CHAPTER XI. HENDRIX DECIDES
JOHN HENDRIX was sitting at the big desk in the office of his apartment, the clock beside him showed
twenty minutes after eight. The financier was making a notation on a sheet of paper when Jermyn entered.
Hendrix did not appear to notice Jermyn until the man stood directly in front of him. Then the financier
glanced up with an inquiring expression on his face.
“He has gone, sir,” announced Jermyn in a low voice.
“You made sure that he went downstairs?” asked Hendrix.
“Positively, sir,” replied Jermyn.
Hendrix leaned back in his swivel chair and glanced at the clock again. For the first time he appeared
restless and nervous. He began to drum upon the desk with his flabby fist. He made no comment, and
Jermyn stood by, a perfect figure of a mechanical man. Jermyn was always calm and expressionless.
Hendrix became more restless as seconds ticked by. One minute passed; then two. Hendrix was
watching the clock.
A short ring interrupted his drumming. He looked up quickly and spoke to Jermyn.
“Answer the door, quickly, Jermyn,” he said, “that must be Powell, now.”
Jermyn was methodical even as he hurried. Hendrix watched him impatiently as he crossed the room.
The financier's nervousness continued until Jermyn reappeared, followed by Martin Powell.
In the light, Martin Powell made a square, chunky figure. His face was fine and chiseled. He looked
toward Hendrix with a keen, knowing glance. The financier motioned to a chair, and the investigator
calmly seated himself.
“SORRY I'm a trifle late, Mr. Hendrix,” said Powell. “After I received your message to be here at eight
fifteen, I went up to Legira's place to take another look. I figured it would take me about twenty minutes
to get here. I didn't allow for a taxi delay.”
“You were at Legira's?” questioned Hendrix quickly.
“Outside of his house,” returned Powell. “It was a worth-while trip, too—”
“Ah! You learned something?”
“Nothing definite. The point is this, Mr. Hendrix. My job has been to watch the people who visit Legira,
as well as keeping tabs on the man himself. You've only heard from me occasionally, because everything
has appeared to be regular up there.”
“But to-night?”
“Well, there was a man went in to see him about twenty minutes of eight. That would have been regular,
in my opinion, but it happened to be the same man who showed up there before. It was the fellow who
called on him the night that Legira came in so late, about ten days ago.”
“I remember,” said Hendrix, nodding. “You've been watching for that man, haven't you?”
“Yes, sir. He's no crook, but he doesn't look right to me. So when he showed up to-night, I stayed
around to see what happened.”
“And then—”
“Well, he was still there when I had to leave to come here.”
“I see,” mused Hendrix. “By the way, Powell, your duties have been quite light during the past several
days. Your reports have all been uniform. I take it that you have kept a very close check on Legira.”
“Yes, sir. As much as necessary. You know that my main work was ended, more than a week ago,
when you said that Legira had been approved.”
“Of course. I simply kept you on because of that one visitor who came after midnight. I thought it best for
you to continue with your work. I am glad now that you did remain on the job. Tell me, Powell, when did
you last see Alvarez Legira?”
“Between seven fifteen and seven thirty to-night, sir. I was watching him —”
Powell paused in surprise as he noted the look of complete amazement that had come over the financier's
face. The investigator waited for Hendrix to speak.
“Where did you see Legira?” came the eager question.
“Entering his home, sir—”
“Shortly before seven thirty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are mistaken, Powell!”
“Not at all, sir.”
Hendrix turned and beckoned to Jermyn.
“Jermyn,” he requested, “tell Powell where Legira was at seven thirty tonight.”
“Dining with you, sir,” replied Jermyn seriously. “Here in this apartment, sir.”
IT was Powell's turn to register bewilderment. He looked from Hendrix to Jermyn as though completely
doubtful of their veracity. When he realized that both were serious in their statements, a puzzled frown
furrowed the investigator's forehead.
“There's something phony here!” declared Powell. “I trailed Legira and that man of his, Lopez, from the
time they left the consulate office. They had dinner together, at a hotel near Legira's house—”
“You saw Legira with Lopez?” demanded Hendrix. “Impossible!”
“I saw him this morning,” responded the investigator. “I was hanging around his office up until five
o'clock. It was nearly five when I called my place and got the message to get in touch with you.
Appointment here after eight fifteen. So I followed Legira—”
“Powell,” said Hendrix seriously, “I brought you here to ask your advice. Now, I am doubly glad that
you have come. I suspected that Legira might be playing a double game. Now, I am sure that matters are
not as they should be.
“Legira came here to-day. He behaved in strange fashion, and asked me to maintain secrecy regarding
his visit. He demanded the delivery of certain funds to which he is entitled. I made the arrangements.
“Now, he has left, after spending several hours here. He stated that he had not been at his residence for
the past few days. Yet you tell me.—”
“Legira has been there!” blurted Powell angrily. “I have seen him, right along. You have been deceived
by an impostor!”
“Perhaps,” said Hendrix thoughtfully. “There is also a possibility that you have been deceived.”
“Maybe,” said Powell reluctantly. “But it seems more likely to me that some fellow is trying to put one
over on you. Coming here as Legira—”
In reply, Hendrix lifted two papers from his desk. One was an agreement signed by Alvarez Legira. The
other was the receipt which the consul had signed. The two signatures were identical.
“Legira signed one of those nearly ten days ago,” remarked Hendrix. “He signed the other here, this
afternoon.”
“It's got me beat,” admitted Powell, in a puzzled tone.
“It settles everything in my mind,” remarked Hendrix quietly. “There is no need for us to discuss the
matter further. Legira is guilty of duplicity. Fortunately, I have made arrangements to prevent the delivery
of the funds.”
The financier glanced at the clock. It showed quarter before nine. John Hendrix smiled wisely. He turned
to Jermyn and noted that the man had assumed a listening attitude. Seeing Hendrix glance in his direction,
Jermyn snapped from his reverie.
“Is anything the matter, Jermyn?” quizzed Hendrix.
“Nothing, sir,” replied the man, in an abashed manner. “Just imagination, sir. Thought I heard the front
door open.”
“It would be wise to look, Jermyn.”
When the man had gone on his errand, Hendrix spoke solemnly to Powell.
“If the man who came here is a pretender,” he said, “I must stop him at once. If he is the genuine
Legira—as I feel convinced he is— it shows that the man is engaged in some il
licit enterprise. Otherwise,
he would not have some person taking his place during his absence.”
“Why not call his residence?” suggested Powell.
“Not yet,” returned Hendrix. “I have a full fifteen minutes in which to notify Cody at the Baltham Trust to
suspend all negotiations with Legira.”
Jermyn returned as the financier finished speaking. He shook his head to indicate that he had found
nothing amiss.
“The door was closed, sir,” he declared. “I suppose I merely fancied that I heard some one enter.”
“Very good, Jermyn,” said Hendrix. “Pass me that telephone. I have an important call to make
immediately.”
Jermyn obeyed the order. With the telephone in his hand, Hendrix paused long enough to make another
statement to Martin Powell.
“Alvarez Legira is playing a game,” declared the financier. “He has pretended that his schemes are
legitimate. Actually, he has been angling to obtain the sum of ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars!” cried Powell.
“Yes,” continued Hendrix, “that is the amount at stake. Everything has been arranged for Legira to
receive it upon demand. Yet the funds have not been actually delivered to him. I am the only one who
can frustrate his schemes. When I lift this receiver, it means the beginning of the end.
“As matters now stand, Legira has access to the millions. When I have completed this telephone call, the
schemer will find his chances ended. It will be an impossibility for Alvarez Legira ever to obtain the
money.”
HENDRIX was speaking dramatically. His flabby face registered triumph. Portly and lethargic, Hendrix
had none of the appearance that denotes a clever man. Nevertheless, he was about to score a victory
over the shrewd Legira.
The ticking clock showed ten minutes before the hour. Hendrix smiled. There was ample time. He
enjoyed this triumph in which he was playing the principal role, with Powell and Jermyn as awestruck
spectators.
The financier looked at Powell; then at Jermyn. There, his gaze froze. Hendrix noted that Jermyn's face
had paled; that the man was not listening to what his master was saying; that he was staring wild-eyed
toward the door of the office.
Martin Powell caught the change in the financier's expression. He saw Hendrix glance toward the door;
instinctively, the investigator did the same.
The hallway beyond was dark, due to an unlighted turn that led into the office. Some one was standing in
that hall—a man whose face was indistinguishable in the gloom. But it was not that fact that interested the
gazers.
The man's hand was in plain view. It held a shining revolver. The weapon was directed toward John
Hendrix, threatening death, should he make a single move!
CHAPTER XII. DEATH IN THE DARK
A LONG, tense series of moments followed. The three men in the office of the financier's apartment
formed a startled tableau. Jermyn, closest to the door, was standing petrified with fear. Powell, seated
beside the desk, was solemn and tense. Hendrix, telephone in hand, was plainly startled.
Not a word was spoken from the little hallway. The man there held the three at his mercy. He made no
announcement of his intention. He seemed content for the moment to hold matters as they were.
Ten minutes of nine!
The thought worried Hendrix. Unless this call went through, Legira could obtain the money from Cody.
Was that the purpose of this threat? Had some accomplice arrived to hold these men at bay until Legira's
work had ended?
Hardly so, thought Hendrix. He realized that Legira could not have known of that special message to
Cody, telling him to hold the delivery of the funds until after nine o'clock.
Angered, despite his bewilderment, Hendrix tried to scan the face behind the gun. He suddenly decided
that it might be Legira, back again. Had the South American seen Martin Powell enter here?
The man was still in darkness, keeping well away so his face could not be seen. That gave Hendrix the
cue. He doubted that the man would dare to fire. The financier gained sudden boldness. He spoke
deliberately.
“Legira,” he said. “Legira, or whoever you are, it will do you no good to threaten. We outnumber you
three to one. A shot here will spread the alarm. Murder will not help you. Put away that gun and leave
this place.”
From the corner of his eye, Hendrix noted that Jermyn was edging toward the door. The quiet words that
the financier had uttered had changed Jermyn's fear to loyalty. It was obvious what Jermyn intended. He
was ready to attack to save his master. If Jermyn could divert attention, all would be well.
Hendrix saw Jermyn's gaze turn in his direction. The financier nodded, almost imperceptibly. At the same
moment, his hand tightened on the receiver of the telephone. Jermyn trembled as though restrained by a
leash. With sudden boldness, Hendrix started to lift the receiver from the hook.
Events followed with confused rapidity. John Hendrix had not placed false reliance in his faithful servant.
Like a wild man, Jermyn sprang toward the door, throwing his body between the revolver and his
master.
Martin Powell was on his feet, leaping toward the wall close by the door, where a little alcove offered
momentary shelter. The investigator was pulling a short automatic from his pocket even as he moved.
With the telephone in his hand, Hendrix was diving for safety, the long wire stringing after him as his
portly body swung around the edge of the desk. A few feet would mean safety from wild shots.
THE attack had been a swift one—its speed sufficient to startle the invader. Each of the three men had
followed his own dictates. A prearranged plan could not have been more effectively executed.
Jermyn was the attacker. Powell was planning to aid him. Hendrix, intent upon making the warning call,
was choosing the nearest point of safety.
The keenest thought of this swift action was Jermyn's bold deed of thrusting himself between the invader
and Hendrix. Instinctively, Jermyn knew that the financier would be the first intended victim.
In this he was right. The foeman was ready to kill; but he was anxious to stop Hendrix from phoning, no
matter what the cost might be. Yet he could not shoot Hendrix without first disposing of Jermyn.
Had Hendrix remained at the desk, the enemy might have been thwarted. It was the financier's instinctive
action of leaping for safety that caused his own undoing.
Jermyn was some six feet from his enemy. He was covering the chair in which Hendrix sat. But when the
portly financier sprang away from that spot, he automatically removed himself from the coverage which
Jermyn was affording.
The man in the hallway saw the bulky form. He swung his revolver away from Jermyn. He fired twice at
the moving target. Hendrix, at the edge of the desk, plunged headlong. The telephone shot from his grasp
and struck the wall.
Now Jermyn was grappling with the enemy. The sound of those shots had maddened the faithful
employee. He was fighting with terrific frenzy, grappling for the revolver, seeking to dominate the man
who had shot his master.
Into the room staggered the pair, Jermyn's left hand holding the other man's right wrist so the revolver
pointed upward. Martin Powell, grim-faced, was watching his chance. Let those strugglers break for an
&n
bsp; instant, and it would mean death to the invader.
Luck was with the enemy. Chance had given him his opportunity to shoot John Hendrix. Again, the wiles
of fate were to serve him well in this fight with Jermyn.
The brawlers crashed against the wall. The light switch was beside them. Martin Powell could not see the
invader's face, for Jermyn was crushing him toward the wall. But the investigator did see that free left
hand as it encountered the switch.
Click!
The room was in total darkness as the invader saw his opportunity. It was a struggle in the dark. Powell
could not distinguish Jermyn from his foe.
The men crashed across the room at an angle. They were away from the wall. Powell dashed toward the
light switch. His hand fumbled in the dark. Try as desperately as he could, the switch evaded him.
Meanwhile the men were struggling, rolling on the floor. Harsh, fierce cries came from the fighters. In the
midst of long, weird seconds, Powell's fingers touched the metal switch. Before he could press it, a
muffled shot came from the center of the room.
On went the light. Powell looked. Jermyn was sprawled upon the floor. Crouched beside him was the
panting enemy. The man looked up, a menacing glance in his eye.
Powell saw his face and uttered a sudden cry as he recognized the killer. The investigator aimed his
automatic. The other man swung his revolver desperately and made a forward dive.
Powell's shot was a trifle high. It seared the killer's shoulder. Again, the investigator's finger was pressing
the trigger. Then the revolver spoke in reply.
The invader's shot was hasty, but effective. Powell staggered. He caught himself and fired twice, but his
shots were wild. Then his enemy, with calm deliberation, pressed the trigger of the revolver, and a
second bullet reached the investigator's body. Martin Powell slumped to the floor.
STAGGERING forward, the killer reached the wall and extinguished the light. He leaned there, breathing
heavily. The darkness seemed to give him renewed courage.
He moved slowly across the room, and a flashlight glimmered in his hand. He threw its rays upon the
desk, and uttered a muffled laugh. The edge of the light showed the form of John Hendrix lying face
downward. The financier was dead.
Turning, the murderer threw a beam upon Martin Powell. The investigator lay motionless. He, too,
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