Chapter XVII: In Room 2512

Cole had recognized the dead man at a glance.

It was McKendrick, the young operative whom he had instructed to trace down the dictaphone wire. That had been only an hour ago, and already death had blotted out the whimsical expression about the mouth that had attracted Cole to him from the first.

“Shot through the head,” muttered Cole, noticing a crimson stain just above the left temple. “He hasn’t been dead more than fifteen or twenty minutes.”

He turned and looked out through the crack of the open door. A laugh sounded in the direction of the smoking room. Perhaps Doctor Ballinger had just told another funny story. Cole closed the door.

“This shows there are no limits to the rascality of those blackguards,” said the lawyer. “But I don’t see why they should kill McKendrick.”

Cole explained the errand on which he had dispatched the young detective. “No doubt McKendrick made an important discovery of some kind,” he added. “That’s probably why he was killed. He must have been overpowered, either while getting his facts or on his way back here to report. Probably the latter; that would explain why the body was taken here. The murderer wanted to conceal his crime as long as possible, and for a temporary hiding place this room served as well as any other. We must find out whether Ballinger has been absent from the smoking room during the last hour or so.”

The lawyer seemed dazed. “But the other body? What happened to it?”

“You are sure it was here this morning?”

“Positive.”

“Could any one have taken it down the private elevator without being seen?”

“Impossible. Even if such a thing could be done, which is unthinkable, it is a ticklish job to transport a body through the streets. It is not yet midnight.”

“Is there any other exit?”

“Only the stairs leading to the roof.”

“Then it is a safe bet that the body of Reeves was taken out that way. From the roof it could have been slipped down a fire escape in the rear, and from there—Heaven only knows!”

“But why should such a thing be done? What object could any one have in doing it?”

“I don’t know, Carlin. I can only make a hazy guess. Being a lawyer you know better than I do that, with the body missing, it will be hard to prove the murder of Reeves. I believe the law covering murder cases provides that, when the _corpus delicti_ cannot be proven, the commission of the crime must be established by direct, not circumstantial, evidence. Isn’t that correct?”

“Substantially, yes.”

“And, as I understand it, nobody saw the crime committed. Consequently there can be no direct testimony in regard to the murder. It appears that the men we are fighting are playing a very shrewd game.”

The lawyer tried to pull himself together. “But isn’t it your idea that the men who instigated the murder of Reeves are also responsible for McKendrick’s death?”

“Presumably?”

“Then why, after going to all that trouble to cover up the first crime, did they leave the evidence of the second murder in plain sight?”

“Looks a bit contradictory, doesn’t it?” Cole squinted abstractedly at the form on the cot. It seemed as though the murderers of McKendrick, in placing the body in the identical spot where that of Reeves had lain, had gone out of their way to add a spectacular touch to their crime. “But you may be sure of one thing,” he added. “They had good reasons for doing what they did. There isn’t any doubt——”

He stopped short, and Carlin gave him a puzzled look.

“Yes, that must be it,” Cole went on in an undertone. “The reason for what they did is to be found in the one thing that differentiates the murder of Reeves from that of McKendrick.”

“And what’s that?”

“Reeves was operated upon before he was murdered; McKendrick was not.”

Carlin seemed unable to follow this line of reasoning.

“If there should be an autopsy,” Cole explained, “it might be discovered that an atrocious operation had been performed on Reeves before his death. Such an operation could have been performed only by a skilled surgeon. It would be deduced that the operation and the murder were perpetrated by the same parties. That would reduce the range of suspicion down to one class of individuals, surgeons. So, you see, the body of Reeves constituted a clew to the identity of his murderers.”

Carlin gave him an admiring glance. “First rate!” he applauded. “I’m glad you are doing the heavy thinking for us.”

“You would have seen it yourself if you hadn’t been upset to-night,” said Cole modestly. “By the way, it’s just as well not to let the news of this fresh outrage get out among the men at present. Wish you would show me the stairs to the roof.”

They left the room, and the lawyer locked the door. A short distance down the corridor they met Miss Brownell, and Cole recalled that he had asked her to keep an eye on the physician. Her lips tightened as he briefly whispered what had happened.

“Do you know whether Ballinger was absent from the smoking room for any length of time during the last hour and a half?” he added.

“He went out for cigars,” said Miss Brownell. “He explained that his case was empty, and he smokes only his special brand. When he returned he accounted for his long absence by saying that most of the cigar stores in the neighborhood were closed.”

“That explanation is worthy of the doctor,” said Cole. “It’s plausible and yet simple. A more involved one might have got him into difficulties, if he should have been checked up on it afterward. Please watch him, Miss Brownell. If by any chance he should leave, have one of the men follow him. Now, Carlin.”

The lawyer and Cole stepped into the main office. Suddenly Cole seemed to recall something. He went to the ventilator shaft which contained the dictaphone that had cost McKendrick his life. He touched the disk, and a low mutter escaped him as he found that the wire had been cut. About a foot and a half of it was dangling from the disk. He turned and told Carlin what he had discovered.

“Something made them suspicious,” he added. “They cut the wire so we wouldn’t be able to trace it.”

“They did that after murdering McKendrick,” suggested the lawyer.

“Without a doubt. McKendrick, if he were alive, could probably tell us where the wire terminated. Now we will have a look at the roof.”

But the door opened just then, and the man who entered was the operative whom Cole had instructed to search the establishment for hidden dictaphones. He reported that he had found four in as many different rooms, but in each instance the wires had been cut. Cole thanked him and dismissed him.

“It’s a safe bet that all those wires were cut within the last hour or so,” he told the lawyer.

Carlin led him to the farther end of the office. There he opened a door and indicated a steep flight of stairs. He was about to proceed up the stairs, but Cole held him back.

“Wait, Carlin.” Cole took an electric flash light from his pocket and turned the gleam on the steps. They looked as if they had not been swept in a long while. He stooped low to examine a number of marks in the thick layer of dust. Drawing a magnifying lens from his pocket and slowly moving the electric torch up and down, he made a careful inspection of the lower steps.

“Two sets of footprints,” he declared. “One set is fairly large and broad-toed, a number nine and a half shoe, I should say. The other is a size and a half smaller, also narrower. This tends to show that McKendrick was followed when he came down from the roof.”

“Why do you suppose he was permitted to leave the roof?” inquired the lawyer.

“Because the murderer couldn’t aim in the dark. He wanted to make a sure job of it. Probably McKendrick didn’t know he was followed down the stairs. Likely as not the shot wasn’t fired until he got down to the main office. It’s even possible the murder wasn’t committed until he was out in the corridor. That would explain why the murderer chose the room at the end of the hall as a temporary hiding place for the body. If the shooting took place in the corridor, he had to drag or carry it only a few steps.”

Cole pocketed his flash and lens, and they started up the stairs.

“But wouldn’t the shot have been heard?” asked Carlin.

“Not if the weapon was equipped with a silencer. The smell of the burned powder was probably sucked up very quickly by the automatic ventilators.”

Carlin opened a trapdoor overhead, and they stepped out on the roof. Up there all was wind and gloom. Their footsteps creaked dismally against the gritty surface. All around them loomed the ghostly shapes of tall buildings. Masses of clouds hung scowling over their heads, and there was a suspicion of moisture in the air.

Cole stepped to the fire escape in the rear, the lawyer following. They looked down over the parapet into a wide court flanked by murky walls. “Yes,” said Carlin, more to himself than to his companion, “the body of Reeves was probably carried down this fire escape. It could have been done.”

Cole nodded. “I wonder,” he said abstractedly, “how far down it was carried?”

“Have you any reason for supposing that it wasn’t carried clear down to the ground?”

“No, only a hunch, and most hunches are ridiculous. They go contrary to facts and logic. But just now I am more interested in what happened to McKendrick. He must have discovered something very important to warrant the scoundrels killing him. I wonder what it could have been.”

“The other end of the wire, of course.”

“Something more than that, I think.” Cole gazed down the long stretch of flights and landings that composed the fire escape. “Criminals of that type never kill without good cause. Not because they shrink from murder on moral or humanitarian grounds, but because it is dangerous and inexpedient. McKendrick must have discovered something that—— By the way, Carlin, I suppose The Unknown Seven controls the renting of offices in this building? You told me once that it is property of the organization.”

“It is, but the members individually have nothing to do with the management of the building. That is handled through a separate corporation. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. Those infernal hunches are bothering me more than usual to-night. Suppose you wait here while I investigate.”

Before the lawyer could answer, Cole had flung himself over the parapet and was gliding down the fire escape with the agility of a chimpanzee. On the first landing he stopped and once more took out his electric flash and magnifying lens. Then he turned to the window and carefully examined the frame in the neighborhood of the fastenings. Tiny marks, that had a fresh appearance, told him they had been tampered with not so long ago. McKendrick, following the winding course of the dictaphone wire, had probably passed through this same window.

In a few moments Cole was inside. Before him stretched a long hall with doors on either side; but the one to his left was the only one that interested him. He looked for a moment at the numerals 2512 and the lettering on the frosted pane. Once before in the past twelve hours the same sign had confronted him. While tracing Englebreth’s movements in the early afternoon Cole had come to this same door, and then he had turned back in the belief that nothing could be gained by going farther.

“Bureau of Civic Research,” he read, wondering whether McKendrick had followed the course of the wire through this same door. Cole had no particular reason for thinking so, for at least twenty other doors opened into the same hall. Yet, in view of Englebreth’s apparent familiarity with Cole’s movements during the past few days, he could not help wondering. If the dictaphone wire had extended into suite 2512, then the source of Englebreth’s information was clear.

But the theory explained nothing else, and Cole had no proof that the wire had entered the office of the Bureau of Civic Research. His only clew was the scratches on the window frame, and they merely indicated that McKendrick had been on this floor. For all Cole knew, the young operative might have continued his search farther down.

Yet the door continued to tantalize him. With a glance over his shoulder to see if perchance a watchman was near, he tried the knob. As he had expected, the door was locked, but he stooped and looked closely at the little circle of brass that formed the outer portion of the spring lock. The hall light was dim, so he once more took out his electric flash. Close to the center of the circle, just beside the keyhole, he saw a slight scratch. It was almost certain now that McKendrick had picked the lock and passed through the door.

From his pocket Cole drew a bunch of carefully selected keys. Soon the door was open, and he walked in and quickly closed it behind him. Then he took out his flash, not thinking it safe to turn on the light, and made a swift inspection of the premises.

There were two rooms, a larger and a smaller one. After a glance over the floor and walls, Cole’s face fell. The thing which he had vaguely and without much reason expected to find was not there. It was just an ordinary suite of offices, containing the ordinary set of office furniture. A glance into the filing cabinets left him in no doubt as to the bona-fide character of the Bureau of Civic Research.

On one of the desks in the inner office were several typewritten letters. At the top of each sheet were printed the name of the concern and a list of its officers, and he noticed that Englebreth was mentioned as one of the honorary vice presidents. The letters had, in fact, been dictated by Englebreth, for in the lower left-hand corner of each one were the initials HE-MS. No doubt he had dictated them that afternoon and expected to sign them later. A glance told Cole that they pertained to political matters and dealt in detail with the availability of a certain candidate for alderman.

He put the letters down. They confirmed a theory that he had formed that afternoon that the Bureau of Civic Research was a hobby of Englebreth’s. Like many another rich man, his former client presumably felt the need of justifying his existence in some way. Cole felt satisfied on that point, but there were other doubts in his mind. It was just possible that the rooms of the bureau were being used clandestinely by persons who were in the habit of sneaking in there at night. Being close to the fire escape they were within easy reach of the headquarters of The Unknown Seven. The guess was rather far-fetched, but it seemed to explain several things.

Knowing that Carlin was waiting for him on the roof, and seeing that his quest was unavailing, Cole put out his flash and moved toward the door. He had advanced only a few steps when something prompted him to halt. A vague impression that some one had stopped outside the door came to him. He tiptoed to a corner of the room and waited. Presently he heard a key grate in the lock, and then the door came open. It was beginning to look as though his suspicions had been correct, that persons other than the regular tenants were visiting the offices at night.

A light appeared in the outer room. Next he heard some one move across the floor. From his position, in the corner of the inner office, Cole could not see who the newcomer was, and he did not care to make his own presence known just yet.

The footsteps were coming toward him, and Cole pressed close to the corner, as a figure appeared in the doorway. The footfalls gave him a queer sensation. He thought he recognized the plopping little sounds, suggestive of a walker who, instead of putting most of his weight on his heels, places his entire foot on the ground at once.

While still within the doorway the newcomer reached out a hand and touched a switch on the inner wall. In the light that suddenly appeared, Cole saw that he had identified the footfalls accurately. The man was Professor Carmody, and Cole’s eyes narrowed as he recognized him. The scientist wore a faded silk hat and a long overcoat, just as Cole had seen him when he walked into Doctor Latham’s house the day before, and under his arm he carried a large umbrella. He walked straight to the middle of the office before he saw Cole, and then he stopped so abruptly that it seemed as if his gaunt form would topple over.

“Hello,” he said, staring out of his small, mouse-colored eyes. His long nose, much too large for symmetry, was turned up, and his parted lips showed two rows of yellow teeth. He was plainly embarrassed, and to conceal the fact he grinned ostentatiously.

“Good evening, professor,” said Cole, stepping forward. Though this was their first meeting at close quarters, he had reason to believe that Carmody knew who he was. Miss Brownell, he recalled, had told him that the professor was well aware that Cole had been watching him from a distance for some time.

“Are you connected with the Bureau of Civic Research, professor?” Cole went on.

“In a way, yes,” said Carmody. He had a very thin voice that had a habit of rising to a shrill pitch, or falling to a faint murmur, without regard to what he was saying. He peered at Cole in an apologetic way. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you before.”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

Carmody wagged his head. “I can’t say that I do.”

“Too bad, professor. I was in hopes that you would remember me. One doesn’t like to ask favors of strangers.”

“Favors?” Carmody’s face took on a forbidding frown. “You wish to ask a favor of me?”

“Just a slight one. There is a book in your library that is very hard to obtain, and I am very anxious to read it. The author is one James Price.”

The professor looked at him hard and long. “You are mistaken,” he said finally in a very low tone. “The author whom you mention is not in my collection. May I ask what led you to think that I own the book in question?”

“A little bird told me.”

“You take your information from curious sources.”

“One has to, sometimes. By the way, professor, aren’t you keeping rather queer office hours? It is, let me see, a quarter past one.”

“I might ask the same question of yourself.”

“That’s so; you might.”

“I might also ask what you are doing here. It is my impression that you do not belong on the premises.”

“Hope I am not in the way. Please go ahead and attend to whatever business brought you here.”

But Carmody seemed in no hurry. Cole could not know whether it was because he had abundant leisure on his hands, or because he did not care to attend to his business in another man’s presence, but it was evident that the professor was not disposed to gratify his curiosity. Now and then his mousey little eyes moved furtively about the room, and once they rested in a designing way on one of the flat-top desks. Cole, following his glance, was vaguely puzzled.

“Pardon me, but aren’t you trespassing?” inquired Carmody after a pause.

Cole folded his arms and smiled genially. “You are not going to order me out, I hope?”

“Suppose I should do that?”

“I would overlook your rudeness and refuse to take the hint. If you insisted, I might invite you to try to put me out. If you should make such an attempt and fail at it, I would suggest calling the police to your assistance. But I don’t think you will go that far, professor. You might be called upon to explain your own presence here, and that would prove embarrassing.”

There was a calculating gleam in Carmody’s eyes. Cole, with a picture in his mind of Carlin waiting for him impatiently on the roof, was anxious to bring the interview to a climax. He had no intention of leaving until he had learned the object of the professor’s visit.

Once more Carmody looked stealthily about the room, and again his glance rested on the desk. Cole’s lids narrowed, as he perceived that the desk, which seemed to be the object of the professor’s interest, was the one on which lay Englebreth’s unfinished letters. There were three other desks in the room, so it seemed odd that Carmody should center his attention on this particular one. Cole had already discovered that the drawers were empty, and that the desk contained nothing except the papers lying on top. Strange though it seemed, it looked as though the scientist’s visit to the office at this late hour was in some way concerned with the letters Englebreth had dictated that afternoon.

The theory seemed rather far-fetched, so Cole decided to test it. He moved leisurely about the room a few times, then stopped before the desk at which the professor’s sly glances had been directed. In a casual manner he picked up the letters, looked hastily at two or three, then folded them across the middle and stuck them into his pocket.

He knew, even before the letters reached his pocket, that his suspicion had been well founded. Carmody had watched his every move with growing excitement. His expression had changed from bewilderment to dismay, and finally his face took on a look of sullen determination.

“What are you doing with those letters?” he demanded.

“Taking them home,” said Cole easily, at the same time moving toward the door.

“Wait!” said the professor sternly.

Cole turned around and watched him with amusement. “What’s the matter?” he asked innocently. “What are these letters to you?”

“You shall not leave this office with them. Give them to me at once.”

He reached out a hand, and Cole saw that it trembled. Evidently he was desperately intent upon obtaining possession of the letters. Cole was at a loss to understand, for he knew that the epistles dealt with political affairs that could be of no vital concern to a man like the professor.

“Don’t excite yourself,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing in these letters that would interest you. They contain nothing but dry political rot. What do you care about that sort of thing?”

“Are you going to surrender them?” demanded Carmody, and the words sounded like an ultimatum.

“I’ll promise to consider it if you will tell me why you want them.”

The professor regarded him queerly. A look of bewilderment crossed his sullenly determined face. His crafty little eyes seemed to be trying to read Cole’s hidden thoughts. “Why pretend you don’t know?” he asked; then, in wheedling tones: “Come now! The joke has gone far enough. I know you are only trying to tease an old man. The letters, please.”

Cole shook his head. Carmody’s very insistence upon obtaining the letters was reason enough why Cole should not give them up. Once more he started for the door, but a sharp “Wait!” interrupted his progress.

Cole turned slowly and looked into the barrel of a pistol in Carmody’s hand.

“My dear friend,” said the professor in his softest, lowest tones, “please do not force me to take drastic measures. It would grieve me exceedingly to have to deal harshly with you. The letters, please!”