“Ralph Weston. The police commissioner.”
A LOOK of relief appeared on Califax’s face. The baldish man sank back in his chair. Bornick smiled and folded his rugged arms.
“I have called Commissioner Weston,” stated the lawyer, “and have arranged an appointment. I shall call him again, to name the time and place. So far, I have not mentioned your name; that is why I wanted you to come here.
“I would suggest that the meeting be held in your home — in your study — at a fairly late hour. Let us say ten o’clock. By that time, the police commissioner would be through with any extra duties; and I shall have finished with some appointments that I previously scheduled for this evening.”
Bornick paused for Califax to answer. The client gave a slow nod.
“Very well,” he decided. “I would prefer an earlier hour; but I shall be guided by your opinion, Bornick. So long as the appointment is assured, I am satisfied. One point only: would it not be best for me to have policemen on guard at my home, between now and ten o’clock? I have gems of my own, you know, and since The Python sought Revoort’s treasure, he might be seeking mine.”
“Not tonight,” assured Bornick. “There has been too much hue and cry about him. No, Califax, it would be unnecessary. Moreover, it would force too early a revelation of your name. I would prefer to withhold your identity until I join the police commissioner, to bring him to your home.”
Before Bornick could begin another statement, the door opened and the stenographer appeared. The girl had forgotten to knock.
“There is a gentleman here, Mr. Bornick,” she said. “His name—”
“Why didn’t you knock?” demanded Bornick, angrily, pounding the desk as he rose from his chair. “You know my rule! Why did you forget?”
“I–I don’t know, sir—”
“Remember it next time. Go back and tell the visitor to wait. Show him in at the end of five minutes.”
The girl made a hurried departure. Bornick shook his head as he turned to Califax.
“Persistently dumb,” he declared. “That’s the way with all stenographers. Humph. As if I didn’t know who would be out there. I’m expecting a pest named Rollings, who has a patent case. He’s one man who’s always ahead of time.”
“About tonight,” remarked Califax. “When the commissioner arrives—”
“We can talk then,” interposed Bornick. “At ten o’clock. Come, Califax. You must leave. Out by this door.” The lawyer opened the exit to the corridor. “The sooner I finish with my appointments, the better.”
With Califax gone, Bornick swung toward the window. Darkness had settled; far off, he could see the top story of the distant loft building. Neon lights were glimmering from that floor; as yet, they had not begun to flicker.
Bornick smiled as he turned back to his chair. He opened his desk drawer and glanced at papers that bore dots and dashes. A rap at the door caused him to cover the sheets and close the drawer. Bornick called, “Come in.”
The visitor who entered the private office was not a man named Rollings. The arrival was Albert Thurney. With a friendly smile, Bornick motioned the suave man to a chair.
OFF in the loft building where blue lights gleamed, men had begun work on the illuminated room. The place was an engraving plant that employed a regular night shift; but to those at work, no flicker of the blue lights could be apparent.
The reason was that the corners were blocked off with large, permanent cabinets. The only tricky lights were those that were almost obscured by those large objects.
A visitor had arrived at the engraving plant. He had entered from the elevator and was standing, unnoticed, in the gloomy hallway entrance. Tall, silent and keen-eyed, he looked about and spied a single window in the tiny hall itself. This opening was located beside the small elevator shaft.
Unobserved, the stranger stepped to the window and opened it. Clinging to a broad sill, he edged outward and closed the window behind him. High up, against the only blackened portion of the entire wall, this mysterious visitor gazed skyward. Above him was a cornice; an ornamental block above the window afforded a stepping stone to that higher roof edge.
Like a human fly, this visitant gripped the block and raised his body upward. His arm stretched high and reached backward. It caught the cornice. A lithe figure swung outward, dangling precariously in space; then wriggled upward and gained the roof edge. A soft laugh sounded in the darkness.
The Shadow had reached the roof above The Python’s signal lights. He was close beside a structure that topped the loft building. It looked like a tiny penthouse, except for the fact that it was windowless. The Shadow had chosen an inner wall, and had scaled the eight feet of this structure.
He found a darkened skylight. From a short leather bag, The Shadow produced a portable jimmy and set to work. His scrapings were barely audible; yet they succeeded. The framework of the skylight opened. The Shadow dropped into a darkened room.
A tiny flashlight glimmered. It showed a door. Extinguishing his light, The Shadow approached the barrier and opened it. He stared into a lighted room that had no opening in walls or ceiling. There he observed a singular sight.
A stoop-shouldered man was seated at a table whereon were stacked black-covered books. In front of the fellow was a device that looked like a microphone. On a block beside him was an electric switch.
A slight turn of the man’s head revealed his profile. The fellow looked like a hermit, heavily bearded and with sunken eyes. Looking beyond, The Shadow saw cabinets stacked with canned goods; and an open door that led into a small kitchen. The Shadow knew that the room he had first entered must be the man’s living quarters; that this odd recluse remained here day and night.
The Shadow had discovered Laxley, The Python’s signalmaster. That switch controlled the blue lights of the corner windows in the floor below. What The Shadow still needed was some token of Laxley’s procedure before messages were dispatched. Because of that, The Shadow waited.
FIVE minutes passed. Laxley, bent over at the table, did not sense that eyes were watching him. Then came a buzz from the bottom of the microphone. It corresponded, in duration, to the rings of a telephone bell. Laxley turned a knob that served as a receiver hook.
From bearded lips came a grotesque croak. That was Laxley’s sole acknowledgment. It produced a toned-down voice directly from the microphone. The Shadow heard the words; he recognized the gruff voice of Lem Hurdy.
“Two. Reporting crew on new tug, the Corsair. Waiting in East River. Signals visible. Will wait for orders.”
A pause. Laxley acknowledged with his croak. He turned the knob back to its original position. Then he rummaged among the black-covered books and chose one. The Shadow watched him press the switch; then pause and press again. Laxley was flashing blue lights to The Python.
A few minutes passed. Evidently, The Python had not received the signal, for Laxley flashed it again; but this time, he used another page of his code book. It was the duration of the message that made The Shadow decide that it had been repeated.
Another minute passed. A buzz from the microphone. Laxley acknowledged with his croak. A hiss came from the mike; it formed a message:
“Signal Two. Stand by for instructions.”
Laxley found a code book and gave a few clicks to the switch. He had evidently sent a conventional signal that Lem would understand. The Shadow crept forward. In dark clothes, with a facial guise that was hawkish, he was less sinister than when cloaked in black. Nevertheless, his approach was ominous.
Laxley chanced to turn just before The Shadow reached him. With a fierce croak, the bearded signalmaster leaped to meet his foe. An instant later he and The Shadow had locked. They wrestled back and forth across the room.