardona stopped as he saw Barton Schofield slump back in his chair. The detective arose, half in alarm.
Then he saw Schofield recover his composure. The old man waved his hand to indicate that he was all right.
“Blaine Goodall — dead?” Schofield paused solemnly. “Was he, too, murdered? Why was I not told?”
“You didn’t know of it?” questioned Cardona in surprise.
Barton Schofield shook his head.
“Goodall was killed out on a New Jersey road,” said the detective. “It looked like he had run into a fight between two gangs of gunmen. Now, it looks like murder.”
“It is murder!” Schofield’s cry came suddenly, as the old man sat bolt upright. “Murder! I can tell you why!”
Cardona leaned forward to hear what the old banker had to say. Cubitt was agog. Schofield, gripped by indignation, was speaking with a vehemence which be had evidently not shown in years. Cardona’s warning had curbed the old man’s excitement to a slight degree.
“IF I only knew more!” gasped Schofield. “Ah, gentlemen, I let Hartnett manage all the details. My memory slips me. I never read the newspapers. I knew that Hartnett was dead only because this house was called and the servants told me that he had been slain. But Goodall’s death! That is news to me — and now I understand.”
“Tell us,” urged Cardona tensely.
“Something regarding Huxley stock” — Barton Schofield’s tone was bewildered — “and Hartnett had some men here! Two men, besides Goodall.
“I had intended to buy Huxley, gentlemen. These people whom Hartnett brought wanted to block it. Do you understand? My affairs interfered with theirs — and I followed Hartnett’s advice. They were angry at Hartnett — at Goodall—”
Barton Schofield suddenly threw his hands to his heart. His sudden outburst had weakened him. The old man swayed back and forth. Cubitt leaped forward to catch him before he fell. Schofield gasped and leaned back in his chair, panting. His tremor passed; he managed to smile feebly.
“I–I must take it easy,” he said wearily. “I–I am an old man. This — news — Goodall’s death—”
Cubitt was beside the old banker, ready to give him further aid. The young lawyer was speaking; Cardona stopped him with a gesture.
“Who were the two men?” he questioned quietly. “What were their names?”
“I wish that I could remember,” said Schofield, with a tired shake of his head.
“One man — one man — he had an odd sort of a face. Very distorted. Strangely” — Schofield smiled rather sheepishly — “I can recall only that his name had something about it that reminded me of birds—”
“Was it Byrd?”
“No” — Schofield was staring toward the ceiling — “more like chickens — some sort of fowl. I can’t remember names — I never could. I didn’t care who these men were. I was very tired the night that Hartnett introduced me to them.”
“The other man?” questioned Cardona.
“He was a physician,” declared Schofield, with a steady nod. “Yes, a physician. Hartnett mentioned the fact. A man who had traveled all over the world. His name was a very odd one.”
There was a pause, then Schofield’s face betrayed a haggard anxiety. He looked quickly from Cubitt to Cardona.
“Do you think I am threatened?” he questioned. “Is that why you have come here? Am I in danger? Tell me — tell me—”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Schofield,” said Cardona soberly. “We’ll get those fellows. Maybe they can tell us something about this mess. If you could only remember their names!”
“I am in danger from them?” Schofield’s talk was doddering. “Will you protect me?”
The old man was rising from his chair. He grasped the edge of the table, his clutch weakened, and he slumped back helplessly.
“Look after him,” ordered Cardona quickly.
While George Cubitt responded, the detective hastened to the door and summoned a servant. Barton Schofield was moving feebly when the attendant arrived.
“Mr. Schofield has overexerted himself,” declared the detective. “We must help him upstairs.”
The servant nodded. He and Cardona aided the old banker to his feet. Cubitt followed. They reached the head of the stairs and turned left to Schofield’s room. The old man was smiling weakly now.
“I’m better,” he declared to Cardona. “I’m sorry that I overstrained myself. Suppose — suppose that I rest quietly; then you can ask me more.”
“It is quite late, sir,” interposed the servant.
“That does not matter,” said Schofield, closing his eyes wearily. “I must concentrate. This is vitally important. Hartnett is dead — Goodall is dead—”
Cardona pondered. He could see that Barton Schofield was exhausted. The detective was a good psychologist. He knew that rest would ease the weary mind.
“It would be best for Mr. Schofield to sleep,” he decided. “There is no cause for alarm. Mr. Cubitt and I are leaving. I shall return tomorrow, and talk to you in the morning, Mr. Schofield.”
The banker muttered a reply. The servant nodded to indicate that Cardona’s decision was a wise one.
He began to help the old man remove his coat and vest. Cardona beckoned to Cubitt. The young lawyer followed him from the room.
DOWNSTAIRS, they went to the sun porch. Cardona extinguished the light. Cubitt wondered when he heard the detective fumble with the key that opened the door to the lawn. Then he felt Cardona’s grasp.
The detective led him to the hall, and called for hats and coats.