The glaring headlight of the big locomotive came to a slow stop as the West Shore Express pulled into the Weehawken Terminal. A station attendant pulled open the exit gate. Dim figures of alighting passengers appeared upon the platform and became an advancing throng. The attendant idly watched the approaching group.
Two men were standing a short distance from the gate. Away from the glimmer of the locomotive headlight, they were obscure and unnoticed. Like the attendant, they were watching the people coming down the platform.
"He'll be here in half a minute, Jake," said one in an undertone. "We've got to spot him the second he shows up. Right on the ferry with him."
"I got you, Biff," was Jake's reply.
The two men waited. Although they were tense, neither one appeared excited. This was not surprising. Watching for a passenger coming from a train was no great task for "Biff" Towley and his fellow watcher, Jake Bosch. For Biff Towley was one of the craftiest mobsmen in all New York, and his companion was his counterpart.
A tall, youthful man came through the gate with the last of the passengers leaving the Express. Biff Towley nudged his companion.
Both men seemed to be disinterested bystanders as the tall passenger glanced nervously in their direction. But as the young man continued toward the ferry, the two self-effacing gangsters swung along behind him.
"It's Louis Steffan, all right," whispered Biff Towley. "Separate when we reach the boat. You stay ahead of him. I'll be in back."
Jake Bosch grunted his agreement.
In the ferryboat, Louis Steffan continued through to the front deck. There, he leaned against the rail and stared across the light-studded waters of the Hudson.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew forth a cigarette. He lighted it with trembling hand.
As he raised the match toward his face, Steffan did not notice another man who leaned upon the rail close beside him. It was Jake Bosch.
The gangster threw a sidelong glance toward Steffan. He could see the pallor of the young man's face; the twitching of his lips, the blinking of his eyelids. Then the match dropped over the rail and Steffan's face became a white blur in the darkness as the ferry slid from its slip.
Jake Bosch drew back as Louis Steffan nervously threw the cigarette into the river and started toward the front gate of the ferry. As Steffan paused there, Jake turned and sauntered idly into the cabin where he stood within the door. Biff Towley was seated close at hand. No one else was near.
"He looks nervous, Biff," said Jake, in a low tone.
"He ought to," came the reply, with an easy, ugly laugh. "Keep ahead of him on the other side. I'm sticking close with him. Remember one of us has got to point him out!" Jake nodded and went back on deck.
The water was churning as the ferry approached the slip on the New York side. The myriad lights of Manhattan were blotted as the boat came close to the roof of the ferryhouse.
When the gate was opened, Louis Steffan was one of the first to leave. He saw nothing suspicious in the form of Jake Bosch, walking swiftly ahead. Nor did he notice the idling shape of Biff Towley, who was strolling on behind him.
Louis Steffan stopped at a row of phone booths. He fumbled nervously through the pages of the Manhattan directory. Biff Towley, a few feet away, smiled grimly. He stepped into one of the telephone booths and held a nickel poised above the slot.
Louis Steffan's finger was checking a name. He had found what he desired — the telephone number of Clark Murdock. He moved toward the phone booths.
As he approached, Towley's nickel clicked and the gangster dialed Barmont 4-9356. A strange coincident! That was the very number that Steffan had noted in the book. Biff Towley was talking in a low, quiet voice when Louis Steffan began to dial. Listening at the receiver, Steffan heard the clang-clang of the busy signal. He hung up the telephone and waited. Biff Towley was still talking when Steffan dialed again. Once more, he caught the busy signal. Louis Steffan stepped from his phone booth and glanced nervously at his watch. He walked hurriedly away.
Biff Towley, seeing him through the window of the booth, quietly ended his conversation and stepped from the compartment. He saw Steffan's tall form going through the door to a taxi stand. When Biff reached the spot, two cabs were drawing away. Neither Louis Steffan nor Jake Bosch were in sight. Biff Towley grinned and walked eastward on Forty-second Street.
Louis Steffan had taken the first cab he had seen at the stand. He had given the address of Clark Murdock — which he had noted in the phone book. Now riding uptown, the young man was highly perturbed.
He had come to New York with a definite purpose — to communicate with Clark Murdock. Until he had reached the Manhattan ferry terminal, he had gained no opportunity. That phone call with the busy signal, had been a waste of time. Steffan was waiting no longer. He was going directly to the man who he wished to see.
As the cab stopped at a traffic light, Steffan pulled a notebook from his coat pocket. He scanned the pages of shorthand notations that he had made.
The recollection of the risk he had run to get them made him shudder. He pictured himself listening at the door of the room where two men had been talking; and to Steffan's blinking eyes came a vivid portrait of one of the speakers.
Ivan Orlinov! The name was inscribed among the notes. Steffan shut his eyes as the cab jerked forward. In fancy he saw a shrewd, bearded face — the countenance of a demon!
Steffan clenched his fists. Ivan Orlinov was everywhere, it seemed! He opened his eyes and blinked at the lights of the avenue, as the vision faded.
He laughed a hoarse, nervous laugh. He was safe, here, with all these lights. Safe in New York, with Orlinov miles away. He tried to feel at ease and gradually his qualms ended. Reason told him that there was no danger for the present. The immediate task was to deliver his message to Clark Murdock. Steffan glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after nine. There was menace here in New York — but it threatened another man. Steffan alone could thwart it — for he, alone, knew the secret. He was sure that nothing could happen until ten o'clock. Fifty minutes yet — and now the cab was swerving from the avenue. One block — two blocks — the taxi stopped in the center of the third. Steffan was ready with the fare.
Thrusting his notebook in his pocket, the young man alighted and stood upon the sidewalk while the cab rolled away.
It was a somber neighborhood. The night was gloomy with overcasting clouds, and in this obscure part of Manhattan, the old buildings seemed like tombs. The number of this old house reflected by the light behind the transom, showed dimly above the door.
Louis Steffan had reached the home of Clark Murdock.
Steffan glanced up and down the street before he went toward the steps. He saw a car parked half a block away. Its lights were off and he gave it no second thought. Impulsively, he turned to approach the steps. As he did, he sensed a man beside him.
An exclamation froze on Steffan's lips. The stranger who had closed upon him was a short, stocky man; and in his hand was the glimmer of steel. The muzzle of a revolver pressed against Louis Steffan's ribs.
"Move along," came a harsh, cold voice. "One peep out of you and you get the works. Savvy?" Trembling, Louis Steffan allowed himself to be forced along the street — away from the house he had sought — away from the one place that offered safety. The parked car was moving slowly toward him. Shivering, with the pressure of the gun against his back, the young man faltered forward at his captor's bidding.
The low-lying car met them, twenty yards from the house. It was a sedan and the rear door opened as the automobile arrived beside Steffan and the man who guarded him.
Within the sedan, Louis Steffan saw the vague form of another enemy. There, as before, he caught the glimmer of a revolver.
A nudge from his captor and Steffan stepped into the car. He huddled back upon the cushions, his hands raised piteously as his frightened, staring eyes saw the second revolver covering him.
"Get going," said the man on the curb.
"Right, Jake," came the growl of Louis Steffan's new guard.
The first captor closed the door. The car pulled away. Louis Steffan was going for a ride.
Jake Bosch laughed as he saw the sedan disappear around the nearest corner. He gave his revolver a twirl and pocketed it in a leisurely manner.
He strolled along the street to the corner in the opposite direction. There, he walked calmly past a uniformed policeman and turned down the avenue. He reached a drug store on the next corner and entered a phone booth. A minute later, he was talking to Biff Towley.
"O.K., Biff," said Jake, tersely. "The boys were waiting. They've gone away — with a passenger."
"You were there first?" came the voice of Biff.
"I was near there first," replied Jake. "Made good time in my cab. Got out a block away. Walked down to the house and dropped out of sight when our friend came along."
"Good work, Jake. See you later. I've got another call to make." Leaving the drug store, Jake Bosch returned along the block past Clark Murdock's home. He grinned as he passed the house where he had made his capture. He continued on at a leisurely gait. His job was finished.
Hardened underling of a calloused gang leader, it was Jake Bosch's duty to obey orders, without knowing why. Tonight's business was a mystery to him.
Biff Towley had stationed mobsmen in the car near Murdock's home and had taken Jake with him to Weehawken to intercept Louis Steffan — a man of whom Jake had never before heard. Jake had done other jobs like this one. He was the skilled pilot who steered victims to waiting automobiles. Where they went or what happened to them was a matter of no concern to Jake Bosch. He felt no interest or sympathy for Louis Steffan. That young man was merely another on the list of those whom Biff Towley had chosen to obliterate.
So Jake forgot the entire matter as he headed for his favorite nightclub, a haunt where bright lights and gaudy women lured. He did not realize that tonight he had played a vital part in the schemes of men craftier than Biff Towley.
For Louis Steffan had brought a singular message to New York. Had he delivered it, he might have frustrated the progress of strange and incredible crime. But he had failed — he who alone had gained an inkling of a fiendish plot.
Up in the Bronx, the death car was stopped beside a deserted lot. A muffled shot — a dying gasp — and all was over. The door opened and the body of Louis Steffan tumbled from the sedan.
The car traveled on its way.
Then from the lowered window fluttered fragments of paper, which scattered widely in the breeze as the car swept homeward toward Manhattan. Louis Steffan's shorthand notes were meeting with destruction. The man with the message was dead — and his message was gone forever. To the police, it would be another gangland killing. By the time that Louis Steffan's body was found and his empty pockets searched, the unknown crime would be accomplished!