“I see,” nodded Knight. “This blighter must have read about it in the daily journals. The previous suicide gave him his inspiration. Do I size it?”
“Just about. That’s the way those goofs do it. They need nerve for suicide. They like to pick spots that somebody tried before them.”
Vic Marquette nodded his agreement with Joe Cardona’s statement. A pursed smile flickered on the lips of Jarvis Knight: then faded as the sharp-featured Englishman puffed at his cigarette. Strolling across the room, Knight glanced through the closed window then shrugged his shoulders as if to dismiss the subject of suicide. Vic Marquette advanced and spoke in a confidential tone. The operative’s words were half a suggestion, half a request.
“We ought to talk matters over, Knight,” he said. “We’ve got a lot to tell you. I brought Cardona here because he happened to be in on some of it. Suppose we get to business?”
“It’s quite agreeable,” acknowledged Knight, turning from the window. “Am I correct in my conjecture that you have gained information concerning this chap Sailor Martz?”
“You’ve guessed it,” replied Vic, with a nod toward Cardona. “We landed Sailor, but he was dead.”
“Let me have the details.” Knight waved his visitors to chairs; but himself remained standing by the window. “After that, I shall relate some facts of my own knowledge.”
VIC MARQUETTE began the story. Knight listened, his gaze fixed in a meditative stare toward Manhattan’s sky line. At times, the Englishman’s lips showed their pursed smile; at other intervals, Knight delivered abrupt nods.
All the while, his expression showed him to be intent. Joe Cardona noted it and the detective gathered an increasing hunch that Jarvis Knight was speculating on the future as he listened to Vic’s recital of the past.
Joe Cardona was right. The Englishman who held the credentials of Eric Delka was formulating definite plans. He was basing his coming actions upon the assurance that he had gained from Joe Cardona; namely, that the supposed suicide from the Goliath roof would not be identified.
There was reason for Knight’s well-guarded smile. Chance opportunity had enabled him to dispose of the one man who could have balked his purpose. Established as Inspector Eric Delka, of Scotland Yard, this man who had struck from ambush could foresee success to the enterprise that had brought him to New York.
CHAPTER X. SILVER RUPEES
“SAILOR MARTZ was secondary. Loss of him means nothing. If you had captured the bounder alive, I doubt that he could have furnished a solitary clue.”
The statement came from Jarvis Knight. The Englishman presented it as a verdict when Vic Marquette had completed his tale of adventure on the New York waterfront.
“Sailor knew nothing?” queried Marquette, in apparent astonishment. “Why the reports from Scotland Yard stressed the point that Sailor was with the spy ring.”
“The reports,” corrected Knight, calmly, “declared that Martz was working for Jed Barthue.”
“And Jed Barthue was named as the spy—”
“Not quite.” Knight’s lips curled in a smile. “Jed Barthue was a rover, the go-between. He made contacts in various countries. That is why he has come to the United States.”
Marquette nodded. This was in conformity with what he had learned; but apparently there was more to be told. The secret service operative leaned back in his chair and motioned for the Britisher to continue.
“Some months ago,” stated Knight, “the French concern, Freres Gautier, reported the theft of important documents in their possession. These pertained to an improved model of the famous seventy-five millimeter guns used by the French army.”
“I know about that,” nodded Marquette. “The Gautier outfit had begun to manufacture them for the French government. The stolen plans were sold to the Salavani arms corporation, which promptly began to produce them in Italy.”
“Precisely. That fact was interesting to the investigators of various governments, including British agents. Scotland Yard was informed that Jed Barthue had been traced to both Paris and Rome during the time of the theft and the sale.”
“He was seen in both capitals?”
“No. Barthue has a way of staying under cover. It was known only that he had dealt with parties in France and Italy. We decided that he might be in England. We learned that he was; but our discovery came too late.”
“After the theft from the admiralty office?”
“Yes. Models of a new compression gun disappeared most mysteriously. Where they went remained unknown. How they were taken proved a riddle. But Barthue was definitely implicated. We decided that he had come to the States.”
Knight paused in his story. From his vest pocket he drew forth a few coins and jingled them while he considered his next statement.
“VARIOUS suppositions,” he declared, slowly, “supported our belief that Barthue had chosen America as his next destination. The man is something other than an ordinary adventurer. He is the type of spy who seeks lucrative employment.
“While European manufacturers are not averse to purchasing secrets that belong to firms in other countries, none of them would dare to back an espionage service. Relations are too strained to permit such practice.
“Barthue, we decided, must have been financed from some other source. By a simple process of elimination, we determined that his employers were probably Americans. Outside of the improved French 75s and the British compression guns, there were no startling developments in European munitions manufacture. Thus Barthue logically had an opportunity to report to his headquarters.”
Knight was stacking the coins in his left hand, absent-mindedly clinking them. He picked out one, glanced at it curiously; then retained it in his right hand while he used his left to replace the others in his vest pocket.
“Furthermore,” resumed the Britisher, “Jed Barthue had a new world to conquer. Your American government had dissolved the relationships between domestic firms and those of foreign countries, it had become common news that new manufacturers, certified by the United States government, were about to produce new inventions that might be of important consequence in warfare.”
“That’s right,” acknowledged Marquette. “What’s more, most of them have been tied up under one banner. They’re all part of a large holding company: Wesdren Enterprises. Caleb Wesdren is the president. With one man at the head of the different companies, there is more security for the plans and models.”
“The eggs are in one basket,” chuckled Knight. Silver gleamed as he tossed his coin and caught it in his right hand. “A matter of protection, from one standpoint, yes. Also a remarkable opportunity for a clever beggar like Jed Barthue.”
“I get it,” nodded Vic. “If he can crack Wesdren’s crib, he’ll have the whole works. Just what Senator Releston said. Well, even if we can’t spot this Jed Barthue when we meet him, we ought to be able to stop him.”
“You are becoming forgetful, Marquette,” remarked Knight toying with the coin. To Cardona, the silver disk looked like a fifty-cent piece. “Let us agree that Jed Barthue has come to America for purposes of theft. But I must remind you that I prefaced my remarks by stating that he is an agent — not a plotter.”
“Sure. You said that some American was backing him. That’s logical enough. Sailor Martz was working for Barthue; Sailor pulled something with a bunch of crooks who went out aboard a ship called the Zouave. They started a mutiny and got theirs. I’ll agree that an American could be the big shot. But he’s got to use Barthue for the job.”
“Does he?” Knight smiled scornfully and shook his head. “That does not follow, Marquette. Why should Barthue be used for theft when his duty will come later?”