The Phantom Detective: Tycoon of Crime. Robert Wallace
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it that way if you want,” said the blunt Harvey. His lips curled. “Of course, all of you will begin to produce alibis showing you were in New York City at the time of the disaster; but you men do get around, don’t you? And there are more ways than one of cooking a goose, especially if you’re a technician!”
Talbert leaped up. “If this is a joke, Harvey,” he said with cold fury, “it’s in pretty bad taste.”
Sprague leaned forward, fuming.
“It’s outrageous! I refuse to listen to it! You can have my answer to your offer right now, Mr. Harvey! I’ll see you in Hell before I’ll make any deal with you!”
For a moment it seemed he would spring bodily upon the weathered-faced airline president, smaller, though he was. Instead, however, he pushed back his chair and, his face flaming, strode out of the conference room, slamming the door behind him.
STRICKLAND’S EYES SHOWED haggard worry. “You shouldn’t have said that, Harvey! After all, a knife can have two edges. Sprague was a close friend of both Truesdale and Garth — also of our company, and passengers on that plane. Truesdale and Garth were valuable men,” he added significantly, “very valuable men.”
“And also,” Joseph Ware put in grimly, “don’t forget that there has been a lot of sabotage of the railway itself. Especially in the Southwest.”
It was the airline man’s turn to stiffen indignantly. Glaring, he seemed about to voice an angry retort when Vincent Brooks, the gaunt electric wizard, suddenly rose to his feet, pointing at the clock — whose hands were converging to midnight!
“It’s time for the new electric sign to go on!” Brooks announced. “Inasmuch as I constructed it, I’d like to be out there to see it!”
Strickland nodded hastily. “Of course. We all want to see it.” He turned to Harvey. “You’ll join us, Mr. Harvey? You noticed the preliminaries as you came in. Perhaps you’ll be interested to see how modern we, too, can be in our methods.”
The whole group were hurriedly rising. With a scowling Harvey accompanying them, they passed through an anteroom, emerged upon a gallery, then descended marble-bannistered steps which led them directly upon the immense, dome-ceilinged concourse.
An unusually large throng milled on the floor; a throng much larger than the usual flow of travelers who always streamed through the big terrminal. Huge banners, all proclaiming A New Era in Railroading gave the huge place a festive air.
Over the noise of the crowds sounded the blare of trumpeting music. A band composed of dusky Pullman porters in gaudy uniforms, led by a busby-hatted drum-major, was playing “Casey Jones.”
“What is this anyhow?” Harvey snorted. “A circus in a railroad station?”
STRICKLAND GLARED AT HIM, but the mild-eyed secretary, Jensen, said, in an explanatory tone:
“In just one minute now, you will see that sign go on.” With a moving forefinger he signified a continuous dark oblong strip of metal, dotted with electric bulbs, which ran around the four walls of the great concourse. “In St. Louis, Mr. Garrison, our president, will press a button. The impulse will be carried over our own wires to the device on the gallery which operates the sign.”
“Very elaborate!” sneered Harvey. “But nothing can put this line on its feet, I’m warning you.”
Nevertheless, he displayed interest as the Pullman band ended its number with a martial roll of drums. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. All eyes went to the strip of dark bulbs.
A second went by, then —
Abruptly, a flickering blaze of light leaped into life at the beginning of the strip, coursed jaggedly along the sign, forming bold letters — words:
GREETINGS TO THE PUBLIC — WE TAKE PLEASURE IN ANNOUNCING OUR MODERNIZED RAILROAD POLICY — OUR MANY NEW INNOVATIONS —
The words, with their smooth advertising, continued. The crowd watched.
— AND NOW IT IS TIME FOR THE MESSAGE OF THE TYCOON OF CRIME —
So smoothly did these words follow on the wake of the others that at first their utter strangeness was unnoticed by the crowd. But instantly sharply indrawn breaths of amazement issued from the group of men who had rushed down from the executive offices. Their eyes bulged as they followed those bold words, carried unerringly around the strip of bulbs.
— THE TYCOON OF CRIME HEREBY WARNS ALL THOSE WHO HAVE FLOUTED HIM —
The crowd had begun to murmur, to laugh as if believing this some deliberately humorous part of the ballyhoo, not yet understood.
“What’s the meaning of those crazy words?” Strickland burst out.
“Meaning?” screamed a voice. “Good Lord, don’t you realize? The Tycoon of Crime! The criminal we all laughed at!”
No one had noticed that Leland Sprague, the shock-haired surveyor who had so angrily left the conference room, had joined them. It was he who had made this outburst. His agitation seemed to have driven away all remembrance of his anger; his face was ashen. Madly he waved towards the coursing, illuminated words.
“The sign!” he choked. “He must have got at the box that makes the sign go!”
But while Jenson and Harvey both looked as bewildered as Strickland, the scientists in the group had all jerked rigid, their faces blanching.
Even the hard-featured Paul Talbert looked shaken.
THEN VINCENT BROOKS, who had made the sign, suddenly dashed toward the gallery stair. John Eldridge, the thin-haired surveyor, also broke away at a run.
The bold words which thousands read continued to leap into view, and run around the sign like letters of fire.
— SOME HAVE LEARNED THIS VERY NIGHT OF MY POWER — OTHERS WILL SOON LEARN — MORE BLOOD WILL BE SPILLED — MORE WILL DIE — TAKE THIS LAST WARNING —
The explosion was deafening!
It crashed thunderously in the spacious interior of the dome-ceilinged concourse, the sheer concussion hurling many of the gaping crowd off balance.
From the center of the balcony, above the coursing sign, had leaped a blinding, hissing sheet of flame! The sign went dark even as the detonation followed. And at the same instant —
A scream of horror burst from scores of throats as, whisked off the balcony like some mere feather, a human shape came hurtling straight down — a shape of limp but flailing arms and legs.
That the body didn’t fall on the panic-stricken crowd seemed sheer luck. With a ghastly thud it crashed to the tiled flooring beneath the balcony.
Strickland, Jenson, and the rest of their group rushed over as the din rose higher, though railway police were struggling to restore order.
They reached the inert heap on the floor, looked down. A scream broke from Charles Sprague, who pointed.
“It’s Eldridge! Good God — Eldridge!”
John Eldridge was a gruesome sight. His body was a maimed, bloody heap which stained crimson the white-tiled floor. A whole portion of his chest had been blown out. A gaping hole showed the broken bones, ripped flesh, tatters of clothes. His face was frozen in a grimace of contorted agony, the eyes glazed and protruding like marbles.
Strickland cried out hoarsely. “And he was blown off the balcony — just when the sign went off! Where’s Brooks? Brooks should know about the sign!”
His question was quickly answered by Donald Vaughan. The geologist had rushed up to the balcony, and his voice called down shakily. The rest hurried up there, oblivious that Andrew Harvey was no longer with them.
They found what was left of Vincent Brooks piled against the balcony wall. His head had almost been severed from his torso by the explosion. The chin was blown away, leaving