“GOOD evening, Mr. Chatham.”
The speaker was a clerk in a theatrical ticket office on Broadway. He was addressing a man who had just entered, and who approached the counter with a rather gloomy expression on his face.
The man smiled rather wearily at the greeting.
“Good evening,” he said. “Have you anything good for tomorrow night? I’d like to see ‘Cat’s Paws’ at the Forty-third Street Theater.”
“I can fix it for the fourth row, center,” replied the clerk. “But — er— didn’t you see that show, Mr.
Chatham? I sold you a ticket for it, last week.”
“Yes, I saw it,” replied the man quickly, “and I recommended it to a friend of mine. Promised to get a ticket for him.”
He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and purchased the ticket for “Cat’s Paws.” Along with the money, he held another ticket, and the clerk smiled when he saw it. For he had sold that ticket — for a show tonight — to Chatham, the day before.
The clerk smiled as the man in evening clothes hurried from the office.
“Funny, isn’t it?” he remarked to a companion behind the counter. “That guy Chatham paid a premium price for a ticket to the show at the Embassy, tonight. The first act is half over; yet he comes in here, buying a ticket for another show, on his way to the theater.
“Some birds don’t know what it means to get in before a show starts!”
Doctor Palermo was smiling to himself as he hurried toward the Embassy Theater. He had tested the character of Horace Chatham, and it had stood the test.
The clerk at the ticket office would remember that Chatham had stopped in just before nine o’clock.
Buying a ticket for “Cat’s Paws” had been a lucky stroke. The clerk would remember that, also.
Entering the lobby of the Embassy, Palermo had another opportunity to make use of his false identity.
The assistant manager, standing by the ticket box, recognized him as Chatham, and nodded in greeting.
Palermo returned the nod, and entered the theater. There he watched the show, and remained until the final curtain.
After the show he called a cab, and directed the driver to take him to the Argo Club.
IN the darkness of the cab Palermo temporarily dropped his impersonation of Horace Chatham. Some plan was passing through his mind, and his own peculiar smile appeared upon his lips.
“Ten minutes at the club,” he said softly. “That will be sufficient. I can call Wilkinson from there. He will surely be at home. If he is not, I can wait a little while.”
When the cab stopped at the Argo Club, the man who stepped forth was Horace Chatham to perfection.
The doorman spoke in greeting as he came through the door, and Palermo exchanged nods with two club members who were sitting in the hallway.
Then he strolled through the lounge and the library, staring straight ahead, as though in deep thought.
He was sure that more than one of Chatham’s friends observed him; but he did not tarry long enough to become engaged in conversation with any one. Instead, he went to a telephone in the corner of the hallway, and called a number.
“Mr. Wilkinson?” he asked. It was Horace Chatham’s voice that came from Palermo’s lips. “Ah! Glad you are in. Must see you tonight. Very important.
“What’s that? Good! I’m at the Argo Club. I’ll come up to see you right away, Wilkinson.”
There was a cigar stand by the telephone. Palermo noted that the clerk had overheard the conversation.
He purchased three cigars — of a brand that he had found in Chatham’s pocket — then pulled a notebook from his pocket, and pretended to read an address from a page.
“Seth Wilkinson, Grampian Apartments,” he mumbled.
Outside the Argo Club, Palermo called for a cab, and told the doorman his destination. The attendant repeated the name of the Grampian Apartments to the taxi driver.
Half an hour later, Doctor Palermo arrived at the uptown residence of Seth Wilkinson, and was ushered into the living room of a pretentious apartment. He knew the place perfectly. He had been there before, but never in the character of Horace Chatham.
The masquerader suppressed a smile, as he waited for Wilkinson’s appearance. Wilkinson knew both Horace Chatham and Albert Palermo. This was to be a crucial test.
“Hello, Chatham.”
Seth Wilkinson had entered the room. Palermo arose and shook hands. Then he resumed his seat, while Wilkinson took a chair close by, and looked at him as though expecting a statement.
Palermo did not hesitate. He played the part of Chatham to perfection when he spoke.
“Wilkinson,” he said earnestly, “I have a favor to ask you. It concerns a man who is a mutual friend of ours — Doctor Albert Palermo.”
Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. Something in his sharp gaze caused the speaker to stop.
It was plain that Wilkinson was surprised to learn that Chatham knew Palermo; and it was also apparent that Wilkinson was not pleased.
“So you know Palermo?”
As Seth Wilkinson pronounced these words, he arose from his chair, walked across the room, and picked up a pipe that lay on the table. He stuffed the pipe with tobacco, and stared thoughtfully at the far wall of the room.
Then he turned savagely toward the man sitting in the chair.
“I’ll tell you what I think of Palermo!” he growled. “If I had that four-flusher here in this room, I’d give him a lacing that he would never forget! You can tell him that for me, Chatham!”
WILKINSON’S threat was not an idle one. He was a huge, powerful man, with a firm-set jaw that characterized a fighter.
Yet Palermo was unperturbed. Confident beneath his disguise, he simply looked mildly surprised at Wilkinson’s outburst.
“Let me tell you something about Palermo!” Wilkinson stopped his discourse long enough to light his pipe. “He’s a smooth rascal, who pretends to be a man of importance. I wouldn’t trust him for five minutes, and he knows it!”
“But you trusted him once,” objected Palermo, mimicking Chatham’s voice. “He told me so himself. In fact—”
“That was before he tried to swindle me,” interrupted Wilkinson bitterly.
“Listen, Chatham. I’ll wager that of all the people Palermo knows— and he is well acquainted among persons of wealth — I am the only one who understands his game. More than that — I’m the only one who can make trouble for him; and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”
“Why?”
“Chatham,” said Wilkinson, sitting in a chair, and twisting his pipe between his hands, “I’ve kept silent on this whole affair. I don’t know why you’ve come here, but since I know you well, I’m sure that Palermo is trying to dupe you, also.
“Six months ago, Palermo dropped in to see me. He told me about some wonderful experiments that he was conducting in his laboratory.
“I believed his story, and when he said that he needed thirty thousand dollars, I agreed to give it to him.
In fact, I was all ready to pay him the money with no security whatever, for I believed in him.
“But I suddenly came to my senses, and proposed that he sign a note for that amount. He tried to dodge the issue, but when I became suspicious, he suddenly acted in a very agreeable manner. He signed the note, and took the money.”
“Exactly what he told me,” interposed the man disguised as Horace Chatham.
“Yes,” retorted Wilkinson grimly, “but I’ll wager that he didn’t tell you anything further, did he?”
“No, he did not.”
Wilkinson laughed.
“I saw Palermo quite frequently after that. He was always talking of his great experiments — that they were coming well, but slowly. He was working up to what he wanted — an extension on the note.
“About two weeks ago, he dropped in to see me. He showed me some bonds on Consolidated Airways.
He suggested that I take them as security instead of his note.
“I looked over the bonds. They were better security, but I followed a hunch. I told Palermo to wait until the end of the six-month period; then I would take the bonds.
“That satisfied him, and he left.
“But I noticed something, Chatham. I remembered the numbers on two of the bonds. The next day, I began an investigation. I located the very same bonds that Palermo had shown me.
“I learned, positively, that his bonds were counterfeits!”
Wilkinson paused. “That revealed Palermo’s game. He thought that, with the bonds in my possession, I would grant him another six months at least — for the bonds were worth much more than the money he owed me.
“But suppose that he had never chosen to pay his debt? I would have been left with nothing but the fake bonds in my possession.”
“Perhaps you were mistaken,” objected Palermo.
“Not a chance of it,” replied Wilkinson. “I still have Palermo’s note. When it comes due — next week — I’m going to demand payment.
“If Palermo is short on cash, he will never cease to regret it.”
“This sounds incredible, Wilkinson,” objected the visitor. “Doctor Palermo told me of this matter, although he did not mention the matter of the bonds.
“He said that you held his note for thirty thousand dollars, but he did not think that you would renew it.
So I agreed to give you my note in its place in order to—”
“I wouldn’t accept it, Chatham.”
“Isn’t my security good?” There was a note of anger in the speaker’s voice.
“It’s too good,” replied Wilkinson tersely. “I don’t want your note. I want Palermo’s!”
“Suppose he doesn’t made it good?”
“That’s exactly what I expect.”
SILENCE followed. Wilkinson smiled as he studied his visitor. He suspected that Chatham was preparing a suggestion. This proved correct.
“Wilkinson,” said the disguised Doctor Palermo, “this is a great surprise to me. Yet I still doubt the correctness of your conclusions.
“If you are right, it means as much to me as to you; for, like yourself, I have trusted Doctor Palermo. If he is a faker — well, I should like to aid you in exposing him!”
“How can you do that?”
“By pretending to follow his scheme. By giving you my note, and holding Palermo’s in return.”
“That will give him time to raise the money.”
“I don’t think so. Does he suspect that you discovered anything wrong with the bonds he showed you?”
“No.”
“Very well, then. He will try to dupe me as he duped you; but I shall be on guard. I promise to notify you as soon as Palermo tries something. We will be able to catch him with the goods—”
“Capital!” exclaimed Wilkinson.
He rose and waved his hand to his visitor.
“Come into my study,” he said. “You can make out your note there; and I’ll give you Palermo’s. But hold onto it, at all costs.”
The two men entered a little room that adjoined the living room. Seth Wilkinson unlocked a desk drawer, and brought out a metal box.
Before he opened the box, he handed a blank form for a promissory note to his companion. Palermo filled it out; then, noticing that Wilkinson was busy unlocking the box, the disguised physician drew a card from his pocket. The card bore Horace Chatham’s signature.
Concealing the card within his left hand, Palermo copied the signature with remarkable skill as he signed the note. Then he pocketed the card, just as Wilkinson turned toward him.
“You have dated it tomorrow,” said Wilkinson, examining the note that bore the signature of Horace Chatham.
“No,” came the reply. “It is after midnight. The date is correct.”
Wilkinson smiled as he glanced at the clock on the desk. The hands registered a few minutes past twelve.
“Here is Palermo’s note,” he said.
“Thanks.”
WILKINSON was seated at the desk, before the metal box. That one word suddenly aroused him. He was thoughtful as he dropped the note with Chatham’s signature into the box.
He seemed to recall the voice that had spoken that word. He remembered a night, nearly six months before, when he had given thirty thousand dollars to Doctor Albert Palermo.
“Thanks.”
The word reechoed in Wilkinson’s brain. It was not Horace Chatham who had spoken it. The word had come from Doctor Palermo!
Wilkinson turned his head, and gazed shrewdly at the man beside him.
Doctor Palermo had forgotten the part that he was playing — had forgotten it in his triumph. Now Wilkinson’s eyes confirmed the suspicion that had come to his ears.
On the face of Horace Chatham he saw an expression that did not belong there. It was the characteristic smile of Doctor Albert Palermo — that smile that became ugly at the corners of the man’s mouth.
Seth Wilkinson now recognized his companion. In a few short seconds, the masquerader had destroyed the illusion which he had so artfully created.
“Palermo!”
Wilkinson began to rise as he uttered the name of recognition. His hands were on the table; he was pushing back his chair. Yet he was acting slowly, as a man waking from a daze.
Palermo’s response was instantaneous. He had been on guard throughout his interview with Wilkinson, constantly expecting an emergency such as this one.
He moved to action with a speed that gave the lethargic Wilkinson no opportunity to defend himself.
From beneath his coat, Palermo whipped out a long, thin-bladed knife. With a swift motion, he buried the steel shaft in the other man’s body.
A short cry came from Seth Wilkinson; then the huge man fell sidewise, and his body struck the desk. It hung there for a moment; then toppled to the floor.
The evil smile still remained on the corners of Palermo’s mouth. The murderer stood there, admiring the work that he had done.
Then, with calm indifference, he picked up the note that Wilkinson had given him, and placed it in his pocket. Stooping over the body, Palermo withdrew the knife, carefully covering it with his handkerchief before he put it in his pocket. Then he went to the door, opened it, and entered the living room.
Just as he closed the door behind him, a man appeared at the other side of the room. It was Wilkinson’s servingman.
The smile vanished from Palermo’s lips. Once again, he was the perfect duplicate of Horace Chatham.
“Did you call me, sir?” questioned the man. “That is, did Mr. Wilkinson call me?”
“Yes,” came the calm reply. “He simply wanted you to get my hat and coat, and show me to the elevator.
He was busy writing, so I left him.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man brought the coat and hat, and helped Palermo put them on. Then he led the way to the elevator, and waited there until the guest had left.
In the lobby of the Grampian Apartments, Palermo instructed the doorman to call a taxi. He acted the part of Horace Chatham, and simulated great nervousness and impatience. He stumbled as he entered the cab, and gave the destination, “Grand Central Station,” in a voice loud enough for the doorman to hear.
Shortly afterward, the form of Horace Chatham mingled with the crowd in the concourse of New York’s great railway terminal. The man disappeared unobtrusively toward the Lexington Avenue entrance. He walked a few blocks, then hailed another cab from the darkness.
When the vehicle drew up at the Marimba Apartments, it was Doctor Palermo, hat and coat upon his arm, who stepped to the curb.
There was no hallman on duty after midnight. The former elevator operator was gone; his shift had ended at twelve. Thus the attendant who took Doctor Palermo to the fortieth floor was not surprised to see the physician. He did not know that no one had seen Doctor Palermo leave the building that evening.