Maxwell Grant
The Unseen Killer
CHAPTER I. PLANS COMPLETED
“THAT’S Trip Burgan—”
“The gambler, eh? He looks like a big shot, all right.”
“Looks like one? He is one. Riding easy on the dough he’s taken in—”
The comments were audible to “Trip” Burgan as he strolled through the lobby of the Hotel Revano. A cold smile appeared upon the gambler’s lips. The expression changed, however, as Trip entered the elevator and turned toward the door. Those who could still see him from the lobby observed an emotionless countenance.
The term “poker-faced” applied to Trip Burgan. His sallow visage was one that maintained a fixed appearance. Only his eyes were shifty; but Trip had gained the habit of changing his gaze in a natural fashion that proved deceptive to those who observed it.
The cold smile reappeared when Trip stepped from the elevator at the sixth floor. This showed that the gambler had not forgotten the comments from the lobby loungers. Those statements were to Trip’s liking, particularly the reference to the fact that he was “riding easy.” For Trip, retired from active practice at the gaming table, had been seeking to establish that very impression.
Arriving at a doorway near the end of a corridor, Trip inserted a key and turned the lock. He stepped into a thickly furnished living room, just as a thickset man bounded up from a chair to see who was entering. A sheepish grin showed on the fellow’s thick-lipped face.
“Ought to have known it was you, Trip,” remarked the man, apologetically. “Guess I was kind of half asleep here in the chair. You clicking the key woke me up.”
“All right, Chuck,” returned Trip, in a brusque tone. “Well, what’s doing? Is he here yet?”
“Crofton?”
Trip Burgan’s eyes narrowed. His face formed a scowl that made Chuck shift uneasily. The hard-faced fellow began to stammer apologies for his blunder. Trip cut him short.
“Listen, you mug,” spat the gambler. “Forget that name. Understand? You’ve never heard of Miles Crofton. He’s never been here. Get it?”
“Sure, Trip — but when I’m talking to you—”
“Let me mention the name if anybody does.” Trip paused abruptly to fling aside hat, coat and scarf. Then, reverting to his original question, he snapped: “Well, is he here?”
“Sure,” returned “Chuck.” “In the next room. I showed him in there about fifteen minutes ago.”
“All right. I’m going in to see him. If anybody asks for me, I’m busy.”
WITH that admonition, Trip Burgan opened the door to the next room and entered. He closed the barrier behind him.
Across the room, which was one of the bedrooms of Trip’s apartment, a man was standing at the window, looking toward Broadway, half a block distant. The visitor turned when he heard Trip close the door.
Miles Crofton formed an odd contrast to Trip Burgan. Both men had expressionless faces; but there the likeness ended. Where Trip looked the part of a crafty schemer, Crofton had the appearance of a deliberate thinker.
Though Crofton’s countenance betrayed no emotion, his whole bearing was one that would inspire the confidence of associates. It was not until Trip delivered a slight grin that Crofton relaxed. Even then, his facial expression did not lose its seriousness.
“Had to give Chuck a call-down,” remarked Trip, as he waved his visitor to a chair. “I told him never to mention your name, not even to me; but he forgot it when I came in. He won’t do it again, though.”
Crofton nodded.
“Well,” queried Trip, “what’s doing up at the professor’s? Everything set?”
“For to-night.”
“Yeah?” exclaimed Trip, when he heard Crofton’s matter-of-fact statement. “Say! That’s the ticket! I didn’t think he was going to pull the stunt until next week. What made him set it ahead?”
“Findlay Warlock came in to see him.”
“Still singing his hard-luck song?” questioned Trip. “How he’s counting on the prof to come through with the new invention?”
“Yes,” replied Crofton. “Warlock talked while I was working in the lab. Professor Lessep told him that the new apparatus was ready. Warlock persuaded him immediately to make the test to-night.”
As Crofton paused, his stolidness impressed Trip with the idea that something might be wrong.
Poker-faced, the gambler studied his visitor; then questioned:
“Don’t you like the idea? Aren’t you set for it?”
“I’m ready,” replied Crofton seriously. “It was something Warlock said that bothers me. Just before he left, he told Professor Lessep that he’s invited the police commissioner.”
“Great!” exclaimed Trip. “Say — that’s going to spread the thing wide! Plenty of publicity—”
“Perhaps too much,” interposed Crofton.
“How come?” questioned Trip.
“To begin with,” replied Crofton, “the commissioner may be suspicious of the whole experiment. After it goes through — supposing there’s no hitch — he may start an investigation of my past.”
“What if he does? What’ll he find out? War hero — soldier of fortune — stunt flier—”
“That part’s all right. But he may learn that I was a pal of Rouser Tukin.”
“How? You kept in the clear when Rouser pulled that bank job. A couple of cops got killed, but Rouser was bumped in the fight. He’s not around to talk.”
“They’re still looking for some of the mob.”
“But they haven’t found them. Anyway, who’s going to blab your name? Nobody’s got anything on you.”
“You never can tell what some stool pigeon has heard. Listen, Trip: I don’t want this thing to stir up too much hullabaloo right at the start.”
“It won’t.” Trip seemed positive. “But you’re wise to look at it that way, Crofton. You’ll have to lay low in a hurry. But that’s all set. The hideout’s ready. Steer there as soon as you leave the prof’s.”
“The hideout,” repeated Crofton. He indulged in a slight chuckle. “It seems funny, calling it a hideout. It’s necessary, though. All right” — he shrugged his shoulders — “we can take a chance on the commissioner. Maybe he won’t make any trouble up at Lessep’s.”
“He’s a dumb egg,” assured Trip. “The old commissioner, Ralph Weston, might mean something. But this guy Wainwright Barth — well, maybe he’s as cuckoo as Professor Lessep. He won’t get wind of anything.”
“He might trace you, Trip—”
“How?”
“Through Professor Lessep.”
TRIP BURGAN arose and stalked over by the window. The fading afternoon light revealed an ugly twist to his lips as the gambler faced Miles Crofton.
“The old prof won’t blab,” asserted Trip. “It would queer him if he did. I slipped him dough when he needed it. If it wasn’t for that, this new invention would be listed as a flop along with the others.
“What’s more, I’ve been playing a steady game. I picked this hotel because it wasn’t too cheap nor too ritzy. Just the place where a guy like myself would stop if he had retired. Nobody’s got anything on me.
“I fixed it so you got in with the prof as his assistant. But what if he says so? I’ll deny it; he’ll have no proof to back it up. He’d only put himself in trouble.
“But that’s not all. After you fade out, I’m going to keep away from where you are. Chuck Galla fixed the hideout. He’ll have his own men planted there after you move into the joint to-night. If the bulls begin to quiz me, Chuck will keep away from here and I’ll play dumb.
“If the prof begins to weaken, we’ll find out about it soon enough. There’ll be a way to handle him. You’re not seeing me any more; and I’m not seeing you” — Trip paused to deliver a slight grin — “in fact, nobody’s seeing you. It looks to me like we’re all set.”