“The Octagon Crystal”

Franklin Times, Volume XXV, Issue 59, 24 May 1935, Page 7

“The Octagon Crystal”

jjj By PEARL FOLEY (PAUL DE MAR of Toronto).

CHAPTER IV. Ralph’s eyes again sought the form ahead. Sinewy, lithe of movement, it covered the pavement with as small concern as some wild creature of the jungle that has carried off a successful night’s raid and is bearing the carcass ol' his victim to the lair of his mate.

Ralph smiled grimly into the darkness —his form grew tense, and the next moment, silently, like a catapult, he leapt forward. His hands shot out. They clutched only chill, mistladen air. Like an eel the man had eluded him. He had disappeared as completely as though he had indeed wriggled his way into the water-soak-ed earth.

Ralph stood a moment bewildered. Silent, deserted, fog shrouded, stretched the street ahead of him. His jaw clamped, and hurling caution behind him he rushed blindly forward.

What was that! His limbs quivered into rigidity. It came again, a stealthy crunching of gravel, rasping faintly through the night. ' His gaze swerved in the direction of the sound; he took a step forward, then halted. A light filtered through the turbid mist, disclosing to view the rear entrance of an apartment house. He recognised the structure as Linden Court, a congeries of furnished suites which on account of their fairly central location and high prices, harboured mostly transient guests. As he watched, a crouching form squirmed into view, hugged for a few yards a hedge of ragged, bare shrubbery, then sprang as noiselessly and light-footed as a lynx up the stone steps and disappeared behind the swinging doors.

Ralph did not lose a moment. He did not take time to reinsert even a grain of caution into his movements as he sprang after the man. The fog befriended him as well as his prey. Despite the wariness of his approach to the building, it was evident the man was still unaware he was being tracked. His open leap into his lair dispelled any doubt on that score. The hallway was empty except for an elevator boy, too much engrossed in a paper-covered “thriller” and the noisy demolition of an apple to even glance up. As there was only one lift, it was evident the man’s destination was on the ground floor, or else he had taken the stairs.

Acting on this latter assumption, Ralph began the ascent. Swiftly, lightly, he scaled the stairway, balancing his weight -even more skilfully than the individual he was trailing. At the foot of the seventh flight he was rewarded by catching a glimpse of a grey-coated form turning into the corridor above. As he gained the top there was a noise of a closing door. Noiselessly he made his way along the passage, his eyes fastened calculatingly on the different entrances. He paused at the door of a front suite and listened. Jazz music came jarringly from a gramophone above. That was the only sound that broke the stillness of the corridor. Dim, mysterious, it coiled into the shadows like some secretive river lapping against tragedy, comedy and boredom, the triple medley that go to make up apartment-house life. Quietly stepping across the ball, Ralph took up his vigil in an alcove which was obscure and deep enough for a temporary retreat and at the same time commanded a direct view of the door he was interested in. The space was small, so small that the table and two armchairs which almost filled it, seemed to be merely superfluous articles rather than regulation furniture. Perhaps that was why he had difficulty in accommodating the breadth of shoulder and length of limb Nature had lavished on him, and announced the fact by almost overturning the table. Too late he decided a crash would have been a whisper compared to the groaning creak that split the stillness. What would happen next! He crouched ready for action, his eyes strained toward the door opposite. His fears were instantly realised. The door opened and a man stepped into the corridor. The lithe form now tense in a listening attitude, the hard, glittering eyes that peered up and down the hall were those of the man who Ralph had been trailing for the past forty minutes. He stood not five feet away, his dark, hawk-like profile turned toward the alcove listening.

Ralph drew back into the shadows and wondered if a “set to” were now imminent. To his surprise, however, the man, after darting a searching glance along the corridor, hurried toward the stairs.

Ralph’s first impulse was to intercept him, but a second sent him instead toward the suite the man had just left. Was it not more likely, he asked himself, that the trophy of the chase had been concealed there? Without a doubt his visit to the place was in connection with the crystal. If the door had been left unlocked and the remaining occupants did not prove too troublesome, the object of so much cupidity might yet be regained.

(Copyright)

As to the first, luck seemed to be with him. The spring lock was ready to do its part if it had been given a chance, but the man in his haste had not pulled the door sufficiently to. Ralph stepped noiselessly into a square hall opening off which could be glimpsed a living-room. Cautiously he advanced. The place was softly lighted, so he ran no danger of making his presence known by knocking against the furniture. He paused outside the living-room entrance and listened. A heavy silence over everything was more pronounced by the clear ticking of a clock. A grate fire burned low.

After a swift glance around the luxurious but quietly furnished room his eyes became focussed on a flattop desk opposite the fireplace, in the centre of which glistened an objectthat sent the warm blood of achievement racing through his veins. There, gleaming from the mahogany surface, dignified in its halo of mystery, was the octagon crystal, attached to its slender chain of platinum. How easy it had been after all to outwit the plotters. Ralph’s glance rested curiously on the piece of glazed glass as it lay on the palm of his hand. Mystery still surrounded it, but as for beauty, a frosted piece of window pane would have been an equal rival. Surely there was some ludicrous mistake!

“My friend plays with fire.” Ralph’s glance lifted from the muzzle of a small but wicked-looking revolver, and collided with a pair of glittering black eyes. The man confronting him had Sachem and Indian Chief written all over him. His age might have been fifty or it might have been seventy. The high bridged nose, the firm thin lips, the jutting chin, might all have been chiselled in bronze, so clear cut, cold, inscrutable were they. The up-to-date clothes was incongruous on such a figure. Feathers, war paint, all the regalia of a Tecumseh should have draped, emblazoned the dignified carriage, and offset the copper-coloured, expressionless face. But what held Ralph’s attention was none of these; the target for future recognition that he tucked away in his mind was a scar on the lower left cheek, dividing the coppery skin like a white band. Ralph’s mind was working rapidly. On the face of it, he seemed to have bungled badly. His major blunder had been edging into the fray unarmed. (To be Continued).