Shadowed Millions s-21

by Maxwell Grant

  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,