Gordon Drake, a well known figure in the motion picture industry, stood looking out the window. Drake was the most handsomely proportioned man present. At fifty, his body was still classical in its lines. But he marred the sweep of his fine figure by wearing a light opera cape about his shoulders. And he always wore gloves.
Kenneth Meade, a renowned restaurateur, gaunt of feature and spare of frame, attired in evening clothes for his appearance at Milady's Salon, his newest and finest restaurant, was tapping on the desk and frowning anxiously.
Fenwick, the seventh man, was a tall, cadaverous individual clad in severe black and wearing a high, stiff collar which gave him a clerical air. Had he been funny instead of lugubrious, he could have walked right out on the stage in any one of his productions as the stage parson.
All of these men were prominent and respected. There was nothing particularly odd about them individually. But, together, they exerted a queer effect upon the inspector that was almost weird. It was an intangible feeling. Perhaps it was due to the fact that these men were noted for living so utterly alone. None of them were married. Their private lives were simple, retiring, exclusive. No two of them lived together, except the Marcy brothers, who had not arrived for this meeting.
Baffled, the inspector shook his head and scowled.
"All right, all right," he said. "Let's go over it again. This Al Millett was guilty of several minor crimes some twenty-odd years ago. The worst we can find is that train robbery in Utah, and he served a sentence for that. He called himself 'The Fang,' theatrically leaving a tiger tooth as a marker on the scenes of his depredations.
"The penitentiary sentence must have taken the starch out of him. He abandoned crime upon his release to become a showman. He joined Crowley and Buckill, the then-famous circus. That was the hey-day of circus business. They puffed him up as the 'Fang,' the man with the terrible and bloody history and the criminal mind which, if loosed, could wreck the country. And all he did was ride wild horses, shoot blank pistols, and generally exhibit himself as the madman from the gory West.
"That, gentlemen, may have gone over big in those days, but no hick town in the whole United States would give that sort of side-show attraction a second glance today.
"And, as for this Al Millett, the police of this day and time have never even heard of him. I am positive that you are needlessly alarmed over this twenty-year-old bugaboo—"
"But you don't understand!" broke in Gordon Drake, whirling about at the window. "We've explained that Millett disappeared suddenly just twenty years ago—right after his wife died. He blamed us for her death because we wouldn't back him in a venture of his own. He disappeared utterly, after swearing vengeance on us, individually and collectively. And, once a year, on the anniversary of his wife's death—for the past three years—he's been sending us grotesque warnings of hate and disaster. We showed them to you. They came from different parts of the world."
"We tried to trace these messages, but we couldn't," John Gifford spoke in his deep voice. "We thought at first like you are thinking now, but time has changed us. And this time we received this message which promises death to us, one at a time. We would have been foolish not to come to the police for aid."
Inspector Gregg picked up one of the seven copies of identical messages from "The Fang," and read it again.
In block-printed letters of red on black parchment paper, the words stared up at him.
MY TIME FOR REVENGE DRAWS NEAR AT LAST ON THIS TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF BURNOOSE'S DEATH. WHEN THE CHARLEMAGNE DOCKS IN NEW YORK NEXT TRIP YOU SHALL FEEL THE FANG OF DOOM. ONE BY ONE NINE MEN SHALL DIE—IF I MAY CALL YOU MEN. WHO SHALL GO FIRST? I INVITE YUH TO MY DEBARKATION.
Inspector Gregg cleared his throat and glanced swiftly around the circle. He was surprised to find all seven men watching him in nervous intensity.
"This is theatrical hokum," he snorted. "It stinks of melodrama. I'm amazed that you let such a crank letter disturb you. And whoever heard of murder by appointment?"
"Inspector Gregg," said Carl Fenwick in a sepulchral voice, "please bear in mind that this Al Millett was a far more desperate and depraved character than you are giving him credit for, and that he hates the nine of us with a vindictiveness that fairly seethes in its intensity."
"It's too bad the Marcy brothers aren't here to talk to you, Inspector Gregg," added Paul Corbin in his queer, husky voice. "They knew Millett more intimately, and can give you fuller details."
"Anyway, we've increased the police guard for the Charlemagne's docking, and I have a cordon of plainclothes men on hand to apprehend this Millett guy for questioning and investigation. And you are here to point him out to us. So we'll pull his 'fangs' before he can even sink 'em in a piece of pie at the Automat."
"If we point him out," observed Kenneth Meade in his stilted, slow, hoarse manner of speech. "He may be in hiding—a stowaway. Perhaps he's changed his appearance—other men have. He was fiendishly clever with disguise. I wish—"
"The Marcy brothers!" ejaculated Gordon Drake from the window. "I see their car just pulling up. They're not getting out, of course."
"Why should they?" commented John Gifford quickly. "The boat's docking. We'd better get out of here ourselves."
"We'll see what the Marcys say, first," decided Inspector Gregg, leading the way swiftly out to the parking lanes, the others following him more slowly.
The Marcy car, resplendent with glittering nickel and liveried chauffeur, was parked in a little cleared space back from the front lines, as if shrinking from publicity.
In the rear seat, two brothers with faces startlingly similar, save that Benjamin wore a mustache, while Lyle was clean-shaven, looked out at the approaching detective. Famous as theatre owners, they shrank from notoriety.
"Well?" Benjamin Marcy's mustache bristled at the converging group, although his piercing eyes had the same brooding, world-weary, yet anxious look that all these worried men seemed to have. "You don't expect us to get out and jam into that crowd, do you? I'm tired."
"Just tell me in few words what you can about this guy Millett," Gregg spoke swiftly.
As one, the two brothers leaned forward.
"Al Millett must be a madman," Lyle Marcy stated, his lean face darkening. "We were all in the show business together many years ago.
"Millett got terribly angry when we wouldn't pool our money and back him in a crazy wild-west show of his own. His wife died, and he disappeared, after threatening us with revenge. As for his coming back now—"
"We don't believe it!" Benjamin Marcy broke in fiercely. "This whole thing is somebody's idea of a bad joke."
"Whose?" demanded Andrews, panting from his laborious exertions to arrive at the car in a group with the others, leaning heavily on his cane.
"You Marcys know you're as worried about this thing as any of the rest of us."
"The only thing I'm worried about is the publicity," denied Benjamin Marcy savagely. "Lyle and I hate publicity!"
The sound of a hoarse, bass siren shook the air around them. Growing commotion at the docks warned them.
"Come on, you men, and take your positions on the second level," cried Gregg. "All passengers disembark there. You can't miss your man, if he comes ashore."
Leaving the grimly waiting Marcy brothers, the group made its way to the spacious second level where alphabetical partitions awaited tourists and luggage.
Pulleys creaked, winches groaned, and the huge liner came gently to rest. In a moment the gangways came sliding down, and people were pouring along them like ants. A pair of plainclothes officers stood by at each exit, watching for the chief inspector's signal. Gregg watched the faces of his companions who went to their appointed stations, staring nervously all along the side of the great ship and up and down the gangways.
Nothing happened. The stream of passengers dwindled, died away. And