The coma that he had experienced before would be a grateful relief from the terror of this abode where Thade was ruler. The green walls whirled dizzily before Treffin’s eyes. He steadied as the quieting drug took effect. He felt himself being led across the room, through the green-walled chamber beyond. He felt himself moving downward through darkness; then recollection faded, although he still possessed the strength of locomotion under Roderick’s guidance.
An hour later, Harlan Treffin awoke to find himself in the little room at the rear of the first floor in his home. He was slouched in a chair beside the table. Before him lay a square box, which he recognized distinctly. Set upon the table was the oddly shaped lamp that he had received from Thade. Near him stood Paul Roderick.
All that had happened came back to Harlan Treffin in vivid memory. The interviews with Thade were a recollection that he could not forget. Every detail throbbed through his brain. But of the journeys to and from The Death Giver’s abode, he remembered nothing.
Roderick advanced. He placed a sheet of paper in Harlan Treffin’s weakened hand. Upon the paper were the names of three places in Manhattan. Each was listed with an exact time in the morning — certain minutes between eight and nine.
“You remember?” quizzed Roderick.
Treffin nodded and moistened his dry lips.
“Everything,” he declared.
“The lamp?” questioned Roderick.
“Yes,” answered Treffin.
A smile appeared upon Roderick’s sophisticated face. His mouth formed a short phrase:
“Do not forget.”
The furtive gleam in Treffin’s eyes showed that the man could not forget. The power of Thade, The Death Giver, had impressed itself indelibly upon his brain. The thought of that dying man embedded in the glass-cased floor was a terror that had sapped his courage.
“You may communicate with me,” declared Roderick, “after your work has been finished. Do so every night, after eight o’clock. You may have further duties. If I do not respond, wait for one hour. Unless you hear from me within that period, there will be no message.”
With that, Roderick turned and strolled from the room, leaving Harlan Treffin pondering upon the strange events which had occurred to dominate his future.
Outside, Paul Roderick entered his coupe and drove to a large apartment house in the Forties. He turned his car over to an attendant at the door, and walked to the nearest corner. There, he deposited a large envelope in a mail box.
After that, Roderick returned to the apartment house and went up in the elevator. He was smiling as he alighted on the sixth floor.
He had served Thade well, to-night. The roving agent of The Death Giver, Paul Roderick had acquired a new and useful henchman; and he had also dispatched a note of mystery to the next millionaire on Thade’s list.
Within a few weeks, Roderick was sure, he would receive a tidy share of new wealth that would be in The Death Giver’s hidden coffers! New wealth which would come as a result of the work to start tomorrow!
CHAPTER IX. DEATH IN MANHATTAN
AT quarter past eight the next morning, a steady stream of people were passing through a short arcade that led to an uptown subway entrance. Among them was Harlan Treffin.
The man had recovered from his fright of the night before. At present, he was a trifle nervous; but he steadied himself as he stopped at a telephone that jutted from the wall.
Treffin jiggled the receiver with his right hand. His left, within his coat, came suddenly forth and pressed beneath the telephone box. It rested there; performed a slow twisting motion, and moved away.
Treffin stepped from the telephone. He almost bumped into a short, stocky man who stepped aside to avoid him. Treffin caught a glimpse of a heavy-jowled face, a bristling gray mustache, and a derby hat above.
Both men moved on. The throng continued to pass. Fully five minutes elapsed. Then something strange occurred. A young man passing through the arcade stopped short within a few feet of the wall telephone.
He pressed his hands against his chest. He drew a long, gasping breath and tottered. He fell to the floor before approaching persons could come to his rescue.
A crowd congregated within a few minutes. Wild voices called for a doctor, an ambulance, a policeman.
The last named was the first to arrive. A ruddy-faced officer pushed his way through the excited group, and leaned over the man upon the floor. The practiced eye of the policeman told instantly that the young chap was dead.
WHILE excitement still reigned in the arcade, and little groups of people were talking about the tragedy which had occurred, Harlan Treffin was entering the lobby of an office building on lower Broadway.
Twenty paces ahead of him was the heavy-jowled man with the derby hat. Treffin did not notice him. His watch concerned him more. It showed twenty minutes before ten.
Treffin stepped up to a telephone just inside the door. The instrument was at the left of the lobby.
Treffin’s arm was shielded by the wall. Quickly, the man performed the same operation that he had used in the arcade. He walked away from the telephone and left the building.
Five minutes later, a man came through the revolving door of the office building, faltered, and plunged headlong to the tiled floor. Two attendants rushed forward and lifted him to his feet. The man collapsed in their arms.
They carried him to a drug store that adjoined the lobby The pharmacist in charge expressed immediate concern. He believed that the man was dead. He sent a hurry call for an ambulance.
Meanwhile, on the twentieth floor of the skyscraper, the gray-mustached man had entered a luxurious suite of offices. Employees bowed and nodded as he went by. He opened a door that bore the name:
IRWIN LANGHORNE
A stenographer greeted the stocky gentleman with a cheery “good morning.” Irwin Langhorne smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Price,” he said. “I am checking in, as usual. You may notify the executives that I shall return after my usual cup of coffee.”
Replacing his derby upon his head, the mustached man left the office and walked back through the suite.
Smiles were exchanged among the employees as he passed.
Every morning, Irwin Langhorne, millionaire importer, arrived at quarter of nine. He always came via subway. Immediately after his arrival, he invariably left to obtain a morning cup of coffee. This was accepted as a matter of office routine; but the early employees never failed to watch for Langhorne’s reappearance after he had entered his private office.
Descending to the lobby, Langhorne left the building by a side door, and walked to a little restaurant that was wedged in the side of a towering building. He seated himself at a table halfway back, and quietly ordered a cup of coffee.
He did not notice a man who was lounging by the door; nor did the other observe Irwin Langhorne. That man was Harlan Treffin, who had entered scarcely a minute before the millionaire. Treffin was waiting to use the telephone by the wall.
A woman left the phone, and Treffin fumbled with the receiver. He made a pretense of dropping a nickel in the slot. Leaning forward, he pressed his left hand beneath the box. Hanging up the receiver, he left the restaurant entirely unnoticed.
People were coming in and out. A middle-aged man in a checkered suit stopped directly across from the telephone and rattled a coin on the cigar counter. The cashier, busy making change several feet away, did not respond immediately. When he turned, he stared as he saw the peculiar expression which had appeared upon the face of the man at the counter.
The coin was no longer clicking. Its owner was slumping toward the floor. The cashier leaped to the rescue, but too late; the man in the checkered suit fell sidewise, and his head thudded when it struck the floor. Excitement reigned for several minutes; then the body was carried into the restaurant manager’s office.