“That’s right,” I agreed. “You—”
Knuckles tapped on the door.
Genevieve looked at me with eyes that held no fear, only a silent question. Daphne’s face twisted into a spasm of expression. She glanced wildly about her as though looking for some means of escape.
“Are there any back stairs?” I asked Genevieve.
She shook her head.
I said, “All right, we’re in for it.”
“What shall I do?” Daphne asked.
I said, “Sit down on the davenport, act as though you were just about ready for bed, and keep the panic off that face of yours.”
“Shall I answer it?” Genevieve asked.
I said, “I think I’d better. One just can’t tell.”
The knuckles sounded again, a more imperative and authoritative summons than the first knock.
I walked over and opened the door.
Señor Ramon Vasquo Gomez stood on the threshold, his face twisted into that smirk with which he would have greeted an attractive woman who opened the door. It was amusing to see that expression play tag with a whole series of expressions as he recognized me.
“My dear Señor Gomez,” I said, “won’t you come in?”
“It is a pleasure, Señor Sabin. I had hardly expected to find you here.”
“Business,” I said, “forced me to change my plans.”
He entered the apartment, was careful to close the door behind him, looked at Genevieve Hotling, then turned to Daphne Strate. An expression of triumphant satisfaction flooded his face. “Well, well,” he said, “what strange things happen! One follows Daphne Strate to see where she will go, and she leads one to the Señor Sabin, who is so interested in purchasing large quantities of commercial chemicals for his South American business.”
“And Miss Hotling,” I said.
He turned to Genevieve with a bow.
“Miss Hotling,” I said, “may I present Señor Ramon Vasquo Gomez, once resident of Argentina, and murderer of your cousin, Betty Crofath.”
Gomez, in the midst of a bow from the hips, jerked upright as quickly as though I had yanked him by the coat collar and snapped him back. “What was that?” he asked.
“I merely wanted Miss Hotling to know that you had murdered her cousin,” I told him.
“My dear sir, I was in New Orleans at the time of that unfortunate occurrence! Please, may we not have the radio turned off if we are to engage in conversation?”
I nodded to Genevieve.
She was watching me for signals, as a base runner watches his coach. She reached toward the radio.
At that moment, the announcer said, “Turning now from National affairs to our own city, police have uncovered new evidence in connection with the murder of George Bronset, the porter who...”
Genevieve Hotling clicked the radio into silence.
I turned suavely to Gomez, and said very casually, “That may be quite true, señor. Perhaps you were in New Orleans at the time the young lady met her death, but—”
Gomez jumped from his position at the far end of the room, to grab the dial on the radio. He snapped it back on, turned to me with glittering eyes.
I moved toward him. “You asked to have the radio...”
His right hand came up from his hip pocket holding a blued-steel automatic pointed squarely at my stomach.
The voice of the radio announcer came blasting into the room. “... dead in a downtown hotel under circumstances which for a time baffled the police, who have thrown out a dragnet for the young woman who registered at the hotel under the name of Betty Crofath, as well as the man who was seen leaving the room shortly before the body was discovered. With the identification of fingerprints found in that room and after a careful check of the description of the man who passed himself off on the house detective as a representative of the Motor Vehicle Department, police are now convinced that the man they want is none other than Ed Jenkins, known throughout the underworld as The Phantom Crook because of his ability to slip through the fingers of the police.”
Señor Gomez’ black eyes were glittering at me with an intensity of concentration. His lips twisted in a smile.
The announcer went on: “Edward Jenkins has had perhaps as adventurous a career as any man alive. He is reputed to be both hated and feared by the organized underworld, which misses no opportunity to pass on any information it may have concerning him to the police. Yet so clever is this master crook that he has become almost a legendary figure. Earlier in his career, police had him in custody half a dozen times, only to have him slip through their fingers. Later on, they set trap after trap, only to have The Phantom Crook vanish into thin air. Of late, there has been some attempt to enlist public sympathy by presenting the claim that Jenkins is used as a scapegoat by the underworld; that any crime which momentarily baffles the police is blamed upon Jenkins by the stool pigeons who obey the orders of their underworld masters. Police, however, brand this claim as absurd. They say that, despite all reports to the contrary, Jenkins is still carrying on his nefarious activities, albeit so cleverly that it is next to impossible to secure proof which would result in his conviction in front of a jury.
“However, police have definitely identified several of the fingerprints found in the room where George Bronset met his death as being those of Ed Jenkins, The Phantom Crook. Arthur Harryman, the house detective, when shown a police photograph of Jenkins, leveled an emphatic finger at the pictured likeness and said, 'There’s the man!’
“Police are also convinced that the beautiful blonde young woman who registered at the hotel under the name of Betty Crofath was, in fact, Daphne Strate of New Orleans, who was for a time sought by the police of the Southern city in connection with a shortage of funds in a chemical company where she had been employed. More recently, however, her name has been cleared in connection with that shortage, and police are convinced that insofar as the murder of George Bronset is concerned, she is an innocent bystander who has been frightened into flight by events for which she is, in all probability, blameless. Police insist that if she will surrender herself and submit to questioning, they will extend her every possible consideration.
“At the request of police, we are broadcasting a description of Ed Jenkins, The Phantom Crook. Anyone having any information concerning the man who answers this description will please communicate with police headquarters immediately. According to police, Jenkins is about five feet ten and a-half or eleven inches in height, somewhere in the late twenties or early thirties, with an abundance of dark, wavy hair, a thin, straight nose, high cheekbones, penetrating gray eyes, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, well-dressed in a dark gray double-breasted suit. His weight is about a hundred sixty-five pounds.
“Turning now to the local political scene, it has been announced that two of the candidates for mayor...”
Ramon Gomez switched off the radio.
“So,” he said with a smooth, purring note of satisfaction in his voice, “the man who left the room in the Pelton Hotel was none other than Ed Jenkins, The Phantom Crook — and how well the description fits you, Señor Sabin. But come, we are all wasting time, standing here tense and dramatic. Suppose we be seated and relax for a friendly discussion. But do not think that I will hesitate to use this weapon. And, my dear Señor Jenkins — or perhaps you prefer to be called Sabin — please note that I don’t make the mistake of holding the weapon extended, where you could reach it with a swift blow or a well-placed kick. No, señor, I have learned how to use these little toys. You will note that I keep it held back and closely against my body. I can assure you that at the first unexpected move on your part there will be most unpleasant consequences.”