Soon the door opened. A stooped figure appeared there. It was the servant whom Thurney had seen at the rear of the hall. The man beckoned. Thurney entered.
The servant — a middle-aged man with a hard, wise face — was careful in his silent closing of the door. With a whisper he led Thurney through the hall. Together the pair ascended a flight of stairs.
THURNEY and his guide had reached the third floor. They stepped into a tiny corner room which had two windows. The hard-faced servant pointed to one window which faced the avenue. From there it was possible to see the loft building. Lights were no longer blinking.
Thurney smiled, a smile of gloating approval.
“You’ve done well, Warthrope,” stated the visitor. “And to think that I thought you timid! Of course I had to threaten you with some petty thievery that I knew about when you worked for your previous employer!”
“I never could guess that, Mr. Thurney. The Python must be—”
“Never mind the rest, Warthrope. The Python knew all. You have been honored, and I as his Coilmaster can state that you have done good work.”
Thurney paused, then continued suavely, “You are one of my men, Warthrope, and so is my valet, Warring. Both of you work under me. We all have our own special codes by which we know when to act. You are the only supporting Coil to a Coilmaster, Warthrope, who has a code list. The future speaks well for you.”
Warthrope swelled. “You mean, sir, that I could be a—”
“A Coilmaster? Yes. You have proven your usefulness. And now, is everything ready? The microphone?”
“It is,” acknowledged Warthrope. “The wires run in back of Mr. Califax’s filing cabinet and we will catch every word that will be said.”
“Good. And I understand that Jurrice will be here shortly.”
“Yes, very shortly.”
Warthrope stole over across the room and locked the door. Together they went toward a small radio set. There Warthrope unscrewed the cover and listened as he turned a dial. Faintly sounds came from below.
“Jurrice!” whispered Warthrope. “And Bornick!”
Thurney nodded. Together these aids listened for the words that were to come from the room below.
CHAPTER III
WEALTH RECLAIMED
IN the room below, three men were gathered at a large oak desk that matched the deep, rich polish of the paneling. One, who sat alone, was Danton Califax, a man of fifty. Shoulders slightly stooped, his face tired and hollow-cheeked, Califax possessed a weariness that explained his early retirement from active business.
His smile, however, showed that Califax was making an effort to receive his guests. While he used one hand to stroke the front of his baldish head, Califax employed the other as a means of introducing his visitors to each other.
“This is Lester Bornick,” stated Califax. He pointed across the desk to a rangy, firm-jawed man whose face was of a rugged mold. “He is my attorney.”
Bornick thrust out his hand to the other man, a pale-faced, nervous fellow of medium height. At the same time, Califax indicated the pale man with a pointing finger.
“This is Craig Jurrice,” said the manufacturer. He lowered his left hand from his brow. “You know about Jurrice, Bornick. Come. Let us begin our discussion.”
Califax extended a box of cigars. Both visitors accepted. Jurrice, more nervous than before, was still wincing from the pressure of the handclasp that he had received from Bornick. He gazed askance at the lawyer; then looked to Califax.
“You — you have told Mr. Bornick?” questioned Jurrice.
“About your offer?” said Califax, with a smile. “I have told him everything, Jurrice. Right from the start. I talked with him after the night of your first visit.”
“But — but I–I had hoped that nothing would be said—”
“I am Mr. Califax’s counsellor,” interrupted Bornick, his gaze firm on Jurrice. “He seeks my advice on many matters, Jurrice. To talk to me was no indiscretion on his part.”
“I–I understand.” Jurrice managed a smile. “I see — you are Mr. Califax’s lawyer? Not just someone whom he called in on this matter?”
“Mr. Bornick has represented me for years.” It was Califax who made the reply. “Set your mind at rest, Jurrice. Among his clients, Bornick numbers many who are far wealthier than myself.”
Jurrice nodded, relieved.
“Suppose we recapitulate,” suggested Bornick. “Start with the beginning and sum up the entire matter. It will help us, Jurrice.”
“Very well.” Jurrice spoke untroubled. His nervousness had lessened. “I shall do so, gentlemen.”
He paused long enough to take a few puffs at his cigar; then began to speak in a slow, careful tone.
“I have a friend,” declared Jurrice, “whose name is Revoort. Louis Revoort. Some years ago, Revoort traveled extensively in the West Indies. In the course of his journeys he met many wealthy Cuban planters. Some of his Cuban friends became closely identified with the affairs of the Machado administration. When that government was overthrown, they deemed it wise to flee.
“Not long ago, Revoort met a Cuban whom he knew. The Cuban’s name is unknown to me. I merely have the assurance that the man really exists. This Cuban told Revoort that he had left a fortune in his native land. Wealth, in gold, valuable securities and precious gems. The last named constitutes the greatest part of the fortune.
“The Cuban had not been a party to the misdeeds of the former administration; but certain high officials were his friends. Personal enemies have believed ill of him. The Cuban dares not set foot in his country. So he requested Revoort to go there and bring away the treasure.”
JURRICE paused; he leaned forward on the desk. His voice became a deep-drawn tone.
“It means a fortune for Revoort!” he exclaimed. “One third of the total amount, with a commission on the sale of the jewels. That part is most important. For both the Cuban and Revoort want an immediate conversion into cash.
“Revoort required funds. He called upon me, not only as a friend, but as one who has dealt in precious stones. It will be my task to find a single buyer for those jewels; to offer them as an unusually fine bargain for one who can buy them outright.”
Jurrice sat back in his chair. Bornick rubbed his chin; then put a question.
“Just how,” asked the lawyer, “did you happen to come to Mr. Califax?”
“I talked to people,” replied Jurrice, soberly. “To persons at my club; to some among the trade. I spoke quite cautiously; but mentioned that I might have access to a valuable collection of gems.
“Various persons told me names of those who might be interested. Several collectors were mentioned; among them, Mr. Califax.”
“Who mentioned me?” inquired Califax. “Do you remember?”
“No,” replied Jurrice. “I don’t recall just who. I heard your name mentioned somewhere; then made inquiries about you. I learned that you were a collector.”
“Hardly a real one, Jurrice.” Califax motioned over his shoulder, toward a safe at the back of the study. “I have some gems in there; but their total value is not great. True, gems have been a hobby with me, since my retirement, but—”
“That’s just it, Mr. Califax!” exclaimed Jurrice. “Don’t you see? I wanted to meet someone who was just beginning as a collector. One who did not have too much money tied up in precious stones. One who could buy if he would.”
“So you told me, Jurrice. I must confess that your judgement appears sound.”
THE windows of Califax’s study had raised window shades. Bornick, seated in front of the desk, could see straight past Califax, out toward the avenue. The lawyer’s view was an angled one that Jurrice could not gain. Nor could Califax observe what Bornick saw, for Califax had his back toward the window.