It was learned later how Faber managed those cablegrams from South America. He simply got in touch with one of his stooges there, a contact which Cabral had previously made. This stooge received and answered all cablegrams for “Mr. Luis Fetticairn.” All this had given Faber a chance to hole-up near Baltimore while his new face was healing.
Griffin got on the phone and called for the wagon to take Faber in. As he dropped the receiver into its cradle, he turned swiftly and then looked straight into the Scar’s purplish face.
“That detail you had me send over to Red Point just called in,” he announced. “You hit the nail right on the noggin. They found a man in one of the shacks all right. He was being held prisoner by a couple of itchy trigger gents. The boys are bringing him to HQ. Guess who he is.”
“Carl Coyne,” the Purple Scar answered, and went on to explain how Walter Faber had taken advantage of those two flareups he had had with Carl Coyne. “He grabbed the plant manager and handed him over to a couple of his hirelings to hide out until after this deal was sealed, signed and in the bag. Then Carl Coyne would probably become Number Seven on the murder charge. Another convenient ‘suicide.’ He wouldn’t even have risked handing Coyne over to the F.B.I. — as we shall do, which I will explain later — because he would have feared all that Coyne probably has guessed by now.”
Roger Landon, impressed by the Scar’s seemingly unlimited information, asked:
“Perhaps you can explain the shortages, too?”
The Scar obliged. He told of the secret tunnel, and of the Gray Gull which took the stolen footstuffs to the ship at sea, from which they probably were put aboard a submarine.
“And who was behind all this?” Landon queried. “My nephew?”
“No,” the Scar said. “Carl Coyne. He’s been peeved at you for a long time. Thought he got a dirty deal when you appointed your nephew superintendent over his head and made him take orders. So he decided to take matters into his own hands and lay aside a little nest egg, at the same time he was serving his own country. You may not know it, but Coyne is a naturalized American — born in Germany, and is now one of the most active Nazi Fifth Columnists in this country. You will not even have a chance to press your charge of robbery against him, Mr. Landon — for the F.B.I. will take him in charge as soon as he reaches Police Headquarters.”
“The dog!” snapped Landon. “Biting the hand that fed him — and I don’t mean myself, but this country where he has prospered.”
But it was plain that Roger Landon was hurt at the thought that Carl Coyne should have turned out like this, after the years he had trusted him.
“Just one thing more, Scar,” Griffin put in. “You said you knew right away that Faber had had a plastic surgery job done on his face and that you knew exactly what doctor had done it. How?”
Doc nodded. “Fetticairn, or Walter Faber, had a network of tiny crisscross marks on the sides of his neck. Marks where stitches had been recently removed. That was Hanlyson’s individual way of finishing off an operation. All successful plastic surgeons do the same, sort of like a signature or a trade-mark. No two are alike. I’ve had occasion to witness several specimens of Hanlyson’s work, so I knew inmediately who had done the job.”
A couple of bluecoats came in and took Faber out, still voicing protests and denials.
Landon went around behind the desk and sat down wearily. Zoe Faine stepped beside him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Looking at her, the Scar was thinking of Dale Jordan. Soon he would be going back to Dale, and they could be happy together — until duty and danger called again. As they would.
“What about the firm, Mr. Landon?” asked Lawyer Nottage.
Landon looked up at the lawyer.
“I’m not going to sell,” he said firmly.
The girl’s hand tightened on his shoulder encouragingly, as if to say that she would be right there with him all the way. “I’m going to try to bring this business back where it used to be, and there is still much I can do for my country.”
“Good,” said the Purple Scar. “That, you’ll find, will be the kind of advertising of superior products that can make a good product sell even better.”
Landon smiled and offered his hand. “I thank both of you, you and Captain Griffin. I suppose that sounds rather hollow after all you’ve done. But I mean it sincerely — and will never forget it.”
“You can say that again for me,” Zoe Faine said sincerely.
The Purple Scar turned and with his friend, the square detective, started toward the door. “Finish” had been written to another case. But Doc Murdock knew that the end of one case simply meant that soon would begin a new and even more exciting adventure. For so long as crime cast its menacing shadow over law-abiding citizens, so long would the Purple Scar be fighting to blot it out!