Jax Bowman sparred for time.
“Was there any reason for an immediate meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind telling me what it was?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’m going to be frank with you. I have reason to believe the man who is in this hotel claiming to be Sidney Proctor is an impostor.”
Jax Bowman became rigidly motionless, with concentrated attention. “Yes?” he asked tonelessly.
“Yes,” she said.
“What makes you think so? Do you know him personally?”
“No, but my attorney tells me he’s seen photographs of the real Sidney Proctor, and that he glimpsed this man’s face in the hotel lobby, and that he is not the real Sidney Proctor.”
Jax Bowman did some rapid thinking.
“Your attorney?” he asked.
“Yes. You’re a wealthy man, Mr. Bowman. Money means nothing to you; your fortune puts you beyond greed, even if I didn’t realize instinctively I could trust you.”
Bowman said nothing, but sat waiting, his mind racing rapidly.
“Probably you’re wondering why I needed an attorney,” she went on. “All right; I’m going to tell you the whole story: I didn’t know it until recently, but I am one of the heirs to the estate of George Cutler Proctor. It’s a very large estate. I don’t know too much about the other heirs. My attorney, however, knows all about them.”
“How did you get this attorney?” Bowman asked.
“I didn’t,” she said, laughing. “He got me. He’s one of those lawyers who make a specialty of checking up on large estates, finding heirs and signing them up on a commission basis.”
“You signed up with this man?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask on what commission?”
“He’s to receive half of what I get, for his services in calling the matter to my attention and making proof that I’m an heir at law.”
“An outrageous contract,” Bowman remarked. “You shouldn’t have signed it.”
“But please remember,” she pleaded, “that I didn’t know anything whatever about an estate. I’d never heard of George Cutler Proctor. I certainly would never have traced the estate.”
“No, but the estate would eventually have traced you.”
“Well,” she said, “the contract is signed, and that’s that. But it seems that if the real Sidney Proctor is alive, then I don’t take anything, because he’s a closer heir than I am. I don’t understand the legal points involved, but my attorney does.”
“Where’s your lawyer now?”
“Downstairs, waiting in a car.”
“Waiting for you to bring Sidney Proctor out?”
“Yes. He wants me to bring the man who claims to be Sidney Proctor down to the car if possible.”
“And your lawyer then intends to denounce him as an impostor?”
“If the meeting, face to face, convinces him Proctor is an impostor, yes.”
“Well,” Bowman said, “I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll see if Mr. Proctor is in his room.”
He crossed to the telephone, held the receiver to his ear and said, “Please ring Mr. Sidney Proctor.”
A moment later he heard Grood’s gruff voice on the telephone saying, “Hello.”
Bowman said, “He doesn’t seem to be in the room, Miss Proctor. I can hear the operator ringing, but I don’t get any answer. I’ll hold the phone and wait for a few moments... You say your attorney is in an automobile downstairs, and that he says Mr. Proctor is an impostor?”
“Yes” she said.
Bowman heard Big Jim Grood’s voice rumbling over the wire. “I get you, chief,” he said.
“Then perhaps I’d better step downstairs and talk with your lawyer personally.”
“Oh, if you only would!” she exclaimed. “But are you sure Mr. Proctor isn’t in his room? I felt certain he was.”
“So was I,” Bowman said. “I saw him in the corridor a moment ago. However, he must have stepped out.” He waited a moment, then said, “Thank you, operator,” and hung up.
“No,” he said, “Mr. Proctor doesn’t answer.”
“If you wouldn’t mind stepping down to meet my attorney—” she said.
“It would be a pleasure,” Bowman assured her. And the words came from his heart. Very evidently their suspicions of Harry Cutting were unfounded. This mysterious “attorney” who had signed Phyllis up for one half of her inheritance was quite probably the guiding force back of the murders which had been committed. Bowman wanted very much to meet this man, to ask him for his card, to note the license number of the automobile he was driving. Later on the White Rings might pay the man an official visit.
Jax Bowman got to his feet, took his hat and light coat from the closet.
“At your service,” he observed.
She ground out the end of her cigarette in the ash tray, got to her feet, came close to him, and placed slender, tapering fingers on his arm. “It’s so nice of you,” she smiled gratefully.
“Not at all,” Bowman remarked. “It’s really a pleasure.”
He opened the door, escorted her to the elevator. They descended to the lobby and crossed to the street exit.
“Where’s your lawyer waiting?” Bowman asked.
She nodded toward a sedan parked across the street. “He has the curtains drawn,” she said, “because he wanted to see the man who claims to be Sidney Proctor without himself being seen. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
Jax Bowman managed to walk around the rear of the car so that he could note the license number. Just as he had finished fixing it in his memory, the car door opened. The girl said, “Mr. Bowman agreed to come down and meet you. Isn’t that splendid of him?”
A man’s voice from the interior of the car boomed enthusiastic agreement.
She stood to one side, smiling. Bowman stepped forward, caught a glimpse of flashing teeth smiling from a swarthy countenance, saw a right hand outstretched in greeting.
“This is my lawyer,” said the girl, “Mr. Smith, Mr. Bowman.”
Bowman leaned forward to grasp the outstretched hand. As the fingers gripped his, the smile faded from the man’s face. Bowman sensed the menace of motion. He twisted his head, saw Phyllis Proctor swinging a very businesslike blackjack.
He tried to jerk free, but the man in the car held his hand. The blackjack swung to his temple. As things became sickeningly black, he felt his knees turn to jelly, realized that the “lawyer” was pulling him into the car.
He heard the motor hum into life, felt the car lurch forward, struggled to shake off the black nausea which gripped him, raised himself on his hands — and received another crashing blow on the head.
Jax Bowman became entirely oblivious of his surroundings.
Chapter IV
Two Prisoners
Jax Bowman regained consciousness to the tune of a throbbing motor which pulsed through his aching head as though the explosions were taking place within the interior of his brain instead of within the cylinders of the motor.
Gradually, he managed to fit events into a coherent whole, to find himself bound about the wrists and ankles, lying on the floor of a single-motored cabin plane. He was jammed against one end of the cabin in such a position that it was difficult for him to move. His head was under a chair. Such view of the interior of the cabin as he was able to get was through the rungs of the chair. He could see a very neat pair of ankles, terminating in well-shod feet, and bitterness assailed him as he realized he had no sooner finished warning Big Jim Grood against falling for a pretty face than he himself had walked into the trap against which he had warned his partner.