There were other ways. I took a photographic film, pressed it closely against the envelope in a darkened room, then placed the envelope over the white light of a printing box. It took me four attempts to get the proper exposure, but I finally got a film which showed pretty plainly what was in that envelope. The film was a mass of crisscrossed lines, lines which were vague and indistinct, but which could be followed. I made a print on rough paper, retouched the lines with a black pencil, and then began to separate all the lines which sloped in the same direction.
It was daylight before I had the film deciphered. A folded sheet of paper, covered with writing, was within that envelope, and that paper was a will. The crisscross effect of the lines was because of the folds in the paper. I hadn’t been able to get all the words, but I got enough to see that the document purported to be the holographic will of one Stanley Brundage, and that by its terms it left everything to a former wife who had been divorced. There were two witnesses, whose names were not entirely clear. One of them looked like Davids, or something similar, and the other like Roberts.
I set aside the print, studied the envelope a minute, then stretched and decided I’d take a turn in the morning air.
The east was getting rosy, and over the city there was that cool hush which precedes the dawn. A late car whizzed down the boulevard a couple of blocks away, and a light truck came down the street, distributing the morning papers. I would get my paper at the door of my apartment later in the morning, but, in the meantime, I picked up the rolled newspaper which lit on a neighboring lawn and idly read it.
The murder of R. C. Rupert was reported, and there was the usual smear, a sketch of his career, the story of finding the body, the checkup of his flat, and a diagram showing a black Maltese cross marking the spot where the body was found.
I read of the man’s career. It seems he was an attorney who had started in practice for himself after having been identified for several years with Attorney L. A. Daniels. Daniels, I read, specialized on corporate and probate practice, and Rupert had been with him for more than ten years, finally leaving to open an office of his own, in which he had been very successful.
I rolled up the paper, put it back on the lawn, looked at the golden sun, stretched, yawned, and suddenly sprinted back toward my apartment. I had an idea.
With the information I now had there was nothing to it. Strokes on the film which had puzzled me came out with startling clarity, once I knew their meaning. In place of being signed by Davids and Roberts as witnesses, the will was witnessed by L. A. Daniels and R. C. Rupert.
I thought that over. The envelope contained a will. This will was to be placed in a certain safe, and another envelope probably removed. This will was a counterfeit will, but it was to be found in a lawyer’s safe. There were two witnesses to that will, either one of whom could and would pronounce it a forgery. One of those witnesses had been murdered within two hours of the time I had contracted to open the safe so that the will might be substituted.
Naturally the assumption would be that the safe I was to open was in the office of L. A. Daniels. It was also proper to presume that the attorney himself would be allowed to live as long as there was no necessity for admitting the will to probate. It would not do to murder the two witnesses to that will just before it was produced. The police might check up on the two deaths in connection with the two signatures. One of the men would be placed out of the way first. The other would be allowed to live until the will was to be admitted to probate or until sufficient time had elasped so that the police would not become suspicious of the real motive for the murders.
I picked up a suitcase, looked up the office address of L. A. Daniels, got in my machine and was on my way.
Getting into the office of the lawyer offered no obstacles. Office buildings are a cinch, and the locks are all made to open with a master key. The safe was another matter. As soon as I saw it I realized why the crooks who wanted it opened had been forced to make terms with me. It could have been crashed by a good safe man, but to open it without leaving so much as a scratch on it, or interfering with the combination, was another matter.
My system of opening safes is both simple and complicated. It consists of a combination of technical knowledge with the sound magnification offered by radio amplification. I magnify the sounds of the interior mechanism several thousand times, and I know what to listen for, how to interpret each and every sound which comes through the earphones. Even so, I was half an hour getting that safe open.
I wanted to check my suspicions, and I was right. Within that safe, in a compartment marked “WILLS,” I found a series of numbered envelopes, and there was a cross index system in a little card drawer. I ran through the cards under “B” and found Brundage listed as number 543290. The envelopes were filed in numerical order. The 543 was apparently merely a file classification, as the envelopes ran from 543001 to 543450. They were all sealed with a very brittle sealing wax which was smeared over their flaps in great blotches, and pressed down with the same Roman coin.
I had seen all I needed. I made a note of the combination, closed the safe, packed my radio safe outfit in the suitcase and went back to my apartment. Someone would find that double-crossing Ed Jenkins was no laughing matter, and somehow, some time, I would get the missing papers from the Chadwick file. Also I would find out more of the girl with the mole on her hand. I thought of the Weasel, his warning, the barking of those pistol shots. There was more to this than appeared on the surface.
However, that could wait. In the meantime I had an appointment with this chap, Colby, whoever he might be. There was a chance for a few hours’ sleep before that time, and I knew I would need lots of sleep before I got through with that case. It was up to me to keep one jump ahead of the organized crooks who were seeking to use me as a cat’s-paw.
Charles Colby was attired in the height of fashion. Very apparently he hated himself. Offhand, I sized him up as a man of two gods, a mirror and a checkbook. Money hunger was stamped on his face, and vanity in his eyes. He came into the apartment, introduced himself, and sat down with a patronizing manner.
“I am a lawyer, Mr. Jenkins, a lawyer who never overlooks the interests of a client. It happens that another lawyer has some documents in his safe which incriminate my client. I want those documents. I understand arrangements have been made so that you will open the safe.”
He stopped and looked at me shrewdly.
I sized him up. His eyes were small, blinking and watery. He seemed like a creature of the night, a nocturnal rat, who was afraid of the light. He had a great nose that stuck out in front of his face, and twitched from time to time like a rabbit’s — or like a rat’s. Aside from that he was good enough looking. He was shaved and massaged until the skin was a soft pink, and his hair was plastered down with some sort of varnish that gave forth an oily perfume, and made the black locks glisten and sparkle in the light. His collar was a great, four-inch affair, and the red tie, that blazoned forth its silken greeting, struck the eyes with the force of a blow. His trousers were creased into a knife-like edge and the socks below would have warmed up the ankles of a stone statue.
“Where is this safe?”
His nose twitched, his watery eyes blinked and he smacked his lips. “Ah, that will be disclosed in due time. It was a little idea of my own that we… er… protect ourselves on that. You will be blindfolded, Mr. Jenkins, conducted to this safe, then open it, and again be blindfolded.