CHAPTER I. THE PURPLE SAPPHIRE

THE doorman of the Marimba Apartments on Park Avenue stared long and hard at the face of the stranger. As the man turned in toward the apartment entrance, the doorman uttered a stifled exclamation.

There was something about the visitor’s appearance to startle any one.

The features of the gentleman were haggard with fear, terror-torn and gray, and his lips trembled in spite of his efforts to keep hold on himself. It was fully five seconds before he was able to speak to the hall attendant.

“I wish to see Doctor Palermo,” he said in a tense voice. “Is — is he in his apartment?”

“Wait here a moment, sir,” replied the attendant. “I must phone upstairs. Your name is—”

“Chatham. Horace Chatham.”

It was not more than half a minute before the hallman received word that the visitor could come up; yet, even during that brief period, Horace Chatham showed signs of unrepressed nervousness.

Pacing back and forth, he clenched and unclenched his fists, and completely betrayed his fearful impatience.

The hallman ushered Chatham into the elevator, instructing the operator to take his passenger to the fortieth floor.

“Sorry about the delay, sir,” he apologized to Chatham. “It’s our orders, you know.”

HORACE CHATHAM did not reply. As the door closed, he leaned against the wall of the elevator, and fought to gain composure.

The smooth, rapid speed of the elevator seemed to restore his confidence. When the operator opened the door at the fortieth floor, he was amazed at the change in Horace Chatham. The man stepped from the elevator with a springy stride, his expression of worry completely gone.

The visitor stood in the anteroom of an apartment that occupied the entire fortieth floor of the building. A single door faced the elevators. There was a bell beside the door. Chatham rang it, and the door opened, released by some mechanical means.

Chatham stepped into a long, dimly-lighted hallway, and the door closed behind him. On the left, the entire wall was fronted with massive bookcases, filled with rows of bound volumes. On the right were several armchairs, and a writing table.

Evidently this was a library. But before Horace Chatham had time to make a minute study of his surroundings, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and the figure of a tall man stood outlined in the brighter light of the room beyond.

Horace Chatham stepped forward eagerly. The man in the doorway was none other than his host, Doctor Albert Palermo. The two men shook hands; then Palermo took his guest inside and motioned to a comfortable armchair in the corner of the room.

Chatham mopped his forehead as he took his seat. Then he looked up to see Doctor Palermo studying him with quizzical eyes.

THERE was something about Doctor Palermo that commanded instant attention. His face was smooth, and sallow. His hair was short-cropped and slightly gray. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed powerful, and keenly observant.

It was impossible to estimate the man’s age. Chatham knew that he must be past forty — but beyond that he could venture no opinion.

Like his guest, Doctor Palermo was garbed in evening clothes. Except for their facial differences, one might have passed for the other. Yet no one would ever have mistaken the haggard, careworn features of Horace Chatham for the firm, well-molded countenance of Albert Palermo.

The two men faced each other without speaking.

The room was amazingly silent. None of the uproar of the city’s streets reached that apartment, five hundred feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan. Yet the silence was expressive.

Doctor Palermo seemed to be mentally questioning his visitor, and Horace Chatham seemed incapable of speech.

Palermo finished his quizzical study. He went to a table, opened a door beneath it, and drew out a decanter filled with a light-brown liquid. He poured out a small drink, and offered it to Horace Chatham.

The man in the armchair gulped the contents of the glass. It was some potent liquor that was unfamiliar to him. Doctor Palermo smiled as he witnessed its effect.

The drink was a bracer for Horace Chatham. It seemed to bring sudden light to the man’s face. He looked about him with a wan smile; then he laughed, forgetful of his nervousness.

For the first time, he became fully aware of his surroundings. He saw Doctor Palermo smiling back at him, standing in the center of the small den, with its exquisite furnishings and paneled dark-oak walls.

“Have a cigar,” said Palermo, in a smooth, suave voice.

He proffered a box of expensive perfectos. Chatham took one, and Palermo extended a lighted match.

The doctor also took a cigar, and drew up a chair to the center of the room. There he sat, watching Chatham blow puffs of smoke.

He was a singular man, this Doctor Palermo. His name indicated Italian ancestry, but his nationality was elusive. His words were perfect in enunciation as he spoke to Chatham.

“Worry has brought you here,” he said. “Yet you fought against that worry until it became — terror! I am right?”

Chatham nodded.

“You had no worries the last time I saw you,” remarked Palermo.

Horace Chatham hunched himself in the chair. He looked speculatively at Doctor Palermo.

The quiet demeanor of the tall physician called for confidences. Chatham shook off all hesitation.

“I have a lot of faith in you, doctor,” he said. “Not only because of your skill and reputation, but because of our friendship.”

Doctor Palermo bowed and smiled.

“I couldn’t trust any ordinary physician with this matter,” continued Chatham. “I know what’s the matter with me. Partly imagination, and partly real danger.

“When it finally became too much for me, I had to come to you. Up here— away from every one — well, it’s the only place I can talk, and you’re the only man to whom I can talk!”

DOCTOR PALERMO rested languidly in his chair. He made no effort to hurry Chatham in his discourse. That fact seemed to encourage the visitor.

Well did he know Palermo’s reputation. As an analyst of mental disorders, none could compare with this remarkable physician. Doctor Palermo specialized in psychoanalysis alone.

All his time not devoted to consultations, he spent in his experimental laboratory, here on this fortieth floor. Chatham knew of the laboratory; yet he had never entered it, nor had he ever known Doctor Palermo to admit any one, not even a close friend.

“I’ll have to tell you the whole story,” said Chatham. His words were coming freely now. “It goes back two months — when I was in Florida. Just before Lloyd Harriman committed suicide. You knew Lloyd Harriman, didn’t you, doctor?”

The doctor nodded. “But not professionally. If I had—”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t have killed himself,” supplied Chatham.

“Well, doctor, that’s exactly why I came to you. I am experiencing the same ordeal that Harriman went through.

“I’ve come close to the brink myself. I’ve thought of suicide—”

“Stop thinking of it!”

“But the danger that menaces me! It has followed others before. Harriman was not the first victim!”

Chatham paused, and his face was that of a hunted man. He gripped the arms of his chair, and looked pleadingly toward Doctor Palermo. The calm-faced physician was solemn, yet reassuring.

Chatham moistened his lips. He puffed at his cigar. Then he began his story. A slight quavering of his voice alone betrayed his secret fear.

“I met Harriman in Florida,” he said. “He seemed very morose. Sick and tired. All he wanted to do was drink and gamble. Borrowed money from me. Lost money to me.

“I began to think the money was bothering him — although Harriman was supposed to have millions. But, of course, all his borrowings were at gaming tables, after he had had runs of bad luck and was only out of cash in pocket.”

Chatham stared straight ahead, lost in thought for a moment.

“One night, Harriman asked how much he owed me. I told him— somewhere between three and four thousand dollars. He laughed.

“He brought out a jewel case, and opened it. The case contained a magnificent sapphire — a deep purple color. He told me that it was worth far more than the money he owed me. He asked if I would take it.

“The jewel fascinated me. I accepted it.”

As Horace Chatham paused, a slight expression of surprise flitted over Doctor Palermo’s features. His eyelids flickered for an instant.

Chatham did not notice this. He was too intent on his story.

“Then Harriman came back,” said Chatham. “He wanted me to return the purple sapphire. He offered me twice the amount he had owed me. He seemed insane, the way he pleaded for that cursed stone.

“I refused to give it up.

“Then he told me that the purple sapphire brought ruin to all who owned it. Ever since he had gained it, bad luck had followed him. He talked of the curse of the purple sapphire. He didn’t want it to ruin me as it had ruined him.

“He claimed that attempts had been made on his life — all because of the sapphire. He had virtually given it to me to be rid of it!

“I laughed at all this. It seemed ridiculous — such stuff coming from a man of Harriman’s intelligence.

“When he found that I would not give the sapphire back to him, he made me promise that I would tell no one that I possessed it. Then he went away.

“I never saw him again. He shot himself a few weeks later. No one knew why — but now, I am sure—”

Chatham leaned forward and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“- it was the curse of the sapphire!”

ONLY the restraining eyes of Doctor Palermo kept Horace Chatham from losing control of himself. His eyes were wild; his lips twitched. He gripped the arms of the chair.

“The purple sapphire,” said Palermo musingly. “I have never heard of it. It is strange that this obsession of Harriman’s should have gripped you, Chatham. You are simply the victim of applied suggestion.”

Chatham’s lips moved, as though he were trying to make them ask a question.

“Harriman believed that the gem carried a curse,” continued Palermo calmly. “His belief was so strong that you were subject to it, also. Your promise to keep it a secret unnerved you, after Harriman’s suicide.

“Now that you have told me of it, you will experience relief. With a few treatments, I can cure you of all fear. Your terror is not real.”

“It is real!” Chatham’s voice was a hoarse scream. “It is real, I tell you! I have never felt safe since I took that gem from Harriman.

“I have been followed. People have entered my apartment while I was away. I have never seen them — but I have found evidence that they have been on my trail. Not more than a week ago, a car followed mine as I came into New York.

“Everywhere — at the theater, at the club — eyes have been watching me.

“Tonight, when I came here, I was followed! I changed cabs, and managed to avoid pursuit. All because I own that cursed purple sapphire!

“I can never lose the curse of it. Harriman died because of it—”

“What have you done with the gem?” questioned Palermo quietly.

“I hid it!” whispered Chatham, in a tense tone. “I hid it, where no one could find it!

“Then I was afraid. Afraid that some one might capture me, and demand the purple sapphire. So I carried it with me, and my fear has been tenfold!”

“Where is it now?”

Horace Chatham hesitated. He stared fixedly at the physician. For a moment two wills were at odds; then Chatham yielded. The friendly, urging influence of Doctor Palermo seemed to overcome his fears and suspicions.

With a gasp of relief, Chatham reached into a pocket of his coat, and brought out a small jewel case, which he held in his tightly clenched fist.

“Let me see it.”

Gently, as though dealing with a child, Doctor Palermo removed the jewel case from Horace Chatham’s clutch. He opened it, and the purple sapphire, a huge, exquisite gem, glowed with weird beauty in the soft light of the room.

“Shall I keep it for you?” questioned Palermo, in subtle, alluring tones.

“No! No!”

Chatham made a grasp for the jewel case with its precious contents. Palermo drew away, and stopped the other man with raised hand.

“Easy, Chatham,” he said. “Remember, I am your friend.”

“But it is mine!” exclaimed Chatham. “I must keep it! I shall always be cursed with it!

“Harriman did not die until he lost it. While I carry it, my life is safe. Once out of my hands, it will bring me death—”

“Relax!” commanded Doctor Palermo. “Let me talk to you, Chatham.

“I can help you. I can put an end to your troubles and your fears. Sit back in your chair.”

Horace Chatham obeyed. He lay back in the chair and reclined his head so that it nearly rested against the oak paneling of the wall. He watched Palermo deftly remove the purple sapphire from its case.

“A beautiful gem,” observed the physician. “Strange that those who hold it should fear it. I would not dread its curse, if it were mine!”

The words soothed Chatham. He half smiled as he looked at the gem which Doctor Palermo held. So intent was his mind on it that he was utterly oblivious to all else.

THE panel behind Horace Chatham’s head slid noiselessly to one side. The action followed a motion by Doctor Palermo — a simple gesture in which the physician raised the forefinger of his left hand.

As the panel opened, two thick-set brown hands came into view, one on each side of Chatham’s chair.

“You will forget your fears, Chatham,” came Palermo’s dulcet voice. “In an instant they will vanish — and they will never return. I can promise you that—”

The physician spoke on, gazing intently at the gem in his hand. But Horace Chatham never heard the words that followed. For while Palermo talked, the brown hands slipped suddenly forward, and, coming together, gripped Chatham’s throat.

A slight gurgle escaped Chatham’s lips. He clutched and clawed at the strangling hands, but his efforts were without avail. The grim talons were victorious. The pressure never yielded while Chatham gasped away his life.

When the man in the chair became motionless, the brown hands slipped back into the darkness, and the panel closed in the wall.

Doctor Palermo was still speaking, and his voice was gloating. He was talking to a dead man in the chair.

He stopped suddenly, and looked at Chatham’s body while he smiled. Then he turned away, and opened the drawer of a table. Replacing the purple sapphire in its case, he tossed the gem and its carrier into the drawer.

He walked forward to Chatham’s limp form. He removed various articles from the dead man’s pockets and inspected them.

A smile flickered on his face as he discovered a theater ticket. Doctor Palermo placed the bit of cardboard in his own vest pocket. He also transferred Chatham’s wallet and several cards to his own clothing.

From a table drawer, Palermo brought out a long, flat metal box, which he laid on a stand, close by the chair in which Chatham had died.

Then followed a most amazing procedure.

Opening the box, Palermo produced articles of make-up, and with swiftness and precision, he began to apply cosmetics to his face.

He looked closely at the dead man’s face as he went through this operation. At intervals he paused, and turned to a mirror. He looked back and forth, comparing his own visage with that of Chatham.

The mysterious physician’s face rapidly underwent a surprising transformation. More and more it came to resemble the countenance of Horace Chatham, until it was impossible to distinguish any great differences between the face of the living man and that of the victim in the chair.

The only contrast was the hair. Doctor Palermo overcame that discrepancy by bringing forth a box full of wigs. He selected one that closely resembled Chatham’s dark, bushy hair.

When he had placed this on his head, Palermo stood before the mirror and chuckled maliciously as he studied his handiwork.

Palermo snapped his fingers twice. A panel opened in the wall, and from this concealed door stepped forth a tall, powerful, brown-skinned man. Palermo pointed to the body and uttered a few words in a foreign tongue.

The dark man placed his massive hands under Chatham’s shoulders, and lifted the victim with ease. He carried the body through the panel, and it closed after him, leaving a solid wall.

The murderer had taken away his victim. No trace of the tragedy remained— except Chatham’s hat and overcoat, which lay upon a chair in the corner.

Doctor Palermo disposed of these by donning them. Then he went to a small filing cabinet, and ran through the cards to the letter C.

“Chatham, Horace,” he read, half-aloud. “Spends much time at the Argo Club.”

The physician chuckled. “A good place to be after the theater,” he observed.

One last glance in the mirror. Then Doctor Palermo stood in deep thought. He went back to the filing cabinet, and again glanced at the card that bore the name of Horace Chatham.

He referred to a list of names in the lower corner of the card, and made a quick inspection of other cards in the cabinet.

Something that he discovered there pleased him, for he momentarily forgot the part that he was playing, and his expression was far different from any that had ever been displayed by Horace Chatham. It was an ugly, leering grin, that was most evident at the corners of Palermo’s mouth.

The look passed away, and Palermo again became the double of Horace Chatham.

The physician went to the anteroom, and summoned the elevator. His face was haggard and worried as he looked at the operator.

In the hall, he summoned a cab, and stayed within the door until the vehicle had reached the curb.

Then, with a furtive glance, Palermo hurried across the sidewalk, entered the cab, and was driven away.

“Funny bloke,” observed the elevator operator, speaking to the hallman. “You’d remember him if you saw him again, wouldn’t you?”

“I remember faces, and I remember names,” was the reply. “I’ll know him if he comes again. Horace Chatham — to see Doctor Palermo.”

The disguise had stood its first test. Already two men were positive that the man who had left the Marimba Apartments was Horace Chatham.

CHAPTER II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

“GOOD evening, Mr. Chatham.”

The speaker was a clerk in a theatrical ticket office on Broadway. He was addressing a man who had just entered, and who approached the counter with a rather gloomy expression on his face.

The man smiled rather wearily at the greeting.

“Good evening,” he said. “Have you anything good for tomorrow night? I’d like to see ‘Cat’s Paws’ at the Forty-third Street Theater.”

“I can fix it for the fourth row, center,” replied the clerk. “But — er— didn’t you see that show, Mr.

Chatham? I sold you a ticket for it, last week.”

“Yes, I saw it,” replied the man quickly, “and I recommended it to a friend of mine. Promised to get a ticket for him.”

He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, and purchased the ticket for “Cat’s Paws.” Along with the money, he held another ticket, and the clerk smiled when he saw it. For he had sold that ticket — for a show tonight — to Chatham, the day before.

The clerk smiled as the man in evening clothes hurried from the office.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he remarked to a companion behind the counter. “That guy Chatham paid a premium price for a ticket to the show at the Embassy, tonight. The first act is half over; yet he comes in here, buying a ticket for another show, on his way to the theater.

“Some birds don’t know what it means to get in before a show starts!”

Doctor Palermo was smiling to himself as he hurried toward the Embassy Theater. He had tested the character of Horace Chatham, and it had stood the test.

The clerk at the ticket office would remember that Chatham had stopped in just before nine o’clock.

Buying a ticket for “Cat’s Paws” had been a lucky stroke. The clerk would remember that, also.

Entering the lobby of the Embassy, Palermo had another opportunity to make use of his false identity.

The assistant manager, standing by the ticket box, recognized him as Chatham, and nodded in greeting.

Palermo returned the nod, and entered the theater. There he watched the show, and remained until the final curtain.

After the show he called a cab, and directed the driver to take him to the Argo Club.

IN the darkness of the cab Palermo temporarily dropped his impersonation of Horace Chatham. Some plan was passing through his mind, and his own peculiar smile appeared upon his lips.

“Ten minutes at the club,” he said softly. “That will be sufficient. I can call Wilkinson from there. He will surely be at home. If he is not, I can wait a little while.”

When the cab stopped at the Argo Club, the man who stepped forth was Horace Chatham to perfection.

The doorman spoke in greeting as he came through the door, and Palermo exchanged nods with two club members who were sitting in the hallway.

Then he strolled through the lounge and the library, staring straight ahead, as though in deep thought.

He was sure that more than one of Chatham’s friends observed him; but he did not tarry long enough to become engaged in conversation with any one. Instead, he went to a telephone in the corner of the hallway, and called a number.

“Mr. Wilkinson?” he asked. It was Horace Chatham’s voice that came from Palermo’s lips. “Ah! Glad you are in. Must see you tonight. Very important.

“What’s that? Good! I’m at the Argo Club. I’ll come up to see you right away, Wilkinson.”

There was a cigar stand by the telephone. Palermo noted that the clerk had overheard the conversation.

He purchased three cigars — of a brand that he had found in Chatham’s pocket — then pulled a notebook from his pocket, and pretended to read an address from a page.

“Seth Wilkinson, Grampian Apartments,” he mumbled.

Outside the Argo Club, Palermo called for a cab, and told the doorman his destination. The attendant repeated the name of the Grampian Apartments to the taxi driver.

Half an hour later, Doctor Palermo arrived at the uptown residence of Seth Wilkinson, and was ushered into the living room of a pretentious apartment. He knew the place perfectly. He had been there before, but never in the character of Horace Chatham.

The masquerader suppressed a smile, as he waited for Wilkinson’s appearance. Wilkinson knew both Horace Chatham and Albert Palermo. This was to be a crucial test.

“Hello, Chatham.”

Seth Wilkinson had entered the room. Palermo arose and shook hands. Then he resumed his seat, while Wilkinson took a chair close by, and looked at him as though expecting a statement.

Palermo did not hesitate. He played the part of Chatham to perfection when he spoke.

“Wilkinson,” he said earnestly, “I have a favor to ask you. It concerns a man who is a mutual friend of ours — Doctor Albert Palermo.”

Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. Something in his sharp gaze caused the speaker to stop.

It was plain that Wilkinson was surprised to learn that Chatham knew Palermo; and it was also apparent that Wilkinson was not pleased.

“So you know Palermo?”

As Seth Wilkinson pronounced these words, he arose from his chair, walked across the room, and picked up a pipe that lay on the table. He stuffed the pipe with tobacco, and stared thoughtfully at the far wall of the room.

Then he turned savagely toward the man sitting in the chair.

“I’ll tell you what I think of Palermo!” he growled. “If I had that four-flusher here in this room, I’d give him a lacing that he would never forget! You can tell him that for me, Chatham!”

WILKINSON’S threat was not an idle one. He was a huge, powerful man, with a firm-set jaw that characterized a fighter.

Yet Palermo was unperturbed. Confident beneath his disguise, he simply looked mildly surprised at Wilkinson’s outburst.

“Let me tell you something about Palermo!” Wilkinson stopped his discourse long enough to light his pipe. “He’s a smooth rascal, who pretends to be a man of importance. I wouldn’t trust him for five minutes, and he knows it!”

“But you trusted him once,” objected Palermo, mimicking Chatham’s voice. “He told me so himself. In fact—”

“That was before he tried to swindle me,” interrupted Wilkinson bitterly.

“Listen, Chatham. I’ll wager that of all the people Palermo knows— and he is well acquainted among persons of wealth — I am the only one who understands his game. More than that — I’m the only one who can make trouble for him; and that’s exactly what I intend to do!”

“Why?”

“Chatham,” said Wilkinson, sitting in a chair, and twisting his pipe between his hands, “I’ve kept silent on this whole affair. I don’t know why you’ve come here, but since I know you well, I’m sure that Palermo is trying to dupe you, also.

“Six months ago, Palermo dropped in to see me. He told me about some wonderful experiments that he was conducting in his laboratory.

“I believed his story, and when he said that he needed thirty thousand dollars, I agreed to give it to him.

In fact, I was all ready to pay him the money with no security whatever, for I believed in him.

“But I suddenly came to my senses, and proposed that he sign a note for that amount. He tried to dodge the issue, but when I became suspicious, he suddenly acted in a very agreeable manner. He signed the note, and took the money.”

“Exactly what he told me,” interposed the man disguised as Horace Chatham.

“Yes,” retorted Wilkinson grimly, “but I’ll wager that he didn’t tell you anything further, did he?”

“No, he did not.”

Wilkinson laughed.

“I saw Palermo quite frequently after that. He was always talking of his great experiments — that they were coming well, but slowly. He was working up to what he wanted — an extension on the note.

“About two weeks ago, he dropped in to see me. He showed me some bonds on Consolidated Airways.

He suggested that I take them as security instead of his note.

“I looked over the bonds. They were better security, but I followed a hunch. I told Palermo to wait until the end of the six-month period; then I would take the bonds.

“That satisfied him, and he left.

“But I noticed something, Chatham. I remembered the numbers on two of the bonds. The next day, I began an investigation. I located the very same bonds that Palermo had shown me.

“I learned, positively, that his bonds were counterfeits!”

Wilkinson paused. “That revealed Palermo’s game. He thought that, with the bonds in my possession, I would grant him another six months at least — for the bonds were worth much more than the money he owed me.

“But suppose that he had never chosen to pay his debt? I would have been left with nothing but the fake bonds in my possession.”

“Perhaps you were mistaken,” objected Palermo.

“Not a chance of it,” replied Wilkinson. “I still have Palermo’s note. When it comes due — next week — I’m going to demand payment.

“If Palermo is short on cash, he will never cease to regret it.”

“This sounds incredible, Wilkinson,” objected the visitor. “Doctor Palermo told me of this matter, although he did not mention the matter of the bonds.

“He said that you held his note for thirty thousand dollars, but he did not think that you would renew it.

So I agreed to give you my note in its place in order to—”

“I wouldn’t accept it, Chatham.”

“Isn’t my security good?” There was a note of anger in the speaker’s voice.

“It’s too good,” replied Wilkinson tersely. “I don’t want your note. I want Palermo’s!”

“Suppose he doesn’t made it good?”

“That’s exactly what I expect.”

SILENCE followed. Wilkinson smiled as he studied his visitor. He suspected that Chatham was preparing a suggestion. This proved correct.

“Wilkinson,” said the disguised Doctor Palermo, “this is a great surprise to me. Yet I still doubt the correctness of your conclusions.

“If you are right, it means as much to me as to you; for, like yourself, I have trusted Doctor Palermo. If he is a faker — well, I should like to aid you in exposing him!”

“How can you do that?”

“By pretending to follow his scheme. By giving you my note, and holding Palermo’s in return.”

“That will give him time to raise the money.”

“I don’t think so. Does he suspect that you discovered anything wrong with the bonds he showed you?”

“No.”

“Very well, then. He will try to dupe me as he duped you; but I shall be on guard. I promise to notify you as soon as Palermo tries something. We will be able to catch him with the goods—”

“Capital!” exclaimed Wilkinson.

He rose and waved his hand to his visitor.

“Come into my study,” he said. “You can make out your note there; and I’ll give you Palermo’s. But hold onto it, at all costs.”

The two men entered a little room that adjoined the living room. Seth Wilkinson unlocked a desk drawer, and brought out a metal box.

Before he opened the box, he handed a blank form for a promissory note to his companion. Palermo filled it out; then, noticing that Wilkinson was busy unlocking the box, the disguised physician drew a card from his pocket. The card bore Horace Chatham’s signature.

Concealing the card within his left hand, Palermo copied the signature with remarkable skill as he signed the note. Then he pocketed the card, just as Wilkinson turned toward him.

“You have dated it tomorrow,” said Wilkinson, examining the note that bore the signature of Horace Chatham.

“No,” came the reply. “It is after midnight. The date is correct.”

Wilkinson smiled as he glanced at the clock on the desk. The hands registered a few minutes past twelve.

“Here is Palermo’s note,” he said.

“Thanks.”

WILKINSON was seated at the desk, before the metal box. That one word suddenly aroused him. He was thoughtful as he dropped the note with Chatham’s signature into the box.

He seemed to recall the voice that had spoken that word. He remembered a night, nearly six months before, when he had given thirty thousand dollars to Doctor Albert Palermo.

“Thanks.”

The word reechoed in Wilkinson’s brain. It was not Horace Chatham who had spoken it. The word had come from Doctor Palermo!

Wilkinson turned his head, and gazed shrewdly at the man beside him.

Doctor Palermo had forgotten the part that he was playing — had forgotten it in his triumph. Now Wilkinson’s eyes confirmed the suspicion that had come to his ears.

On the face of Horace Chatham he saw an expression that did not belong there. It was the characteristic smile of Doctor Albert Palermo — that smile that became ugly at the corners of the man’s mouth.

Seth Wilkinson now recognized his companion. In a few short seconds, the masquerader had destroyed the illusion which he had so artfully created.

“Palermo!”

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?”

“Yes,” came the calm reply. “He simply wanted you to get my hat and coat, and show me to the elevator.

He was busy writing, so I left him.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man brought the coat and hat, and helped Palermo put them on. Then he led the way to the elevator, and waited there until the guest had left.

In the lobby of the Grampian Apartments, Palermo instructed the doorman to call a taxi. He acted the part of Horace Chatham, and simulated great nervousness and impatience. He stumbled as he entered the cab, and gave the destination, “Grand Central Station,” in a voice loud enough for the doorman to hear.

Shortly afterward, the form of Horace Chatham mingled with the crowd in the concourse of New York’s great railway terminal. The man disappeared unobtrusively toward the Lexington Avenue entrance. He walked a few blocks, then hailed another cab from the darkness.

When the vehicle drew up at the Marimba Apartments, it was Doctor Palermo, hat and coat upon his arm, who stepped to the curb.

There was no hallman on duty after midnight. The former elevator operator was gone; his shift had ended at twelve. Thus the attendant who took Doctor Palermo to the fortieth floor was not surprised to see the physician. He did not know that no one had seen Doctor Palermo leave the building that evening.

CHAPTER III. TWO MEN INVESTIGATE

THE murder of Seth Wilkinson was front-page news. From Times to tabloids, the event was retold to the readers of the daily journals. Involving the name of Horace Chatham, a man as socially prominent and as wealthy as Wilkinson, the story was of double interest to New Yorkers.

The police were sure that they knew the murderer. The one problem was to find him.

Seth Wilkinson’s manservant had undergone a grueling quiz, and his account had remained the same. Ten minutes after Chatham had left Wilkinson’s apartment, the man had found the body of his master.

Only Chatham had entered the apartment that night. No one else could have come or gone, without the servant observing him.

The hallman of the Grampian Apartments corroborated this testimony.

He had noticed the nervousness exhibited by Horace Chatham. He told how the clubman had stumbled when he entered the cab. He had felt sure then that something was wrong.

When Wilkinson’s servant had spread the alarm, a short while later, the hallman had recalled the incidents of Chatham’s departure.

The police had discovered the motive for the murder. The note signed by Horace Chatham was sufficient evidence that some business transaction had led to the killing.

In the reconstruction of the crime, the scene in Seth Wilkinson’s study was fully visualized; and the terse tabloid writers made good use of it.

Chatham, they believed, had given Wilkinson his note for thirty thousand dollars. Perhaps it was to pay a gambling debt, for both men were inveterate gamesters. Whatever the purpose of the transaction, it must have led to a sudden quarrel; and in the fraction of a minute, Horace Chatham had killed his friend.

While the police had lost all traces of Chatham after the cab driver had deposited him at the Grand Central Station, they had been quite fortunate in discovering his actions prior to the time of the murder.

Horace Chatham lived uptown, in an old brownstone residence that had been the home of his family for many years. His unmarried sister and two servants were the only other occupants of the house. They testified that he had left there at noon.

He had lunched at the Argo Club, had remained there most of the afternoon, and had eaten an early dinner. He had been seen at a theatrical ticket agency, and at the Forty-third Street Theater.

After that, he had returned to the Argo Club; and had been overheard telephoning to Seth Wilkinson.

The only break in the chain of circumstances lay during the interval between Chatham’s dinner at the Argo Club and his arrival at the ticket agency. This period was not accounted for until late in the afternoon following the murder.

Then the police received a phone call from Doctor Albert Palermo, of the Marimba Apartments. The physician informed them that Horace Chatham had called upon him before eight o’clock, and had left his apartment for the theater.

A DETECTIVE from headquarters called upon Doctor Palermo, and found the physician quite willing to supply the missing link in Chatham’s actions.

Doctor Palermo was known as a nerve specialist. He testified that Horace Chatham had come to consult him. He added that, while it might ordinarily be unethical for a doctor to reveal his patient’s troubles, he was under no restraint in the case of Horace Chatham.

The clubman had simply stated that he was worried over financial problems, and had not stated their nature. Doctor Palermo had merely advised him to think of other matters for a few days; then, if his problems still troubled him, to return. Palermo had been under the impression that Chatham was exaggerating his situation.

It was not an unusual case; many of Palermo’s patients had temporary problems that involved money, and he had found that wealthy persons invariably magnified their financial difficulties.

The detective who visited the Marimba Apartments also interviewed the elevator operator and the hallman. From them he ascertained almost the exact time of Chatham’s arrival and departure.

Thus it was definitely understood that Horace Chatham had been ill at ease during the day before the murder; that he had worried about money; and that all had led up to his encounter with Seth Wilkinson.

The question that now occupied the front pages was that of Horace Chatham’s actions following the murder.

Had Wilkinson given him thirty thousand dollars in cash? Wilkinson was known to have kept that much money in his apartment. Perhaps the sight of the money had maddened Chatham.

Yet the police could discover nothing to prove that Chatham was in financial straits. His affairs were involved, it was true; but he had bank accounts that totaled considerably more than thirty thousand dollars.

The solution of the mystery obviously lay in tracing Chatham; in bringing him back to New York.

It was believed that he had fled to Canada. The police of Canadian cities were given full information.

A man with thirty thousand dollars in his possession could travel anywhere, yet New York police were confident that Chatham would soon be discovered, for he possessed none of the attributes found in the usual criminal, and would, sooner or later, fail in his efforts to keep his identity unknown.

Certain newspapers commented upon the fact that there were now three names of prominent New Yorkers involved in affairs of homicide.

Less than two months before, Lloyd Harriman had committed suicide in Florida. Like Seth Wilkinson, Harriman had been a friend of Horace Chatham. One tabloid screamed this fact in lurid headlines.

Had Horace Chatham been concerned in Lloyd Harriman’s death? Had Harriman committed suicide, or—

The question stopped there, but the inference was plain.

Perhaps Chatham had killed Harriman also. Braved by one successful murder, he would have possessed the nerve to kill another man.

But even the tabloid restrained from making further imputation.

THREE days had gone by, without a trace of Horace Chatham. Yet the hue and cry still persisted.

Perhaps the hectic columns that told of the Wilkinson murder were becoming tiresome to the public at large; but to one man, they were most enjoyable. This individual sat at his desk in a small office on Forty-eighth Street, with piles of newspaper clippings in front of him, and smiled as he ran his scissors through the pages of the afternoon newspapers.

The reversed letters on the glass door of the office proclaimed his name and occupation: CLYDE BURKE

Clipping Bureau

Burke finished his search through the newspapers, then sat back in his chair, and lighted his pipe. He seemed well contented with life.

Burke was a man not yet thirty years of age, but his firm, well-molded features indicated long experience.

He was light in weight, almost frail in build; yet his eyes and his face showed a determination found in men who seek action.