THE THIRD KILLER
RICHARD HARKNESS was a middle-aged architect with eccentric ideas. He was artistic by nature, and had always regretted that he had not become a portrait painter.
Because of his artistic sentiments, he lived alone in an obscure house on the fringe of Greenwich Village. To him the spot was a sanctuary in the midst of Manhattan’s tumult.
Harkness was a bachelor. He usually spent his evenings alone. Knowing his retiring habits, his friends seldom called him on the telephone.
Tonight, Harkness was reading a new book on portrait painting. He sat in his third-story living room — a studio, he called it. The walls were decorated with pictures — some of them painted by Harkness himself.
The room was comfortable, although plainly furnished. It was exceedingly neat. That was due to the attention of the housekeeper who came to the place every afternoon, for Harkness never troubled himself with keeping the place in order.
He, himself, was the one contrast in the room. Sprawled in an easy-chair, attired in a dressing gown, with his gray-tinged hair an uncombed mop, Richard Harkness seemed the personification of carelessness.
Despite his intense reading of the book before him, Harkness became suddenly alert at the sound of a slight noise that came from outside his room. He listened.
A puzzled expression came over his sharp features. He closed the book and walked across the room. He flung open the door and stared down the dark steps to the second floor.
Hearing no repetition of the sound, he closed the door and strode back to the center of the room, turning the leaves of the book to find the page that he had been reading.
Again, that slight sound. Harkness turned. The door was open. He thought, for an instant, that he had seen something move in the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
There was on reply. Harkness strode toward the door.
Suddenly he was confronted by a man who stepped from the stairway, holding a leveled automatic. The man was short. He wore a black overcoat and a cap pulled down over his eyes.
Beneath the cap, covering the man’s chin, was a dark, folded handkerchief.
As Harkness stood stock-still, a second man appeared. The second man was considerably taller than the first, and bulkier. His face was also hidden by a handkerchief that served as a mask, and an automatic was in his hands.
“Sit down,” came a low, commanding tone.
Harkness obeyed. He moved backward to the easy-chair and dropped into it. The men evidently took it for granted that he was unarmed. They were robbers, by their appearance.
Harkness wondered why they had come here. This was a poverty-stricken neighborhood. He realized then that his presence might have led these men to think that he had articles of value in his studio home. Such was not the case.
Harkness felt no great fear, but he was annoyed.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said in a slightly sarcastic voice, as the two masked strangers stood before him. “I suppose you are after valuables and money. I have no valuables here.
“There is some money — about thirty-five dollars. You are welcome to it. My wallet is on the table in the corner. Help yourselves.”
“We don’t want your dough,” said the big man, talking in a voice which Harkness could tell was not the man’s natural tone.
Harkness was puzzled. He could not understand. He was a man who had few friends and no enemies.
An architect by profession, a portrait painter by desire, he had lived very much apart from the world. He could see no menace behind this visit; at the same time, he detected a very definite threat.
“We want to talk to you,” continued the big man, in a growling voice. “Before we begin, we want you to understand one thing. You’re to keep your mouth shut about this! Is that plain?”
Harkness nodded.
“We don’t want questions from you,” the man went on. “No monkey business, either. We mean business and it’s our business. Keep that in your head.
“Don’t try anything after we go away. No calling the cops. If you do — well, we’ve heard that you don’t look for trouble. But you’ll find it if you try to double-cross us! Get me?”
“Your meaning is quite evident,” returned Harkness. “It appears that you require information. Under the circumstances, I am inclined to furnish you with it — provided that I know what it is—”
“And you don’t blab about it! Understand?”
“You may consider this a confidential interview,” replied Harkness, with a wry smile. “I am at a loss to understand why you have come here—”
“We’ll tell you that,” interrupted the big man. “Let me do the talking. You do the answering.”
He paused to shift his position. He found a chair and sat down close to Richard Harkness, thrusting the gun forward until it was uncomfortably close to the architect’s body.
The smaller man did not move. He had been standing like a statue, his automatic constantly in readiness. He remained in the same position.
“YOU were a friend of a man named Theodore Galvin,” stated the big man in his low growl. “Is that right?”
“I knew Theodore Galvin,” replied Harkness.
“You worked for him, didn’t you?”
“He employed my services as an architect.”
“All right. Did he ever get you to do anything phony for him?”
“Phony?”
“You know what I mean! Did he have you make up special plans for buildings? Put in places that people wouldn’t know about — like a secret room, for instance?”
“Practically all the buildings that I designed for Mr. Galvin,” said Harkness, “were modern office buildings. They were intended purely for commercial purposes—”
“That’s enough. Answer my question!” The gun muzzle pressed against the architect’s ribs. “Were there any phony places in them?”
Harkness shook his head solemnly. He stared coldly at the man before him. He sought to fathom the face behind the mask.
The automatic drew away; then it stopped.
“You’re going to talk” — a sullen laugh came from the handkerchief that covered the speaker’s face — “because we mean business.
“There’s a place we’re looking for. You know where it is. If you don’t tell us, it will be curtains for you!”
“I have designed many buildings,” Harkness declared. “I would remember any unusual plans such as you suggest. The buildings that I designed for Theodore Galvin were simply office buildings. I shall have to consult my office records to give you a list of them—”
“Listen now” — the voice meant business — “and quit this stalling. When old Galvin built that house of his — where did you come in on it?”
“That house was built long before my time,” replied Harkness. He was staring at the automatic. “It is a very old house.”
“Wait, now” — a thought seemed to flash through his mind — “I do recall something. There were some very unusual arrangements in that house—”
He paused and looked sharply at the man before him.
“Go on!” came the order.
“Just a minute.” Harkness felt confident. He knew that the automatic would not fire while he promised revelations. “I’m not inquiring your purpose. I just want to know your attitude toward me.
“I’ll let you know just what you want — and I’ll keep this matter to myself. Does that mean that you’ll stay away from here after this?”
The big man hesitated before making a compromise. At length he made a proposal.
“Give us the straight dope,” he said, “and we won’t bother you any more.”
“All right,” agreed Harkness, in a satisfied tone. “I promised Theodore Galvin to say nothing about the designs I made for his house. In fact, I had forgotten about the matter.
“Galvin is dead now, I understand. So it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
He raised his hands and gestured. “Let me have pencil and paper. I can show you.”
“Wait!” cautioned the big man. “I’ll get them for you. Where are they?”
“Right here.” Harkness motioned to a table at his right side.
THE big man found a large pad in the table drawer. He also brought out a pencil. He gave the articles to Harkness. The architect began to draw a rough plan.
“The cellar stairs are here,” Harkness explained. The big man was watching the drawing; but his companion still covered Harkness. “Here’s a passage. At the side are two steel posts against the wall.
“The posts look like supports. Actually, they are dummies. They can be driven sideways, in opposite directions.
“When that has been done; you will observe that the section of the wall is actually a large door. Behind it is a secret vault — an old, unused compartment of the cellar.”
He handed the pad to the big man.
“Take it,” said Harkness. “That’s what you want.”
“Yeah?” The man laughed. “Is that the only place?”
“Positively,” replied Harkness. “I designed the wall for Theodore Galvin. It was the only special work that he had done in the old house.
“He brought in two men at night to do the work. They didn’t know the location of the house. He brought them in an automobile and sent them away in the same manner.”
The big man studied Harkness. He looked at the plan. There was something in his manner that made Harkness feel the man was satisfied. Yet he made no move to leave.
While Harkness was still wondering, the telephone rang. The big man pounced upon the instrument.
“Hello,” he said. “O.K. It’s in the old house. Yeah. Down the cellar stairs.” He referred to the plan. “Passageway and two posts at the end. Dummies. Hammer them outward. O.K.”
He hung up the receiver.
“So you’ve got a pal,” observed Harkness.
“That’s enough out of you,” declared the big man. “We’ve got a lot you’ll find out about if you don’t keep your mouth shut.
“Maybe I’ll get a few more calls if I stick around a while. So we’ll stay here to keep you company.”
Harkness yawned.
“I had hoped we would part company,” he said. “If you don’t want that pad, you might let me have it. The pencil, too.
“I’ll draw you a diagram of how the door works — you may need it.”
The big man handed him the pad and the pencil. Harkness smiled as he received them. He began to sketch. The big man looked suddenly forward.
“Hey!” His voice was filled with anger. “What’re you drawing there?” He snatched the pad away from Richard Harkness. The pencil dropped beside the chair.
The big man ripped the paper from the pad and tore it. He thrust the pieces in his pocket.
“None of that stuff!” he exclaimed. “Drawing a picture of me, eh? Smart, eh? That’s enough from you. Hand me that pencil!”
HARKNESS reached down to the floor and fumbled for the pencil. His hand came up. It paused an instant by a little compartment in the table — a compartment which had a half-opened door. Then his hand came in view.
It held an automatic!
The big man uttered a cry as he saw the gun. Harkness had caught him unawares. The big man’s own gun was lying on his lap.
Had the big man been the only adversary, he would have been an easy prey. But Harkness was ignoring the big man. As he brought up the gun, he turned its muzzle toward the silent short man who stood watching him.
The architect’s act was hidden by the table until the big man gave his cry. He was the first of the two thugs to see the gun.
Harkness fired the instant the alarm was sounded. Hardly had he pulled the trigger before the short man’s gun responded.
Harkness, hurrying his aim, had missed. But the masked man was a marksman. His bullet entered the architect’s body below the right shoulder. Harkness gasped as he fell back in his chair.
The big man was on his feet, alarmed. Then he realized that the shots had probably gone unheard.
Harkness was badly wounded. The gun had fallen from his hand. His eyes had closed; now he opened them. At that sign of life, the short man came forward, crouching over his victim.
“Tried to kill me, did you?” His voice was an angry threat, spoken in tones filled with venom. “You got yours — and that’s not all—”
His hand came up, bringing the automatic on a level with the architect’s eyes. A sudden terror gripped Harkness, when he saw death facing him.
“Don’t shoot!” he gasped. “Don’t! I’ll tell you — tell you — where—”
“Don’t shoot!” exclaimed the big man, leaping forward.
He was too late. The hatred of the crouching man had reached his climax. A revengeful oath came from beneath the masking handkerchief as the small man pressed the trigger of his automatic.
Richard Harkness lay dead, shot down in cold blood!
The short man was laughing hideously. He gloated like an evil monster as he stood above the body of his victim.
His companion also stared at the dead man in the chair. Into this silent scene came the ringing of the telephone. The big man answered it.
“All right,” he said in a tense voice. “No… It’s too late now. I’ll tell you later. Wait until I call you.”
He laid down the telephone and took the handkerchief from his face, revealing the features of Briggs.
“Keep your mask on, Clink,” he warned. “I need this for a minute.”
He wiped the telephone and took great care to make sure that no telltale finger prints remained. He studied the room carefully.
Satisfied that no clews remained, he motioned to his masked companion.
“Come on, Clink,” said Briggs. He looked at the body of Richard Harkness and laughed. “You should have waited, Clink. He was saying something when you gave it to him. Another stall, I guess.
“Well, Clink” — there was a congratulating tone in the big man’s voice — “there was two of us before tonight. Now there’s three.
“I got mine. Bob got his. Now you’re with us.
“You’re a killer, Clink. The third killer!”