A Pawn Moved
§ I
“Sample this, old lad,” said Drake Roscoe, pushing a glass along the
counter. “Apologize, but it’s a dry country.”
Stopford smiled at the speaker. It was a smile of affectionate
admiration. Between these two, externally so unlike but spiritually
akin, existed one of those friendships inexplicable to the casual
observer because based upon subconscious understanding.
Commander Drake Roscoe, of the United States Navy, was half a head
shorter than Dr. Stopford, built like an acrobat, tanned with that
deep-sea tan which looks as though it went through to the bone, and
having the clear, wide-open gray eyes—those peculiarly frank eyes of
the sailor. His dark, crisp hair was never seen disarranged, and in
uniform he looked like a younger brother of Earl Beatty.
The half smile of whimsical amusement which was his habitual expression
to-night was absent.
“Cheery ho, old scout!” Stopford murmured, and sipped his drink. “The
sky is overcast this evening, so to speak. Glass droppin’?”
Roscoe shook his head.
“I’ll tell you later,” he replied. “I have a sort of premonition,
Stoppy.”
“The white mixture as directed,” said Stopford. “Three times a day.
Shake well before takin’.”
Roscoe’s charming smile struggled through.
“There’s hot work afoot,” he assured the other, and glanced suspiciously
about him. “To-night I expect the crisis!”
Stopford’s expression underwent a subtle change. Only a very close
observer would have noted it. But, noting, such an observer would have
asked himself which was the real Stopford—the perfectly groomed young
doctor to whom nothing on earth was serious or the other man hidden
below the surface.
“I’m with you,” he said quietly. “Carry on. What is it? Graft?”
Roscoe’s cleanly chiselled face was grim. Gray eyes met blue eyes.
“No.” He bent to Stopford’s ear. “It’s murder! I have booked a table at
a new place. It’s fairly quiet. More when we get there. Stopford—” he
cast another of those odd, hunted looks around the room—“this city is
jazzing over a subterranean volcano—and to-night you and I are liable
to fall in!”
§ II
The restaurant in which presently they found themselves was all that
Roscoe had promised. It was quiet, discreet, and expensive. A table in a
shady alcove awaited them. Here, speaking in subdued tones, Commander
Drake Roscoe unfolded a story which caused Dr. Stopford to remove and
burnish his eyeglass—a sign of extreme agitation.
“You have just asked me,” said Roscoe, “if I have merely piled up my
ship or if the United States is scrapping her Navy. The answer is No in
both cases. I am temporarily seconded, and on special service work. You
recall the row at Boston last year?”
“Clearly. What was it?”
“It was a scheme to blow up one of our latest battleships! I crossed the
course of the plot and saved the ship. But the man at the bottom of the
business slipped through our fingers. Then came the Panama Canal job.
Probably you never heard of this?”
“Probably not.”
“It would have upset the world’s shipping for a year—perhaps longer! It
would have put a big British battle fleet out of touch with us. And it
would have exposed our most vulnerable flank to——”
“To what?”
Roscoe glanced cautiously in the direction of their nearest neighbours,
then:
“I don’t know to what,” he confessed. “But I do know something else.”
“Such as?”
“The same man was handling the conspiracy! And do you know where he was
handling it from?”
“No, sir.”
“From New York!”
“He must have beastly long hands.”
“Call ’em tentacles!” said Roscoe harshly. “He’s a King Octopus. God
knows how many he’s strangled. But he feeds on dollars—and a week ago I
traced one of his feeding grounds.”
“Be more lucid. Cultivate simplicity of style.”
“I found out, through Police Headquarters, that Peter Champion—who, as
you’re aware, is one of the financial group known as ‘The Big Six’—had
applied for special protection.”
“Why? And what has this got to do with the Panama Canal?”
“So you sail on Wednesday?” said Roscoe brightly, in reply.
Whereupon Stopford’s eyeglass grew so definitely misty that he removed
and burnished it. His blank expression fled, however, when he glanced up
and realized that a waiter had appeared with a fish course.
“Yes,” said he. “Noon, or noonish.”
“Lucky man!” murmured Roscoe. “Wish I could get away for a trip.” Then,
as they attacked the sole, and the waiter withdrew: “It was the sort of
clue I was hunting for!” he went on. “You see, I knew there was big
money behind these wreckers—and Washington had instructed that all
cases touching transference of large amounts should be filed for my
inspection.”
“Splendid fellow. High-power brain.”
“I saw Peter Champion. Stopford, in the last three weeks there have been
two attempts to murder him! Once by a man in Central Park. Once outside
his own house.”
“Good God! What for?”
“The answer is easy . . . for his millions!”
Stopford ceased eating, stared awhile, and then:
“Dense fog,” he declared. “Can’t see a thing. Champion hasn’t left his
money to these philanthropists who blow up canals, has he?”
“Every dollar goes to his only son.”
“Getting denser. Engines stopped altogether. In what way would the
sudden affluence of Champion Junior benefit these sportsmen? Have you
consulted Junior on this point?”
Roscoe looked at the speaker long and hard.
“Peter Champion’s son is supposed to be in Paris, studying art,” he
said.
Stopford sensed the stress on “supposed.”
“But,” Roscoe went on, “I have closely examined his recent
correspondence. While I don’t profess to know where he is, I am
perfectly certain that the letters mailed from Paris during the past
month were not written by Peter Champion Junior!”
“Great Scott! I see it at last! They’ve got him! Roscoe, who are these
people?”
Roscoe shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I’m in the game to find out—and for
once in a while Fate has dealt a good card to the honest player. During
the course of the Boston case I had a passing glimpse of one man whom I
had every reason to suspect of being concerned. He vanished before I
could trap him. But I knew he had come to New York—and two weeks ago I
ran right into him on Broadway. He doesn’t know me by sight, you must
understand. I managed to keep him in view, and a few hours later I had
his dossier on my desk. He is a certain Louis Meyer, a private inquiry
agent with a shady reputation.”
“Where is he now? In jail?”
“On the contrary, he’s quite at large. I had Peter Champion call him
last Wednesday and ask him to come to the house.”
“What!”
“Champion put the case in his hands: actual whereabouts of son,
attempted murder, and all. He offered him a hundred thousand dollars for
evidence that would lead to the arrest of the man or group concerned!”
“What happened?”
“Meyer undertook the job. On Friday he reported that such an
organization as Champion suspected actually did exist. He even supplied
a few crazy particulars. He said that the whole of New York was mapped
out in a series of Zones; that each Zone was in charge of a ‘Zone
officer’; that each Zone officer had three ‘Sector captains’ under
him—and a lot more incredible nonsense. He hinted at the existence of
some awful being known as ‘Head Centre’ and promised further
revelations. Since then nothing has come from him.”
“But—Champion?”
“He hasn’t left the house for a week! He daren’t! We have six men on
duty guarding him: four outside and two in!”
“I say!” Stopford exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. “This is simply
tremendous! Do you think these bandits know you are out against ’em?”
“I _know_ they do! And I am beginning to wonder if Meyer’s insane story
had elements of truth in it. I received this an hour before I ’phoned
you.”
He passed a slip of paper across the table. Neatly typed, the following
appeared:
Commander Drake Roscoe:
Leave New York at once.
By order
Head Centre.
“H’m,” Stopford murmured, an oddly steely glint creeping into his eyes,
“crisp, and to the point. Have you done your packin’?”
“Yes,” said Roscoe, “I’ve got a gun packed in each pocket!”
He replaced the slip in his case.
“Have you any clue to the sportsman who tried pottin’ old Champion?”
“Not a thing. There was a gang of workmen about the house up to a week
ago, though, installing a new furnace and overhauling the heating plant.
They would know his movements. I had all work suspended and the bunch
cleared out.”
“Excellent!” said Stopford, nibbling an olive. “Takin’ it all round, I
look for a cheery time.”
“My dear Stoppy”—Roscoe bent forward over the table, and his voice had
that curious, grim note which Stopford knew—“unless I am greatly
mistaken, there will be an attempt some time this evening to murder me!”
§ III
In an otherwise perfectly dark room a point of red light glowed.
“H.Q.,” said a clear voice. “Group Master 1, Sector 3 A 1, covering the
tap on the Champion house telephone line, reports that Louis Meyer
called Peter Champion at 8:10 P.M., from Brooklyn, stating that he had
new and important information—that he had seen the Map and could
describe Head Centre. He was told by Peter Champion to come to the house
as soon as possible. He agreed. Report ends.”
“Instruct Divisional Chief B.,” said another voice—a suave musical
voice—“to remove ex-Zone Officer Louis Meyer from the rolls . . .
_immediately_. Notify when this order has been carried out. Communicate
with Group Master 4, Sector 3 A 1, inside the Champion home. His hourly
report is nine minutes late.”
The red light vanished.
But, could the speaker have seen, clairvoyantly, into a bedroom high up
in the house of Peter Champion, he would have realized that his last
order could not be executed.
Some little time after speaking to Meyer on the telephone, Peter
Champion had observed a curious phenomenon. Through an opening in the
partly drawn curtains of one of the study windows he had seen a tiny
light flashing—in and out, dot and dash—in a high window of the house
which faced his own.
Peter Champion was swift to act. He knew the point exactly from which he
could see into that room opposite. He reached it in a matter of
seconds—a room occupied by Pedro, a Cuban manservant. The room was in
darkness, the door ajar, and Peter Champion, catlike for all his bulk,
crept in expecting a clear view of the mysterious light.
A surprise awaited him:
The square-shouldered figure of Pedro appeared silhouetted against the
window. In his hand he held a small electric torch. And as his employer
silently came up behind him, Pedro began rapidly to Morse to that other
window across the street!
Not two words had he signalled when a mighty fist was hooked to his
jaw—a fist backed by a hundred and sixty pounds of brawn and bone.
Group Master 4, Sector 3 A 1, was off duty.
§ IV
“You will now realize,” said Roscoe, “why to-night represents a crux in
the case. I have taken certain measures to protect Peter Champion. I
don’t think they will become effective until to-morrow morning. So that,
as I feel responsible for his safety, I shall probably spend the night
there.” He ceased abruptly, then: “By Jove!” he murmured, “what a pretty
woman!”
Stopford turned, following the direction of his friend’s glance. A woman
was walking down the room toward them. A silver-gray fur wrap concealed
her slender figure. Her hair gleamed like polished copper in the subdued
light. She walked slowly, taking the short steps of the Parisienne.
In view of their table she paused, and her abstracted expression changed
in a very odd way. One would have said that she had seen something, or
someone, whose presence had positively alarmed her.
At the same moment Stopford jumped up and:
“Can it be!” he exclaimed joyously—“can it be Madame Czerna?”
The woman swiftly lowered her lashes—to hide the expression which had
so suddenly leaped to her eyes. When she raised them again she was
smiling and composed. Her smile was extraordinarily fascinating. She
held out her hand.
“Why, Dr. Stopford!” she said, speaking with a charming French
accent—“how surprised I am!”
And no one could have doubted that she was really surprised. Firmly
grasping Madame’s hand, Stopford turned.
“Roscoe,” said he, “I want to present you to the ruin of the
_Ruritania_! We made the slowest run on record when Madame Czerna
crossed. It was a conspiracy between the bridge and the engine room!
Commander Drake Roscoe.”
They chatted for a while. Madame Czerna, it appeared, had been dining
alone, owing to the inexplicable failure of a friend to turn up. She was
quickly at her ease, except that, when neither man was watching her, a
queer sort of haunted expression crept into her beautiful eyes. She was
easily prevailed upon to join them for coffee.
Stopford made no effort to hide his admiration, and Roscoe in a measure,
too, fell under the spell of the dainty Parisienne. Then came an
interruption.
A waiter walked along the room, glancing sharply from table to table. He
crossed to them.
“Is it Madame Czerna, please?” he asked.
Madame’s expression changed swiftly.
“Yes.”
“You are wanted on the telephone.”
She excused herself and followed the waiter to the instrument. In the
darkness of the lobby, could anyone have seen, her face must have
appeared almost haggard. She took up the receiver, then, in a low voice:
“Zone 2 A,” she said.
“H.Q.,” said a voice over the wire. “Make your report.”
“I have joined them. It was easier than I thought. I am waiting my
chance.”
“Act before ten o’clock. Head Centre’s orders.”
“Both—or only the one?”
“Both. Then proceed to the Waldorf. You will be paged in the writing
room at ten-fifteen.”
A question trembled on her lips—in another moment would have been
spoken. But a cessation of all sound in the receiver told her that the
line was dead. H.Q. had disconnected. And she did not know the number.
No one knew that number.
In the darkness of the lobby she hesitated. Her behaviour was that of a
woman face to face with a dreaded ordeal. But when she came back to the
table, she looked haggard no longer. She looked young and beautiful once
more. Stopford greeted her with a smile of frank admiration, looked into
her brilliant eyes, and then, as she resumed her seat, frowned suddenly.
“My friend,” Madame explained composedly, and shrugged her satin
shoulders. “An accident of business!” She glanced roguishly at Roscoe.
“You men and your business!”
“He must be a prize chump!” Stopford declared. “Look here—I’m more or
less engaged to-night, but what about to-morrow? I’m moderately free for
lunch and tea and dinner!”
Madame dropped her head and seemed to be thinking; then:
“I am not sure,” she replied. “But——”
“Let me ’phone you,” Stopford said. “When will you know?”
“Will you call me at twelve o’clock?”
“Rather. What’s your number?”
She began to fumble in her handbag. Under her lowered lashes she was
glancing from table to table. A sallow-faced man dining alone on the
opposite side of the room was watching her. Others were watching her,
too, but in a different way.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “What a nuisance. I must write it for you. But,
please”—she looked swiftly at Roscoe—“have you time to get me another
cup of coffee? Mine is cold.”
“Why, certainly!” Roscoe exclaimed. “And Benedictine? Chartreuse?”
“Thank you, no. Only coffee.”
When the coffee came, with liqueurs for Roscoe and Stopford, Madame
insisted upon serving it. The sallow-faced man watched, covertly, whilst
she put two pieces of sugar in Stopford’s cup and one in Roscoe’s.
“Don’t drink it yet,” she warned, adding cream to her own. “It is too
hot.”
And, even as she spoke, something happened.
A sound of shots fired in rapid succession came from the street
immediately outside the shaded windows near which their table was set.
It was followed by a piercing cry . . . the roar of a powerful motor
. . . a babel of shouting . . . a distant whistle. . . .
Roscoe came to his feet at a bound. Madame Czerna also sprang up. And in
some way—no one could have explained exactly how it happened—the
table, with its burden of coffee and liqueurs, went crashing over on the
carpet.
“Your frock!” cried Stopford.
But Madame, who had suddenly grown deathly white, smiled bravely.
“It did not touch me,” she replied. “Please go and see—what has
happened.”
Others had the same idea. The proprietor was already arguing this point
in the lobby. It would attract unpleasant attention if so many people
came rushing out of his premises.
“Special service,” said Roscoe in his ear. “Let me out. I’ll see you’re
not interfered with.”
Out in the street a dense crowd was surrounding a taxicab.
“They were in that gray car! . . .”
“No. They was on the sidewalk! I see ’em. . . .”
“Five there was! . . .”
“Is it a hold-up? . . .”
Then over all the _charivari_:
“Make way, there!” roared a voice trained to be audible in a full gale
from bridge to fo’c’s’le-head. “Here’s a doctor!”
Piloted by the leather-lunged commander, Stopford found himself looking
in at the open door of a taxicab. Through the opposite door a patrolman
shone his light onto the occupant.
“Your luck’s out, Doctor!” he called. “Sure, he’s so full of lead he’d
sink in the Salt Lake!”
Crumpled up on the floor of the taxi, a bloody spectacle, lay a heavily
built man. His face was hidden, but he had close-cropped reddish hair,
gray at the temples. Stooping, the man at the further door lifted the
body so that the face became visible.
“Good God!” Roscoe muttered. “It’s Louis Meyer!”
§ V
A point of red light glowed in a dark room.
“H.Q.,” said a voice. “Divisional Chief B reports that ex-Zone Officer
Louis Meyer was removed from the rolls in West Forty-eighth Street at
10:05 this evening. He was proceeding in a taxi to the Champion home. A
firing group was detailed. They followed the usual routine. Group master
has signalled all clear. Report ends.”
“The report of Zone Officer 2 A,” said that other, musical voice.
“Report to hand,” came the reply. “She placed the tablets in the coffee
as instructed. But owing to the fact that the firing group covering
Louis Meyer operated outside the restaurant, the table was upset. She
awaits instructions. Standing by at Waldorf Astoria. Report ends.”
“The report of H.Q. patrol covering Zone Officer 2 A.”
“Patrol is here. He confirms report. Roscoe and Stopford left the
restaurant, and did not return.”
“Who is now covering them?”
“A Sector captain detailed by Zone Officer 2 A.”
The red light vanished. Then, out of the darkness, the Zone map sprang
into view. Not a sound disturbed the uncanny silence of the room.
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