IT was ten o’clock in the evening. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since Harry Vincent had started in pursuit of Rodney Paget. Twelve hours had gone by since the gowned inquisitor had visited his prisoner in the lonely corridor.
These events were unknown to the man who sat contentedly in Wilbur Blake’s library.
Herbert entered.
“Otto is ready, sir,” he said. “Do you wish him to take the sedan or the speedster to the station?”
“The speedster;” replied the man who looked like Blake. “Only Mister Michaels will be there. Mister Barton is bringing Mister Fanchon with him.
“But there is no hurry yet. The train doesn’t come in until eleven. Tell Otto to have the speedster in the drive. When Mister Barton and Mister Fanchon arrive, notify me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The butler did not go. He stood uneasily as though he wished to say something. His master looked at him. The eyebrows narrowed in the characteristic action of Wilbur Blake.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing much, sir. I–I was just wondering about last night, sir.”
“You spoke to me about that this morning,” said Blake. “You asked me if I had come downstairs about two o’clock, and I told you I had. I went into the kitchen to get something to eat.”
“Yes, sir. But did you come into this room, sir?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you remember, sir, that you dropped a glass last night? Over there in the corner, sir?”
“Yes. You started to pick up the broken pieces. I told you to let them go until morning. I haven’t been in the room until just now. I see that you have obeyed my instructions.”
“Yes, sir. But I forgot about it until half an hour ago. Then I remembered, sir. I came in here and I was quite surprised, Mister Blake.”
“Why?”
“There was a large piece of glass, sir” — Herbert made a motion with one finger and thumb to illustrate — “and I was sure about it, sir, because I saw it last night. It was nearly midnight, sir, you will remember — and you walked out while I was about to gather up the pieces of glass.”
“Well?” questioned Blake impatiently.
“There was no large piece this evening, sir,” explained the butler. “Only small fragments.”
“Which means—”
“That some one must have stepped upon the large piece, sir, in the dark.”
“You’re quite a detective, Herbert,” laughed Blake. Then suddenly his countenance changed.
“Are you sure that none of the servants came in here?” His demand was accompanied by the motion of his eyebrows.
“I am positive, sir,” declared Herbert. “You remember, sir, that you told me not to disturb your important correspondence. So I thought, sir—”
“You are right, Herbert. If some one was in here, I should know about it. You can leave now. I’ll look over everything.”
ALONE, Blake became suddenly active. His face wore a slightly worried expression as he studied a pile of letters and envelopes that lay upon the desk.
Satisfied that all were there, he went back to the easy-chair. He lighted a cigar and scowled at the smoke as he puffed away.
The butler reappeared.
“Mister Michaels is here, sir,” he said.
“Already?” Blake appeared surprised. “He wasn’t coming in until eleven o’clock.”
“He took an earlier train, sir. I believe he wants to be back in New York by twelve—”
“Tell him to come in, Herbert. Have Otto keep the car ready. Tell him to stay in it. And by the way, Herbert” — Blake’s tone assumed a feigned indifference — “I should have told the watchman to be here before eleven tonight. There may be prowlers around. So tell Otto to be alert.”
Herbert ushered a tall man into the room, a few minutes later. The visitor was about fifty years of age. He carried himself with dignity and his eyes were quizzical as they eyed the form of Wilbur Blake.
“Mister Michaels, sir,” announced Herbert.
“Ah!” exclaimed Blake, rising to greet the newcomer. “Welcome. The others are not here yet. Sit down. Will you have a drink? Two glasses, Herbert.”
“Quite some time since I have seen you,” observed Blake as the two men faced each other from comfortable chairs. Herbert had brought the glasses and had left the room.
“Quite a while,” commented Michaels.
“Sorry to bring you all the way from Chicago,” continued Blake. “But it was necessary, in this matter.”
“Necessary, yes,” replied the visitor. “But even now, Blake, I am not quite convinced that you are doing wisely.”
“Why? Your letter said—”
“My letter was not final. I knew that I would be present here tonight. That would enable me to discuss the matter before it was concluded. I have been thinking about it all the way from Chicago. Your action does not seem in accordance with your usual policy.”
“Why not?”
“You are disposing of your interests in the Calcimine Company at a sacrifice.”
“A sacrifice?” laughed Blake. “Two and a half millions outright? You call that a sacrifice?”
“It is worth more than that!”
“Potentially, perhaps.”
“Actually!” Michaels’ voice was serious. “Blake, I can offer you three millions, three months from now. Why don’t you hold on?”
“I would rather not delay,” replied Blake.
“I can guarantee it!” declared Michaels, emphatically. “You know what that means! You do not need the money now. Hold on!”
Blake shook his head.
“You are foolish, Blake,” said Michaels. He stopped as Herbert entered the room. The butler spoke to his master in a peculiar tone.
“Some one on the telephone, sir,” he said. “It is important.”
“Who is it?” demanded Blake.
“I do not know, sir,” stammered the butler. He looked significantly at his master. “You must answer it, sir. It is very important.”
BLAKE arose and left the room. He returned three minutes later. There was a slight scowl on his face; his expression changed to a slight smile as he saw his visitor standing in the center of the room. Blake’s right hand slipped inside his pocket.
“Mister Michaels,” he said, “I have an unusual question to ask you. It has been some time since I saw you. I should remember you well. But I have a bad memory at times. Would you mind telling me this: are you James Michaels of Chicago?”
The visitor looked firmly at his questioner. His eyes were steady and unflinching.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said, in a voice that bore a strange, accusing menace. “Are you Wilbur Blake of New York?”
Blake’s lips became firm. He stepped forward and placed the knuckles of his left hand upon a table that stood between himself and Michaels. His eyebrows narrowed and he looked sharply at the man who had questioned him.
“I have just received a telephone call,” Blake’s voice came terse and emphatic. “A man who says he is James Michaels states that he is in New York; that he missed the train arriving here at eleven o’clock, and that he is coming by cab.
“If he is not an impostor, you are! Let me ask you again — are you James Michaels?”
“No!”
“I thought not.” Blake laughed harshly. “The impostor would be the one who would come first.
“What is your purpose here? Why are you representing yourself to be James Michaels?”
“Why are you pretending to be Wilbur Blake?”
The millionaire ignored the question. He continued to glare at the other man, as though deliberating the best course to follow. Of the two, the false Michaels was more calm, even though he was in the other’s home.
“Your name is not Blake,” the visitor said coldly. “It happens to be Dodge. Your friend” — there was a sarcastic tone — “Rodney Paget unwisely let out that fact when he visited you in a house near Lexington Avenue.
“At that time I did not hear enough to form a complete supposition. Later, I met the manager of the Goliath Hotel. He recalled that Wilbur Blake had once asked him to cash a check and that he had called upon Rodney Paget to identify Blake. Paget had gone away with Blake, saying that he would cash the check for him.”
The words brought a touch of nervousness to the listener. Blake still kept his right hand in his coat pocket. He raised his left hand and nervously twisted the tip of his waxed moustache.
“While Paget was visiting here,” continued the accusing voice, “Wilbur Blake went out one night, alone. He went as far as the garage. There, something happened to him.
“He was overpowered and carried away in his own car. His captors transferred him to another automobile. The man who watched this— namely myself — saw another person enter Blake’s car and return to this house.
“The person who took Blake’s place was — yourself!”
Despite these revelations, the listening man became more calm. He stared at his accuser and said nothing.
“You have one course now,” said his visitor. “Refuse to go through with this business transaction. Then leave this place. Now, before your guests arrive, tell me where Wilbur Blake is.”
“I do not know,” came the sullen reply.
The questioner stared firmly. His sharp eyes, gleaming with a strange light, seemed to detect that Dodge was speaking truly.
“Does Paget know?” he asked.
“Perhaps. I do not know.”
THE questioner waited. He watched the false Blake closely, as though expecting the man to betray himself by some action. Then, suddenly, the tenseness was broken.
“You are an impostor!” cried Blake. “You admit it. You have threatened me!”
He leaped forward as he spoke. His hand came from his pocket, carrying an automatic revolver. His finger was on the trigger as he raised the weapon.
Michaels reached forward and caught his wrist in a steel-like grip. Simultaneously, the door burst open and Otto dashed in, carrying a revolver. Behind him came Herbert.
“Shoot him, Otto!” exclaimed Blake. “He’s trying to kill me. Shoot! Quick!”
Before the chauffeur could obey, Michaels, with amazing strength, pulled Blake toward him. He was shielded momentarily by the other man’s body. They struggled fiercely. Blake’s gun fell to the floor.
“Help me!” called Blake, as his head turned toward the two servants. “This is the thief who entered this house last night—”
His sentence was interrupted by the overpowering grasp of his foe. Blake saw Otto holding his revolver in readiness. Herbert was standing open-mouthed, wondering what to do.
Michaels had divined Blake’s purpose. There was only one safe course for Blake to follow. He had precipitated the attack with the definite goal of killing Michaels.
Both Otto and Herbert would be witnesses in Blake’s behalf. The accidental killing of a self-confessed impostor could be explained to the police. The false Michaels, dead, would be a lesser menace than alive.
Otto’s arrival had been most opportune for the masquerading Blake. Otto was ready to do his bidding.
Only the ingenuity of Blake’s antagonist thwarted him.
Blake’s foe allowed no opportunity for the chauffeur to fire. Realizing this, Otto took advantage of the struggle to approach the fighting men. At close range he could shoot Blake’s foe. It was then that Michaels suddenly changed his tactics.
With a mighty swing, he hurled Blake across the room. The millionaire crumpled as he crashed against the wall. Whirling, Michaels fell upon Otto before the man could bring his automatic into play.
The brawny chauffeur was thrown back by the attack, but he wrested his right hand free and tried to cover Michaels with the gun.
His wrist was turned aside by an iron grip. For several tense seconds, neither man seemed to move; yet both were exerting every effort.
“Hold him, Otto!”
It was Blake who spoke. The millionaire had risen to his feet. He was reaching for his automatic that lay on the floor behind Michaels. If Otto could withhold his foe a few seconds longer, Blake could deliver the fatal shot into the back of Michaels.
THE chauffeur lurched forward as Michaels drew him back. Fighting desperately, Michaels tried to kick the gun away from Blake’s hand. He failed.
The millionaire seized the automatic and lifted it with a cry of triumph. Simultaneously, Otto gained his desired opportunity. The grip on his wrist relaxed. He shoved the muzzle of his gun against Michael’s side. He pressed the trigger, holding it to discharge the entire volley of ten shots.
As the chauffeur acted, Michaels hunched his body to the side. The muzzle of the automatic slipped so that the side of the barrel lay against his body. The bullets ripped his coat as they emerged.
Continuing his swing, Michaels revolved Otto in a semicircle. The muzzle of the bullet-spitting automatic swung across the room. Blake was covered by its turning path.
The millionaire’s triumphant cry became a horrible gasp. He fell to the floor.
Otto’s eyes, staring over Michaels’ shoulder, saw what had happened. A look of horror appeared upon the chauffeur’s face. His strength gave out. Michaels flung him away and made a dash for the door.
Only Herbert blocked his path. The butler had picked up a heavy cane belonging to his master. He had no chance to use it. Michaels landed a punch upon Herbert’s jaw and the butler collapsed.
The departing man crossed the living room and reached the door. Blake’s speedster was standing in the driveway.
With a mocking laugh, Michaels leaped into the waiting car. He sped down the driveway and turned into the street. He went by two cars that had pulled up beside the curb.
“Stop him!” came cries. The shots had been heard. The witnesses knew that the man in the speedster was escaping.
A sedan shot from a side street and took up the chase. The man at the wheel of the speedster saw it in the mirror. He increased the speed of his car and whirled toward the highway that led to New York.
He had gained on his pursuers before he reached the open road. A clear path lay ahead of him. His escape seemed certain.
THE mirror in the speedster revealed the face of the driver. The elderly face of Blake’s visitor had undergone a change. It seemed governed by a grim pleasure.
The lips carried a thin, determined smile. The keen eyes glanced toward the mirror and sparkled. The lights of the sedan were far behind.
The speedster turned a curve. The eyes that showed in the mirror became suddenly alert. They were staring straight down the road.
In the speedster’s path was an open drawbridge! A boat was coming through a channel from the Sound.
Brakes screamed. The speedster lurched as firm hands swung the wheel to the left. Still traveling at high speed, the driver turned the car into a side road that led from the highway.
The front wheels struck a deep ditch in the road. The car swerved and crashed through a fence. Two tires exploded as the speedster turned on its side and hung precariously above the edge of the channel.
The sedan arrived less than a minute later. It skidded as the driver turned it across the road, narrowly escaping the fate of the roadster. It halted a few feet from the overturned car.
Then came the sharp rat-tat-tat of a machine gun as steel-jacketed bullets sprayed the body of the wrecked speedster.
A man started to leap from the front seat of the sedan. An exclamation from the back of the car caused him to return.
Men were rushing from the drawbridge. There was no time to delay. The sedan shot backward. It turned and whirled up the road down which it had come.
The rescuers reached the speedster. They looked inside, expecting to find a bullet-riddled body. Instead, they were amazed to find the car empty.
A police motor cycle and sidecar arrived when the drawbridge closed. The uniformed officers made a quick inspection of the wrecked car. They heard the excited descriptions of those who had seen the accident. One policeman remained on duty while the other rode away to report.
Other policemen arrived later. They seemed to have taken an unusual interest in the overturned car.
They remained on the scene until two o’clock, when Inspector Timothy Klein arrived. The official made a careful survey. When he left, half an hour later, he left two policemen on duty.
“Watch every one who comes or goes,” were the inspector’s instructions.