Nace jerked the drawstring of one bag, got it loose. He dipped a hand in and ladled up a palm full of silver and gold coins. Some few were of U.S. mintage. The majority were Russian coins of the old Imperial days.
Nace saw dozens minted from platinum.
The clerk scraped sweat off his brow. “There must be a hundred grand in them bags — if those funny looking shekels ain’t phony.”
“I’m betting a million will come closer to it,” Nace muttered. “This is Rubinov’s hoard, all right.”
Thunder laughed noisily over the hotel.
“But how did the money and the shoes get in my brother’s car?” Benna Franks asked hoarsely.
“Remember when you first met me tonight, and we had the merry-go-round outside the hotel?” Nace countered.
“Of course.”
“You drove straight home to Camp Lakeside, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“The murderer borrowed your car right after that, got the coin hoard from where they had hidden it after stealing it, and set out to systematically kill the rest of his gang, so he wouldn’t have to divvy. After he did for Constable Hasser and Fatty Dell, he left the car at your place, because he was afraid I’d seen it. He found the puffball dust on his shoes and left them in the machine.”
“It was Spencer who borrowed the car!” the red-head gasped.
“Spencer isn’t his only name,” Nace said dryly. “He’s got a string of aliases that read like the telephone directory. The New York police recognized his description, especially the part about his pitted hands. He got those pocks on his hands when powerful acids splashed on them. He was once a chemist — a chemist specializing in explosives. He later became one of the most efficient safe blowers in the business. He was caught and escaped from Sing Sing four years ago and—!”
“He has been right here in Mountain Town every time since!” cracked a harsh voice.
Nace made a mental note that whatever happened to him, he had it coming for his carelessness — he could have kept a closer watch. Then he turned around.
Spencer stood just inside the door, a pistol in each pocked hand.
The red-necked railroad detective was a little back of him, with a revolver.
Chapter VII
Death Shoe
The street outside was vacated. No one else was in the hotel lobby. The hour was long past midnight. Mountain Town went to sleep with the chickens — which was one reason why it was so popular as a summer resort. The urban tranquility was good for city jitters.
Thunder bounced across the hotel roof, rumbled in the street, and when the clashing echoes subsided, Spencer snarled, “Don’t move, anybody! How’d you get wise to me, shamus? I didn’t make no slips.”
“Just one,” Nace said mildly.
“What?”
“You didn’t wear gloves to cover those hands. The scars suggested acid, and that got me to thinking about how it must have taken an explosive chemist to make up those bombs—”
“I don’t want to hear about it!” gritted Spencer. “Frisk ’em, Beef!”
Beef, the red-necked railroad detective, came forward. He knew how a search should be made. He missed little. He even tore off Nace’s coat, ripped his shirt down the back and got the packet stuck to his back with adhesive tape.
“What’s in that?” Spencer wanted to know.
“Knife, file, dooflicker to pick locks with, some yaller stuff that looks like sulphur,” Beef enumerated the packet contents.
“The last must be stuff that makes tear gas when burned,” Spencer grunted. “Throw it away! Finish friskin’ ’em!”
Beef completed the search.
“I’ll eat anything they got left on ’em!” he grinned.
“Tie ’em! Use this!” Spencer flung Beef a roll of wire — the same sort of wire with which Nace had been tripped earlier in the night. “Just tie their hands for the time being.”
Beef did the tying, showing gusto for the job.
Spencer nodded at the money on the desk. “Take it to the car!”
Beef carried the four bags outdoors, making two trips to complete the job. The bags were extremely heavy.
“Now you go out!” Spencer pointed his guns successively at Nace, the red-head, the hotel clerk.
“What are you gonna do?” the hotel clerk demanded.
“Can the chatter!” rapped Spencer.
“Yeah — can it,” Nace said dryly. “Do you want to start the crackpot shooting in here?”
Spencer snarled and kicked Nace in the leg. “Call me a crackpot, will you!”
They all moved outdoors, where the lightning spurted gory luminance upon them.
A sedan was parked at the curb. It had a very long wheelbase. Nace, the girl, the clerk, all sat on the rear cushions. Spencer watched Beef tie their feet with wire, then occupied the drop-seat in front of them.
“To the circus, James,” he told Beef. Both he and Beef laughed at their joke.
The sedan rode rough on over-pressured tires, out of town and past where the explosion had killed Constable Hasser. The headlamps whitened the sign of Lakeside Camp. Several cars and a few people were there, evidently drawn by the blast noise. They were working in the log house wreckage, a grimly silent group, assembling the remnants of Fred Franks’ body.
The red-head began to sob steadily.
The sedan pitched ahead at increased speed. The hard tires sucked noisily at the pavement. Tools banged together under the front seat every time they went over a bump.
Spencer smiled sardonically and watched the sobbing girl.
The car angled off the road, ran a hundred feet up a lane and stopped. Beef said, “This is as good a place as any, Spence.”
Then Beef got out of the driving seat. Spencer also got out.
With a quick move, Spencer put his right-hand gun against Beef’s head and pulled the trigger.
Beef fell, his head horribly mutilated.
Sneering, Spencer wiped the grip of the gun with which he had killed Beef. Satisfied it was free of fingerprints, he threw it into the surrounding woods.
“The goop thought I’d split with ’im!” he growled, referring to Beef. “Maybe he knows better now.”
He scowled into the car at Nace. “What’s the matter with you, shamus?”
Nace was doubled over, wired hands hanging close to his feet. His face was strange.
“What you just done made me sick,” Nace said.
“You’ll feel worse before I’m done,” Spencer promised. He reached into the sedan front seat, brought out a tin box shaped like a tobacco tin, but somewhat larger.
He opened this. It apparently had a double wall. Pale grayish, steam-like vapor swirled out of the box mouth.
Spencer upended the box, shook it. A piece of dry-ice fell out. It was this which was making the vapor.
“My pocket refrigerator,” Spencer leered. “It keeps these babies cool!”
He shook from the box four metallic balls about the size of grapes.
Nace was still doubled over, wired arms hanging down. The fingers of one hand toyed absently with his right shoe. But his eyes were on the killer.
“So those are your bombs?” he grunted.
“There ain’t a more powerful explosive in the world,” Spencer declared with an insane pride. “I made Fatty Dell swallow two of ’em, an’ tied his mouth so he couldn’t get ’em up. I only had to use one each on Rubinov an’ Hasser, droppin’ ’em in their pockets. But I tossed three in the log house, close to Fred Franks’ feet. I wasn’t takin’ no chances on him.”
The girl gave no sign that she had heard.
“So they explode automatically after they’ve been exposed to normal temperatures a while,” Nace grunted.