It was a matter of two miles before she stopped the car, stopped it in front of a flat in the better residential district. I swept on past, swung into a driveway, turned the car, parked on the other side of the street, and followed her up the stairs, through the door, and up another flight of stairs. She had something on her mind, this woman with the mole, and I proposed to see at least where she went. It was hardly to have been expected that I could have followed her into the house itself, but I took advantage of her preoccupation.
One thing was certain, I had nothing to lose. I had given my word that I would open a certain safe under certain conditions. Beyond that I was not committed. I might be walking into a trap of some kind, but I take those chances every day of my life. Nothing venture, nothing have.
She ran up to the second floor, and knocked on the door. There was a little vestibule and a flight of stairs running on to a third floor. The elevator ran in the vestibule, and the stairway, gave me excellent concealment.
There was silence after she knocked, and she repeated the knock, evidently a knock in code of some kind or other, a single knock, then a double, then, after an interval, a single one again. The silence evidently puzzled her.
Suddenly there sounded a gasping cry, a thud, a soft rustle, then silence. The girl turned the knob of the door doubtfully, as though expecting to find it locked. The sound had come from behind the door. The knob turned, the door swung inward and there was a yawning oblong of black darkness. Puzzled, the girl stood there on the threshold for an instant, then entered. There was a click of the electric light switch, and then the sound of a stifled scream, perhaps a woman’s, perhaps a man’s, then silence for a minute, then the girl came rushing out of the room, her face as pale as death, her eyes wide with fear, her lips bloodless. At that instant the door below opened and a man and woman started up the steps.
I did some quick thinking. Either that man and woman had the third flat, in which event it was unlikely they would have taken the steps unless the elevator was out of order, or they were going in the second flat. If they went to the third flat it was an even bet the elevator was out of order. If they went to the second I would be concealed if I went up the steps to the third flat. I started up, watching back over my shoulder. The lower part of the stairs was well lighted, the upper flight had a light at the landing above, but the stairs themselves were in semi-darkness.
The man and woman made way for the frightened girl, and they watched her curiously as she dashed past them, white of face and lip, wide of eye. The outer door slammed, and the couple came on up. They passed the second landing and came on up the third flight. I was ahead of them, bending over the button which brought the automatic elevator to the third floor.
“I’ll have this fixed in a few minutes,” I remarked casually, keeping bent forward, my face pressed close to the button.
“I wish you would,” snapped the woman. “I’ve climbed these stairs as often as I intend to. Either the landlord will keep that elevator in order or we’ll ask for a reduction in the rent. It’s been out of order too much lately.”
I said nothing more. The voice was harsh, brazen, metallic. It was not the voice of a lady. I dared not look at her face for I didn’t want her to see mine, but I could tell much from the voice.
They unlatched the door of the flat and went in. I turned and raced down the stairs, and into the flat below. I wanted to know what had happened in that room, who had screamed. I found out. Sprawled on the floor, his arms stretched out, his eyes open, staring at the ceiling, was the form of a man. He had been stabbed in the back, and was in evening clothes, well dressed, cleanshaven, evidently a gentleman. Blood was flowing from the wound, but he was done for, dead as a herring right then.
I thought things over. Had the girl stabbed him after she entered the apartment? Perhaps she had, perhaps she hadn’t. If she hadn’t, who had? I closed the door and made a quick search of the flat. There was no other person within, and there was no evidence that anyone had been in the place. The man had been sitting reading, and had evidently got up to open the door. Somehow, he had been stabbed, stabbed by someone he had no reason to fear, for there was no evidence of a struggle, just the murdered man, the knife and the blood.
It was no place for a crook. To have been caught in that flat would have been first-degree murder. I had no business remaining there for a second, but I wanted to find out a little more. It seemed impossible that the girl with the mole on her hand could have committed the crime, but who else? True, there had been a sound before she entered the room, but that might or might not have meant anything. The man had been stabbed just as the girl entered that flat. Had she known that she had another mission to perform that night? A mission of murder? That might have accounted for her terrified manner, her preoccupation.
I made a quick round of the apartment. Evidently, from opened envelopes, old letters and bookmarks, the man was one R. C. Rupert, but who R. C. Rupert was or what he did was beyond me. I had no time to make a thorough investigation. It was no place for Ed Jenkins. Known crooks can’t be found in rooms with murdered men without having a hempen knot placed under their ears. I got out and kept my foot pretty well on the throttle after I was in the car.
Back in my apartment I went over my evening’s collection. The Helen Chadwick papers came first, and my fingers almost trembled as I sorted them out. They seemed to be in order, everything O. K.
However, it’s better to be sure than sorry, and I had secured a complete list of the outstanding papers from the lawyer who had enjoyed Chadwick’s confidence in his lifetime. Helen had introduced me to him, told him I could be trusted, and he had given me a complete list. Probably no one knew such a list was obtainable. It wouldn’t have been but for two things, one of them being that Chadwick had told his lawyer everything without reservations, and the other that the lawyer was one of those men who have photographic memories. He had checked out a list containing each and every paper that could be used to implicate the Chadwick name.
I checked the papers over with the list. Two papers were missing; a letter and a contract.
In a cold rage I rechecked the contents of that envelope. There could be no mistaking the fact. The big crook with the icy eyes hadn’t known that I could check up on him. He supposed that I only knew there were papers outstanding of the nature of the papers in that envelope. He couldn’t have foreseen that I could tell if he had held out any on me. Either or both of those two papers would have been as deadly as all. Any of them would have ruined the Chadwick name, have blackened the memory of one who was esteemed as a man of integrity, have killed the widow, have exposed the daughter to scorn as the child of a crook. Society is like that. Chadwick was revered, respected in business and social circles. His standing was unquestioned. His widow and daughter were of the inner circle, of the elect. Let this scandal get out and they would be ostracized overnight. Of course Chadwick had been framed, had been blackmailed, but Chadwick was dead. He couldn’t explain how it had happened.
I put the papers back in the envelope. They were useless. The two outstanding documents made those I possessed without any real value. However, I knew who had those missing papers. That letter and the contract had been taken and were being held by the big man with the icy eyes and the Chinatown office.
His attempt to double-cross me relieved me from any obligation to him. I took out the envelope which bore the number 543290 and looked it over. I couldn’t tamper with those seals without showing that the envelope had been opened. The wax was thin, brittle, had been pressed down with a coin of some rare design, apparently some old Roman coin.