Wilkinson began to rise as he uttered the name of recognition. His hands were on the table; he was pushing back his chair. Yet he was acting slowly, as a man waking from a daze.
Palermo’s response was instantaneous. He had been on guard throughout his interview with Wilkinson, constantly expecting an emergency such as this one.
He moved to action with a speed that gave the lethargic Wilkinson no opportunity to defend himself.
From beneath his coat, Palermo whipped out a long, thin-bladed knife. With a swift motion, he buried the steel shaft in the other man’s body.
A short cry came from Seth Wilkinson; then the huge man fell sidewise, and his body struck the desk. It hung there for a moment; then toppled to the floor.
The evil smile still remained on the corners of Palermo’s mouth. The murderer stood there, admiring the work that he had done.
Then, with calm indifference, he picked up the note that Wilkinson had given him, and placed it in his pocket. Stooping over the body, Palermo withdrew the knife, carefully covering it with his handkerchief before he put it in his pocket. Then he went to the door, opened it, and entered the living room.
Just as he closed the door behind him, a man appeared at the other side of the room. It was Wilkinson’s servingman.
The smile vanished from Palermo’s lips. Once again, he was the perfect duplicate of Horace Chatham.
“Did you call me, sir?” questioned the man. “That is, did Mr. Wilkinson call me?”