Читать книгу The Phantom Detective: Tycoon of Crime - Robert Wallace - Страница 5

CHAPTER III

Murder on the Balcony

NIGHT IN MANHATTAN. In Times Square, the city was wide awake and gay, the bright lights glaring. Crowds from the theaters were hurrying to nightclubs and restaurants. From the waterfront fog-horns tooted, factories still ground out their work, smoke belching from their chimneys. To the east, cars streamed like illuminated, linked chains across the bridges.

Other cars streamed west, too, to enter the Holland Tunnel, to whisk over the George Washington Bridge. There were but few lonely streets in the teeming metropolis.

Wall Street and the surrounding financial district were deserted, the office buildings rising like dark canyon walls. But its streets were still pounded by alert patrolmen.

The poverty-stricken tenement sections where evil figures stalked — drunks and derelicts, shifty underworld characters, also lay in sleepy gloom. And police were watchful, knowing that no night passed in these districts without some violence and bloodshed.

Police Inspector Thomas Gregg’s bulking form sat in the cushioned shield-bearing limousine which was whisking him and a hard-eyed subordinate uptown, toward Grand Central, its short-wave radio bringing every police call that went out from Headquarters.

“I suppose that anonymous call from Mulford, New York, was from a crank,” the Inspector grumbled “But I guess it’s just as well not to take chances. That voice I heard on the phone — There was something about it — something familiar. Kinda made me sure feel the tip was hot!” He pulled out his watch. “Pretty close to midnight. Get on up to Grand Central. If anybody thinks he’s going to pull any murder there —”

IN A HUGE, BRIGHTLY LIGHTED room six tense men sat at a long conference table, talking in low voices as they watched a wall-clock which showed that the hour of midnight was approaching.

A more diverse-looking group could not have been found. Yet these six men were all linked by mutual reputations in the field of science and engineering. All were famous throughout the country for their work in these lines.

Nor was that all that linked them.

There was another bond which seemed to hold them together as with some hidden magnet. A strange, furtive bond — one of conflicting fear and hope.

Near the unoccupied head of the table Vincent Brooks, one of the country’s leading electrical engineers, ran a gaunt hand over his long, rugged face, his dark, hard eyes narrowing beneath beetling brows.

NEXT TO HIM A WIRY MAN with a shock of grey hair that kept getting into his eyes, hunched tensely forward. Leland Sprague, a surveyor.

Beside those two sat Joseph Ware and Paul Talbert. Ware was a quiet, well-built, grey-haired man who was a specialist in waterways and dams. Paul Talbert, a shoring engineer, was broad-shouldered, with a wind-burned face, a military mustache, blond hair and clear, far-seeing eyes.

The fifth man of the group, solid-built but pallid-faced, with crows-feet under his eyes, toyed nervously with a pencil. He was a geologist named Donald Vaughan.

Finally, running his hand over his high, thin-haired skull, was John Eldridge, another surveyor.

“Well, gentlemen?” Paul Talbert spoke, sitting erect, his mustache bristling. “I still say the time is opportune! Everything has worked out as we planned it! We have only to go ahead.” His eyes gleamed.

“What about the threats?” Joseph Ware demurred. The quiet-looking waterways man’s voice was low and tense, and only his eyes showed the panic he kept from his quiet face, “Remember, I’ve been getting them. And now that we’ve learned what happened to Truesdale and Garth —”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Ware!” Sprague broke in, a little shrilly, pushing back his shock of grey hair. “They haven’t found that plane yet! We don’t knew for sure.

Besides, it was undoubtedly an accident, that disaster!”

“Undoubtedly.” Talbert agreed. “And while it means a delay, we can still go ahead as we planned! This is no time for faint heartedness! Don’t forget what’s in this for all of us if it works out!”

There was a slight stir around the table. Greed, that dark driving urge which at times can overcome the best of men, flashed in several eyes. Greed — and fear!

“I agree with Talbert!” Vincent Brooks, the rugged-faced electric engineer, clipped. He laughed harshly. “And I have been warned myself by these strange phone messages! But whoever this Tycoon of Crime is, he can’t know our secret. Only we know it at this present moment! And no one but ourselves will ever know it fully!”

“Lord, if it ever leaked out!” Donald Vaughan strained forward, the crows-feet twitching under his eyes. “If this Tycoon of Crime suspected it he could ruin us all!” He shook his head. “And if the Government ever knew —”

He broke off abruptly, as if not daring to finish. And again the current of invisible fear coursed about the table.

“We’ve got to keep our heads!” Eldridge said, his thin-haired head bobbing. “We’re in this thing together no matter what happens.”

Like an invisible curtain a hush closed down on the group. Lips clamped suddenly tight. Eyes hid the emotions which a moment before had shown stark and clear.

The frosted glass door leading from an anteroom had opened unceremoniously. Three more men came in.

The one in advance, a heavy-set man, florid of face, his head bald save for a fringe of iron-grey hair, strode toward the table.

“Good evening, gentlemen! Glad to see all of you got here early. I hope you have made yourselves at home here in our executive office.”

In the sudden silence, the six scientists heard the muffled but continuous bustle of sound outside the offices; the movement of hundreds of feet; and, further away, an occasional clang of bells, a hiss of air-brakes.

This big room, the New York office of the Empire and Southwest Railway, was situated on the gallery floor of Manhattan’s biggest railway terminal, the Grand Central, famous throughout a continent.

TALBERT WAS THE FIRST to speak, in a quiet, hard voice, to the rugged man who had strode forward.

“Hello, Strickland! We’ve been waiting for you!”

James Strickland, vice-president of the Empire and Southwest Railways, moved to the head of the table and took the chair there.

The second newcomer, Charles Jenson, secretary of the railway company, a thin-haired, bespectacled man with a mild, timid manner, also joined the gathering.

And if these two high railway officials seemed almost like aliens in the conclave of scientists, the third man who had entered at their heels was out of place with both groups.

He stood alone near the door — a big, broad man with grizzled, grey-peppered hair. A man who gave the impression of dominant strength.

“Oh, sit down, Mr. Harvey!” Strickland said to him, gesturing as if just remembering the amenities. “You gentlemen must know Mr. Andrew Harvey, president of the Harvey Airlines!”

Tensing again, the eyes of the six scientists swiveled to the visitor.

He grinned — a hard, tight grin — meeting their glances levelly.

“I’ll stand,” he said in a booming voice. “What I have to say won’t take long. I’m here on business — cold, plain business! I’m here to make a cash offer for this railway! While Strickland and Jenson have given me little encouragement, I thought I might find the rest of you more interested!”

No electric shock could have caused a more startled reaction. Their eyes widening, for a moment the six scientists seemed speechless.

Then Strickland spoke, as if for the startled men.

“This is most irregular, Mr. Harvey! In the absence of the line’s president, Mr. Garrison, who as you know is in St. Louis —”

“I’ll deal with Garrison when he gets back!” Andrew Harvey snapped. “Right now I’m dealing with all of you here. That’s enough!”

A mirthless smile curved Talbert’s lips beneath his mustache. “You seem to be laboring under a misconception, Mr. Harvey,” he said. “We are merely technicians working for the Empire and Southwest Railway.”

Harvey’s laugh was harsh, contemptuous. “You’re wasting your breath! I know you’re the chief stockholders of this railroad, all of you! You’ve all acquired big blocks of shares! And I’m here to buy you out — to take those shares at better than their present market value!”

The silence was ominous. The six men, rigid now, turned fierce glances to Strickland and Jenson. Strickland blurted something. The mild Jenson spoke in a meek voice.

“I’m sure Mr. Harvey didn’t learn that from us.” The secretary’s tone was conciliating. “These things leak out, you know.”

“I make it my business to know such things!” Harvey said shortly. “And I know you men, with your technical skill, are trying to put this railway on its feet! But it isn’t worth the effort. The only use for it now is if it can be run in conjunction, as an auxiliary, to my own airline! That’s why I want it. If you think you can run it in competition, you’re sadly mistaken!” His eyes narrowed to slits, his face grew grim. “Even the sabotaging of my new Chicago transport plane isn’t going to cripple my growing airline!”

There was a gasped intake of breath; and indignant scrape of chairs.

Joseph Sprague, the wiry surveyor, was on his feet then, his shock of grey hair dancing.

“Are you daring to insinuate that we had any connection with that plane disaster?” he demanded shrilly.

“Take it that way if you want,” said the blunt Harvey. His lips curled. “Of course, all of you will begin to produce alibis showing you were in New York City at the time of the disaster; but you men do get around, don’t you? And there are more ways than one of cooking a goose, especially if you’re a technician!”

Talbert leaped up. “If this is a joke, Harvey,” he said with cold fury, “it’s in pretty bad taste.”

Sprague leaned forward, fuming.

“It’s outrageous! I refuse to listen to it! You can have my answer to your offer right now, Mr. Harvey! I’ll see you in Hell before I’ll make any deal with you!”

For a moment it seemed he would spring bodily upon the weathered-faced airline president, smaller, though he was. Instead, however, he pushed back his chair and, his face flaming, strode out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him.

STRICKLAND’S EYES SHOWED haggard worry. “You shouldn’t have said that, Harvey! After all, a knife can have two edges. Sprague was a close friend of both Truesdale and Garth — also of our company, and passengers on that plane. Truesdale and Garth were valuable men,” he added significantly, “very valuable men.”

“And also,” Joseph Ware put in grimly, “don’t forget that there has been a lot of sabotage of the railway itself. Especially in the Southwest.”

It was the airline man’s turn to stiffen indignantly. Glaring, he seemed about to voice an angry retort when Vincent Brooks, the gaunt electric wizard, suddenly rose to his feet, pointing at the clock — whose hands were converging to midnight!

“It’s time for the new electric sign to go on!” Brooks announced. “Inasmuch as I constructed it, I’d like to be out there to see it!”

Strickland nodded hastily. “Of course. We all want to see it.” He turned to Harvey. “You’ll join us, Mr. Harvey? You noticed the preliminaries as you came in. Perhaps you’ll be interested to see how modern we, too, can be in our methods.”

The whole group were hurriedly rising. With a scowling Harvey accompanying them, they passed through an anteroom, emerged upon a gallery, then descended marble-bannistered steps which led them directly upon the immense, dome-ceilinged concourse.

An unusually large throng milled on the floor; a throng much larger than the usual flow of travelers who always streamed through the big terrminal. Huge banners, all proclaiming A New Era in Railroading gave the huge place a festive air.

Over the noise of the crowds sounded the blare of trumpeting music. A band composed of dusky Pullman porters in gaudy uniforms, led by a busby-hatted drum-major, was playing “Casey Jones.”

“What is this anyhow?” Harvey snorted. “A circus in a railroad station?”

STRICKLAND GLARED AT HIM, but the mild-eyed secretary, Jensen, said, in an explanatory tone:

“In just one minute now, you will see that sign go on.” With a moving forefinger he signified a continuous dark oblong strip of metal, dotted with electric bulbs, which ran around the four walls of the great concourse. “In St. Louis, Mr. Garrison, our president, will press a button. The impulse will be carried over our own wires to the device on the gallery which operates the sign.”

“Very elaborate!” sneered Harvey. “But nothing can put this line on its feet, I’m warning you.”

Nevertheless, he displayed interest as the Pullman band ended its number with a martial roll of drums. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. All eyes went to the strip of dark bulbs.

A second went by, then —

Abruptly, a flickering blaze of light leaped into life at the beginning of the strip, coursed jaggedly along the sign, forming bold letters — words:

GREETINGS TO THE PUBLIC — WE TAKE PLEASURE IN ANNOUNCING OUR MODERNIZED RAILROAD POLICY — OUR MANY NEW INNOVATIONS —

The words, with their smooth advertising, continued. The crowd watched.

— AND NOW IT IS TIME FOR THE MESSAGE OF THE TYCOON OF CRIME —

So smoothly did these words follow on the wake of the others that at first their utter strangeness was unnoticed by the crowd. But instantly sharply indrawn breaths of amazement issued from the group of men who had rushed down from the executive offices. Their eyes bulged as they followed those bold words, carried unerringly around the strip of bulbs.

— THE TYCOON OF CRIME HEREBY WARNS ALL THOSE WHO HAVE FLOUTED HIM —

The crowd had begun to murmur, to laugh as if believing this some deliberately humorous part of the ballyhoo, not yet understood.

“What’s the meaning of those crazy words?” Strickland burst out.

“Meaning?” screamed a voice. “Good Lord, don’t you realize? The Tycoon of Crime! The criminal we all laughed at!”

No one had noticed that Leland Sprague, the shock-haired surveyor who had so angrily left the conference room, had joined them. It was he who had made this outburst. His agitation seemed to have driven away all remembrance of his anger; his face was ashen. Madly he waved towards the coursing, illuminated words.

“The sign!” he choked. “He must have got at the box that makes the sign go!”

But while Jenson and Harvey both looked as bewildered as Strickland, the scientists in the group had all jerked rigid, their faces blanching.

Even the hard-featured Paul Talbert looked shaken.

THEN VINCENT BROOKS, who had made the sign, suddenly dashed toward the gallery stair. John Eldridge, the thin-haired surveyor, also broke away at a run.

The bold words which thousands read continued to leap into view, and run around the sign like letters of fire.

— SOME HAVE LEARNED THIS VERY NIGHT OF MY POWER — OTHERS WILL SOON LEARN — MORE BLOOD WILL BE SPILLED — MORE WILL DIE — TAKE THIS LAST WARNING —

The explosion was deafening!

It crashed thunderously in the spacious interior of the dome-ceilinged concourse, the sheer concussion hurling many of the gaping crowd off balance.

From the center of the balcony, above the coursing sign, had leaped a blinding, hissing sheet of flame! The sign went dark even as the detonation followed. And at the same instant —

A scream of horror burst from scores of throats as, whisked off the balcony like some mere feather, a human shape came hurtling straight down — a shape of limp but flailing arms and legs.

That the body didn’t fall on the panic-stricken crowd seemed sheer luck. With a ghastly thud it crashed to the tiled flooring beneath the balcony.

Strickland, Jenson, and the rest of their group rushed over as the din rose higher, though railway police were struggling to restore order.

They reached the inert heap on the floor, looked down. A scream broke from Charles Sprague, who pointed.

“It’s Eldridge! Good God — Eldridge!”

John Eldridge was a gruesome sight. His body was a maimed, bloody heap which stained crimson the white-tiled floor. A whole portion of his chest had been blown out. A gaping hole showed the broken bones, ripped flesh, tatters of clothes. His face was frozen in a grimace of contorted agony, the eyes glazed and protruding like marbles.

Strickland cried out hoarsely. “And he was blown off the balcony — just when the sign went off! Where’s Brooks? Brooks should know about the sign!”

His question was quickly answered by Donald Vaughan. The geologist had rushed up to the balcony, and his voice called down shakily. The rest hurried up there, oblivious that Andrew Harvey was no longer with them.

They found what was left of Vincent Brooks piled against the balcony wall. His head had almost been severed from his torso by the explosion. The chin was blown away, leaving a broken bulge of bloody jaw-bone. The features, bloated in death, were barely recognizable.

Opposite the corpse, on the stone balcony construction, was a shattered box of metal, its parts strewn about.

Strickland stared at it.

“That’s where the strip that controlled the sign was running!” he burst out hoarsely. “It’s blown to hell! This is ghastly — ghastly!”

Quick glances were shot up and down the balcony. It was empty. But the crowds from below, in mingled panic and morbid curiosity, were already surging up the stairs. Railway police fought them back. Then came the shrill whistles of regular city police on duty in this precinct.

And outside in the night, in the next moment, rose the scream of sirens.

The law was coming swiftly. And a certain shield-bearing limousine carrying a worried Inspector was now hurtling straight to the terminal.