Here were gathered four men whose features were indistinguishable in the partial light of a weak-bulbed bridge lamp in the far corner.
Even in the dim illumination, this room appeared as a sumptuously furnished library. Bookcases lined the walls; deep, comfortable upholstered chairs were in evidence. At the far end from the windows a balcony stretched across the room. The four men paid no attention to the furnishings. Though their faces were blurs, and the starched fronts of their dress shirts merely white splotches in the semi-gloom, it was apparent that there was a strange tenseness about them; a strained air of nervous expectancy that seemed to charge the atmosphere with hideous forebodings of doom.
One of the four, a very tall man, was walking up and down, while the others sat still and taut, their very attitudes seeming to question him. Every time the tall man neared the far end of the room, the low-thrown light of the bridge lamp cast its gleaming focus on his brightly polished patent leather shoes that squeaked slightly with each step.
One of the seated men flicked a lighter to a cigarette. The hand that held the lighter was revealed as flabby, pudgy, trembling. He took a puff or two of the cigarette, extinguished the lighter. Then, with an impatient motion, he crushed the cigarette in an ash tray on the end table.
“God!” he broke out, in a high-pitched voice. “Stop that walking! Those damn shoes of yours — squeaking like that! They give me the creeps!”
The tall man kept on walking, “Losing your nerve?” he demanded bitingly.
Another of the four stirred in his chair. He was a man with a large, heavy body. His face was almost entirely hidden in the depths of the upholstery. He took a bulky, old-fashioned watch from his vest pocket, snapped open the case. “It’s eight-fifteen,” he said in a deep, authoritative voice. “If anything has happened, it’s over by this time. Turn on the radio, and get the news flashes. It’s better than phoning in to the city for information. That might arouse suspicion.”
The fourth man remained silent. He sat still and self-contained, a mere shadow in the darkness.
The tall man grunted, walked over to the radio, treading hard so as to make his shoes squeak louder.
The pudgy man said, “God! That squeaking will drive me crazy!”
THE others paid him no attention. They stiffened in their seats as the radio sprang to life under the tall man’s manipulation.
The announcer’s voice billowed into the room, filled it. “And to bear out once more all the dark rumors and fearful whispers about the sinister hand that seems to be enveloping the entire state in a clutch of horror,” he was saying, “we learn that within the last hour a bold, brazen and murderous attempt has been made to assassinate Judge Guy B. Farrell, the governor-elect of the state! Fortunately, the murderer was balked in the attempt, and the life of the governor-elect was saved. But no one feels safe any longer within the borders of the state!”
The voice of the pudgy man quavered shrilly, drowning out the announcer’s voice. “God! Failed! What’ll we do?”
“Shut up!” the tall man snarled. He turned the volume control, and the announcer’s voice grew louder:
“The killer was captured after his murderous attempt, and turned out to be none other than the dangerous desperado, the escaped convict, ‘Killer’ Kyle, whose escape from Riker Penitentiary a few days ago was shrouded in such mystery that the warden would not even grant an interview. Kyle is the second convict to break out of Riker within a week. You will recall that Sam Slawson, the all-around confidence man, was the first.”
The large man who had suggested turning on the radio, grunted, and said, “They’re tying things up — guessing close. Something will have to be done.”
The announcer continued: “It becomes rapidly clearer that there is some enormous plot on foot to seize control of the state through murder of key men. Last week, shortly after Sam Slawson’s escape from Riker, Governor-elect Farrell’s secretary was hideously tortured, and then murdered. There is no apparent reason why this terrible thing should have been done to Michael Crome. Crome was Judge Farrell’s secretary for eleven years.
“Judge Farrell is an honest, upright man — that is why he was drafted to run for governor on the Conservative party ticket. Why should Crome have been killed, and why should this attempt have been made on the judge’s life? Kyle admits that he had nothing against Judge Farrell, but refuses to disclose who aided him to escape from Riker, or who paid him to try to kill the governor-elect.
“Immediately after his arrest he was taken to headquarters where he will be grilled by Inspector Burks. He is defiant, and boasts that he will be out within twenty-four hours. Inspector Burks, in a statement to the press, said that extraordinary precautions have been taken, and that not even a fly could get out of headquarters. Nevertheless, grave doubts are being expressed, in view of the fact that there seems to be a deep-laid plot on foot, engineered by a master criminal who commands the respect even of such men as Killer Kyle!”
The pudgy man appeared to shudder perceptibly. “God! Remember what Crome’s body looked like? All bloated up to twice its size! And his throat swollen so he couldn’t breathe — and strangled to death!” He sprang up. “I can’t stand it, I tell you!” He started for the door.
The tall man reached out a long hand and seized his arm, hurled him back into the chair. “Be careful,” he said coldly. “We can’t afford to have any weak sisters. And it’s too late to back out. You’re in this—” he leaned forward and said the next words slowly “—alive — or dead!”
The radio announcer was still talking. “Judge Farrell, who has been without a secretary since election day, due to the murder of Michael Crome, has announced that he will not engage a new one for the present. He will temporarily make use of the services of his fiancée, the beautiful Princess Ar-Lassi, whose recent advent into society has attracted wide attention. The swift romance that grew between the judge and the fascinating widow of the Egyptian prince, Mehemet Ar-Lassi, is—”
The tall man shut off the radio with an impatient flick of his fingers.
And now the fourth man in the room leaned forward in his chair and spoke for the first time. His hands, with carefully manicured fingernails, were trembling visibly as he tapped the gun-metal cigarette case he had extracted from his pocket. “So,” he said in a low, tense voice, “Kyle failed to kill Farrell, and was caught. And now they want to make him talk. And he boasts he will be out in twenty-four hours!” His long finger stabbed up at the tall man. “Is there any basis for that boast?”
The tall man glared downward a moment and spoke sharply, hoarsely: “Why ask me? You know—”
He did not finish the sentence. His face was working strangely. And, in the silence that followed his words, the atmosphere of tense foreboding in the room deepened. A mysterious force seemed to be at work, chilling the minds and hearts of its occupants with a fear they dared not even voice. That force was like the slow, relentless grip of a hand of horror, crushing them in its snaky fingers.
Chapter II
BEFORE the desk of the Clayton Hotel, four young men and a young woman waited impatiently. The woman was hardly more than a girl. Her trim little figure was charged with the quick energy of youth. A pair of blue eyes sparkled in the small, creamy oval of her face. Blonde hair peeped out from under the brim of her hat. She was exchanging light chatter with the four men. But behind her apparent gayety there were undertones of tense emotion and purpose.
The phone on the clerk’s desk jangled abruptly. The clerk answered it, then nodded to the little group, his eyes feasting on the loveliness of the girl. “The governor-elect will see you now.” His announcement included them all.