One of the men with the girl said, “Let’s go.” He consulted his wrist-watch, then spoke to the girl. “You can shoot the works to him, Betty. He’ll probably stand for more from you than from us.” He led the way to the elevator.
It was apparent that the police weren’t going to allow another attack upon the governor-elect. Several headquarters detectives were stationed in the lobby. One grim-faced man stood close to the elevator door, watching all those who entered or left the car. He nodded to the four men and the girl as they got in.
Then, just as the door was about to slide to, a tall stranger bustled through the crowds in the lobby and leaped toward the elevator. He appeared to be of indefinite age. He was plainly dressed, and his blunt, nondescript features were as inconspicuous as his clothes. But, in the depths of his eyes, was a glow of flashing, penetrating intelligence. This look of dynamic mental power seemed mysteriously out of keeping with his commonplace face. As though anxious to hide it, he quickly lowered his gaze. The detective stretched out an arm and barred his way.
“Where to, mister?”
The keen-eyed man said, “To see Governor-elect Farrell. I just got in from upstate.” He took a wallet out of his pocket, and exhibited a card.
The detective said: “Oh, yeah. The commissioner said it would be okay for you to go up. You’re just in time.” He moved out of the way, and the tall, keen-eyed man went in.
The operator closed the door, and shot the cage up to the fifteenth floor. They all got out. The girl led the way down the corridor to a door before which another plain-clothes man was stationed. He nodded genially, and opened the door for them. The keen-eyed man who had arrived late seemed to have attached himself to their group, for he followed them in, though no word had yet been spoken by him.
Inside the governor-elect’s suite, they waited in an anteroom until the inner door opened. A gorgeously beautiful woman stood framed in the doorway. She was slender, sinuous, and appeared taller then she really was by reason of the long, tightly, fitting evening dress she wore.
The dress was of bright red, and expensive. So well was it fitted that it seemed to have been molded to her body. A coral necklace that matched the dress lay against her white throat, and jet black hair was done into a large knot at the nape of her neck. She was a strikingly attractive woman, in spite of the strange hardness that shone in her eyes.
She said in a low voice, with a trace of accent: “Eef you will come in, miss and gentlemen, Meestaire Farrell will see you now. He is vairy nervous — after that so terrible experience.” She shuddered prettily, and motioned them in.
They filed in past her, the keen-eyed man last. As he brushed her in passing he cast a searching glance into her features, and there was a quizzical smile on his lips. The woman flushed under his sharp gaze, and turned away.
The room which they were now in was lit only by a floor lamp near the door. The other end of the room was in semi-gloom, but there was enough light to see the harassed features of the man who sat behind the desk. He was a stately, dignified man in his fifties, hair turning gray at the temples, eyes sunk deep, cheeks gaunt and pale from the strenuous campaign he had been through. His hands rested on the glass top of the desk. On the middle finger of the right hand he wore a heavy gold ring with a strange design. It was a raised figure, Egyptian in type, but its lines were indistinguishable because of the lack of light.
The woman with the jet hair came around and stood beside the desk. The man looked up at her, nodded, and spoke to the visitors. “All right. I can give you five minutes — no more. I am very tired; and somewhat unstrung by this attempt on my life. Perhaps it will be better if one of you does the talking for all.”
One of the men tapped the blonde girl on the shoulder. “Go on, Betty. Talk up.”
THE girl took a step toward the desk, and smiled pleasantly. “I’ll try to make it as short as I can, judge. The first question is: What were your sensations when Kyle fired at you with the automatic?”
Farrell moved restlessly. The queer Egyptian ring seemed to radiate a disquieting glow. “Shock, more than anything else,” he said. “At first I didn’t realize I was being fired at. There was this explosion at the end of the corridor, and something whizzed past my head. Then there was a crash in the woodwork beside me. You can see where the bullet struck, when you go out. Captain Donovan, my bodyguard, drew his gun and raced down the hall.
“Only then did I understand that somebody was trying to kill me. The princess here, with whom I was going on a motor ride, screamed. I turned and saw this Killer Kyle down near the elevators. He was firing again, but Captain Donovan was between me and the assassin. Kyle’s remaining six bullets found their mark in the poor captain’s body. He took the death that was intended for me. Then the house detective came around the bend in the hall, and struck Kyle over the head with his revolver. That was all.”
Betty and the four reporters were busy taking notes. The governor-elect’s statement would go in their papers word for word. The keen-eyed man, however, took no notes. During Farrell’s recital he listened attentively, his piercing eyes darting from the speaker to the exotically beautiful princess.
Betty said, “Thank you, governor. Now, number two: Do you suspect that Killer Kyle had anything to do with the murder of your secretary, Michael Crome, which occurred last week?”
Farrell frowned. “I don’t know what to think. There seems to be some deep-seated plot against the incoming state officials. What is behind it is a mystery.”
“Who,” Betty asked, “would succeed you if anything happened to you?”
The eyes of the Princess Ar-Lassi flashed angrily. “I think,” she exclaimed, “that this question which you now ask is in vairy poor taste!”
BETTY started to say, “I’m sorry—” but the governor-elect raised a patient hand.
“It’s all right, my dear,” he said. “When you become accustomed to newspaper reporters, you will learn not to be offended at anything they may ask. It’s their business.” He smiled at Betty. “I’ll answer that by saying that according to the statute, if I were to be killed, Lieutenant Governor Alvin Rice, who has been re-elected, would become governor. And in the event that Lieutenant Governor Rice should become incapacitated, the gubernatorial functions would be assumed by the president pro-tem of the senate — who happens to be State Senator Anton Thane, a very good friend of mine. So, for that matter, is Mr. Rice — even though he fought me for the nomination in the convention.”
“Both these gentlemen belong to the Conservative Party, the same as you?” Betty asked.
“They do. We are all regular party men. That, as you know, is why I yielded to the entreaties of my good friend, John Hanscom, the Conservative Party leader, and agreed to run for governor. I was quite satisfied with my position as Justice of the Supreme Court, but I feel that party loyalty comes before personal preference.” Farrell’s tone had unconsciously assumed an oratorical note. Phrases like these were second nature to politicians.
Betty went on with her questions. “Do you know of any reason why your secretary, Michael Crome, should have been tortured and killed in that hideous way? Was he in possession of any secrets that the murderer might have wanted to wrest from him?”
Farrell was silent, thoughtful, for a moment. Then he said, “No. It is incredible that such a fiendish act could take place in this civilized country!” His face appeared to look older, harried, at the very thought of Crome’s death.