“I understand.”
The insurance broker studied Harry silently. Then he unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair, indicating that the interview was nearing its end.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “You may receive a letter - perhaps several. They will be written in a simple code - certain letters of the alphabet substituted for others. Here is the code,” he passed a sealed envelope across the desk. “There are very few substitutions, so you can memorize them quickly. Destroy this as soon as you have learned it.”
“Shall I destroy any letters I happen to receive?”
“That will not be necessary,” smiled Fellows. “They will destroy themselves.”
The remark was puzzling to Vincent, but he thought it best to make no comment.
“Best be sure the code is familiar to your mind,” advised the insurance broker. “For you must read each note quickly - immediately after taking it from the envelope. Each letter you receive will be numbered at the bottom. The first will be Number One. Keep a record of these. If any number fails to be received if Number Six, for instance, should arrive before you have received Number Five, notify me immediately. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Any questions?”
“None.”
The round-faced man rose from his chair.
“One last word,” he said. “Conduct yourself wisely. Seek to make acquaintances. Avoid making friends.”
He extended his hand. Harry arose to depart.
Late that afternoon, Harry Vincent stepped aboard a Long Island Railroad local with a one-way ticket to Holmwood in his pocket.
CHAPTER XII
TWO DETECTIVES TALK
While the Holmwood local was still clicking along the rails toward its destination, two men sat in an office at police headquarters. Their day’s routine had ended; now they were engaged in a discussion which both regarded as important.
One of the men bore the mark of a police officer long in the service. He was tall, heavy, and domineering. His gray hair lent him a positive dignity, and his face, although full and a trifle pudgy, carried the physiognomy of the thinker as well as that of the man of action.
The other was shorter, and his dark face bespoke an Italian ancestry. He had certain characteristics of the familiar plainclothes man, but with it there was a calmness of bearing and an ease of expression which was deceptive. His thin lips formed a straight line that never curved upward nor downward, and his dark brown eyes had a sparkle that betokened the quick observer.
“It’s a tough case, Cardona,” said the big man, thumping thoughtfully upon the table where he sat.
The Italian shrugged his shoulders. He was standing, looking down at his companion. The latter raised his eyes as though expecting some comment or reply, but he received none.
“A tough case,” mused the big man.
“I’ve had tough ones before,” said Cardona. “I’ve landed some; I missed others. But remember” - his voice became significant - “this case means quite as much to Inspector John Malone as it does to Joe Cardona.”
The big man at the table became suddenly alert. There was a challenge in his expression; he appeared as though demanding an explanation. But as he glanced at the dark eyes before him, he relaxed and laughed gruffly.
“I guess you’re right, Joe,” he said, looking at the table.
“You know I’m right,” was the reply. “You know why, too.”
“Why? Tell me.”
“You’re higher upon the force. You’ll be the goat.”
“What about yourself?”
“I have no competition. You have.”
“In what way?”
Cardona leaned forward.
“Listen, Malone,” he said, emphatically. “You’re an inspector. You were selected. There were other choices, but you got the job. The wolves are waiting right at the door. Make a slip; they’ll come in.”
“As for you -“
“As for me? Who’s going to crowd me out? If I get nowhere, it’s a sure bet that none of the other detectives will. The facts prove it. I’ve been getting results from active work. Put another man in my place. Try it. That would be your finish.”
“I guess you’re right, Joe.”
“You know I’m right, Malone.”
“But you aren’t easing up on this case, are you?”
“Of course not, Malone. But it’s a tough one. You said so yourself.”
The police inspector grunted.
“If that thug,” he said, “had had sense enough to use his own rod instead of one he picked up in the safe - well, we’d have something to work on, anyway.”
“That’s where he was wise,” came the reply.
“Wise? Using a strange gun?”
“Perhaps he didn’t have one of his own.”
“That’s not likely.”
The two men were silent. Malone continued his monotonous thumping. Cardona was motionless.
“The boys have been keeping after the servants?”
The question was Malone’s.
“They’re out,” replied Cardona.
“What makes it worse,” mused the inspector, after a pause, “is the fact they got so close to the man. Off he went across the lawn, then the ground might have swallowed him.”
“Right.”
“What about that secretary - this fellow Burgess? He gives us a good cold description at the start. Old Bingham coming by outside adds plenty more. Yet from then on -“
Malone snapped the fingers of both hands.
Another shrug from Cardona.
“Well,” drawled Malone, “if we ever get the guy, we’ll have an A-1 witness in old Bingham. This is one crook he won’t defend. If he can give witness testimony like he can handle a case in the courtroom, we’ll have it all clinched.”
“But let’s get the guy first,” observed the Italian.
A shadow fell across the table, where Malone’s eyes were gazing. The inspector looked up.
“Oh, hello, Fritz,” he said in an indulgent tone. “Cleaning up early, eh?”
The tall, stoop-shouldered janitor looked at him dully.
“Yah.”
“You’ve got the best job in the place, Fritz. Know that?”
“Yah.”
Cardona laughed without changing the expression of his lips.
“Yah,” he mimicked. “That’s all I’ve ever heard you say, Fritz. Say, boy, you look kinda pale tonight. Sorta thinner, too. You oughta get a bit of exercise.”
“Yah.”
The Italian shrugged his shoulders and looked at Malone.
“It’s all right, Joe,” said the inspector. “Fritz will be here when we’re gone.”
The janitor was busy with mop and bucket. The two men paid no further attention to him.
“Joe,” said the inspector, “you’ve got brains.”
