Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

Joseph Crawley was convicted on the evidence of his finger-prints on the murder pistol. Harry Lethrop’s fingerprints were found on the Keene murder gun. MacCray was convinced Lethrop was framed. Could Crawley have been framed too? While he was wandering, Judge Lethrop received a message which read:

“I have not forgotten my promise.

Carlos Fernandez.”

The judge was bewildered. He had never heard of the man.

And then another mysterious name entered the case — John E. Duke.

John Duke, MacCray later discovered, had paid the expenses of Crawley’s trial; Duke also had employed Keene to run his gambling den. And the weapon which had killed Keene and had been stolen from Meadow’s department store with Harry Lethrop’s finger-prints on it, was registered in Duke’s name.

MacCray subjected Crawley, who was in prison awaiting execution, to an odd third degree, and the prisoner, in a hypnotic state, made wild statements about a strange portrait in the Duke residence.

Harry Lethrop, free on bail, picked up the trail of the chauffeur who had attacked Christine Vincennes, and discovered she was a prisoner in an apartment rented by a man named Carlotti. She dropped a note to him appealing for help.

Chapter XIV The Kidnapers’ Lair

The red-haired clerk popped up from his chair behind his counter like a jack-in-the-box. At sight of Harry Lethrop his jaw slacked and his eyes bulged.

“My God!” he articulated. “You back again?”

“Who is manager of this house, and where can I find him?” demanded Harry tersely.

The clerk considered.

“Why do you want to know?” he countered.

Harry had a secret suspicion that he was not going to like this clerk, but he could not afford to antagonize him, considering the plans he had made, so he replied very civilly.

“You have a notice outside that a janitor is wanted,” he said. “I want to apply for that job. I must have it I’ve got to have it!”

The clerk leaned far out over his counter and stared incredulously.

“Ha!” he snorted, mildly for him. “Ha! So you really would work for a living, eh? You don’t look in hard shape. What’s your game?”

“There isn’t any game. I tell you I must get that job. Where can I find the proper person to apply to?”

“Right here,” rejoined the clerk. “Mr. Starlatch is the manager and owner of this place. You can see him, if you are in earnest. Where are your references?”

“Do I have to have references to shovel coal?”

The clerk laughed loudly.

“Shovel coal? My boy, you don’t know the first thing about the duties of a janitor, I see. A janitor, my lad,” he went on, “must be horny-handed. Let’s see your hands! I thought as much! Soft! Soft! Not only must his hands be hard — so must his heart.

“He must know how to swear. He must be bard so that he can demand — and collect. Shovel coal? My son, that is one of his minor duties. He must handle luggage, do odd carpenter work all over the building, be a handy man with plumber’s wrenches, be a jack of all trades. In brief, the janitor of to-day is the czar of the apartment house. You wouldn’t suit. Besides, we hired a janitor this morning.”

“Are you really telling me the truth?” asked Harry. “Did you really hire a man for the job?”

The clerk shrugged.

“Ha!” he reflected. “Not the first time the truthfulness of Jack Durant has been questioned. Go ask Mr. Starlatch. First door to your right behind you. Knock before you enter.”

Harry read nothing but truth in the impish blue eyes before him. He could not repress a slight groan of disappointment. He looked woebegone.

“Say, what’s eating you, anyhow?” Durant demanded. “Are you on your uppers sure enough?”

“You don’t have any idea,” confided Harry desperately. “I... I just have to do something about this. It’s... it’s on account of a — girl.”

“Ah, ha!” exclaimed Mr. Durant wisely, cocking his bristling head. “I see. I see. Oh, ha! Ha! Ha! Let me think! Let me think!”

Harry made no attempt to interrupt the process.

“I say, now,” remarked Mr. Durant very suddenly. “You don’t seem such a half bad sort after all. Tell me all about it. Maybe I can help you find a job somewhere.”

“But I must have it here,” groaned Harry.

“Here? What d’you mean?”

“My girl,” explained Harry, playing on the chord of romance which seemed to have touched the red-haired clerk’s heart. “She lives here. She isn’t allowed to see me. I... I must be near her so I can... can arrange to elope with her. And I must keep everything secret.”

“Ha!” snorted Mr. Durant. “I see it all now. Magazine peddling in order to visit sweetheart! Romance of youth! Love tryst thwarted by house clerk! Stark tragedy! Gloom! Janitor’s job next best bet! Capital!”

Harry began recovering himself. He allowed the other to enlarge on the theme to his heart’s content. It was not so far from the truth at that. While the delighted Mr. Durant ran riot, he considered the advisability of calling MacCray and raiding the Bon Ton.