“Sartain is the only salvation for Universal?”
“Positively. All depends upon him.”
“You will see him die tonight!”
Larry Ricordo was on his feet, rubbing his hands warmly as he heard these words. He swung toward Jocelyn, to add weight to Professor Urlich’s statement.
“You bet Sartain will take the bump,” he declared. “Say! Maybe you don’t know that I could be the biggest shot in New York if I’d wanted to stay in the racket. I dropped out because I saw bigger dough this way — without the chance of getting filled with lead by some other guy’s mob.
“I’m supposed to be out in the sticks — too hot for me here. But I’ve got a couple of real gazebos working for me. When Sartain comes into that penthouse of his, he’ll be covered—”
“One moment,” interposed Urlich, staring cold at the gang leader. “I told you that violence would be unnecessary, Ricordo.”
“That’s all right, professor,” responded Ricordo. “I’m not interfering with whatever plans you’ve got. Just playing safe, that’s all. Duster Brooks is planted as Sartain’s butler.”
“That I understood.”
“And I’ve got Slips Harbeck and a couple of gorillas in an apartment on the top floor. They won’t move unless we see that Sartain is going to get away. They’ll wait to hear from me.”
“Very well,” said Professor Urlich. “Nevertheless, your precautions were not needed.” Then, to Jocelyn:
“Ricordo is lacking in the technique of murder. During Sartain’s absence, the penthouse was renovated. Ricordo provided a competent supervisor in the person of Duster Brooks, who is acting as Sartain’s butler. Brooks had charge of the work. He is there tonight.
“Alfred Sartain will die — presumably from natural causes — due to my well-planned instructions.”
The professor glanced at his watch. He noticed that the time was nearly half past eight. He went to the wall, and turned out the light; then to the window.
“Come,” he ordered through the darkness.
THE other men approached. The curtain raised under Urlich’s touch. It was like the lifting of asbestos before a drama.
Silhouetted before the sparkling glow of the city lay the huge apartment building. The dim lights of the penthouse were the same as Larry Ricordo had viewed them. The corner was still black, and it was this spot that the professor indicated.
“There is the studio,” he remarked, in a low tone. “It is Sartain’s custom to retire there, alone. This will be his first visit upon his return. He is expected by nine o’clock, with his secretary. The chain-store representative will call at half past.
“Brooks has given us all the information. The documents are on Sartain’s desk for his consideration. There is no reason why he should depart from his usual custom. It is upon such simple, commonplace actions that all great deeds of hidden crime should be built.
“Your presence here will inspire your confidence in my powers. Ricordo has already evidenced his doubts. You, Jocelyn, may also be apprehensive. But as you witness each step, and hear me explain its cause, you will understand.”
The professor’s tone had taken on the quiet notes of a scientific lecture. His calloused words brought a grunted laugh from Larry Ricordo. Thomas Jocelyn shuddered. Nevertheless, the financier stayed as close to the window as did the gang leader. There was a fascination in that scene across the street.
“You will witness death,” repeated Professor Urlich, by way of conclusion. “Death undisturbed; death unsuspected; death that will be regarded as accidental. Ricordo may trust to guns and violence. I deal death with silent skill. That is the death that you will see tonight — and which will strike again and again. Silent death!”
The professor paused. The men by the open window remained motionless. Once more those insidious words sounded from the lips of Folcroft Urlich.
“Silent death!”
CHAPTER II. IN THE PENTHOUSE
PROFESSOR URLICH had spoken correctly when he stated that Larry Ricordo had methods different from his own. The gang lord who served the professor’s evil designs was quite as anxious to see Alfred Sartain die as was Urlich himself. Hence he had taken even more precautions than those that he had mentioned to his companions.
Besides the gangsters stationed in a vacant apartment beneath the penthouse, there were others outside the apartment building. They were there to see that nothing might disturb the scene above; to interfere with the entrance of any other than Sartain, his secretary, and the chain-store delegate who had tonight’s appointment.
Thus, when Alfred Sartain alighted from a taxi outside the building, at precisely ten minutes of nine, he was covered by slouching, hidden watchers. The millionaire was accompanied by one man, obviously his secretary, who lugged a pair of suitcases. The doorman saluted as they entered, and helped the secretary with his burdens.
When the elevator reached the penthouse level, Sartain rang the bell at the entrance. He was admitted by a quiet-faced, middle-aged man in uniform. The secretary followed.
“Good evening, sir,” said the butler, in a pronounced English accent. “It is good to see you return.”
“It’s good to get back, Brooks,” said Sartain, with a smile.
The millionaire was a brusque man of fifty years. He gave his coat and hat to the butler, and strolled about the living room. He stopped and sniffed the air.
“Paint,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir,” responded Brooks. “The penthouse was renovated during your absence, sir.”
“Of course,” laughed Sartain. “I had forgotten it. The old place looks fine, Brooks. You were here to see that they did it right, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. The studio was done over also. By the way, sir, I placed all your correspondence upon the desk. Mr. Broderick called to make sure about his appointment. He was very anxious, over the telephone, sir.”
“Yes, he would be,” smiled Sartain. “I must go in the studio immediately. You, Hunnefield” — to the secretary — “can receive Mr. Broderick. I shall ring for you when I am ready to interview him.”
Brooks opened a door at the far end of the living room. It showed a hallway, beyond that an opened doorway. Brooks stepped nimbly ahead of Sartain, and entered the far room. He turned on the light. The millionaire walked in and glanced about admiringly.
THE studio had been redecorated to perfection. The walls were painted with a mural design in gold leaf.
The large window, with its small panes of glass, had fresh paint upon its heavy iron framework. Sartain glanced toward the skylight, high in the sloping roof.
“Very nice, Brooks,” was his compliment.
A large radiator was hissing softly in the corner of the room. Sartain did not appear to notice the sound.
He sat down at the desk and began to examine a stack of envelopes. Brooks stood at the door.
Hunnefield appeared beyond him.
“That is all, sir?” questioned the butler, as the secretary approached.
“Yes,” returned the millionaire. “I do no wish to be disturbed. You may close the door, Brooks.”
The butler drew the door shut and turned toward Hunnefield. The natural action had blocked the secretary’s entrance. Now that Alfred Sartain was ensconced in his studio, Hunnefield decided not to enter. He walked back into the living room with the butler. Brooks closed the second door as they passed.
When the secretary had crossed the living room, Brooks threw a quick glance toward two objects. One was a bell in the corner. It was silenced by a small plug of rubber placed between the clapper and the bell itself. This was the spot where a summons from Sartain’s room might be heard.