“We are.” Crofton rose as he spoke. “I just wanted to sound you out, Trip. I’ve been studying Professor Lessep at close range. I feel sure that he won’t crimp the game. As you say, it would queer him worse than any one else.
“But I wanted to make sure that you weren’t overconfident. It may sound funny for me to say that, after the risks I’ve taken to grab off coin. But I’ve always studied consequences and given them their full value, even when everything looks like a set-up. That’s why I’m still alive.
“The weak link lies between you and Professor Lessep. There’s always a weak link. My policy is to look for it. I wanted to be sure you saw it. You’ve seen it and you’ll be ready for it. That settles the matter. The commissioner won’t worry me.”
Crofton strolled toward the door that led to the living room. Trip followed. He stopped his visitor with a low-voiced question. This time it was Trip who expressed concern.
“You’re sure the apparatus will work?” he questioned. “The old prof won’t get excited and bungle it?”
“Not a chance,” returned Crofton. “We tested it after Warlock left to-day. Lessep has it timed to the exact second. I’ve taken your word for it that the prof will keep mum. You can take mine that he won’t slip when he works his experiment.”
“There’ll be no worry after to-night,” assured Trip. “Listen, Crofton. In a pinch, you can blow in on the old prof. End the whole game before he makes up his mind to blab. Let him know that he’s got plenty to lose—”
Crofton was nodding as he opened the door. Trip broke off so that Chuck would not hear the finish of the sentence. Solemnly, the ex-gambler shook hands with his visitor. Then Trip opened the door, peered into the hall and gave Crofton the signal to stroll forth.
AS soon as he had closed the door Trip Burgan turned to Chuck Galla. Trip made no effort to suppress the enthusiasm that he felt. His hard lips widened; he showed an elation that amazed his underling.
“Give the gang the tip, Chuck,” ordered Trip. “We’re going to cover the hideout, beginning with to-night.”
“You mean Croft—”
Trip laughed as Chuck caught himself before completing Crofton’s name.
“Crofton’s the guy,” informed Trip. “He’s going in there. But nobody’s going to see him go in; and nobody’s going to see him when he comes out. That’s why I told you to fix the hideout the way I described it.
“We’re in the big dough, Chuck. You’ll get plenty by the time we’re through. The best of it is that we can sit back while Crofton’s doing the work. All we’ve got to do is cover up. Make it easy for him.”
Chuck looked puzzled.
“Can’t figure it, eh?” chuckled Trip. “Well, you haven’t heard anything yet. We’re playing the old professor for a sap, to begin with. If the thing works — well, after to-night, it will be a cinch. Crofton bringing in the gravy—”
“But the bulls—”
“They’ll never find him.” Again a chuckle from Trip as he spoke. “They can’t find him. Nobody can find him after to-night.”
“Give me the low-down, Trip.”
“All right. Listen.”
Chuck sat down, still puzzled. Trip began to speak in a steady, convincing tone. As Chuck listened, his eyes began to blink. He looked at Trip, wondering if the gambler had gone insane.
But Trip’s persuasive voice belied all madness. In spite of himself, Chuck began to be convinced. Doubt became bewilderment. In turn, bewilderment changed to amazement. But with amazement came belief.
Nodding mechanically, Chuck was sitting upright in his chair when Trip completed his statements and his orders. The gambler’s hand clamped upon the underling’s shoulder. Chuck arose; Trip moved him toward the door.
“You’ve got it now,” declared Trip, steadily. “So keep it in your noodle, where it belongs. You’re in on something big, Chuck. Get going. Fix things at the hideout.”
With an effort, Chuck snapped out of his trance. He left and took an elevator to the lobby. Dusk had settled when Chuck Galla came out into the street. The lieutenant started away at a steady pace.
But as he walked along, Chuck mumbled to himself. He was repeating words that he had heard from Trip. Chuck was strengthening his conviction that the impossible could be true.
For from Trip Burgan, Chuck Galla had learned the details of new plans for crime. He had heard a plot that had seemed incredible; a scheme that all the power of the law could not combat.
CHAPTER II. FROM THE CONFERENCE
A GROUP of men was gathered about a long conference table. Situated in an office high in a Manhattan skyscraper, they commanded a complete view of the Times Square district. Dusk had settled over the metropolis. Blinking signs flashed their intermittent glow into the ruddy sky above the city. But the sight meant nothing to these men. They were concerned with the misfortunes of the Centralized Power Corporation.
At one end of the long table was a solemn-faced, gray-haired man. Benign of countenance, he held an attitude of friendship. Glumness, however, was imprinted upon his features. He could not shake off the pall of gloom that had captured him. This was Findlay Warlock, president of the corporation.
Stockholders — represented by men seated on both sides of the table — had once looked to Warlock as master of their fortunes. But that had been before the advent of disaster. Warlock, no longer a leader, had been supplanted by the man who now sat at the other end of the conference table. This was Marryat Darring, recently appointed as executive secretary.
In contrast to Warlock, Darring was a man of rugged vigor. Black-haired, keen-eyed, dynamic in every action, the executive secretary was tracing the events that had led to the crash of Centralized Power.
Stockholders listened while he spoke; their nods showed their unanimous approval of Darring’s findings.
“Centralized Power,” the black-haired man was saying, “was an ill-advised project. Its very inception predicted its ultimate failure. The company planned the building of a huge dam in a district where there was no concentration of population.
“Mr. Warlock, as president, advised the step in the belief that the region would expand once the power project had been completed. We all agree that Mr. Warlock is a man of vision. In this instance, however, he was a man of too much vision.
“He looked ahead to the establishment of industries; to the growth of cities — all produced by the magic of power development. Instead of following the old rule of producing a supply to fill a demand, he adopted the policy of believing that a demand would arise as a result of the supply.”
Darring paused; he looked about at the approving nods which continued. Even Warlock had joined in the approbation. The president was admitting the truth of the statements which the executive secretary had made.
“Despite those mistakes,” resumed Darring, in a modulated tone, “Centralized Power might have achieved its organizer’s hopes. It is not my province, gentlemen, to make too severe a criticism. I say that the project was ill-advised. I do not state, however, that it was impossible of attainment, so far as the basic idea was concerned.
“The real mistake came when Mr. Warlock, convinced that his dreams would become realities, advised the purchase of land that was offered at outrageous prices. He also bought out the options and rights of smaller concerns that had gained claims upon that territory.
“Then, as the colossal blunder, he permitted the award of contracts that were set at war-time figures. In brief, he allowed the expenditure of several million dollars that could very well have been saved. Am I correct, Mr. Warlock?”