CHAPTER VII
NEW DEATH ARRIVES
DEATH aboard the Steamship Southern Star. This news, flashed by radio, created an immense sensation. Within a few hours after the fight on the liner, New York newspapers were running scare-heads based upon the meager reports from the northward bound vessel.
First announcements were followed by new details. The reported death of Edwin Berlett was blared forth by the journals. Radiograms dispatched to the Southern Star brought back terse replies. The ship was heading into Barbados. More details would be dispatched when it arrived in port.
Like an avalanche increasing in size and fury, the story of the fight on the Southern Star was magnified. To cap it came a new sensation. This was the burial, at sea, of a corpse that had been aboard the ship since Rio — the body of Torrence Dilgin.
The New York newspapers had not made much of Dilgin’s death. The passing of an old, retired oil magnate, living south for his health, had not been considered important enough for heavy space in newspaper columns. But the reported death of Edwin Berlett had brought out the fact that the lawyer was bringing Dilgin’s body back to New York. The captain of the Southern Star, like journalists in America, had taken an interest in the body that was stored aboard his ship.
Investigating, the captain had made the discovery that Torrence Dilgin’s body had not been embalmed. He had taken an ice-packed corpse aboard the ship. This was entirely contrary to orders. The captain had exerted his authority as dictator of law aboard a ship at sea.
Funeral rites had been read above the coffin of Torrence Dilgin. The casket, with the remains of the millionaire, had been consigned to the ocean. The captain, firm in the belief that the disposal of this corpse was essential to the welfare of the passengers, had unwittingly disposed of the last evidence that could have pointed to Torrence Dilgin’s murder.
But the burial itself was newspaper copy. The mystery of Dilgin’s body; its hasty shipment from Rio; the fact that Edwin Berlett had been bringing it north without embalming — all were built into newspaper stories.
New York journals had their readers expectant. Each day was bringing new reports. Lester Dorrington, lawyer in charge of Torrence Dilgin’s estate, was deluged by a flow of reporters. Testily, Dorrington refused interviews. He had no statement.
LATE one afternoon, a few days after the first reports had been received from the Southern Star, an old man was seated in a small, dilapidated office, scanning the early edition of an evening newspaper. The letterhead on a sheet of stationery that lay upon the man’s desk announced his name and his profession:
HUGO VERBECK
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
Verbeck’s eyes were staring through the heavy lenses of rimmed spectacles. The old chap’s hands were trembling with nervousness as they clutched the newspaper. Verbeck was devouring the gruesome details that concerned affairs aboard the Southern Star.
Some clever journalist had speculated upon Torrence Dilgin’s death. Basing his column on the burial at sea, the writer had suggested that the millionaire’s demise in Rio might be worthy of investigating. Reading this discussion, Verbeck rested his forefinger upon the name of Torrence Dilgin. He stared through his glasses at a photograph of the millionaire.
With a shake of his head, Verbeck laid the newspaper aside. He went to a safe in the corner of his old office. He opened the door, found a metal box and raised the lid. From the box he took the key to a safe deposit vault; also a folded paper of identification.
Verbeck left his office. He descended to the street and hailed a taxicab. He directed the driver to take him to the Paragon Trust Company. Arrived at the bank, Verbeck entered, showed his paper and was conducted to the safe deposit vaults.
The old lawyer used the key to unlock a box. He peered into space and saw a metal container that half filled the safe deposit box. Drawing the container forth, the old lawyer undid its clasps. He raised the lid. He stared in bewilderment.
The metal coffer was empty! Where Hugo Verbeck had definitely expected to find something of importance, he had discovered nothing.
A full minute passed while Verbeck blinked in owlish fashion. Then, with slow, methodical movement, the old attorney replaced the coffer and closed the door of the safe deposit box.
Verbeck was muttering as he left the bank. His lips were still moving as he called a cab and rode back to his building. When he reached his office, the old lawyer’s face was a study in worry and perplexity.
Pacing back and forth across his little room, Hugo Verbeck was in a quandary. He mumbled incoherent words. He mopped his brow. He stopped at the desk and picked up the newspaper. Dusk had settled; it was too dark to read in the gloomy office, so Verbeck turned on the light, by pressing a switch at the door.
BLINKING in the light, Verbeck went back to the desk. He picked up the newspaper with apparent determination. He placed his forefinger upon another name mentioned on the front page. That was the name of Lester Dorrington.
Doubt registered itself on Verbeck’s pinched features. Plainly, the old lawyer was perturbed about something that concerned Torrence Dilgin. From the reticence of his actions, it was apparent that he would have kept the matter to himself under ordinary circumstances.
Speculation on Dilgin’s death and its aftermath had produced a different effect. Hugo Verbeck was beating down his own resistance. Whatever his secret — and plainly he had one — it was troubling him to the extreme.
Verbeck mumbled. He nodded. With sudden determination, he pounced upon a telephone book and hurriedly opened the pages until he found the name of Lester Dorrington. Verbeck’s mind was made up, he was determined to call the attorney who was handling Dilgin’s estate.
Verbeck gripped the telephone. He was facing the corner where the safe was located. He had not noticed that the door of the office had opened to the extent of two inches. Receiver in hand, Verbeck began to dial. It was then that a hair-streaked hand crept through the opening of the door and pressed the light switch.
As the office was plunged in darkness, Hugo Verbeck uttered a startled cry. He swung toward the door, which was opening to its full extent. The lawyer’s body was silhouetted against the dull light of the window.
A revolver roared. Three shots came in quick succession, accompanied by bursts of flame that seemed like darts projected toward Verbeck’s form. His cry ending in a rattled gurgle, Hugo Verbeck collapsed. His body fell across the desk; his convulsive fingers gripped the telephone book and dragged it with him. Hugo Verbeck sprawled upon the floor.
The door of the office slammed. A strange hush followed; it seemed to pervade the building as well as this single office. Then came calls; feet pounded in the hallways. Late stayers had heard the shots. Voices neared Verbeck’s office.
Some one opened the door and turned on the light. Two men in shirt sleeves gasped as they observed the sprawled form of Hugo Verbeck. One man moved inward, mechanically. The other stopped him.
“Call — call the police from my office,” the man stammered. “Don’t — don’t touch anything in here. It’s — it’s — there’s been a murder. A murder!”
HALF an hour later, the police were in charge of Hugo Verbeck’s office. A police surgeon was talking to a swarthy, stocky man who had just arrived. This fellow had an air of authority. It was natural, for he was taking charge of the case. He was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force, at present serving in capacity of acting inspector.
Bluecoats watched while Joe Cardona stalked about the room. There was challenge in the dark eyes of the detective; there was determination in the firmness of his swarthy visage. To Joe Cardona, the solution of crime was a grim game.