The detective emitted one startled gasp as he saw the flash of steel in the other man’s hand. Then the long, thin knife was buried in his body.
With a grotesque twist, Detective Harvey Griffith toppled forward and fell across the body of Frank Jarnow.
The pretended reporter drew the blade from his victim’s body, and calmly wiped it on the dead detective’s coat. He did not seem nervous now; in fact he was extremely calm, and a contemptuous smile lit his sallow face.
He slipped the knife within his belt, into the sheath from which he had drawn it under cover of his coat. Then he stooped forward, and his fingers quickly moved through the pockets of the dead detective.
His smile increased as he opened the envelope containing the articles which Frank Jarnow had once owned. He pocketed the envelope, and then rapidly purloined Griffith’s notebook, and other articles of value.
With one foot, he drew a truck toward him; then rolled the detective’s body upon it, and pushed the truck back to its position.
He opened a cigarette case which he had removed from Griffith’s coat, and coolly lighted a cigarette. He studied the bodies that lay before him as a craftsman might admire his workmanship.
“You butted into it, Griffith,” he said, softly. “I thought you were on the right trail. So you had to go too.
“I made a nice getaway last night — good enough to fool that dumb-bell Harrison — but Harvey Griffith was wise. Wise, but not cautious.
“You didn’t have a story for a poor reporter, did you? Well, you’ve made one now. A better one than that fellow—”