“Do you know the name of the potential murderer?” inquired Weston.
“Yes,” assured Markin. “But he is more than potential. He is actually a murderer.”
“And the potential victim?”
“Yes. I know him also.”
A pause. It was Detective Joe Cardona, weighing the duties of active inspector, who put the question that he thought most important.
“Who is the murderer?” demanded Joe.
“His name,” announced Markin, raising a shaky hand, “is Lester Dorrington.”
A look of incredulity showed on Cardona’s face. Cardona knew Dorrington by reputation. The man was renowned in New York as a criminal lawyer Cardona sat stupefied.
The old attorney had delivered the accusation in a hushed voice. His lips were quivering, now that he had named the man whom he suspected as a villain.
It was Commissioner Weston, unstunned by Markin’s pronouncement, who put the next question. The commissioner’s train of thought was different from Cardona’s. Weston was looking beyond the murderer; anxious to foresee the menace of some coming crime.
“You have named the murderer,” declared Weston, in a steady tone. “Tell us the name of the man whom you are sure that he will seek to kill. Who is to be his victim?”
Kelwood Markin turned at the question. His face seemed whiter than before. His hands had slipped to the table. Scratching fingers, wordless lips were testimonies of mute fear.
“The victim,” quavered Markin, in a tone of senile terror, “is to be myself!”
CHAPTER IX
THE KEY
KELWOOD MARKIN had startled Joe Cardona when he had named Lester Dorrington as a deliverer of death. Markin’s second statement, announcing himself as a potential victim, produced a similar effect upon Ralph Weston.
As Markin leaned forward in his chair, weary elbows on the table, pallid face turned pitifully toward these representatives of the law, Cardona and Weston sat staring in profound amazement.
If ever fear had been displayed upon a human countenance, Kelwood Markin showed it now. Noting the stupefaction that had fallen upon his listeners, the old lawyer raised his hands pleadingly. He seemed unable to voice a single utterance.
It was Commissioner Weston who broke the impressive silence. Rising from his chair, the official began to stride back and forth across Markin’s living room. At last, Weston swung to Joe Cardona.
“When Mr. Markin called me this afternoon,” announced the commissioner, “I knew from his tone that he was troubled. When I questioned him, he admitted that he could tell me facts that concerned crime now in the news. He spoke no further. That, Cardona, was why I summoned you here tonight. I had no idea that Mr. Markin’s statements would prove so startling. I had not suspected this link in crime.”
“I had,” declared Cardona. “In Hugo Verbeck’s office, I found a newspaper and a telephone book upon the floor. I mentioned those items in my report. I had a hunch that I did not mention.
“Verbeck had been reading the evening newspaper. He had decided to call some one. Who could he have called? Not Torrence Dilgin, nor Edwin Berlett. Both of them are dead. The only man whom Verbeck might have called was Lester Dorrington.
“That was just a hunch, mind you. It made me see a link between the crimes. But to consider Dorrington as the murderer — I can’t see it, commissioner. He’s a man of reputation.”
“Even though he does handle criminal cases,” reminded Weston, dryly. “Do you realize, Cardona, that Lester Dorrington has a close association with members of the underworld?”
“In a legal way, yes—”
“And otherwise, perhaps. That, however, is not sufficient. This man” — Weston swung toward Kelwood Markin — “has a story to tell. Come!” He was addressing the old lawyer directly. “Let us hear it.”
MARKIN’S countenance had changed. The old attorney had recovered from his display of fear. He was sitting silently in his chair. His keen eyes were steady as he surveyed the men before him.
“I told you when you came here,” stated Markin, “that I could reveal the name of a murderer. In return, I wanted two things: action and protection. You have promised me neither.”
“We cannot promise action without proof,” insisted Weston. “Protection — yes — whenever you require it. But how can we promise action unless we know the facts?”
“Should I tell my story,” declared Markin, “my own position may be jeopardized. Mind you, I have done no wrong. But a publication of the facts might place me at a schemer’s mercy. Unless my testimony is kept in confidence until the proper time, it will be useless. Not only that, it may be disastrous to me.”
“Your testimony will be kept confidential,” snapped Weston. “Come, man! If new murder is in the offing, now is no time to tarry. Why do you suspect Lester Dorrington of murder? Why do you fear him?”
“Because of what was found in Verbeck’s office,” returned Markin.
“You mean the newspaper?” questioned Cardona. “Or the telephone book?”
“Neither,” returned Markin. “According to the newspapers, Verbeck had been to the Paragon Trust Company, shortly before his death. That was why you stated that robbery might have been the motive for the murder. In Verbeck’s pocket, you found—”
“A key!” cried Cardona, leaping from his chair. “The key to the safe deposit box.”
“Exactly,” returned Markin. His hand, now steady, drew open a drawer in the table. “That is why I fear death. That is why I know that I — like Verbeck — am in danger.”
The old lawyer thrust a fist above the table. He opened his clenched hand. Something clattered upon the wood. It was a key to a safe deposit box.
“You mean,” exclaimed Cardona, “that this is the duplicate of Verbeck’s key!”
“I do not,” declared Markin. “That key belongs to a safe deposit box in the Farley National Bank. What I do mean, gentlemen, is that I received this key under circumstances similar to those in which Verbeck received his key.”
“Can you be specific, Mr. Markin?” questioned Weston, pausing in his pacing to resume his chair. “What is this riddle of the key? I can see no connection. Let us have the story.”
Kelwood Markin bowed. He spread his hands for silence. In the hush that came with Markin’s pause, Cardona and Weston stared intently at the old lawyer. With eyes that turned from one man to the other, Markin began his tale.
“SOME years ago,” stated the old lawyer, “I was approached by a man named Rufus Gilwood. He came to my office in the Bushkill Building, where my partner, George Tharxell, is now conducting my former practice. Perhaps you remember Rufus Gilwood, commissioner.”
“I do,” inserted Weston. “He was a cattle king, from Wyoming. He died a year ago.”
“That is the man,” affirmed Markin. “I had never seen him before he stepped into my office. He introduced himself, established his identity and proceeded to state the purpose of his visit.
“Substantially, Gilwood told me that he had placed certain funds in a safe deposit box at the Farley National. That money was intended for distribution to certain persons. Gilwood spoke of the funds as a gift. He asked me to be custodian until I heard from him again. Should he die — he specified that distinctly — I was to open the box and distribute the cash to the persons whose names I would find in the box.”
“Gilwood gave you the key?” questioned Weston, sharply.
“Yes,” responded Markin.
“And did you hear from him again?” quizzed Weston. “Did he call upon you before his death?”
“No,” was Markin’s answer.
Weston nodded wisely. He smiled. Markin saw his expression and nodded in return.
“Rufus Gilwood paid me one thousand dollars,” explained Markin, “which I accepted as a retainer fee. He told me that he relied upon my integrity not to open the box until called upon to do so. He added, however, that another attorney knew of the transaction.”