THE next morning Doctor George Lukens went to his home. Upon leaving Marchand’s house, he called Harvey Willis and told the young secretary that he intended to return and stay in the old brownstone mansion.
The physician explained that he was about to take a vacation, and that he would like to be present to go over Marchand’s effects — a duty which Willis had expected to perform.
When he reached his own residence, the doctor called the offices of the telephone company. He brought out the card that the stranger had given him and requested that the number be traced. He was told to await a report.
During the interim, Doctor Lukens packed his suitcase. In going through a bureau drawer, he came upon an object that brought back unhappy memories.
It was a gold ring upon which was mounted an Egyptian scarab. It was not an article of great value, and Doctor Lukens had almost forgotten it. The ring had been given to him several months before by Henry Marchand.
“This ring,” the old man had said, “is the only article of jewelry that I have ever worn. I do not want to wear it now. I do not want to deposit it with the gems that belonged to my wife, for it is not a part of that collection.
“Somehow I value this odd ring, and I am afraid to keep it because I might lose it. You never lose anything, George.
“Fear of losing this ring has become a mania with me. If you have it, I know it will be safe. If I never ask for it again, keep it as a memento.”
Doctor Lukens had been well acquainted with his patient’s mental quirks. He had taken the ring and had placed it in this drawer, which he always kept locked.
The physician had no fear of theft or burglary. He had doubted the importance of the ring; in fact, he had believed that Henry Marchand would forget all about it.
Now the scarab ring seemed precious to Doctor Lukens. The ring was a souvenir of his dead friend.
Tears dimmed the physician’s eyes as he examined the ring and looked at the green beetle mounted on the gold.
He glanced at the inside of the ring and noted a series of tiny scratches. He was about to study them more closely when the phone rang. Doctor Lukens slipped the ring on his finger and answered the call.
THE telephone company reported that the number he had requested was a pay-station booth in the Grand Central Station. Doctor Lukens gasped; then he laughed as he hung up the receiver.
A moment later his mirth changed to serious thought. He called another number. A man’s voice answered.
“Barlow,” said the physician, “are you busy this afternoon and this evening?”
“No, sir,” came the reply.
“I have a job for you. Go to the Grand Central Station. Look over the telephone booths — in an indifferent manner, you understand. Find one that bears this number” — the physician referred to the card and gave the number — “and station yourself near at hand. Notify me if you see any one loitering about that booth.
“If the phone rings — about nine o’clock this evening — see who answers it. Call me promptly at Mister Marchand’s home.”
“Very well, sir.”
The physician rubbed his hands in satisfaction. He completed the packing of his suitcase. He felt that he was entering an unusual game, and that new and interesting developments would come. He left his apartment, called a cab, and rode to Marchand’s house.
There he discovered a visitor — Rodney Paget. The suave, immaculately clad clubman was with Harvey Willis in the room where Henry Marchand had died.
The secretary was busy going over the old man’s effects — articles, chiefly, which had been brought from the safe. Paget, his long cigarette holder in his hand, was watching indolently.
“Good morning, doctor,” drawled Paget. “Just dropped in to say hello. Willis told me you were coming today. How are you?”
“Well, thank you,” snapped Lukens. He turned to the secretary. “Willis, I told you not to do this work until I arrived.”
“I was just arranging things, sir,” replied the secretary. “Mister Paget asked me if I had begun, and I told him I was waiting for you. He suggested that I put things in readiness.”
“Obey my orders after this,” retorted Lukens.
There was a pause. Then Paget spoke.
“You are staying here, doctor?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied the physician.
He went to the desk and began examining some papers that had been taken from the safe. Suddenly he wheeled and looked at Paget. The clubman was standing at the left. Lukens acted so quickly that he surprised him.
Paget had been staring at the papers, Lukens thought. The man’s gaze turned hurriedly, but too late to escape the doctor’s notice.
“I must be going,” drawled Paget. “I shall return later, doctor. I thought that you might find something concerning my business with Mister Marchand. Perhaps by this evening—”
“Drop in then, if you wish,” said Lukens brusquely. He watched Paget suspiciously as the man left the room. The physician made no comment to Willis, who was busy at the safe.
The secretary had removed everything from Marchand’s safe and closet. Doctor Lukens was surprised at the amount of work he had accomplished. Every small article had apparently been gone over while Paget had been present.
The doctor set to work to examine Marchand’s effects. He labored slowly and found the job tedious.
There was very little of interest.
OSCAR served dinner at six o’clock, before Doctor Lukens had completed his examination. The serving man requested an evening off, and Lukens granted it.
Immediately after dinner the doctor and the secretary went back to work. The final examination was completed. Willis prepared to replace everything where he had found it. He was interrupted by the doorbell.
Paget, attired in evening clothes, came upstairs with him.
“Good evening, doctor,” Paget said lazily. “Anything of interest to me?”
“Nothing.”
Paget dropped into a chair and gazed carelessly at Willis. The physician sat beside Paget and also watched the secretary as he worked.
Once again Doctor Lukens obeyed the impulse to turn toward Paget. He discovered the visitor looking at the scarab ring on his left hand.
Paget smiled sheepishly.
“Curious ring, doctor,” he said, indicating the object with his hand. “I do not recall seeing you wear it before.”
“It belonged to Henry Marchand,” replied the physician. “He presented it to me some time ago. I came across it to-day in my home.”
The physician had scarcely completed his statement before a suspicion seized him.
Why had Paget noticed the ring? The clubman was not usually observant. At that instant Doctor Lukens suddenly realized that Paget, when he had visited the house in the morning, had been staring at the scarab ring — not at the papers which Lukens had held.
The physician’s suspicion must have been reflected by Paget. The man arose and stretched his arms.
“Must be going,” he drawled. “Society affair tonight. Have to attend them, you know — good business.”
He extended his hand.
“Good-by, doctor,” he added. “May not see you for some time. Guess my business with Mister Marchand is now ended. If anything turns up, notify me.”
Doctor Lukens kept staring at the door through which Rodney Paget had gone. He heard the front door close downstairs. The physician turned to Willis.
“Take a night off,” ordered the physician. “You look pale and weak. It’s not yet nine o’clock. Go and see a movie.”
The secretary seemed to brighten at the suggestion as Lukens waved his hand toward the door.
“I’ll be in at eleven thirty,” promised Willis.
“All right,” laughed Lukens. “I guess Oscar will be back before that. You both like to go to bed early. Run along. I won’t lock the front door.”
Lukens was meditative after the secretary’s departure. He drummed upon the desk with his open hand, and the clatter of the scarab ring caught his attention. He snapped his fingers with a sudden idea.
He referred to the card in his pocket. Using the telephone at the side of the room, he called the number which the mysterious stranger had given him the night before.
“No answer,” he murmured after two minutes had passed. “I hope Barlow is on the job.”
BARLOW was on the job. At that exact time he was watching the phone booth. He heard the ringing of the bell. It ended. Barlow waited a short while; then entered another booth.
Had Barlow been watching the busy refreshment counter across from the phone booth he might have seen one of the white-coated attendants leave his place. Barlow would have suspected nothing in the man’s action, for the attendant passed out of sight behind the partition in back of the counter.
There the attendant dialed a number. Upon receiving a reply, he merely grunted a few unintelligible sounds and hung up the receiver with the air of a man who had obtained a wrong number.
Immediately afterward the attendant was back at the counter, serving a new customer.
The telephone rang in the upstairs room where Doctor Lukens was seated. The physician answered it.
“Barlow?” he said. “Nothing doing there? No one showed up? Thanks. You can drop the job now. It was just an experiment.”
He hung up the receiver.
“A hoax!” was Lukens’s comment. “A hoax — unless Barlow was not discreet and frightened the man away. Yet I can’t understand—”
The telephone rang again.
A whispered voice responded to the physician’s answering word. Doctor Lukens recognized the tones of the mysterious stranger.
“Do you wish to see me?” came the voice.
“Yes,” replied Lukens almost involuntarily. “I have found—” he glanced at the ring on his finger, then hesitated. “I can tell you when I see you. Can you come here now?”
“Immediately.”
“No hurry,” said Lukens suddenly. “Say within an hour.”
He hung up the receiver.
“That was a mistake,” he murmured. “An hour may be too soon. I should have told him to call back. But then, he might have suspected. Well, it’s a case of trusting to luck.”
He picked up the telephone and called police headquarters. He asked to talk to Joe Cardona. The physician uttered an exclamation of satisfaction when he heard the detective’s voice over the wire.
“Ah! Cardona!” he said in a low voice. “This is Doctor Lukens. I am in Henry Marchand’s house. Can you come right away?”
“What’s it about?” asked the detective curiously.
“I don’t know,” replied the physician frankly. “I expect a visitor. Who he is — what he is — I do not know. His purpose may be important. Come at once. The door is unlocked. Move upstairs cautiously, and keep out of sight in the hall.
“I am in the room where Marchand died. If my visitor is here, you will overhear the conversation. If he has not yet arrived, you will see him come in later. I expect him within an hour.”
“Right!”
Lukens hung up the receiver and began to pace the room. Then he seated himself in the chair at the desk and feigned deep thought. He kept his back to the door; he was anxious to learn if he could detect the stranger’s approach.
He picked up the dice and held them on the palm of his right hand. He shook them thoughtfully, then closed his fist over them and gripped the cubes tightly.
The impression that some one was entering the room suddenly dominated the physician’s mind. He fought against it momentarily; then turned quickly in his chair.
With a mad effort he scrambled to his feet. Before him, halfway across the room, stood a man who held a curious revolver. The muzzle was muffled by a silencer. The gun was directed toward the desk.
A cry escaped the physician’s lips. It was a cry of recognition — of sudden understanding. It was the man as much as the gun that alarmed him.
In the fraction of a second the physician realized the situation. Before he could act, he saw a finger press the trigger. With a sighing gasp, Doctor George Lukens collapsed upon the floor!