There, it had eventually found its way into the Holland Tunnel — the first spot that Cliff had recognized, even though he had never gone through the vehicular tube before. He knew that he had been located somewhere in New Jersey, an hour’s ride from New York. That was all.
The car had taken him to Larchmont Court. There the driver had driven away.
AT the desk, Cliff had given his name as Clinton Martin — a name which had been mentioned in the letter. He had been ushered to a small suite reserved for him.
There he had found articles of apparel and everything else that he might need, including a well-stocked wallet and a check book on a prominent Manhattan bank.
He had filled out a card and mailed his signature to the bank, using the name Clinton Martin. Evidently he could draw on whatever funds he might need.
He had spent the next few days in idle recuperation; and this one chair had been his chief place. It had been designated in another letter — written in that same disappearing ink.
The letter had contained new instructions, and with it was a code of dots and dashes, which Cliff had memorized, and then destroyed. It was to be used later on, the letter said.
His present work was very simple. He was to watch every one who approached the desk and inquired for a certain suite on the twenty-first floor — the suite occupied by a man named Francis J. Durgan.
In this, Cliff had been successful. He had formed a casual acquaintance with the night clerk, and the fellow had proved to be loquacious. He had aspirations of becoming a house detective, and he liked to mention names in an undertone whenever Cliff approached the desk.
Cliff had observed Durgan on several occasions. He had also spotted for future reference two or three other men — one of them being Mike Wharton, Durgan’s confidential aid. But so far, Cliff had seen no one who answered to the description of Ernie Shires.