Feverishly, Jurrice pushed his way toward the door. Clyde Burke turned promptly, about to follow him; but the clerk gripped Clyde’s arm and began to introduce the reporter to the manager. Clyde could do nothing but remain, to gain a statement for the Classic.
“That fellow Jurrice has been in my office for hours,” explained Roquil. “That is why I could not see you before, Mr. Burke. Here — I have prepared a typewritten statement from the company. Let us go over it together.”
CARL RAMOREZ had heard Craig Jurrice state his name and address. A gleam had come upon the Cuban’s dark, mustached face. The crowd had closed after Jurrice’s departure.
Ramorez suddenly began to fight his way through. This action was observed by Thurney. The Coilmaster’s lips tightened, in expression of a sudden guess.
Again the throng had jammed; it was as futile for Thurney to pursue Ramorez as for the Cuban to overtake Jurrice. However, Thurney lost no time in forcing his way to the street.
Once there, he hurried to a corner drug store and found a telephone booth. He dialed a number. The response was an odd croak from the receiver.
“Four,” spoke Thurney, by way of identification. “Jurrice returning to his apartment. Half an hour needed for trip. Observed by man who may be the Cuban. Observer also left steamship office. All.”
Again the croak. This time it was an acknowledgment. Thurney hung up and left the cigar store. He returned to the steamship office, where Clyde Burke was still engaged with Roquil. Thurney waited a few minutes; then saw the reporter leave.
Cornering the manager, Thurney asked for a pass to the pier. His tone was anxious; Roquil supposed him to be one who had friends aboard the Tropical. Thurney received the pass without question. Smiling his satisfaction, The Python’s Coilmaster strolled from the office.
Warring, the valet, had mentioned a weak point when he had spoken of the weakness in The Python’s contact system. That blue-lighted signal tower, the strongest weapon in The Python’s arsenal, was useless during daylight hours. Thurney had recognized the fact, despite his statement that The Python had no weaknesses.
The Python’s time of strength was night; and early darkness had brought his period of power. Many hours had been lost; but the set-back had been regained.
Albert Thurney had taken on the task of watching Craig Jurrice, to learn if the man had contacted Revoort’s unknown Cuban friend.
Luck had favored Thurney. He had heard Jurrice talk; he had spotted a man who might be the Cuban. Contact, perhaps, was coming soon. Thurney had reported the fact to the croaking man across the wire. The Python had gained news which might well prove useful in his insidious schemes.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BROKEN INTERVIEW
IT took Craig Jurrice nearly fifty minutes to reach the Hotel Bragelonne. He had chosen to make the trip by cab. Traffic was heavy at this hour and the taxi was stalled frequently on its trip.
Hence Jurrice, when he reached the apartment hotel, was both impatient and annoyed. He strode into an elevator and was taken promptly to the sixth floor.
Clyde Burke arrived five minutes later. He entered the lobby and approached the desk. He arrived just in time to hear an argument between two clerks. One was rising from the telephone switchboard, where he was on temporary duty.
“You gave Mr. Jurrice the message then?” inquired the one behind the desk. “When was that?”
“When he stopped for his key,” replied the man from the switchboard. “See? It’s gone from the box.”
“Where’s the other one then?”
“There was only one message, that told him to wait for a second call.”
“I know there was only one message. I mean, where’s the other key?”
“That’s right — there should be two. Doesn’t Jurrice usually carry one, though?”
“Yes. That’s why there should be one here in the box. Unless, like most everybody, he forgets it occasionally and leaves it in his room when he locks the automatic door.”
“Then why worry about it? Jurrice has his key. I gave him the message. His call has come and he’s answering it from his apartment.”
Laughing, the clerk went back to the switchboard. His companion nodded, apparently realizing his own dumbness. He saw Clyde and waited for the reporter’s question.
“I should like to speak to Mr. Jurrice,” stated Clyde. “His apartment is 602, I believe?”
“Yes,” replied the clerk, “but his line’s busy. We’ll ring him later.”
Clyde took a chair. He felt relieved; for he had made speed in coming here. Clyde had haunted the steamship office all during the afternoon, keeping tabs on Jurrice’s stay in Roquil’s office. For this was actually Clyde’s day off at the Classic; and he was keeping to the special task of watching Jurrice.
Jurrice’s nervous behavior at the steamship office; his open speech in front of witnesses — these combined elements had made Clyde decide that the emergency had come.
If Jurrice intended to keep talking about Revoort, Clyde knew of a place where he could chatter in security. The game was to get Jurrice there.
The fact that Jurrice was talking on the telephone gave Clyde the assurance that all was well for the present. He did not see how Jurrice could be complicating matters by a telephone call. Had Clyde been able to listen in on that busy wire, his opinion might have changed.
IN the little living room of Suite 602, Craig Jurrice was making statements that concerned his connection with Louis Revoort. Moreover, he was repeating words that came across the wire, thus giving an indication of what was being said at the other end. For Jurrice, hard upon his return to the Bragelonne, had received a call from Revoort’s Cuban friend, Ramorez.
“You saw me at the steamship office?” Jurrice was saying. “Yes. I was there… Yes, inquiring for Revoort… I see; you decided not to speak to me there… Very wise… I said very wise, Senor Ramorez…
“Yes. I feel confident that you are Revoort’s friend… Yes, he told me that he would visit the mountain slopes of Vuelta Abajo… Also that he would have to go by boat upon the Cauto River… That is correct; he first went to the Isle of Pines… Positively, senor. You do not need to convince me any further…
“Ah! So you were to communicate with Revoort? I see… At the Legrand Hotel?… This is real news. I should like to know more about it… What’s that? You’re only a few blocks from here? Good… Certainly; it would be wiser for me to come and see you…
“Yes. I have pencil and paper… Carl Ramorez… The address? Yes… Yes… I have jotted it down… I know the place… You may expect me quite soon, senor…”
Jurrice completed the jotting with his pencil. He concluded his call and placed the French telephone upon its stand. His nervousness had eased; his pale face showed color. Though still worried about Revoort, Jurrice felt more confidence since hearing directly from this man Ramorez.
Jurrice had believed Revoort’s story of a rich Cuban who sought the reclaimed treasure. All along, Jurrice had wanted to know the man’s identity. Today — had he been able — he would have contacted Ramorez; but had not known who the man might be or where he was. To hear from Ramorez at this hour had been more than Jurrice had hoped.
Taking off his brown coat and vest, Jurrice hung the garments over his arm and started toward the door of his bedroom. He stopped long enough to pick up the sheet of paper on which he had written the Cuban’s name and address.
Passing through the open doorway, he turned on the bedroom light and closed the door behind him. He was whistling softly as he performed these actions; his closing of the door cut off the sound of the melody.
DOWNSTAIRS, Clyde Burke was becoming impatient. The clerk at the switchboard had found some other business; and had left his chair. When he returned, Clyde saw him pull out some plugs. Clyde wondered if Jurrice’s call had been concluded; but the clerk gave no such indication.