The Hand of Peril/Part 5/Chapter 1
I
Kestner sat in a brown study. It was three full hours since the murder of Antonio Morello in the Alambo. Not a word had as yet come in to him, and here was a situation, he knew, where time was precious.
On the rosewood table in front of Kestner lay what was left of his third cigar. About his feet was a scattering of ashes, the residuary evidence of an hour's Vesuvian mental ferment. Confronting him on the polished table-top, not unlike huge pawns on an abandoned chessboard, stood three telephone transmitters. Two of them were Kestner's recently installed private wires. The third was the switch-board connection of the hotel itself.
Kestner sat between those transmitters, momentarily undecided as to what the next move should be. He sat where those wires converged, waiting, like a spider at the centre of its web. Yet for all the intricate network of espionage that had been so feverishly and yet so dexterously thrown out across the City, no slightest word of value had trickled in to him. He was still hesitating between the house-connection and his second private wire when the brisk tinkle of a bell brought an end to his indecision.
He caught up the receiver on his left and found Wilsnach on the wire.
"We've got something," announced Wilsnach. "Can I talk?"
"Talk away!"
"We haven't a trace of the woman yet," began Wilsnach.
"What woman?" angrily demanded Kestner. He always hated the other man when he spoke of Maura Lambert as a Bertillon exhibit, and there were times when he half-suspected Wilsnach's knowledge of that feeling.
"The scratcher for that Lambert gang," was the none too placatory response over the wire. But time was too precious for personal issues.
"We can find that woman best by first finding Carlesi. I've already told you that."
"But she's the king-pin of those counterfeiters. She's the one we've got to get!"
"And she's the one we'll get the easiest—when the time comes!"
"Well, Carlesi shouldn't be hard. Romano has just phoned me that one of his men has spotted Carlesi."
"Spotted him?"
"Yes, and tailed him to a shooting-gallery."
"Where?"
"Down on the East River water-front."
"And he's there now?" demanded Kestner.
"As far as I know," was the answer. "He'll be easy to find. A middle-aged Dago, stoop-shouldered, with granulated eye-lids."
"But why a shooting-gallery?"
"That they can't say until some one gets inside. And they waited for word from you."
"Good!"
"There's only one thing more, Romano says. What looks like a bundle of bond paper was delivered there a few, minutes after Carlesi went in."
"That's important. Now describe that shooting-gallery to me, and tell me just where it is."
Kestner listened intently as Wilsnach told what he knew of the place. Then the Secret Agent glanced down at his watch.
"I think I can be inside that gallery in an hour's time. Meanwhile, you have Romano run down the Lambert taxi number. Put Schmidt on it too, if nothing turns up in an hour. I've phoned Hendry to have all trains and ferries covered, and the City staff people are watching the bridges and motor-routes. We can't afford to let that man Lambert get off the Island."
"You mean if he gets going, now, he'll never stop?"
"Murder in the first degree can make a man travel a long way, Wilsnach. And we've done enough travelling on this case."
"And you'll cover Carlesi and the gallery alone?"
"I'll attend to Carlesi. But post a man to tail him, in case he tries to move on before I get there. Get a man who'd know Lambert if he saw him."
"Lambert?"
"Yes; either Lambert or Maura Lambert are going to get in touch with Carlesi as soon as they safely can. Perhaps Lambert's already seen him. It's ten to one the girl will try to. And that's why I'm going to cover Carlesi."
"All right—I understand."
"And in case of doubt, report to Hendry by wire."
"Of course," answered Wilsnach.
"And as soon as you're free, yourself, get around to that shooting-gallery. I may need you."
"I'll be there," said the ever-dependable Wilsnach, as he hung up the receiver.