The idea of foul play at once leaped into Maxwell's mind, but investigation of police records failed to disclose the discovery of anybody answering to the description of George Buch and, as Captain Kenney pointed out, it is a decidedly difficult matter to dispose of a corpse in such a way as not to arouse at least the suspicions of the police.
As a last resort, about the middle of September, Maxwell had a reward posted on the bulletin board of every police station in New York and the surrounding country for the "apprehension of George Buch, Austrian, age about twenty-four. Height, five feet eight inches. Hair, blond. Complexion, fair. Eyes, blue. Sandy mustache."
As Captain Kenney pointed out, though, the description would apply to several thousand men of German parentage in the city, and
to a good many more who didn't have a drop of Teutonic blood in their veins.
"True enough," Maxwell was forced to admit, "but we can't afford to overlook a bet--even if it is a thousand-to-one shot."
As luck would have it, the thousand-to-one shot won!
On September 25, 1917, Detective Gary returned to headquarters, distinctly crestfallen. Weimar had given him the slip.
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In company with another man, whom the detective did[82] not know, the Austrian had been walking up Sixth Avenue that afternoon when a machine swung in from Thirty-sixth Street and the Austrian had leaped aboard without waiting for it to come to a full stop.
"Of course, there wasn't a taxi in sight," said Gary, ruefully, "and before I could convince the nearest chauffeur that my badge wasn't phony they'd gone!"
"That's the first time in months," Gary replied. "He knows that he's followed, all right, and he's cagy enough to keep in the open and
pretend to be aboveboard."
"Right," commented the Department of Justice operative, "and this move would appear to indicate that something was doing. Better
phone all your stations to watch out for him, Cap."
But nothing more was seen or heard of Herr Weimar for five days.
Meanwhile events moved rapidly for Maxwell.
On September 26th, the day after the Austrian disappeared, one of the policemen whose beat lay along Fourteenth Street, near Third
Avenue, asked to see the government detective.
"My name's Riley," announced the copper, with a brogue as broad as the toes of his shoes. "Does this Austrian, this here Buch feller ye're lookin' for, like music? Is he nuts about it?"
"Music?" echoed Maxwell. "I'm sure I don't know.... But wait a minute! Yes, that's what that chap who used to know him on the boat told me. Saying he was forever playing a fiddle when he was off duty and that Weimar threw it overboard one day in a fit of rage. Why? What's the connection?"
"Nothin' in particular, save that a little girl I'm rather sweet on wurruks in a music store on Fourteenth Street an' she an' I was talkin' things over last night an' I happened[83] to mintion th' reward offered for this Buch feller. 'Why!' says she, 'that sounds just like the Dutchy that used to come into th' shop a whole lot a year or so ago. He was crazy about music an' kep' himself pretty nigh broke
a-buyin' those expensive new records. Got me to save him every violin one that came out.'" "Um, yes," muttered Maxwell, "but has the young lady seen anything of this chap lately?"
"That she has not," Riley replied, "an' right there's th' big idear. Once a week, regular, another Dutchman comes in an' buys a record, an' he told Katy--that's me gurrul's name--last winter that th' selections were for a man that used to be a stiddy customer of hers but who was now laid up in bed."
"In bed for over a year!" exclaimed Maxwell, his face lighting up. "Held prisoner somewhere in the neighborhood of that shop on Fourteenth Street, because the big Austrian hasn't the nerve to make away with him and yet fears that he knows too much! Look here, Riley--suppose you and Miss Katy take a few nights off--I'll substitute for her and make it all right with the man who owns the store. Then I can get a line on this buyer of records for sick men."
"Wouldn't it be better, sir, if we hung around outside th' store an' let Katy give us the high sign when he come in? Then we could
both trail him back to where he lives."
"You're right, Riley, it would! Where'll I meet you to-night?"
"At the corner of Fourteenth Street and Thoid Av'nue, at eight o'clock. Katy says th' man never gets there before nine." "I'll be there," said Maxwell--and he was.
But nothing out of the ordinary rewarded their vigil the[84] first night, nor the second. On the third night, however, just after the clock in the Metropolitan Tower had boomed nine times, a rather nondescript individual sauntered into the music store, and Riley's quick eyes saw the girl behind the counter put her left hand to her chest. Then she coughed.
"That's th' signal, sir," warned the policeman in a whisper. "An' that's the guy we're after."
Had the man turned around as he made his way toward a dark and forbidding house on Thirteenth Street, not far from Fourth Av-
33
enue, he might have caught sight of two shadows skulking along not fifty feet behind him. But, at that, he would have to have been pretty quick--for Maxwell was taking no chances on losing his prey and he had cautioned the policeman not to make a sound.
When their quarry ascended the steps of No. 247 Riley started to move after him, but the Department of Justice operative halted
him.
"There's no hurry," stated Maxwell. "He doesn't suspect we're here, and, besides, it doesn't make any difference if he does lock the door--I've got a skeleton key handy that's guaranteed to open anything."
Riley grunted, but stayed where he was until Maxwell gave the signal to advance.
Once inside the door, which responded to a single turn to the key, the policeman and the government agent halted in the pitch-black darkness and listened. Then from an upper floor came the sound for which Maxwell had been waiting--the first golden notes of a violin played by a master hand. The distance and the closed doorway which intervened killed all the harsh mechanical tone of the phonograph and only the wonderful melody of "Drigo's Serenade" came down to them.
On tiptoe, though they knew their movements would[85] be masked by the sounds of the music, Riley and Maxwell crept up to the
third floor and halted outside the door from which the sounds came.
"Wait until the record is over," directed Maxwell, "and then break down that door. Have your gun handy and don't hesitate to shoot anyone who tries to injure Buch. I'm certain he's held prisoner here and it may be that the men who are guarding him have instructions not to let him escape at any cost. Ready? Let's go!"
The final note of the Kreisler record had not died away before Riley's shoulder hit the flimsy door and the two detectives were in the
room.
Maxwell barely had time to catch a glimpse of a pale, wan figure on the bed and to sense the fact that there were two other men in the room, when there was a shout from Riley and a spurt of flame from his revolver. With a cry, the man nearest the bed dropped his arm and a pistol clattered to the floor--the barrel still singing from the impact of the policeman's bullet. The second man, realizing that time was precious, leaped straight toward Maxwell, his fingers reaching for the agent's throat. With a half laugh Mort clubbed his automatic and brought the butt down with sickening force on his assailant's head. Then he swung around and covered the man whom Riley had disarmed.
"Don't worry about him, sir," said the policeman. "His arm'll be numb half an hour from now. What do you want to do with th' lad in th' bed?"
"Get him out of here as quickly as we can. We won't bother with these swine. They have the law on their side, anyway, because we
broke in here without a warrant. I only want Buch."