in an office listed: “Chandler & Co., Zoning and City Planning Engineers.” There was an outer office with half a dozen clerks at work, an anteroom where a smart-looking girl answered phone calls and talked to visitors, and then the inner office of Chandler himself.
Benson was directed in. He saw a big desk in the five-o’clock sun, with a smallish, middle-aged man seated at it. The man had intelligent brown eyes and an alert manner. He looked hard at Benson as the pale-gray man walked with his tiger tread from door to visitor’s chair beside the desk.
Then Chandler withdrew his hand from the partly open desk drawer. In that drawer was a flat automatic.
“So you want to know about the Mexican expedition, too,” he said, folding well-kept hands across his flat and well-kept middle and leaning back in his chair.
“Too?” repeated Benson. His pale eyes were rapidly evaluating Chandler. A man as composed as Doolen, and perhaps even more resolute. A younger man than Doolen, perhaps more of a fighter.
“You’re the third to approach me with questions,” said Chandler. “The police were one. In connection with poor Gray’s death. The second was a man who skulked into my apartment when I was out, waited till I’d got home, and then talked to me from behind where I sat. He said he had a gun and would shoot if I tried to turn and see who he was. I took his word for it and didn’t turn. I didn’t tell him anything either. Rather, I told him a lot of stuff that I made up as I went along. But I’ll talk to you, Mr. Richard Henry Benson.”
“Why?” said Benson.”
“You evidently have a great many friends, some of them in out-of-the-way places. One of them is a Harry Rhodes, who is an importer in Guatemala. Right?”
“Correct,” said Benson quietly.
“Well, it happens I know Rhodes, and he has spoken of you. That’s good enough for me.”
“You’ve been in Guatemala much?” came Benson’s silken voice.
“I was there for two years,” nodded Chandler. “Most of the time between Professor Gray’s next-to-the-last expedition—on which I went along, also—and this final one.”
“You were there in your capacity of zoning engineer?”
“Yes,” said Chandler. “The title indicates my work, of course. I advise governments in laying out new towns, or remodeling old ones. Where to lay the streets, how to group the various business, manufacturing, and residence districts, that sort of thing. I was at work on the town of Chiquimula when the boys told me to pack up and leave because they weren’t going to have the money to spend that they’d thought they would have.”
“Guatemala—munitions,” said Benson.
“That’s right.” Chandler nodded ruefully. “The silly little country is so busy buying a silly little army and navy that they’re broke. They haven’t the money for such comparatively civilized jobs as city planning. So I came on home.”
“There are whispers,” said Benson, “of more munitions being rushed down there than the country itself could ever handle.”
“Right,” said Chandler, eyes narrowing. “There are also whispers that this big store of munitions has something to do with a move against Mexico, with perhaps a foreign power aiding under the surface. But has this anything to do with what you came to see me about?”
“I suppose not,” Benson said. “What I came to see you about was—Mexican bricks.”
The pale and deadly eyes probed Chandler’s brown ones in the pause that followed. And Chandler stared squarely, thoughtfully back. Then he nodded.
“You’ve hit on it,” he said. “The thing of great importance that Professor Gray found in Mexico. The thing he was murdered for, though the police simply can’t quite believe it. Five rough, ancient bricks of ordinary dried clay.”
“There were five, then? I wasn’t sure of the number.”
“There were five. And Gray thought them so important that he split them up when we came up across the border
Benson was directed in. He saw a big desk in the five-o’clock sun, with a smallish, middle-aged man seated at it. The man had intelligent brown eyes and an alert manner. He looked hard at Benson as the pale-gray man walked with his tiger tread from door to visitor’s chair beside the desk.
Then Chandler withdrew his hand from the partly open desk drawer. In that drawer was a flat automatic.
“So you want to know about the Mexican expedition, too,” he said, folding well-kept hands across his flat and well-kept middle and leaning back in his chair.
“Too?” repeated Benson. His pale eyes were rapidly evaluating Chandler. A man as composed as Doolen, and perhaps even more resolute. A younger man than Doolen, perhaps more of a fighter.
“You’re the third to approach me with questions,” said Chandler. “The police were one. In connection with poor Gray’s death. The second was a man who skulked into my apartment when I was out, waited till I’d got home, and then talked to me from behind where I sat. He said he had a gun and would shoot if I tried to turn and see who he was. I took his word for it and didn’t turn. I didn’t tell him anything either. Rather, I told him a lot of stuff that I made up as I went along. But I’ll talk to you, Mr. Richard Henry Benson.”
“Why?” said Benson.”
“You evidently have a great many friends, some of them in out-of-the-way places. One of them is a Harry Rhodes, who is an importer in Guatemala. Right?”
“Correct,” said Benson quietly.
“Well, it happens I know Rhodes, and he has spoken of you. That’s good enough for me.”
“You’ve been in Guatemala much?” came Benson’s silken voice.
“I was there for two years,” nodded Chandler. “Most of the time between Professor Gray’s next-to-the-last expedition—on which I went along, also—and this final one.”
“You were there in your capacity of zoning engineer?”
“Yes,” said Chandler. “The title indicates my work, of course. I advise governments in laying out new towns, or remodeling old ones. Where to lay the streets, how to group the various business, manufacturing, and residence districts, that sort of thing. I was at work on the town of Chiquimula when the boys told me to pack up and leave because they weren’t going to have the money to spend that they’d thought they would have.”
“Guatemala—munitions,” said Benson.
“That’s right.” Chandler nodded ruefully. “The silly little country is so busy buying a silly little army and navy that they’re broke. They haven’t the money for such comparatively civilized jobs as city planning. So I came on home.”
“There are whispers,” said Benson, “of more munitions being rushed down there than the country itself could ever handle.”
“Right,” said Chandler, eyes narrowing. “There are also whispers that this big store of munitions has something to do with a move against Mexico, with perhaps a foreign power aiding under the surface. But has this anything to do with what you came to see me about?”
“I suppose not,” Benson said. “What I came to see you about was—Mexican bricks.”
The pale and deadly eyes probed Chandler’s brown ones in the pause that followed. And Chandler stared squarely, thoughtfully back. Then he nodded.
“You’ve hit on it,” he said. “The thing of great importance that Professor Gray found in Mexico. The thing he was murdered for, though the police simply can’t quite believe it. Five rough, ancient bricks of ordinary dried clay.”
“There were five, then? I wasn’t sure of the number.”
“There were five. And Gray thought them so important that he split them up when we came up across the border
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