Maxwell Grant
The Plot Master
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER PLOTTER
A MAN was seated by the window of a luxurious living room. From this apartment, high in an exclusive Manhattan hotel, he commanded a sweeping view of Central Park, which lay spread beneath a dreary afternoon sky.
Smoking a thin cigar, this man seemed indolent as he surveyed the vista below. His eyes were languid; his face showed pale by the light from the window. Then, awaking from his reverie, he took on a change of countenance.
A twisted smile appeared upon the man’s large lips. His eyes, half closing, gave him an evil leer. With a violent gesture, he flung his cigar into an ashtray. With fists half clenched, he arose and stared toward the door.
His scowl showed impatience. He was expecting some one who had not yet arrived. Glancing at his watch, the waiting man emitted a low snarl that brooked ill for the person whom he was expecting. Then, as in answer to the man’s impatience, the door of the living room opened.
The man at the window, tall in stature, glared venomously at the heavy, stalwart fellow who entered. He waited until the arrival had closed the door. Then, in a harsh voice, he demanded:
“Well, Marling. What has delayed you?”
“Sorry, chief,” returned the arrival, in an apologetic tone. “Holley was out when I called at the Century Casting Company. I had to wait until he came back.”
“Any news from Cedar Cove?”
“Nothing new.”
The tall man grunted his disappointment. His lips, however, resumed their evil smile as some new thought came to his mind. Then Marling produced a newspaper and, with a grin, handed it to his chief.
The tall man stared at the evening issue. There, on the front page, was a photograph of himself, wearing the mild expression that he had owned before Marling’s arrival. Beneath it was the name “Eric Hildrow.”
“They know you’re back from Cuba, chief,” informed Marling, still holding his grin. “They’ve run that canned interview you gave them about the conditions on the sugar plantations. It ought to please the senator, to know you’re back.”
“He is pleased,” asserted Hildrow. “A letter arrived while you were absent.
“From Washington, sent by Senator Ross Releston himself. He states that he will soon be ready to receive my report on Pan-American trade conditions. Cuban sugar interests the good senator.”
A SARCASTIC smile was flickering on Hildrow’s lips. The expression revealed him as a man of cunning. Marling nodded in approval of his chief’s statements.
“That fits in with Stollart’s last report,” declared Marling. “The one that came to the Brooklyn post office yesterday, addressed to J.T. Ushwell.”
“The name I use with Stollart,” remarked Hildrow. “He was really bought over — that fellow — and he stands well with Senator Releston.”
“You’re sure that Stollart doesn’t suspect—”
“That J.T. Ushwell and Eric Hildrow are one? Not a chance of it! No more than Senator Releston could suspect that I am playing a double game. My contacts with Releston have been entirely above board. I met him on business that pertains to international trade conditions. He regards me as an authority on such subjects.
“In fact, it was only in a passing manner that I learned of the senator’s interest in the new submarine that Commander Dadren is developing at Cedar Cove. I took Stollart into our fold; and he has learned the rest. That keeps me in the clear.”
“Smart work, chief,” commented Marling.
“In Havana,” remarked Hildrow, “I contacted with a certain agent. I can tell you this, Marling: once we have gained the plans to Dadren’s submarine, we can reap millions. I told the man in Havana just enough to arouse his full enthusiasm.”
“One trouble, chief,” objected Marling. “Negotiations before you have the plans — well, it might queer the game.”
“How? I did not mention Dadren’s name. The agent in Havana knows nothing of the experimental work at Cedar Cove.”
“But he might trace it through you.”
“Do you think I am a fool?” snarled Hildrow. “Sometimes, Marling, you betray stupidity! I did not see that agent in my own identity of Eric Hildrow. I was Senor Angoston, from Buenos Aires, when I called on him.”
“You were in disguise?”
“Certainly. With sallow face, a little pointed mustache” — Hildrow paused to press his fingers against his features — “and darkened eyebrows. I talked in Spanish. The man in Havana thought I was in from South America.
“Always a disguise, Marling. That is the way I work. You do not appreciate it, for you are one who has my confidence. But with others — bah! — unless I can trust them, why should I reveal my real identity?”
Hildrow chuckled as he strolled by the window. His pose had become languid again; he was almost dreamy as he stared out toward Central Park. Then, with characteristic suddenness, the plotter turned and snapped a question at Marling.
“Come!” he exclaimed. “You say that there is no new word from our man at Cedar Cove. He has gained no opportunity to seize the plans?”
“None at all.”
“What about the commander? Does he still intend to make his trip to Washington? Tomorrow?”
“Apparently.”
“That coincides with Stollart’s report,” nodded Hildrow. “The senator expects Dadren. We have known that for some time. Very well. When Commander Dadren flies to Washington, we shall gain the plans. What else was in the post office box, Marling?”
“A letter from Wenshell. He is still at Tarksburg, Virginia, with the air circus.”
“All ready for any orders?”
“Yes. They are stranded there. They will break up as soon as he announces that he is out of funds.”
“That will be to-day?”
“Yes. To-night.”
“Good!”
HILDROW assumed a pleased smile. The expression was an ugly one. Here, with only Marling to view him, the master plotter made no effort to cover his actual character.
“There was word from Korsch,” stated Marling. “All quiet on the Potomac.”
“Good!” laughed Hildrow. “The river air is excellent. Perhaps Dadren will enjoy it also.”
“And a report from Nuland,” added Marling. “He is waiting at Marrinack, Connecticut. Watching Death Island. Another search is to be made in Professor Whitburn’s study.”
“Another search?” quizzed Hildrow, angrily. “I thought that had been accomplished.”
“Apparently it had, chief. But there still seems to be a chance that Professor Whitburn has a duplicate set of Commander Dadren’s plans. A letter came in from Cedar Cove—”
“Enough, Marling!” snarled Hildrow. “This may ruin everything!”
“How, chief? If we grab Dadren’s plans—”
“They will be worthless if Professor Whitburn has copies. This search must not fail. What is more, it must be accomplished to-night. At any cost!”
“Nuland says it will be—”
“But Nuland is not infallible.” Hildrow yanked a watch from his pocket and studied the dial. “Four o’clock. How long will it take me to reach Lake Marrinack?”
“By car?”
“Yes.”
“From three to four hours.”
“That is sufficient. Come, Marling. I want to talk to you while I am preparing.”
Hildrow paced across the living room. He entered a small dressing room and seated himself at a table before a mirror. Bringing out a box of make-up equipment, he began a transformation of his features.
MARLING watched in admiration, as his chief applied a brownish ointment that took away the pallor of his face. Then came action on the eyebrows. Tugging at them, Hildrow made them double in size. He dipped his fingers in a glossy cream and repeated the process. His eyebrows became almost black.