“It’s just another suicide, in Cleghorn’s opinion. He’s moving the body out of the morgue. He says that Andrews hung himself, and that all strangled people look a lot alike.
“He’s right on that — but he’s missed his guess about how George Andrews was strangled!”
Rutledge Mann nodded. “Have you made your report?” he questioned.
“No,” replied Burke. “I thought you might intend to include this with your own—”
“Yours will be sufficient,” interposed Mann, pushing pen and paper to the reporter.
Deftly, Clyde Burke began to write a message of coded characters. He wrote swiftly, and in five minutes his task was done. He folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which Mann provided.
“I’m going downtown,” he said, as he sealed the envelope.
Mann nodded.
Clyde Burke left the office. He reached the street and took the subway to Twenty-third Street. There he entered a dilapidated building, ascended the stairs, and dropped the envelope in the mail chute of a deserted office.
The door of the office bore a name upon its cobwebbed glass panel. The title was: