“That is right, Cardona,” declared Barth, approvingly. “Mr. Jodelle has found an important point.”
“So important,” insisted Jodelle, “that I intend to concentrate my investigation upon tracing the final actions of Rudolph Zellwood. I am going to learn the identity of the man to whom he talked.”
“Go ahead,” declared Cardona, a trifle angered. “That’s a good job for you, Jodelle. I’m going after another man — the big shot who led that crew.
“I’m not saying who he is. But I’ve got a hunch. It’s going to be my business to find him. I could lay my finger on him to-night, but he’s too foxy a guy to grab in a hurry. You get the mouthpiece, Jodelle. I’ll go after the head man of the muscle outfit.”
THERE was a momentary pause. Challenge seemed to exist between investigator and detective. Barth seemed pleased, rather than annoyed. This sort of competition was to his liking. Not to be outdone, he capped the situation.
“You are both right,” he said, approvingly. “Remember, I insist that you cooperate. But remember: if each of you finds his man, you will still have a trail ahead. There are brains behind this robbery. Some master mind has reaped the profit that his lieutenants gained. Some one bigger than the man who bumped Zellwood; some one bigger than the head of the burglar crew.”
“Quite right,” added Tobias Hildreth. “You have spoken well, commissioner. When we think of the schemers who have gone untouched — such, for instance, as the perpetrator of the Garaucan bond swindle — it is plain to see that this robbery must depend upon some master rogue.”
“Rest assured,” responded Barth, pompously, as he arose and adjusted his pince-nez. “I promise you, Hildreth, that I shall bring this super-criminal to justice.”
With this positive statement, delivered in a tone of finality, the new police commissioner made his departure, accompanied by his ace detective.
CHAPTER XIII. BARTH GETS ADVICE
IT was late the same evening when Commissioner Wainwright Barth appeared at his favorite habitat, the exclusive Cobalt Club. With head thrust forward from his gawky shoulders, he stalked through lobby and lounge, nodding to members who greeted him.
Peering eaglelike through his pince-nez spectacles, Barth was the picture of egotism. In fact, since his appointment to the post of police commissioner, Barth had become — in the opinion of Cobalt Club members — the most conceited person in that highbrow meeting place.
Wainwright Barth was something of a mystery. He had always possessed considerable wealth. This had been attributed to a legacy. He had gone in for banking, with some success; he had been connected with various enterprises. Always, he had played the role of arbiter. He had become a force in politics, championing reform.
Keen in his attacks on crime, Barth had long fancied himself as the logical candidate for police commissioner. Time and again, he had striven to gain that post. The appointment of Ralph Weston had quieted his ambition.
A new administration had been elected. Barth had pushed himself for the coveted post. It had been refused, for Weston was the type of official who could please all factions. Then had come Weston’s acceptance of the offer from Garauca. Other aspirants for the commissionership had dropped from the picture. Only Wainwright Barth remained. He had been appointed.
Even that had been a lucky break. Barth knew the new mayor and had helped in his election. Barth knew Weston and had kept the old commissioner’s friendship, for Weston had never taken Barth seriously. A commissioner had been needed quickly; the post was only a temporary one until Weston returned. Thus Wainwright Barth, man of many callings, self-styled criminologist, egotist supreme, had become police commissioner of New York.
Barth was too wise to play hob with existing departments. He liked authority; he was a keen worker. He knew that his former banking connections had been a point in his favor, because of the unfinished investigators that Weston had begun. To-night, he felt elated to think that the first big crime since his appointment had been a bank robbery. For Wainwright Barth had the idea that he could bring such a case to a satisfactory conclusion.
Barth was looking for some one as he strolled about the club. He wandered down into the grill room and stood there, peering from table to table. He heard a quiet voice beside him. He turned to face Lamont Cranston.
“Ah!” Barth’s expression showed satisfaction. “I was looking for you, Cranston. Come in. Sit down. Let’s have a bite to eat.”
“Very well.”
BARTH was elated as he took a chair at an isolated table. He knew that Lamont Cranston was a friend of Ralph Weston. He wanted to impress Cranston. He peered through his pince-nez at the quiet-faced personage seated opposite him and smiled wisely.
“Read this,” declared Barth, triumphantly, as he passed some typewritten sheets to Cranston. “Tell me what you think of it, after we have ordered something to eat.”
“What is it?” came the question.
“A report on the robbery of the Founders Trust Company,” stated Barth. “A complete, well-rounded theory. It does not hold a flaw.”
The waiter brought the order while Cranston was going through the report. This had been prepared by Joe Cardona. The detective had done a complete job of it. Moreover, he had added statements regarding Dobey Blitz.
“The last part is purely speculation,” remarked Barth, as he took the sheets from Cranston. “Cardona seems to think that a gun-fray at Blitz’s indicates that some one was on the man’s trail. Therefore, he deduces that the same trailer followed Blitz to the subway.
“That portion of the report is doubtful. But the first part, based upon actual investigation at the scene of crime, and the statements made by Tobias Hildreth — those gave us a theory that is more than a theory. It is what I term a reconstruction.
“We were aided by suggestions from Gorton Jodelle. He is a private investigator, hired by Hildreth and working, in a sense, for the insurance company that stood the bank’s loss. Well, Cranston, what do you think of it? Could Weston have done better?”
“I don’t know,” was Cranston’s quiet rejoinder. “Weston had a habit of overlooking facts.”
“You don’t infer—”
“That you have overlooked some? Yes. I do.”
“What, for instance?”
“Let us consider facts beginning with the robbery,” suggested Cranston. “First, the matter of Lucas, the patrolman. What was he doing off his beat?”
“Following the robbers,” replied Barth, promptly.
“Ah, yes,” mused Cranston, “I suppose they were holding a torchlight procession, with placards and banners stating that they intended to rob the Founders Trust Company.”
“Don’t banter,” put in the police commissioner. “This is a serious matter, Cranston.”
“Of course,” agreed the millionaire. “Too serious to begin with a false assumption. Inasmuch as the thrust on the bank was made from the new subway, we can regard that as their starting point of operations, can we not?”
“Admitted.”
“Very well. Then there was no reason why they should have acted suspiciously until after they reached the subway entrance. That is three blocks off the beat patrolled by Lucas. He would not have seen them going in the subway entrance.”
CRANSTON was drawing diagrams upon a sheet of paper. The dead patrolman’s beat was mentioned in the report. Cranston made a note of his statement; Barth, despite himself, was forced to agree.
“Let us pass Lucas,” suggested Cranston. “Next we have the matter of Rowley. The report says that the burglars went out of their way to murder him. He was upstairs. They were after the lower vault. Why did they bother to go up and get him?”