“Quite some time since I have seen you,” observed Blake as the two men faced each other from comfortable chairs. Herbert had brought the glasses and had left the room.
“Quite a while,” commented Michaels.
“Sorry to bring you all the way from Chicago,” continued Blake. “But it was necessary, in this matter.”
“Necessary, yes,” replied the visitor. “But even now, Blake, I am not quite convinced that you are doing wisely.”
“Why? Your letter said—”
“My letter was not final. I knew that I would be present here tonight. That would enable me to discuss the matter before it was concluded. I have been thinking about it all the way from Chicago. Your action does not seem in accordance with your usual policy.”
“Why not?”
“You are disposing of your interests in the Calcimine Company at a sacrifice.”
“A sacrifice?” laughed Blake. “Two and a half millions outright? You call that a sacrifice?”
“It is worth more than that!”
“Potentially, perhaps.”
“Actually!” Michaels’ voice was serious. “Blake, I can offer you three millions, three months from now. Why don’t you hold on?”
“I would rather not delay,” replied Blake.
“I can guarantee it!” declared Michaels, emphatically. “You know what that means! You do not need the money now. Hold on!”
Blake shook his head.
“You are foolish, Blake,” said Michaels. He stopped as Herbert entered the room. The butler spoke to his master in a peculiar tone.
“Some one on the telephone, sir,” he said. “It is important.”
“Who is it?” demanded Blake.
“I do not know, sir,” stammered the butler. He looked significantly at his master. “You must answer it, sir. It is very important.”
BLAKE arose and left the room. He returned three minutes later. There was a slight scowl on his face; his expression changed to a slight smile as he saw his visitor standing in the center of the room. Blake’s right hand slipped inside his pocket.
“Mister Michaels,” he said, “I have an unusual question to ask you. It has been some time since I saw you. I should remember you well. But I have a bad memory at times. Would you mind telling me this: are you James Michaels of Chicago?”
The visitor looked firmly at his questioner. His eyes were steady and unflinching.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said, in a voice that bore a strange, accusing menace. “Are you Wilbur Blake of New York?”
Blake’s lips became firm. He stepped forward and placed the knuckles of his left hand upon a table that stood between himself and Michaels. His eyebrows narrowed and he looked sharply at the man who had questioned him.
“I have just received a telephone call,” Blake’s voice came terse and emphatic. “A man who says he is James Michaels states that he is in New York; that he missed the train arriving here at eleven o’clock, and that he is coming by cab.
“If he is not an impostor, you are! Let me ask you again — are you James Michaels?”
“No!”
“I thought not.” Blake laughed harshly. “The impostor would be the one who would come first.
“What is your purpose here? Why are you representing yourself to be James Michaels?”
“Why are you pretending to be Wilbur Blake?”
The millionaire ignored the question. He continued to glare at the other man, as though deliberating the best course to follow. Of the two, the false Michaels was more calm, even though he was in the other’s home.
“Your name is not Blake,” the visitor said coldly. “It happens to be Dodge. Your friend” — there was a sarcastic tone — “Rodney Paget unwisely let out that fact when he visited you in a house near Lexington Avenue.
“At that time I did not hear enough to form a complete supposition. Later, I met the manager of the Goliath Hotel. He recalled that Wilbur Blake had once asked him to cash a check and that he had called upon Rodney Paget to identify Blake. Paget had gone away with Blake, saying that he would cash the check for him.”
The words brought a touch of nervousness to the listener. Blake still kept his right hand in his coat pocket. He raised his left hand and nervously twisted the tip of his waxed moustache.
“While Paget was visiting here,” continued the accusing voice, “Wilbur Blake went out one night, alone. He went as far as the garage. There, something happened to him.
“He was overpowered and carried away in his own car. His captors transferred him to another automobile. The man who watched this— namely myself — saw another person enter Blake’s car and return to this house.
“The person who took Blake’s place was — yourself!”
Despite these revelations, the listening man became more calm. He stared at his accuser and said nothing.
“You have one course now,” said his visitor. “Refuse to go through with this business transaction. Then leave this place. Now, before your guests arrive, tell me where Wilbur Blake is.”
“I do not know,” came the sullen reply.
The questioner stared firmly. His sharp eyes, gleaming with a strange light, seemed to detect that Dodge was speaking truly.
“Does Paget know?” he asked.
“Perhaps. I do not know.”
THE questioner waited. He watched the false Blake closely, as though expecting the man to betray himself by some action. Then, suddenly, the tenseness was broken.
“You are an impostor!” cried Blake. “You admit it. You have threatened me!”
He leaped forward as he spoke. His hand came from his pocket, carrying an automatic revolver. His finger was on the trigger as he raised the weapon.
Michaels reached forward and caught his wrist in a steel-like grip. Simultaneously, the door burst open and Otto dashed in, carrying a revolver. Behind him came Herbert.
“Shoot him, Otto!” exclaimed Blake. “He’s trying to kill me. Shoot! Quick!”
Before the chauffeur could obey, Michaels, with amazing strength, pulled Blake toward him. He was shielded momentarily by the other man’s body. They struggled fiercely. Blake’s gun fell to the floor.
“Help me!” called Blake, as his head turned toward the two servants. “This is the thief who entered this house last night—”
His sentence was interrupted by the overpowering grasp of his foe. Blake saw Otto holding his revolver in readiness. Herbert was standing open-mouthed, wondering what to do.
Michaels had divined Blake’s purpose. There was only one safe course for Blake to follow. He had precipitated the attack with the definite goal of killing Michaels.
Both Otto and Herbert would be witnesses in Blake’s behalf. The accidental killing of a self-confessed impostor could be explained to the police. The false Michaels, dead, would be a lesser menace than alive.
Otto’s arrival had been most opportune for the masquerading Blake. Otto was ready to do his bidding.
Only the ingenuity of Blake’s antagonist thwarted him.
Blake’s foe allowed no opportunity for the chauffeur to fire. Realizing this, Otto took advantage of the struggle to approach the fighting men. At close range he could shoot Blake’s foe. It was then that Michaels suddenly changed his tactics.
With a mighty swing, he hurled Blake across the room. The millionaire crumpled as he crashed against the wall. Whirling, Michaels fell upon Otto before the man could bring his automatic into play.
The brawny chauffeur was thrown back by the attack, but he wrested his right hand free and tried to cover Michaels with the gun.
His wrist was turned aside by an iron grip. For several tense seconds, neither man seemed to move; yet both were exerting every effort.
“Hold him, Otto!”
It was Blake who spoke. The millionaire had risen to his feet. He was reaching for his automatic that lay on the floor behind Michaels. If Otto could withhold his foe a few seconds longer, Blake could deliver the fatal shot into the back of Michaels.