“Nobody will find out,” said Carney easily. “Even the thugs who did the actual work for us don’t know our connection with it. And the rest is all perfectly legal.
“We own Tap & Die, to the last share of stock. It cost us five and a half million. We liquidate the company, getting what we can for plant and equipment, and drawing out that juicy fourteen-million-dollar cash reserve. Who’s to say anything about that? It’s our company. We can break it up if we want to.”
“If any of those people taken to the Island should squawk—”
“They won’t. They’ll be scared to death to say anything. They’re promised sure death if they do. As for the financial transaction — we’re working through a dummy set-up. Our names are kept completely out. So is his.”
Buell seemed reassured. He looked at his watch.
“By the way, shouldn’t he be getting here pretty soon?”
Carney nodded, smiling with thin, pale lips.
“Any minute. And you know, the fact that he’s coming whispers to me that they’ve got that final signature — Vincent’s — right now. I don’t think he’d be coming here if they hadn’t. He told us he wouldn’t put in a personal appearance till the end.”
Buell nodded, eyes glittering. “Say! If he has — we can complete the deal tomorrow!”
He opened the top drawer of his desk. There were cigars in there, and he was an inveterate smoker. He reached for the flat, expensive box.
“We’ve got to be careful, though, Carney. If by any chance an investigation were called, there are loop-holes—”
Buell stopped. He stopped abruptly, and he stared into the desk drawer as if he had seen a poisonous snake there.
What he saw, as a matter of fact, was as deadly as a reptile.
Over in the right-hand corner, beside the flat .38 automatic he habitually kept in his desk since the cashier’s cage had been held up four years before, were two things — a letter and a postcard.
The letter, on a flat, unfolded little sheet of paper, was from Mrs. Robert Martineau. It said simply “This is to authorize you to sell my Buffalo Tap & Die stock at the current quotations.”
The postcard was from Isle Royale, Thousand Islands region, and said: “Insulin. Fast.” And was signed Murdock. There was a P.S., and at this Buell stared with his eyes glazing with horror and despairing fury. It said: “Everything going well, according to your orders.”
For five seconds Buell glared at that damning postcard. Then he satched up the gun and leveled it at his partner.
“You dog!” he panted. “You double-crossing rat!” His voice rose to a scream. “No chance of anything going wrong, eh? Our names kept out of this, eh? I can see now why you’re so sure everything will be all right! You — and him!”
“What on earth are you yelling about?” snapped Carney, getting to his feet so fast that his chair tipped over behind him, but standing very still before the death in Buell’s maddened eyes.
“You know what I’m talking about!” screeched Buell. “ ‘Everything going well, according to my orders!’ So you and he planned to frame me for this, did you? You were going to turn me over to the police to take the whole load so that if investigations did start, you’d be in the clear!
“Or maybe you meant to kill me and then have the police find me!” raved Buell. “That postcard and the ‘sell’ order in my desk — and maybe beside it a ‘suicide’ note from me!”
“I swear—” mumbled Carney hoarsely, staring at the gun muzzle with wide, horrified eyes.
And then there was a noise at the door. Steps — and a hand on the knob.
“The police!” yelled Buell, utterly mad. “This is them now! You called them to get me! You planned — you and he—”
The gun bucked and trembled in his hand. Planted evidence! Police to pick him up! Well, they never would—
Carney fell, bleeding from four or five wounds, any one of which would have been fatal. Buell, still screaming, broke for the opening door. He emptied his gun into the dumbfounded figure appearing there, leaped over it, and raced down the corridor.
A figure that seemed to tower clear to the ceiling stepped around a corner, caught him by the nape of the neck and held him up with one hand like a kitten.
Smitty carried the raving man back to the office, followed by Benson and MacMurdie.
Carney was dead. Near the door, the other victim of Buell’s madness was lying unconscious.
The third member of this murder firm. The third who was going to split something over nine million dollars in viciously acquired cash.
“Why, look—” stammered MacMurdie. “Why—”
The man who lay there, arms sprawled, bullet holes dripping crimson, was Lawrence Hickock. Old Ironsides.
Benson stepped to the office phone and dialed police headquarters, pale, deadly eyes playing like cold flame over Old Ironsides’ stark form. The man at the head of the trio! The man, more than any single person, responsible for what had happened to Benson’s wife and child!
“Buell & Carney’s office,” Benson said into the phone, immobile lips barely moving with the words, face utterly dead. “Hickock came here, as I said he would. You can come and get him and the other two rats.”
CHAPTER XIX
Three Against Crime
In the hospital, Hickock lay dying. At police headquarters, Buell, a gibbering wreck, was listening to his talk with Carney, from a dictograph planted in their office by Benson. Then he raved a confession. But Benson was not there to listen. He was at the hotel. The gray man already knew the main outlines, if not the entire details, of the murderous affair.
It had been Hickock’s plan. Buy Tap & Die stock, and loot the big cash reserve. If anybody refused to sell under threat — take him to Thornacre Island and make him sell, by torture if necessary. It had been necessary with all save John Lansing, who had discreetly surrendered and sold with the first threat of death.
It was Hickock who had thought up the clever scheme of carrying the victims to the hideout in an ordinary transport plane, whose regular trips would not arouse the possible comment that the frequent appearance of a private plane might have done.
But in the actual kidnappings lay the greatest risk of eventual detection. The dummy Tap & Die set-up might be penetrated at some future date, and the names of the men actually profitting be discovered. So Hickock acted in advance to kill any possible future suspicion.
He had taken the hazardous “kidnap” trip himself, with not even the gangsters knowing he wasn’t the victim he seemed to be. That is, all but Farr, leader of the gang. To Farr, Hickock had appealed secretly when he found himself running out of insulin which, as a diabetic, he must have—
“That nailed him,” said Benson, staring at the hotel-room wall with pale eyes in which was no triumph but only a great weariness. For after all, the main goal had not been accomplished. A gang had been mopped up, and their crafty, undercover leaders nabbed. But no trace had been found of Alicia and little Alice. “The call for insulin put the finger on him at once.”
MacMurdie shook his Scotch head. “I don’t see—”
“The gang didn’t care anything about the health of its victims,” said Benson. “Once they got the signature on the ‘sell’ order, nothing mattered.
“But when Hickock needed insulin — that was different! Immediately a hurry call went out. Why the solicitude for his health? What did they care whether Hickock had medicine or not? The only possible answer was that Hickock had a tie-up with the crooks.”
“Well,” said MacMurdie somberly, “the mon paid for it. And so did Carney, and so will Buell. Thanks to you, Muster Benson.”