A MAD MESSAGE
A STOOP-SHOULDERED, bearded old man tottered along the corridor of an office building. His white beard and flowing white hair gave him a patriarchal appearance. He might have been a prospector returned from a search for nuggets of gold.
He leaned heavily on a cane and seemed to find great difficulty in moving along. Yet the old man’s eyes were keen, and he had a semblance of youth that is rare in one so aged.
People in the lobby of the building had smiled when he had entered. The elevator man had grinned when the ancient personage had inquired in a crackling voice if this was really the sixteenth floor. The operator had politely pointed out the way to the office which the old man desired.
The old chap arrived at a door, and curiously examined the name that appeared upon the frosted glass. It was evident that he had difficulty in reading the inscription. A telegraph boy, coming up the corridor, stopped to help him. Leaning on his cane, the old man pointed with his free hand.
“Is this the law office of Charles Blefken?” he inquired, in quavering tones.
“This is it, pop,” said the boy, with a grin. “You want to go in here?”
“Indeed I do!” returned the old man. “This is the place my stepson told me to come. This here city is a big one, but I guess there’s not a lot of lawyers with a name like Blefken! I reckon he’s the one I want to see!”
The boy opened the door, and the old man tottered into the outer office of Blefken’s suite. It was a busy place.
Three or four stenographers at desks; three men and a woman waiting in chairs along the wall. Half a dozen doors to private offices made up the farther wall. They bore names of different attorneys.
The old man went forward and began to study each door, looking for the name of Blefken.
One of the stenographers approached him.
“Whom do you wish to see?” she questioned.
“The lawyer,” replied the old man.
“Which lawyer?”
“Charles Blefken.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
The old man looked puzzled. There were signs of repressed mirth among the other stenographers and the persons who were waiting.
“You don’t understand,” said the girl. “I mean — has Mr. Blefken arranged to see you?”
“He’ll see me, all right!” retorted the old man. “Just you tell him that John Kittinger’s stepdaddy is waiting out here. He knows Johnny, all right. They were buddies in the army, they were.”
“Sit down,” said the girl, indicating a chair.
The old man threw a triumphant glance along the row of waiting clients. He seemed to take pride in what he had just said. He was mumbling as he sat down, and he stared boldly toward the door which the girl entered.
Half a minute went by. Then the girl reappeared, a look of surprise upon her face. She approached the patriarch.
“You can go right in,” she said. “Mr. Blefken is ready to see you.”
Triumph shone in the old man’s face as he arose and hobbled toward the door of the private office. He turned, and his beard wagged as he looked back at the other people.
The girl turned the knob. The door opened, and John Kittinger’s stepfather was ushered into the private domain of Charles Blefken, the prominent corporation lawyer.
A FIRM-FACED man was seated at a desk. He was dictating a letter to a stenographer. Charles Blefken appeared about fifty years of age — a man of dynamic personality and high reputation.
He ignored his visitor until he had finished the last lines of the letter.
“That will do, Miss Smythe,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
The girl smiled as she noticed the old man, with his flowing beard and wavy hair. She pictured him as a modern “Buffalo Bill,” particularly because of the broad-brimmed hat, which he had not removed from his head.
The girl went out, closing the door behind her. The lawyer immediately went over and locked the door. He turned to his visitor as he was walking back to the desk.
“We won’t be disturbed,” he said in a low voice.
The white beard and the mass of spreading hair tumbled from the old man’s head, along with the picturesque hat. Staring at Charles Blefken was the swarthy visage of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York police department.
Cardona was grinning broadly. Blefken joined with a slight smile.
“Great to get rid of those moth-grabbers,” observed Cardona, in a low tone. “This Santa Claus stuff is a terrible racket.”
“When you go in for disguise, Joe,” said Blefken, “you certainly make a good job of it.”
Cardona shrugged his shoulders.
“A lot of foolishness, as a rule,” he said. “But here’s the way I figure it: I don’t care so much whether people suspect or don’t suspect. You can’t stop that. But it’s a sure bet that nobody could figure who I was under that pile of bushes.
“I also figured that you’re liable to have a lot of crazy ducks coming in here, anyway! So I made a good job of it!”
“I’m just as glad you did, Joe. Maybe it’s all foolishness on my part; but I’m worried, and I want to get it off my chest. Have a cigar” — he tendered a box — “and listen to what I’ve got to say.”
Joe Cardona lighted the perfecto and leaned back contentedly, his discarded whiskers resting in his lap.
“We’ve worked together before this, Joe,” began the attorney. “You know what I think of you. You’re not only the best detective in New York — you’re the only one in your own particular class. You look into the future — always anticipating everything.
“When you caught that fellow who was making all the trouble for the Kingsley Company, a year ago, you told me that if I ever needed you — on the quiet — there was a way I could get you. Just by calling the Harvard Printing Company and ordering a supply of letterheads on their Triple-A stock.
“I remembered that. I called them yesterday, and gave the order. Here you are. Early in the morning, too!”
“I was out of town,” interrupted Cardona. “Otherwise I would have seen you yesterday afternoon. I hope the delay hasn’t—”
“No harm at all, Joe. Let me tell you why I sent for you:
“I received a letter yesterday noon. If it was written by a sane man, there’s some mysterious danger threatening — not only threatening, but actually gripping myself and other persons so closely that it forms a virtual mesh!
“At noon, yesterday, a young man came into the office and demanded to see me. He said he was a taxi driver — which proved to be true, so far as I can learn — and that he was going to sue a client of mine. His story sounded so convincing that the girl in the outside office was alarmed.”
JOE CARDONA smiled. He remembered the indifferent way in which he had been received by that very girl. He pictured the same taxi driver as a glib sort.
“When the fellow came in here, Joe,” continued Blefken, “he refused to give his name. He admitted that his story was a bluff. His real purpose was to deliver a letter to me, in person — and he made it plain that I must let no one know about it!”
“What was the letter?”
“I’m getting to that. The taxi driver said that it had been given to him by a man in the dark. The fellow had approached him, and had seemed very nervous.
“The stranger had told the driver to get the letter to me before the next evening — and in payment, he had given the man a hundred-dollar bill. The taxi driver produced it. He wanted it changed.”
Cardona laughed. He scented a hoax.
“No, Joe!” said Blefken, with a faint smile. “It wasn’t a counterfeit bill. I sent it out to be changed — told the girl to take it to a certain teller at my bank.
“I didn’t say a word about where I had gotten the bill. But I know that particular teller well. If it went by him, it would be genuine. It went by. The change came back.
“Meanwhile the taxi man was convincing me that he was playing the game fair. He said that the man who gave him the letter had climbed into his cab to plead with him.
“The stranger said the letter must get to me; that he was afraid to mail it; that lives were at stake; that he trusted the driver to bring it here. He suggested the story that the driver told, and the fellow certainly went through with it convincingly.
“The result is that I have the letter, and I’m positive that no one — except yourself — knows that I received it. That is, no one except the bearer and the man who sent it, although I doubt that the writer has seen the taxi man since.”
“Did the cab driver describe the man who gave him the letter?” asked Cardona.
“No. He simply said he was nervous, and seemed in earnest in his pleading. He wouldn’t tell where the event occurred. He was under full instructions.”
“You should have kept him here!”
“I should have. But I was anxious to see the letter, and the man seemed straight in his story. I let him go. Then I read the letter. Here it is.”
Reaching in his pocket, the lawyer produced a crumpled sheet of blue paper and an opened envelope. He gave both to Cardona.
The detective looked at the envelope first. It bore no marks. Then he referred to the letter. It was written in a hasty scrawl, some of the words being almost unintelligible. Cardona’s eye went to the bottom of the page. An exclamation burst from his lips. He looked up in astonishment.
“From—”
“Shh,” warned Blefken, alarmed at the loudness of the detective’s tone.
“From Jerry Middleton!” whispered Cardona.
The lawyer nodded.
“You’re sure it’s actually his handwriting?”
Blefken nodded.
“I happened to have a letter from Middleton,” he replied. “It was in connection with a legal case, and I looked in the file. I don’t think that any one but myself would have recalled the fact that the old letter was here in the office.
“The signature is genuine; what is more, it is signed ‘Gerald Middleton’ — and the man is usually spoken of as ‘Jerry Middleton.’ So much so, in fact, that I was surprised to see the signature in this form, and was anxious to check with the other letter!”
“You know Middleton?” Cardona questioned.
“No. I think perhaps I have met him. That is all.”
“That accounts for the signature.”
There was silence as Cardona read the letter. Then, as though forgetting that Blefken had also perused it, the detective read the message in a low voice that was scarcely audible:
“DEAR MR. BLEFKEN: “You will be suprised to receive this note from me. Take it seriosly. Tell no one! “There is great danger. I cannot tell you where. I know, and yet I do not know. I must see you, but am afraid. Not for myself, because I have passed that stage of apprehension. For you. “I have tried to warn others. My warnings mean death. So keep this to yourself, I beseech you. I am afraid to write what I want to say, because you would not believe it. “I shall come to your home to-morrow night. Be there unless you see danger. Then be away. I leave it to your judgment. GERALD MIDDLETON.”
“WHAT do you make of it, Joe?” questioned Blefken.
“A strange letter.” Cardona’s reply was thoughtful. “Strange, from a man like Middleton. He’s worth money! Educated! A traveler! I thought he was back in town. Have you inquired?”
“No, indeed,” replied the attorney promptly. “I took the letter seriously, Joe. I’m leaving it to you to investigate.”
Cardona nodded. He was still studying the letter. Now he shook his head, in a puzzled way.
“What is it, Joe?” asked the attorney.
“Bad spelling,” commented Cardona. “He writes ‘surprised’ without the first ‘r.’ Also, ‘seriously’ without putting in the ‘u’—”
“I noticed that,” responded Blefken. “But notice such words as ‘apprehension’ and ‘beseech.’ The whole letter appears to be the work of an intelligent man, whose mind ran faster than his pen, except when he wrote unusual words. They are more carefully inscribed than the others.
“I know something of handwriting, Joe! A scrawl like that shows education. An ignorant faker would have avoided certain words. An intelligent forger would have been more careful.
“See, also, how the sentences change. All the man’s thoughts are not registered. A lot can be implied.”
“That sounds logical,” admitted Cardona. “Perhaps the man was under some great nervous strain—”
“Unquestionably.”
“Or else—”
“What?” Blefken waited.
“A drug addict!”
“Hardly! The letter is not flighty enough for that.”
“You missed my point,” said Cardona. “I have seen plenty of dope fiends. When they are not under the influence of the drug, they are nervous, changeable, and annoyed. I’ll bet this fellow’s a ‘coke’!”
The detective’s words were so emphatic that Blefken nodded his agreement.
“Well,” said Cardona, “if he really means what he says, we can find out a lot about him.”
“How? By tracing the cab driver?” asked Blefken.
“No. By waiting for him at your home tonight.”
“You think he’ll be there?”
“We can see.”
“Hm-m-m,” observed Charles Blefken thoughtfully. “To-day is Thursday. I’m not doing much tonight, Joe. I expected to have a bridge game with three other men. Serious bridge, you know. Could you be there?”
“Certainly! But in what capacity?”
“Not as Santa Claus,” said Blefken, smiling, referring to the whiskers. “It wouldn’t be well for you to be in evidence, disguised or not disguised.
“I’ll tell you what! You come early and we’ll find a place to keep you out of sight.”
“Just one point,” objected Cardona. “This fellow Middleton isn’t going to show up if there’s a lot of people at the house. You know that. I can’t picture him walking in the front door.”
“Why not? He doesn’t say anything about a secret meeting in the letter.”
“No; but we can take it for granted that he expects you will be by yourself.”
“I’ll fix that, Joe. You’ve been in my house. There’s a number of rooms on the first floor, you remember. One we call the card room. I’ll be in there with the crowd.
“I’ll tell my man to show Middleton into the lounge room when he comes. It’s across the hall, past the side door. I’ll have you in there, to overhear what Middleton has to say.”
“Great! We’ll try it, anyway.”
CARDONA picked up the letter which he had placed on the desk. He studied the writing once more. Without a word, he tossed the message to Blefken.
Rising, the detective scooped up his whiskered mask, and in a few seconds he again presented the appearance of the old prospector.
There was no need for further discussion. Charles Blefken unlocked the door of the office. He shook hands cordially with his visitor as the disguised detective leaned on his cane.
“Good-by, sir,” declared Blefken, for all listeners to hear. “Good-by, and remember me to your stepson. A great boy, he is. Stop in any time, and tell him to do the same.”
Cardona flung a bewhiskered grin at the prim stenographer as he left the office. Down the corridor he hobbled, still playing the part of the old man. But beneath the scattering wig that adorned his head, the star detective was thinking of more than trivialities.
His mind was still upon that mad message — the strange letter that Charles Blefken had received from Jerry Middleton.
“Tonight!” muttered Cardona, as he waited for the elevator. “Tonight! And unless I miss my guess, Middleton will be there. There’s dynamite behind that note even though I didn’t say so to Blefken!”