“Yes, sir.”
The speaker hung up the receiver. He rose from the dilapidated chair beside the rickety telephone table.
There, in the semidarkness, his tall form was scarcely more than a fantastic outline.
The man put on a large hat. He threw a dark cloak about his shoulders. Standing for a moment by the window, he drew two automatics from his pockets and examined each in turn. Satisfied with the inspection, he left the room.
Darkness was approaching when the man appeared in the street. His unusual attire seemed inconspicuous as he walked slowly along.
It was a squalid street of the East Side. The warm spring day foretold the approach of summer. Already half-clad children were seeking the evening air. The man stopped as two boys fell in front of him, wrestling.
He stepped by them with a smile. There was a similarity even between the struggles of children and the grapplings of master minds.
The man entered a garage on another street. A few minutes later a coupe drove forth. It was a car built for speed; yet there was nothing striking in its appearance. It was not an automobile that would attract attention.
The deepening shadows of twilight rendered the man invisible from the street. He drove easily, choosing an irregular course. The car turned on to Eastern Avenue. It moved more slowly as it passed a boarded house that bore the number 711.
A policeman was standing outside the building. The man in the car smiled as he went by. The police had been there ever since last night. They had arrived less than a half an hour after the mysterious disappearance of Doctor Palermo.