The man at the desk had strolled away when the other returned. Three or four minutes passed. Clyde decided to make another inquiry. He went over to the switchboard.
“What about Mr. Jurrice?” he questioned. “I thought you were going to tell him I was here.”
“Did you want to see Mr. Jurrice?”
“Certainly. Didn’t you hear me speak to the man at the desk?”
“No. What’s more, he didn’t tell me. Wait. I’ll ring Mr. Jurrice for you.”
The clerk plugged in and moved the switch. There was no response. The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Guess he’s on his way downstairs,” he declared. “Probably going out to dinner. He was talking on the telephone seven or eight minutes ago; but he doesn’t answer now.”
Clyde loitered in the lobby two minutes longer. Then, impatient when Jurrice did not appear, he entered an elevator and rode up to the sixth. Clyde found the door marked 602. He rang a bell. At first there was no response; but after a second attempt, Clyde heard a cheery response through the transom.
“Wait a minute!” It was Jurrice’s voice. “I’ll be there.”
One minute proved to be three. Finally the door opened; Jurrice appeared, attired in a blue-serge suit, carrying an overcoat and derby upon one arm. He clicked the light switch as he opened the door; then stepped out into the corridor to face his visitor.
Clyde saw a nervous twitch of Jurrice’s lips; he noted a strained face in the pale light. Jurrice, evidently, had not expected to encounter an unknown visitor.
“My name is Burke,” informed Clyde. “I’m from the New York Classic.”
“A reporter?” queried the man from 602, his voice a bit suspicious. “To see me?”
“Yes.” Clyde spoke confidentially and motioned toward the elevator. “We have just received an unconfirmed report that a friend of yours is safe. I refer to Louis Revoort.”
JURRICE’S eyes were sharp in the subdued light. They had reached the elevators; Clyde was ringing for a car.
“This is confidential,” added Clyde, “and the only way to gain further news is to go to the Classic office. Apparently, Revoort has not told the officers on the Tropical that he is still on board. He spoke only to a friend — evidently someone on the ship—”
“Is the Tropical in port?”
“Not yet. Moreover, Revoort may not land with the other passengers. Suppose you accompany me to the newspaper office.”
Jurrice was nodding as the elevator arrived. They descended in silence. In the lobby, Jurrice approached the desk and tossed a key toward the clerk behind the switchboard.
“You have the other key, Mr. Jurrice?” questioned the clerk.
“Certainly.” Jurrice drew the key from his pocket. “I had forgotten it the last time I went out. I have it now.”
Jurrice accompanied Clyde to the street. The reporter hailed a ready cab. They stepped aboard and Clyde gave the driver the address of the Classic. He began to talk to Jurrice as they rolled along.
“About Revoort,” stated Clyde. “This word from him was somewhat mysterious. Apparently a radiogram was sent from the ship to some friend who had been calling our office for news. When we—”
“Stop a moment,” interposed Jurrice. “I must make a telephone call. That corner drug store will do. Wait for me here; I won’t be long.”
The driver heard the statement. He pulled to the curb. Revoort alighted and entered the drug store. Clyde waited for five minutes; then became impatient. He leaned to the driver’s seat.
“What do you make of it, Moe?” inquired Clyde.
“Looks like a run-out,” returned the hackie, who was a sharp-faced fellow. “Better take a look in the drug store.”
Clyde followed the advice. He returned in a few minutes and spoke again to the driver.
“Jurrice pulled a fast one,” declared Clyde. “There’s a side door to that drug store. He must have ducked out. Let’s get back to the Bragelonne.”
The driver wheeled his cab. His face was as serious as Clyde’s. For Moe Shrevnitz, the hackie, was also in The Shadow’s service. His taxi had been waiting to give Jurrice further surety of safety. Moe was wondering why Jurrice had given them the slip.
At the Bragelonne, Clyde entered and inquired if Jurrice had returned. Both clerks were on duty; they said that they had not seen him. It was possible, though, that the man had gone past them.
The fellow at the switchboard rang the room, without an answer. Clyde remembered that he had done that once before, while Jurrice had been in the room; hence this was no proof that Jurrice had not returned.
Both clerks looked suspiciously at Clyde. The reporter decided that a trip upstairs would be unwise. He went out to the street, told Moe to remain in the vicinity, and chose the subway as his own route to the Classic office.
On the way, Clyde decided that Jurrice must have been suspicious of him; or else the man must have had some appointment which he had to keep. Either answer would do as an explanation of Craig Jurrice’s odd behavior.
There was another answer which never occurred to Clyde Burke. That answer happened to be the true one concerning Craig Jurrice. For the present — and for hours to come — that answer would remain unguessed.
CHAPTER XV
THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
THE flame-scarred Tropical did not dock until after ten o’clock. The stout ship had encountered heavy weather outside New York harbor; yet it had managed to limp safely into port without the aid of attendant coast guard cutters.
Coming through the upper bay, the liner was greeted by saluting whistles; when the ship docked, a rousing cheer was raised by those who thronged the pier.
Captain Henderly and his crew were heroes; the slightly listing Tropical was a ship that would long be remembered. Those aboard the liner had fought through the greatest of all ocean hazards — fire at sea. They had won their struggle without casualties, except those among mutinous crew members.
One dying crook had blabbed names — among them those of two passengers: Luke Duronne and Hank Slyder. Both were missing; and they were listed as with the mutinous group, for it was apparent that they, too, were crooks.
Yet Captain Henderly was not content. Two other passengers had failed to answer roll call. Though they could not be marked as dead, the skipper doubted that they ever would be found; and that fact made him glum amid the welcome. The two unfortunates whose fate burdened Henderly’s mind were Louis Revoort and J.F. Jenks.
During the landing of passengers and luggage, there were spying eyes upon the pier. Albert Thurney was on hand; and so were others, members of a different Coil. Doc, the Coilmaster, and a crew of henchmen were present, disguised as longshoremen. They were watching all baggage from the boat.
Among those who came ashore were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland. With them, they had a battered, fire-scorched trunk, once the property of the mythical J.F. Jenks.
The trunk went by The Python’s watchers. It was taken by a transfer truck for baggage shipment to New Jersey; and its new owners followed it to the ferry in a taxi.
ONE hour after the Tropical had docked, a new guest entered the Legrand Hotel. He signed the register with the name “Louis Revoort,” eyeing the clerk as he did so. The man at the desk did not connect the name with the list of passengers aboard the Tropical. He assigned the new guest to Room 810.
Tall, thin and wiry, this newcomer lighted a cigarette as soon as he had entered his room. He puffed his smoke in short, nervous fashion, a simulation of Revoort’s own action. In every detail — including the bronzed color of his face — this was Louis Revoort. Actually, however, the new guest was The Shadow.