Maxwell Grant
Murder Every Hour
CHAPTER I
TWO MILLION DOLLARS
A HUGE, gray-haired man was seated at a massive mahogany desk. The modulated glow of electric lights showed his rugged, square-formed features. Bushy brows, gray like the hair above them, added to a perpetual scowl that existed on this heavy face.
Like the man, the furnishings of the room were bulky. Squatty, stout-legged chairs surrounded the weighty desk. A cumbersome table stood in one corner. Behind the desk was the thick steel door of a wall safe. Against a side wall was a mammoth bookcase, in three sections, that ran from floor to ceiling.
A knock came from the door of the room. The big man raised his head and rumbled an order to enter. The portal opened; a frail, bespectacled individual stepped timidly into the heavy-furnished study.
“You wished to see me, Mr. Dreblin?” inquired the newcomer, in a shaky voice.
“I did,” returned the man at the desk. “That is why I told Alfred to summon you.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
“You are, Hastings. Your work has proven unsatisfactory. I no longer require you as my secretary.”
Hastings stood with lips twitching. The news of his dismissal troubled him. Yet the frail young man felt that he had reached the end of an ordeal. As secretary to Philo Dreblin, he had served a most irritable employer.
“Yes, Hastings,” grumbled Dreblin, “you have been inefficient. Intolerably so! Like the half a dozen others who have held your job during the past few months. It seems that I shall never manage to hire a secretary with brains.”
“I have tried my best, sir—”
“Apologies are unnecessary, Hastings. I have made due allowance for your shortcomings. The job has proven too stiff for you; that is all. I realize that effort has not been lacking.”
“Therefore” — Dreblin paused, and Hastings stared at sight of a smile that was almost kindly — “I have arranged other employment for you, Hastings. You will remain here for a few days. After that, you will work in the New York office of the Calthite Company.”
“Thank you, sir!” exclaimed Hastings. The secretary’s face showed a relieved smile. “This is generous of you, Mr. Dreblin. I shall be very much pleased—”
“Pleased to get away from here,” interposed Dreblin, dryly. “Well, Hastings, I cannot blame you. I suppose that I am something of a slave-driver. Well, now that your future is settled, you can go back to your present task. Continue to arrange my correspondence. I shall summon you if I require you.”
Hastings bowed himself out, closing the door behind him.
PHILO DREBLIN glowered from behind the desk. After a short interval he arose, tiptoed to the door and opened it suddenly, as though expecting to find Hastings listening from the other side.
Finding no sign of the secretary, Dreblin looked about an empty outer room; then stepped back in his study, closed the door and locked it. A satisfied smile showed on the big man’s lips.
Moving to the bookcase, Dreblin withdrew three heavy volumes from a lower shelf. He found a hidden button, pressed it, then replaced the books. Returning to the desk, Dreblin sat down and waited expectantly.
Two minutes passed. A muffled click came from the wall. An upright section of the bookcase swung into the room. A tall man stepped into view, nodded his greeting, then swung the bookcase shut. After that, he approached the desk.
Philo Dreblin’s visitor was a man with a shrewd, pointed face. His fox-like expression contrasted with Dreblin’s square, heavy-browed countenance. Yet it was plain that the two had some enterprise in common — one that required secrecy.
For Dreblin’s first action was a warning gesture that caused the fox-faced newcomer to sidle to a chair. Rising from the desk, Dreblin moved over to the door, stooped there and listened cautiously. Satisfied that Hastings was not outside, Dreblin returned to the desk.
“All right, Nethro,” stated Dreblin, in a guarded rumble. “We can talk. No one is eavesdropping.”
The visitor was striking a match with his left hand. He applied the flame to a cigarette, shook the match until it went out, then tossed the burned stick toward an ash tray on the desk. Drumming the woodwork with his right hand, he surveyed Dreblin curiously.
“This secretary of yours,” observed Nethro. “What harm can he do? Why would it matter if he overheard us talking? He has seen the letters Frieth wrote you, hasn’t he?”
“Not all of them,” returned Dreblin. “Hastings is the sixth secretary that I have had in the past two months. He has only seen Frieth’s last letter. He will not see any more of them.”
“You won’t hear from Frieth again?”
“Perhaps; perhaps not. But in either event, Hastings will not be here. I am dismissing him.”
Nethro guffawed, Dreblin scowled.
“I am choosing another secretary,” announced the large man. “I am taking the next on the list of waiting applicants.”
“And I suppose,” put in Nethro, “that you’ll fire the new guy within two weeks.”
“I shall,” asserted Dreblin, dryly. “And I shall do the same with every succeeding secretary until this Frieth matter is ended.”
“And when will that be?”
“Soon, I hope.”
EMPHATICALLY, Dreblin yanked open a desk drawer and brought out a long sheet of paper. He thrust it across the desk to Nethro. The visitor studied it curiously; then laughed.
“Been doing your own typing, Mr. Dreblin?” he inquired. “Yeah. This looks like it. Guess this must have been too important to leave to your secretary.”
“Read it,” suggested Dreblin.
Nethro perused the lines. His face took on a puzzled look; then his lips formed a hard, angry curve. Indignantly, he tossed the paper back to Dreblin.
“You expect me to sign that?” was Nethro’s challenge. “So I’ll sew myself up any way you want me?”
“Hardly,” replied Dreblin, in a casual tone. “I can see nothing unfair in this agreement. It merely states that Kip Nethro will share responsibility with Philo Dreblin in any mutual undertaking. It is simply a legitimate protection.”
“Maybe it is,” agreed Nethro, “but I can’t see the use of it. I’m not in business with you, Mr. Dreblin. I’m a private investigator — and I’m working for you—”
“And like any employee, you might be bought out by the opposition.”
“You don’t think you can trust me?”
Dreblin smiled. Rising from his chair, he strolled around the desk and clapped Nethro on the shoulder with one hand while he presented the paper with the other.
“If I didn’t trust you, Nethro,” stated Dreblin, “I would not have hired you in the first place. I intend, however, to assign you to a new and more important task. One wherein you will contact certain parties who might seek to bribe you. Come, Nethro, sign.”
Nethro stroked his chin. He eyed Dreblin shrewdly. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he picked up a pen with his left hand. In sweeping strokes, he affixed his brief signature to the document.
Dreblin picked up the paper and went back to his chair.
“We can talk more freely from now on,” rumbled the huge man, as he placed the signed paper in the desk drawer. “I can tell you exactly how we intend to deal with this sharp promoter, Newell Frieth.”
“And the guys who are working with him?”
“Yes. Jeremy Lentz and Howard Morath. You have done well, tracing them, Nethro. But that work was merely a test. I knew about them all along.”
“Yet you had me on the job—”
“Getting first-hand information for yourself. So that I might learn your capabilities. You found out a great deal, Nethro. I shall tell you more. So let us review all facts.”