Doc knew that sooner or later his chase would lead to Korpuli. He also knew, however, that the attorney was smart. He hadn’t wanted to tackle the crafty mouthpiece until he was a little better fortified with the facts. Well, that time was here right now. Korpuli was his next move.
Hailing a cruising cab from the corner, the Scar shot across to the Twenty-fifth Century Hotel, where Chris Korpuli lived. A cliff-like brick building, it towered twenty-five floors into the sky, high above the rest of Akelton.
Miles walked into the glittering lobby of the Twenty-fifth Century. He didn’t know Korpuli’s room number, yet he went past the desk. The clerk might start asking questions, perhaps get suspicious and notify the lawyer that someone was down here. Desk clerks are like that. So he button-holed one of the bellhops and slipped him a dollar for the information he wanted.
A couple of minutes later, the Scar was standing on the crimson plush on the twentieth floor. He located Room 2002. He made sure the coast was clear, then got out his priceless bunch of keys and inserted one into the lock. The door opened easily enough, but a chain-lock was strung across, holding it. There was not a chance in the world of getting past that barrier.
He looked about and spied a window at the end of the corridor. He hurried to it and peered out. He counted the windows away from this one. Those that would lead into Chris Korpuli’s apartment were the third, fourth and fifth.
A ledge about a foot wide ran around the dark facade of the building. From the pavements, twenty stories below, came a distant rumble of traffic. The Scar knew success was the result of audacity and caution, the ability to take chances when they were necessary, but minimizing the odds by shrewd foresight. Though he was no human fly, there was only one way to enter Korpuli’s rooms. He had to crawl out along that narrow ledge at that dizzy height.
Making sure the wind was not strong and that his fingers would find purchase between the bricks, he slipped off the top mask, exposing the horrible one beneath. He climbed through the window and stood up on the ledge. There was just enough room for his feet. He closed his eyes momentarily to steady himself. Then, face pressed close against the cold, rough wall, the fingers of his left hand feeling carefully for spaces between the bricks, he began moving along toward Korpuli’s apartment.
He had weighed the risk against the gain, and found the chance of success worth the grave danger. In his first attempt to move along a ledge twenty stories above the ground, dizziness naturally assailed him, but he forced it off. If he lost his hold, he would tumble through space until he smashed against the sidewalk, and crime would again be free to defy decent citizens.
He clung tenaciously to the bricks, edging along without looking down. Reaching the first window safely, he stopped to let out his breath and exercise his cramped fingers. Again he drew a deep breath, flexed his fingers and continued doggedly.
His fingers touched the casement of the second window. He pulled himself to the safety of the sill. Two down and one to go!
Once more he filled his tight lungs and inched out along the foot-wide ledge. The distance between the second and third windows seemed the greatest, perhaps because his goal was close and he was beginning to tire. His fingers were scraped and numb, his legs growing stiff.
At last he reached it. His fingers wrapped on the frame and he pulled himself up to a crouching position on the sill. He peered inside.
Like the other two windows, this one was dark. Cautiously he tried the lock. It was open. People hardly expect visitors to pop in through windows twenty stories high.
Raising the window slowly and with a minimum of noise, he slipped into the room. It was dark and silent. He closed the window behind him, waited a moment, listened. No sound came.
Carefully he moved forward. His eyes had become more or less accustomed to the darkness and he could see well enough not to fall over the chairs and tables.
This, he gathered, must be the library or the living room. He proceeded to the big archway which separated this from the next room. He went through that to the next, then visited one after another until he finally came to the bedroom. He stood for a moment in the doorway, listening to heavy breathing. He smiled to himself, and felt for the wall switch and clicked it on.
Before him in the big bed was sprawled Chris Korpuli. But the lawyer did not remain in that posture long. He bolted upright in bed and rubbed his eyes dazedly. As the hideous face of the man standing before him came into sharp focus, he drew back appalled.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
There wasn’t much authority in his quavering voice. He wasn’t at all the arrogant little fighter the police were used to seeing. He was terrified by the horribly scarred, dead face that stared down at him.
“I’m the Purple Scar,” answered a hollow voice from the tomb. “Throw on a robe and get out of bed!”
The eagle-beaked lawyer did not argue. He snatched up a vividly colored wrapper, slipped into it and swung his legs off the bed. There were red-and-black patent leather slippers for his feet. He stood up trembling.
“Which way to the library?” the Scar wanted to know.
“Through there.” Korpuli nodded his coconut head toward the archway.
“That’s where you’re going. You are to do some talking. While you’re at it, you may as well put it in writing.”
The criminal lawyer looked at him appraisingly.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” he rapped out. He sounded a little more like his caustic self.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Get into the library!”
Korpuli didn’t move quickly enough, so the Scar reached out, grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him through the archway. Korpuli snapped on the library lights.
“Now sit down behind that desk,” the Scar commanded.
The lawyer obediently did as he was told — too obediently, the Scar thought. And he also thought he detected just the faint semblance of a smile quirk one corner of Korpuli’s tight mouth as he went around the desk. The Scar’s uncanny sense of danger swept over him. Without appearing in the least suspicious, he glanced into the window behind Korpuli. Against the blackness outside, all objects in the room were reflected as if in a mirror.
The Scar glimpsed a glint of steel behind the portieres that masked off the archway. The nozzle of a revolver! No wonder Chris Korpuli could afford a smile. The Purple Scar knew if he tried to reach his gun, he’d be shot down before he could get it out of his holster. This was one of those moments when a quick brain spelled the scant margin between life and death.
His fountain pen was clipped to the pocket of his coat. He slipped it off.
“Get a piece of paper,” he said to Korpuli.
He could see the man in back of the portieres stalk forward like an Indian after a scalp. The Scar pretended he didn’t even know he was there.
Korpuli, laughing to himself, got a sheet of paper and laid it on the desk. The Scar unscrewed the top of his pen.
“You’re writing a little note,” he said, “telling just who hired you to defend Gus Martin, or—”
“Or what?” grated a menacing voice close to his left ear.
The Scar twisted to meet a pair of vicious snake-eyes set in a cold, impassive face. Twin cabbages seemed pinned to the man’s narrow temples. The gun he held was on a direct line with the Purple Scar’s third rib.
The eagle-eyed lawyer let out a grating, scornful laugh.
“Didn’t you stop to think that maybe I had a valet, or a butler, or even a bodyguard?” he sneered. “You see, I’ve had visitors here before, so I installed push buttons at several places around the room. There happens to be one right alongside the light switch when you come into this room. That’s why I obediently pushed the button. Usually it takes only five seconds for Custer to get here after I ring. Tonight it took ten.”