As the date set in the mysterious communications from X. drew near, the
preparations on the part of Wilbur Gaylord and his able assistant
proceeded briskly and to the entire satisfaction of the banker. Money
was spent like water.
Hundreds of officers, ordered to report for unknown and hazardous duty
on the evening of January 18, bound to secrecy by the promise of
substantial reward, were mobilized and, under the manipulation of John
Keller, were so disposed that their presence would not excite comment
until it was too late to matter. Each held specific instructions to be
at a certain point at a certain hour, when he would be advised as to his
subsequent duties.
Keller grunted with satisfaction when he was assured of enough men to
cover every mile of highway between Boston and New York.
Bundles containing folded newspapers and attached to small parachutes
were in readiness, electric lights already in place. The machine chosen,
a swift Taggart monoplane, was to be piloted by one Hart Creighton, an
expert mail pilot.
The stage was beautifully set for the reception of Mr. Starbuck’s
lieutenants.
Meantime, Count Markowski busied himself with a multitude of details,
which included disposal of motor cars which were to be changed twice as
a precautionary measure. Also, there was the matter of engaging passage
for Europe when a certain trunk, already purchased, should be ready to
convey Wilbur Gaylord’s million dollars to a European port.
Count Markowski, it must be owned, was highly nervous, which is not to
be wondered at. But it was not the mere responsibility of carrying out
his part of the program that beset him; he was waiting for an important
message which would be received on the morning of January 18. He could
not really be definite about anything until then.
And, sure enough, on the morning of the 18th the expected wire, nicely
disguised, to be sure, arrived. The count then knew where he was at, and
took steps accordingly.
Dimes and Rolphs chuckled when the count told them of the final
arrangements. And if Wilbur Gaylord could have been present at that
conference, he would have been less surprised and upset over certain
events which occurred that same evening.
At any rate, after their talk, Markowski, Dimes, and Rolphs separated to
meet again under circumstances they little dreamed of.
* * * * *
Most of that fatal day Wilbur Gaylord spent in fuming. He was like a
condemned person who, having said his last good-byes, chafes over the
delay in springing the trap. Keller was at his elbow when he could spare
the time from numerous telephone calls.
He was confident that his plans would succeed, and that is why he, too,
was thrown completely off his balance when at eight o’clock that night
Starbuck, from his distant vantage-point, threw a veritable bombshell.
It was simple indeed, in itself a tribute to the master criminal’s
shrewdness.
A code message which was promptly relayed to Gaylord and which contained
the following curt and disconcerting orders: