The Crime Crypt

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THE glare of a Manhattan evening flushed Times Square. Standing amid the brilliant illumination of the Rialto, a young man surveyed the bright lights as though they were a sight that he had long forgotten.

Lost among the myriads who strolled this dense district, the young man remained unnoticed by those who passed him. Yet there was something in his bearing that would have attracted attention had people paused to look at him. His suave, mustached face; his shrewd, roving eyes; these were tokens of a clever schemer — a man whose mind was trained to think in crime.

The young man noted a huge clock dial that glittered from the far side of Broadway. It told the time as twenty minutes after eight. The observer shrugged his shoulders, strolled leisurely along the street and hailed a taxicab. He gave the driver an uptown address.

Twenty minutes later, the cab stopped in front of an old brownstone house. The young man alighted and paid the driver. He ascended the steps and rang the bell. A solemn-faced servant opened the door. The menial stepped back and bowed as the young man entered.

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