THE murder of Seth Wilkinson was front-page news. From Times to tabloids, the event was retold to the readers of the daily journals. Involving the name of Horace Chatham, a man as socially prominent and as wealthy as Wilkinson, the story was of double interest to New Yorkers.
The police were sure that they knew the murderer. The one problem was to find him.
Seth Wilkinson’s manservant had undergone a grueling quiz, and his account had remained the same. Ten minutes after Chatham had left Wilkinson’s apartment, the man had found the body of his master.
Only Chatham had entered the apartment that night. No one else could have come or gone, without the servant observing him.
The hallman of the Grampian Apartments corroborated this testimony.
He had noticed the nervousness exhibited by Horace Chatham. He told how the clubman had stumbled when he entered the cab. He had felt sure then that something was wrong.
When Wilkinson’s servant had spread the alarm, a short while later, the hallman had recalled the incidents of Chatham’s departure.
The police had discovered the motive for the murder. The note signed by Horace Chatham was sufficient evidence that some business transaction had led to the killing.
In the reconstruction of the crime, the scene in Seth Wilkinson’s study was fully visualized; and the terse tabloid writers made good use of it.
Chatham, they believed, had given Wilkinson his note for thirty thousand dollars. Perhaps it was to pay a gambling debt, for both men were inveterate gamesters. Whatever the purpose of the transaction, it must have led to a sudden quarrel; and in the fraction of a minute, Horace Chatham had killed his friend.
While the police had lost all traces of Chatham after the cab driver had deposited him at the Grand Central Station, they had been quite fortunate in discovering his actions prior to the time of the murder.
Horace Chatham lived uptown, in an old brownstone residence that had been the home of his family for many years. His unmarried sister and two servants were the only other occupants of the house. They testified that he had left there at noon.
He had lunched at the Argo Club, had remained there most of the afternoon, and had eaten an early dinner. He had been seen at a theatrical ticket agency, and at the Forty-third Street Theater.
After that, he had returned to the Argo Club; and had been overheard telephoning to Seth Wilkinson.
The only break in the chain of circumstances lay during the interval between Chatham’s dinner at the Argo Club and his arrival at the ticket agency. This period was not accounted for until late in the afternoon following the murder.
Then the police received a phone call from Doctor Albert Palermo, of the Marimba Apartments. The physician informed them that Horace Chatham had called upon him before eight o’clock, and had left his apartment for the theater.
A DETECTIVE from headquarters called upon Doctor Palermo, and found the physician quite willing to supply the missing link in Chatham’s actions.
Doctor Palermo was known as a nerve specialist. He testified that Horace Chatham had come to consult him. He added that, while it might ordinarily be unethical for a doctor to reveal his patient’s troubles, he was under no restraint in the case of Horace Chatham.
The clubman had simply stated that he was worried over financial problems, and had not stated their nature. Doctor Palermo had merely advised him to think of other matters for a few days; then, if his problems still troubled him, to return. Palermo had been under the impression that Chatham was exaggerating his situation.
It was not an unusual case; many of Palermo’s patients had temporary problems that involved money, and he had found that wealthy persons invariably magnified their financial difficulties.
The detective who visited the Marimba Apartments also interviewed the elevator operator and the hallman. From them he ascertained almost the exact time of Chatham’s arrival and departure.
Thus it was definitely understood that Horace Chatham had been ill at ease during the day before the murder; that he had worried about money; and that all had led up to his encounter with Seth Wilkinson.
The question that now occupied the front pages was that of Horace Chatham’s actions following the murder.
Had Wilkinson given him thirty thousand dollars in cash? Wilkinson was known to have kept that much money in his apartment. Perhaps the sight of the money had maddened Chatham.
Yet the police could discover nothing to prove that Chatham was in financial straits. His affairs were involved, it was true; but he had bank accounts that totaled considerably more than thirty thousand dollars.
The solution of the mystery obviously lay in tracing Chatham; in bringing him back to New York.
It was believed that he had fled to Canada. The police of Canadian cities were given full information.
A man with thirty thousand dollars in his possession could travel anywhere, yet New York police were confident that Chatham would soon be discovered, for he possessed none of the attributes found in the usual criminal, and would, sooner or later, fail in his efforts to keep his identity unknown.
Certain newspapers commented upon the fact that there were now three names of prominent New Yorkers involved in affairs of homicide.
Less than two months before, Lloyd Harriman had committed suicide in Florida. Like Seth Wilkinson, Harriman had been a friend of Horace Chatham. One tabloid screamed this fact in lurid headlines.
Had Horace Chatham been concerned in Lloyd Harriman’s death? Had Harriman committed suicide, or—
The question stopped there, but the inference was plain.
Perhaps Chatham had killed Harriman also. Braved by one successful murder, he would have possessed the nerve to kill another man.
But even the tabloid restrained from making further imputation.
THREE days had gone by, without a trace of Horace Chatham. Yet the hue and cry still persisted.
Perhaps the hectic columns that told of the Wilkinson murder were becoming tiresome to the public at large; but to one man, they were most enjoyable. This individual sat at his desk in a small office on Forty-eighth Street, with piles of newspaper clippings in front of him, and smiled as he ran his scissors through the pages of the afternoon newspapers.
The reversed letters on the glass door of the office proclaimed his name and occupation: CLYDE BURKE
Clipping Bureau
Burke finished his search through the newspapers, then sat back in his chair, and lighted his pipe. He seemed well contented with life.
Burke was a man not yet thirty years of age, but his firm, well-molded features indicated long experience.
He was light in weight, almost frail in build; yet his eyes and his face showed a determination found in men who seek action.
One would have supposed that Burke, through keen imagination, found an outlet for his natural desire of action by visualizing the events that he read as he clipped newspapers.
Even now, it was evident that he was putting together the items of the Wilkinson murder; that his keen mind was formulating firm opinions. In fact, he was so engrossed with thought that he did not see the door of the office open.
He started suddenly as he realized that another man was in the room. When he recognized his visitor, he scrambled to his feet with an exclamation of surprise.
“Mr. Clarendon!”
The man whom Burke addressed stood silent and smiling. Yet his smile was as strange as his appearance.
He was tall and wiry, with slightly stooped shoulders. His white hands had long, slender fingers, with pointed nails. His face was pale, and almost masklike.
It was the solemnity of the face that made the smile so peculiar; for like the other features, the smile seemed part of a chiseled countenance.
The man bore an expression that would have resembled death, but for the remarkable light that shone in his deep, piercing eyes. They were like living coals.
He glanced at the piles of clippings, and his eyes seemed to flash approval. Burke grinned.
“They’re all yours, Mr. Clarendon,” he said. “I was just waiting for word from you. All ready to send.”
“They include the back dates?”
“Yes. I went through the morgue at the Daily Sphere, and found everything that concerned Harriman, as well as Wilkinson and Chatham.
“I haven’t missed anything. I’ve been extremely careful in their arrangement. I’ve done a lot of work on this case; still, I’m being overpaid.”
“Forget that.”
“I can’t forget it, Mr. Clarendon.” Burke’s eyes expressed both appreciation and admiration. “I’ve been waiting to see you, always hoping that I could tell you how grateful I am for all you’ve done for me.”
“Just what have I done for you?” The same mirthless smile remained on Clarendon’s face.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Clarendon,” said Burke earnestly. “When I lost my job, the time the Evening Clarion was taken over by the Daily Sphere, I was down and out. I didn’t know where to turn. I was a good police reporter, but there were too many of them in New York.
“When you called me up, and told me you would pay the expenses for starting this clipping bureau, I figured that it would just about make me a living.
“Your second offer — to pay me a salary for sending you any clippings that you might require — meant a lot to me. You said that you would fix the figure.
“Since then, you have been sending me a hundred dollars every week. If I had billed you as a customer, you would have received the same clippings for one-tenth the amount you pay. No wonder I’m grateful.
“Yet I don’t feel right about it. I actually owe you more than two thousand dollars.”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
“I don’t know,” came the frank reply.
“BURKE”—George Clarendon’s voice was firm and expressive—”I have paid you well because I wanted intelligent cooperation. You have done your part.
“This is only the second time that you have met me. I want your honest opinion. Do you trust me?”
“Positively!”
“Would you work for me, faithfully, without question?”
“I would.”
“Keeping all our dealings confidential—”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I can tell you my real purpose in setting you up in business. Burke, I am a criminologist. I have my own way of dealing with crime. Those who work for me must always obey me implicitly—”
Burke nodded.
“- even though they may not understand my motives.” Clarendon’s voice was firm, almost severe. “Even though they may face danger!”
A look of enjoyment appeared upon Burke’s visage. He sensed adventure. The smile remained upon George Clarendon’s lips, as though the man with the masklike face knew what was passing in Burke’s mind.
It was the sealing of a bargain. From that moment, the ex-reporter was the henchman of George Clarendon. For a full minute the men looked at each other with mutual understanding. Then Clarendon pointed to the clippings on the desk.
“You have read them thoroughly?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of the case?”
“It’s an unusual one,” said Burke, thoughtfully puffing at his pipe. “I’ve gone into it carefully, Mr.
Clarendon. It seems obvious that Chatham murdered Wilkinson, yet—”
“Yet you would like to reject the obvious.”
“Exactly so.”
“Why?”
“Because the motive doesn’t seem sufficient.”
George Clarendon nodded. Thus encouraged, Burke went into his story.
“Chatham must have had money,” he said. “Yet he borrowed thirty thousand dollars from Wilkinson. His note was accepted. Wilkinson put it away.
“Six months, Chatham would have to pay that note; yet he murdered Wilkinson on the spot. It seemed a foolish thing to do. He could have waited a while, if murder was necessary.”
“But suppose a sudden quarrel occurred?”
“That’s just it. Chatham showed great presence of mind when he encountered Wilkinson’s servant, outside the room. The testimony showed that he came out quietly, without haste.
“Therefore, I am wondering why Chatham didn’t take time to open the metal box and take out the note he gave to Wilkinson.”
“Have you mentioned that to any one, Burke?”
“No, sir. You impressed me with the fact that I should say nothing regarding any case on which you desired clippings. That was a reasonable request, and I have abided by it.”
“Aside from speculation, Burke,” said Clarendon, “what have you found that has not been widely circulated in the news accounts?”
IN answer, Burke reached for the pile of clippings. He drew out one — evidently an item taken from an old newspaper. He read it aloud.
“Sapphire changes hands. Lloyd Harriman, wealthy New York clubman, is now the owner of the famous purple sapphire. He purchased it at auction, for eighteen hundred dollars. Jewel is alleged to be jinxed, but Harriman says, ‘Blah!’”
“Evidently a tabloid account, with a photograph above it.”
“That’s right,” said Burke, grinning. He displayed the clipping, which showed Lloyd Harriman, garbed in white flannels, holding the gem before the eyes of two admiring young ladies.
“What of the purple sapphire?” questioned Clarendon.
“It’s jinxed all right,” replied Burke, referring to another pile of clippings. “Sounds like the same old stuff, though.
“Belonged to King Alphonse of Antaria, at the time he was bounced from the throne. Was sold to an English noblewoman, who was killed in an airplane accident.
“You know how those stories circulate. But the fact remains that Lloyd Harriman committed suicide several months after he acquired it.”
“What about Harriman’s suicide?”
“Well, there’s a question in my mind about that. I’ve got clippings on it.
“It looked like a suicide, right enough, but here’s a new theory suggested by a tabloid.
“Since Horace Chatham murdered Seth Wilkinson, maybe he knows something about Lloyd Harriman’s death. It’s a wild idea, but—” Burke paused in thought, then added “- but Chatham was in Florida when Harriman died; and I can’t find any trace of that purple sapphire after the time Harriman bought it.”
“So you suppose—”
“I don’t know what to suppose,” admitted Burke frankly. “I’m no detective, although when I was a police reporter I knew as much as any dick on the force. I don’t swallow this jinx stuff, as a rule; yet sometimes it seems to work.
“But let’s suppose that Chatham got hold of that sapphire. Then something would have happened to him.
Instead, the evidence shows that he killed Wilkinson.”
“Burke,” interposed Clarendon, “your ideas are interesting, even though they are scarcely tangible. There is a definite angle to this situation, however.
“We know that Harriman purchased the sapphire at a fraction of its value. Therefore it is possible that he was pursued, not by a fanciful danger, but by living men who sought to get the jewel—”
“Wait!” exclaimed Burke. He pulled a clipping from the pile that he had previously consulted, and showed it to Clarendon:
Harriman was in a mix-up, not long after he bought the sapphire. He was held up on a road in Florida.
Some bandits searched him, and took fifty dollars and his watch. He didn’t have much money with him that night.
“Keep those clippings, Burke,” Clarendon said, returning the slip. “We may find a connection there. But in the meantime, let us consider this case of Chatham’s — and the murder of Seth Wilkinson. Your point is well chosen; that the motive was not sufficient for Chatham to kill Wilkinson. We also have the question of the note.
“Why did Chatham leave it there?”
“I don’t know,” confessed Burke.
“Have you seen the note?”
“I haven’t been out of the office. The police have the note, all right. They’re holding it as evidence—”
“You know them at headquarters — through your former connection with the Clarion?”
“I know all of them.”
“Come along then.” George Clarendon rose from his chair. Clyde Burke followed, and a few minutes later the two men were riding in a cab to police headquarters.
“The police have two letters from Chatham to Wilkinson,” Burke mentioned as they traveled along Broadway. “Those and the note are being held. I think we can get a look at them.”
CLARENDON nodded, but said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought. He remained silent until they arrived at headquarters.
Burke led the way into the building. He inquired for Detective Steve Lang, and when the man appeared, Burke introduced him to George Clarendon.
“Whatcha doing now, Clyde?” the detective asked Burke.
“Newspaper correspondent,” replied the ex-reporter tersely. “Thought I might be able to send out some dope on this Wilkinson murder. Say! Could you let me see that note and those letters that Chatham wrote—”
“Can’t let you see the originals,” replied Lang, “but we’ve got photostats. All the police reporters have seen them. You’re one of the crowd. You can have a look at them.”
He conducted the two men into the office, and produced the photostats.
He pointed out the fact that Horace Chatham’s note was dated on the twenty-third, indicating that it might have been written after midnight. He also made a brief comparison between the signatures on the letters and that on the note.
Burke passed the photostats to George Clarendon. The latter looked at them, nodded, and returned them. He was evidently satisfied.
“Thanks, Steve,” said Burke. “I just wanted to make sure about the letters. The newspapers reported them correctly; just a couple of friendly letters written by Chatham when he was in Florida.”
“That’s all,” replied the detective. “They don’t mean nothing, except that the two guys corresponded a bit.”
Clarendon and Burke rode back uptown.
“I’ll drop you at your office,” said Clarendon. “Keep on this job until you hear from me again.”
“What did you think of the evidence?” questioned Burke.
“Two letters and a promissory note,” replied Clarendon thoughtfully.
“Both written by Horace Chatham.”
“Burke,” said Clarendon thoughtfully, “what would you do if you were on the detective force, and in possession of those documents?”
“I’d do just as the detectives have done. Consider the promissory note as a business transaction between Chatham and Wilkinson, the letters, with the same signature, as evidence of friendship between the two men.”
“You would not go further?”
“I don’t believe so. It is obvious that Chatham wrote to Wilkinson, and later gave him the note. I only wonder why Chatham left the note there after the murder.”
The cab stopped in front of the building where Burke’s office was located. Clarendon placed his hand on the other man’s arm, just as Burke was about to leave the taxi.
“One moment, Burke,” Clarendon spoke in a low voice. “You remember that you said you would like to reject the obvious?”
“Yes.”
“Yet you regard it as obvious that Chatham wrote both the letters and the promissory note. You believe that fact, just as the police believe it.
“They looked at the signatures just to check up — and I saw you do the same.
“You were interested in the contents of the letters and the amount of the note. But I was interested in the signatures alone. Thus I learned—”
Clarendon paused and looked steadily at Burke. The ex-reporter had opened the door of the cab, and had one foot on the step. But now he hesitated in astonishment, as something began to dawn upon him.
“What I learned must be kept secret by you and myself,” said Clarendon. “Both the letters and the note bore the same signature— yet there were minute differences between the signature on the note and those on the letters. Therefore I believe—”
“What?” gasped Burke.
“That the note signed by Horace Chatham was a forgery!”
With his subtle smile, George Clarendon gently urged his companion to the street. Clyde Burke stood openmouthed as the door of the cab closed.
Then, just as the taxi started up the street, a sound came from within the vehicle. It was a low, weird laugh — a laugh that was both mocking and triumphant!
Clyde Burke watched the cab as it lost itself amid the passing traffic. With eyes half-closed, he imagined that he could still see the masklike face of his mysterious employer, and through his brain reechoed the sound of that weird, sinister laugh!