I think you will. So I'm letting you in."
Harry listened eagerly. Cronin spoke as though he were telling the truth. Harry felt that he had gained the man's confidence and that he was to hear some revelation.
"I've been out in Cleveland," said Cronin frankly. "I've been watching a big bloke who has all kinds of money and doesn't care how he spends it. There's something phony about the guy, though. Maybe you've heard his name. I'm going to tell it to you -"
"Don't do that, Steve," interrupted Wally.
CRONIN glared angrily at his fellow crook. "Shut up, Wally," he said. "You're not the boss. I'm headman of this outfit. Vincent is going to work with us. He looks like he has sense enough to spot a guy that gets off a train without letting him get away. That's more than you have, Wally."
He followed this rebuke by again addressing Harry. "The big boy out in Cleveland," he said, "is named Elbridge Meyers. Every now and then he hops out of town. Goes East for two or three days. Finding things out is my business. I found out why Meyers left town so often. There's a woman mixed up in it. So I figured that if I could get the goods on the old bloke, he'd cough up with the dough."
"Blackmail," said Harry.
"That's the story," resumed Cronin. "Well, I watched this fellow carefully enough, but he got away from me. First thing I knew he'd left town. I got in his office after it was supposed to be closed and found a slip of paper crumpled in the wastebasket. It was a memo this Meyers had made telling the time he was leaving and where he was going - here to Harrisburg. I called up Wally, who was in Philadelphia. He had time to get up here and meet the train. But he muffed things. It's up to us to pick up the trail."
There was silence after Steve Cronin had finished speaking. Harry looked at the man and nodded.
"Sounds good to me," he said. "Count me in on it. How are we going to work it?"
Cronin shrugged his shoulders as he rose from the bed.
"We'll have to locate Meyers, first thing of all," he said. "Now is the time to find him."
He turned to Wally, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looking disgruntled.
"Go over in the corner, dim-wit," said Cronin. "I want to talk business with a man that has brains. If you ear the dope, you'll probably spoil it. You're just the deuce spot in this deck of cards, from now on."
He beckoned to Harry, who rose from the chair and joined Cronin in the corner opposite the indignant Wally.
"Listen," said Cronin, placing one hand upon Harry's shoulder and speaking low in his ear. "I've got a plan, but it takes nerve to work it. You're just the fellow I've been looking for. You see, it's this way -"
SOMETHING caught Vincent in the back of the neck. His teeth clicked as his head went backward. A hand was planted against his chin, and the side of his head was driven against the wall. Just before he felt the blow, he heard the sneering laugh of Steve Cronin. Then consciousness left him, and his body slumped to the floor.
"Jujutsu stuff, Wally," chuckled Cronin. "He's out, and he'll stay out."
"What's the idea, Steve?" asked the amazed Wally. "Ain't you going to let him work with us?"
"This guy? You must be crazy."
"What did you tell him all your business for then?"
"To make him believe me."
"You could have given him a phony story, Steve."
"Not with you around, Wally. He was looking at you. You might have given the game away. The easiest system was to tell him the truth."
"Well, he fell for it. But he'll know too much when he wakes up."
Steve Cronin laughed.
"He knew too much anyway," he said. "He knew who I was. But he won't know anything about it when he wakes up. Because he isn't going to wake up."
"You're going to bump him off?"
"Of course."
"Why didn't you do it right here?"
"Wally, there's no use trying to talk with you. Kill him here? Make a big noise about it? All sorts of trouble then. Nothing doing. We aren't going to figure in this thing at all - so far as anybody can find out.
You wait here and watch him. If he starts to wake up, tap him neatly with this. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Steve Cronin drew a blackjack from his pocket and handed it to his companion in crime. He left the room. Ten minutes later, he returned.
He glanced at the form of Harry Vincent as it lay limp in the corner. Then he looked at Wally and grinned
- and his ugly smile spoke more clearly than words.
"Come on, Wally," he said. "Help me pick him up. We'll take him out like he was drunk. You've got your car near here?"
"Just down the street."
"We'll put him in it. Then I'll tell you what to do. You're going to learn something to-night, Wally. I've used the rod to put some fellows away, but I know better ways of doing it. Safer ways."
Steve Cronin laughed again as they braced the unconscious Harry Vincent between their shoulders. He was satisfied that this man who knew too much would soon be where he could never reveal his knowledge.
CHAPTER VII. DOOMED TO DIE
AN old touring car was standing at the side of a dirt road. Its lights were extinguished, and the vehicle was totally obscured in the darkness. There were two men in the car. The one at the wheel was listening intently. The other, who was beside him, was motionless as though asleep.
A motor throbbed in the distance, and as the sound came closer, the man at the wheel of the touring car opened the door and stepped to the ground. He looked back along the road toward the red light of a railroad crossing. A pair of headlights appeared beyond, and a moving automobile came rapidly in view.
The second car came alongside the first and stopped in the center of the road. The motor was turned off.
The man beside the touring car was in the glare of the headlights. He stepped to the car which had just arrived and opened the door. It was a closed job.
A laugh came from within the automobile. A voice followed.
"How do you like my new sedan, Wally?"
"Pretty nice," said the man on the ground, in an admiring tone. "Where did you get it?"
"Pinched it," was the reply. "How long have you been here?"
"About ten minutes, Steve. Boy, you sure made good time."
"I work fast, Wally."
"What are you going to do now, Steve?"
The man at the wheel of the sedan consulted his watch by the dashlight.
"I'm going to wait about five minutes," he said. "In that short time I'm going to go over this little lesson that you've been learning. I want you to know all the details of the Steve Cronin system for disposing of smart guys - like that fellow you have in the car. Did he wake up at all?"
"Started to, Steve. I tapped him easy, like you said."
"That's good. If he's half awake, it's all the better for us."
"What's the game, Steve?"
"Don't be impatient, Wally. Let's go over details. Do you know what I did when I went downstairs in the hotel?"
"You picked up a road map for one thing. I know that because you showed me how to get out here. You told me to take my time. I'm glad you let me come easy, because this road is a rough one, all right. I nearly busted a spring. I'll bet there's not a car a week comes along here."
"That's all the better. Well, I'll tell you something else I did while I was downstairs. I picked up a few timetables, and it took me just about three minutes to find out what I wanted to know."
"What was that?"
"The times of passenger trains on some of the branch lines in and out of Harrisburg. This branch back here for instance."
"Did you get the dope you wanted?"
"I did, Wally," he said. "I'll come to that later. After you started away, I walked down the street by the hotel. We did a neat job getting this fellow Vincent into your car. He looked just like a regular drunk.
"When I'd been out on the street before I came up to find you in the room, I saw this sedan, and it looked like an easy one to pinch. These bab
ies were all I needed" - he clinked a bunch of keys in his pocket - "so I gave you time to get started and then I followed along in this nice new automobile. I picked up a few articles I needed while I was on my way here and now I'm ready for business."
Cronin stepped from the sedan and walked over to the touring car. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and studied the face of Harry Vincent.
"He'll be out for pretty near an hour anyway," Cronin observed. "So we don't have to worry about that.
But we'll plant a few things to make it look good."
He pulled three bottles from his pocket. Two were empty; the odd one was about one-third filled.
"Have a drink, Wally," said Cronin, passing the last bottle to his companion. "Leave some, though. I brought that along with me from Cleveland."
Wally gulped at the bottle, and Cronin followed suit. Then he poured tiny quantities of the liquor into the empty bottles and shook them around. He put the cork back into the bottle that still contained a little liquid. This he thrust in Harry's pocket. He tossed the empty bottles in the back of the touring car.
"You went through this fellow's pockets, didn't you?" he asked.
"Sure thing," replied Wally.
"What did you take?"
"Only his watch and his money - about forty dollars. Nothing else there that I wanted."
"Give me back about seven dollars."
Steve Cronin put the money in Vincent's wallet. There was a slight jingle from the man's vest.
"What's that?" asked Cronin.
"Just change," answered Wally. "I forgot to take that."
"Leave it there. That makes it still better."
Steve Cronin climbed into the touring car and threw the automobile into reverse.
"Stand on the running board," he said to Wally.
He backed the car along the rough road and up the incline to the center of the railroad crossing. He stopped it there. He turned off the ignition and put the car into high gear. Then he turned the ignition key on again.
Alighting from the automobile, Cronin walked to the opposite side. He opened the door and pushed Harry's body toward the left. Together he and Wally completed the arrangements. Harry Vincent lay slumped over the wheel.
Cronin surveyed his work.
"Just one thing I forgot," he remarked.
He took the bottle from Harry's pocket. He tilted back the head of the unconscious man and poured about half of the remaining contents down his throat. Some of the liquor spilled on Harry's coat. Steve Cronin chuckled.
"Details, Wally," he said. "Details always count. This makes it perfect. Drunk at the wheel. Stalled on the crossing. Empty bottles that smell of liquor."
He walked down the road, followed by Wally, in the glare of the headlights of the stranded car. Cronin had flashed the lights on when he had backed the car. He turned and looked along the road as he consulted his watch.
"In about seven minutes," he said, "this will be finished. That crossing was just made to suit me. Notice how it curves? The engineer won't know a thing about it until he is right on top of the car."
The whole idea now dawned on Wally.
"So that's why you looked up the time-tables!" he exclaimed. "Is it a fast train, Steve?"
"Fast enough to suit me. There's a station about a mile down the line, as near as I can figure it from the map. But it isn't even a flag stop for this train. It will come through here mighty fast."
As if in answer to Cronin's prediction, the men heard the distant whistle of a locomotive - a long, plaintive whistle that indicated a train moving at rapid speed.
"Climb aboard, Wally," exclaimed Steve Cronin as he jumped to the wheel of the sedan. "We're going straight ahead in a hurry. The rest will take care of itself."
The tail light of the sedan disappeared around a bend. All was silent at the crossing. There was another whistle of the locomotive through the night, but the unconscious man at the wheel of the touring car could not hear it.
Steve Cronin had planned well. The fulfillment of his scheme had become a matter of minutes only. A mighty juggernaut of iron was hurtling along the steel rails, and in its certain path stood the waiting automobile.
CHAPTER VIII. DUNCAN'S VISITOR
The very time when Harry Vincent lay helpless behind the wheel of the abandoned touring car, Bruce Duncan was comfortably seated in the upstairs room of his dead uncle's home. Once more he was pondering over the odd adventure that he had experienced within these walls.
Patience was not one of Bruce Duncan's virtues. He realized this as he sat in the armchair, staring at the fireplace.
Three weeks had elapsed since the mysterious visitor of the night had entered his home. During that time he had failed utterly in his attempts to discover who the visitor might be.
Nothing had disturbed him since; but he did not expect that. The thief had obtained what he had sought.
Why should he be molested further?
Three weeks - to be exact, three weeks and one night. Twenty-two days without action. It was Wednesday now; the hiding place in the hearth had been opened on a Tuesday night.
Duncan was sure of but two facts - first, that the actual thief had been an ape-faced creature that had seemed inhuman; second, that some one had been outside the window, directing the actions of the strange being.
The door opened, and Abdul, his Hindu servant, entered.
"Eleven o'clock, sahib," said the servant. "Do you need me longer?"
"Better wait up until midnight, Abdul," suggested Duncan. "By the way, what day was it that you mailed that last letter I gave you?"
"Sunday, sahib."
Duncan went to the desk and brought out some papers. He studied them thoughtfully while the Hindu moved quietly about the room.
The letters had been Duncan's only hope for a clue to the mystery which perplexed him. Among his uncle's documents he had found a list of four names which Tremaine had identified as persons with whom Harvey Duncan had conducted considerable correspondence.
Artful questioning had satisfied Bruce Duncan that the lawyer knew nothing about his uncle's connection with a prominent Russian. But it was possible that one of these four men might be able to supply some information.
So he had written them and had received three replies to his carefully worded notes. The letters that had come in indicated that the men knew nothing - unless they had deliberately sought to conceal facts. Bruce intended to investigate that later.
In the meantime he had sent a second letter to the man who had not replied. It was an urgent letter, asking for an immediate response and suggesting a visit. This was the letter that Abdul had mailed on Sunday night.
Bruce put the memoranda back in the desk and returned to his chair. At that moment the doorbell rang.
Abdul went to answer it.
The Hindu returned a few minutes later.
"Man to see you, sahib."
"What's his name, Abdul?"
"Mr. Isaac Coffran."
Duncan fairly leaped from his chair.
"Bring him in, Abdul," he exclaimed.
The visitor was the man to whom the last letter had been addressed!
The Hindu ushered an elderly gentleman into the room. The newcomer was of slight build and stoop-shouldered. He used a cane as he walked, and he turned his head upward to stare at Duncan with sharp, blue eyes that were both friendly and inquisitive.
He accepted Bruce Duncan's handshake and sat in the armchair facing the fireplace, while the young man took a position close beside him.
A strange old fellow, thought Duncan. Older than his uncle, yet alert despite his age. It was impossible to determine the exact age of Isaac Coffran. The man's face was clean-shaven, and his cheeks were smooth and tight.
"I received your letter," announced the old man in a wheezy yet amiable voice. "It seemed important, so I came to see you. It is not often that I leave my house."
He laughed; then he added: "This is the first time I have been outside for severa
l months."
"I'm sorry," observed Duncan apologetically. "I could have come to see you."
"No, no," replied the old man. "It was only a few hours from New York. The night is mild, and the trip has done me good. A friend brought me. He is outside in his automobile."
"Would you like to stay all night?" offered Duncan.
"No, no. I am used to late hours. A habit that I have had ever since I was young like you. I can stay only a little while. Why was it that you wished to see me?"
Duncan stared speculatively across the room. He felt that he must be tactful; at the same time, old Isaac Coffran was so affable that it seemed good policy to confide in him. Duncan was anxious to learn all that he could, and although he did not intend to divulge his uncle's secret, he felt that he might be safe in giving an inkling of it.
"You knew my uncle well?" he questioned.
"Very well," affirmed the old man. "He and I knew each other for years. We had business dealings long ago - before I retired. He used to come to see me occasionally, and he wrote me frequently."
"Did you see him before he died?"
The old man shook his head.
"No," he said, "I did not. I sent my regards to him when I learned that he was ill, but I had no idea that his condition was serious. I was greatly saddened by his death. He was considerably younger than myself."
"Did my uncle have any enemies?" questioned Duncan.
Isaac Coffran smiled.
"We are all likely to have enemies"" he said. "Your uncle was an active man. He was in many parts of the world. He made many friends, and I suppose he made enemies, also. Why do you ask?"
"Because" - Duncan hesitated a moment - "because I am sure that my uncle had apprehensions of some sort."
"Did he ever mention them to you?"
"No, because I did not arrive here until after he had died."
"That's right. My memory is not so good as it used to be. I recall that you were not here. I received a letter after your Uncle Harvey died that stated you came too late. I believe the letter was from your uncle's old servant. What was the man's name?"
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