Charg, Monster

CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND CRIME

THE home of Loring Dyke was one of those old-fashioned residences so common in the districts north of Times Square. A narrow, three-story structure, it formed part of the row of houses which occupied the entire block.

Its front was of stone; high steps led to the first floor. Beneath the steps was the entrance to the so-called basement, although this lower section of the house was more a ground floor than a cellar.

The front of the basement was occupied by a dining room; the rear, by pantry and kitchen. The first floor held parlor and library — huge, gloomy rooms that one entered from a long hall.

The front room of the second floor was Loring Dyke’s usual bedroom. The other rooms, side and rear, formed his personal suite, of which Shelburne had spoken. The third story served as quarters for servants.

WHILE The Shadow was arriving at his chosen place more than a block from Dyke’s, a stoopshouldered, sour-faced man was standing in the lighted kitchen of the old residence. He was dressed in what appeared to be his best suit; a heavy bag beside him accounted for his other apparel.

The man was making ready to leave the house.

The manner of this fellow indicated that he was one of Dyke’s servants. Yet there was something about his air that marked him as other than a menial. In the light of the kitchen, his face showed a mingling of craft and nervousness — a peculiar medley of expression that was unaccountable.

As he stooped to pick up his heavy bag, the man made a quick glance toward the side of the room, where the closed shaft of a dumbwaiter was in view. Then came a furtive gaze toward the rear door which was locked and bolted.

Footsteps brought new nervousness. The servant stood waiting. Some one was coming downstairs. Then the arrival appeared from the pantry. An expression of relief showed upon the servant’s face. The man who had come was a servant, like himself.

THE newcomer, however, did not wear a shifty look. His face was that of a faithful servant — one who had served a single master for many years. A puzzled expression showed upon his countenance as he addressed the man with the bag.

“Why are you still here, Talbot?” he inquired. “I thought that you had left for your vacation.”

“I am going now, Parsons,” returned the shifty man. “I came down here just to make sure that everything was locked and in order.”

“That was unnecessary,” declared Parsons. “The house should have been locked before. Further duty belongs to me, Talbot.”

“All right,” grunted the man with the bag. “No harm done. I didn’t mind staying on duty a while longer, seeing as this is my last night.”

He picked up the bag and started for the door to the pantry. Parsons stepped aside to let him pass.

Then, just as Talbot had reached the pantry, Parsons stopped him with a question.

“Did the express men come for that box? I don’t see it hereabouts.”

“They came,” assured Talbot. “I let them take it out. It was at six o’clock.”

“Six?” Parsons looked puzzled. “The last time I was down here was at half past seven. I am sure I saw the box at that time.”

“Six o’clock,” insisted Talbot, nervously. “That’s when they took it. You must have thought you saw it, Parsons.”

“Maybe I was mistaken.” Parsons was slow in the admission. “The box has been here since yesterday. Stupid of those express men, to leave it at the wrong house.”

Talbot grunted agreement.

“A heavy thing, that box,” resumed Parsons, “even though it was so small. What do you suppose was in it?”

“Typewriters, maybe,” suggested Talbot. “It was about big enough to have held two of them, Parsons. One stacked up on the other.”

“Like as not,” agreed Parsons. “Move along, Talbot. Leave the latch closed when you go out. I’m going to my quarters.”

Talbot moved into the dining room. There he set down the suitcase. Parsons passed him and ascended the stairs to the first floor. Parsons was already on the steps to the second when Talbot arrived in the first floor hallway.

Alone on the gloomy floor, Talbot again rested his suitcase. He mopped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief; then lifted his bag and proceeded to the front door. He followed the instructions given him by Parsons. He latched the front door behind him as he left.

A taxi chanced to be passing as Talbot reached the street. The servant hailed the cab and gave a destination — a corner where a subway station was located. The cab made the trip in less than five minutes. Talbot alighted and descended to the subway platform.

There, in the light of the station the servant pulled an envelope from his pocket. He tore it open and nervously unfolded a paper. His face lighted with a hopeful gleam. There was a key with the message; Talbot pocketed it, then tore the paper into pieces and tossed the fragments to the track.

One minute later, a train roared into the platform. Talbot boarded it, with his bag. The train pulled away; the eddying air currents from beneath its wheels whisked up the pieces of Talbot’s note and scattered them into hopeless obscurity.

MEANWHILE, new events had begun at the home of Loring Dyke. A strange action was occurring in the room where Parsons had found Talbot — the lighted kitchen in the basement.

The key was turning in the lock. As though twisted by an invisible hand, the back door of the house was yielding to some intruder. Then the key slowly removed itself. It was in the grip of long, thin pincers that had been thrust into the key hole from the outer side. The pincers relaxed. The key dropped dully on the linoleum floor.

The knob of the door turned. The barrier did not yield. It was still bolted. The key, turned by a cunning hand, had released the lock — that was all. The dropping of the key, however, was indication that the worker on the other side had counted on the presence of the bolt.

A piece of pliable steel came through the key hole. Its visible end was a wire loop. The steel curled upward as it appeared; the loop dragged along the inner surface of the door. Probing, like a living thing, the wire loop neared the knob of the bolt.

There was something snakelike in its movement; the loop was the head of a serpent; the curled steel its body. The loop wavered back and forth; then settled over the knob of the bolt. The steel straightened and twisted. Guided by a pulling hand, it drew the bolt from the socket.

The loop detached itself. The steel coil disappeared. The door opened and a figure appeared within the kitchen. Tall, entirely in black, The Shadow stood within the light. Cloak, gloves and hat completely hid his form, save for the eyes that showed beneath the brim that projected over his forehead.

Those eyes sparkled keenly. They turned from view as The Shadow closed the door and replaced the key. With door locked and bolted, The Shadow’s burning gaze centered upon the shaft of the dumbwaiter.

The Shadow advanced. His gloved hand raised the door of the little lift. The car itself showed within; it was furnished with a shelf in the center. Altogether, the dumbwaiter was two feet square and three feet high. Though the shelf was firmly in place, it was plainly detachable.

Not only that; the shelf had obviously been removed. Slivers of wood showed at the end of the groove in which the shelf fitted. Some one had pulled the central slab loose; then set it back in place.

This discovery seemed to impel The Shadow. Moving forward with silent swiftness, his tall shape dwindled with the darkness of the pantry. It was a gloomy, ghostly figure when it appeared in the dull light of the first floor. Phantomlike, it continued upward and reached the stillness of the second story.

A HEAVY door marked the entrance to Loring Dyke’s private suit. The door was locked. A pick appeared in The Shadow’s fingers. It probed the lock but encountered no key. A muffled click came from within the lock. The door yielded to The Shadow’s hand.

Entering a dimly lighted room, The Shadow closed the door behind him. He used an oddly shaped key to relock it. Then he studied the room itself.

This was the small bedroom of which Shelburne had spoken. It contained a day bed in one corner; at present, that object was made up like a couch.

Ahead was the door to the laboratory. This portal was ajar; The Shadow could see a frosted window beyond. The laboratory, brilliantly lighted, was the room directly above the kitchen. There, The Shadow knew he would find Loring Dyke, if the chemist were still at home.

The Shadow advanced. He peered through the opening. His blackened form became rigid. His eyes turned toward the floor. The Shadow had arrived to find that death had preceded him.

Crumpled on the floor was the body of Loring Dyke. Grotesquely twisted, mangled to a hideous degree, the chemist had met the same fate that Meldon Fallow had encountered. The tiled floor of the laboratory was stained with pools of blood. Dyke’s head, its brutally hammered face turned upward, had been twisted almost completely about.

The body, despite its contorted position, was downward; but the head was opposite. The jagged beginning of a terrible gash showed at the front of the dead man’s shaggy hair. Not only had the killer choked the victim and broken his neck; fierce blows had been used to shatter Dyke’s skull.

The Shadow approached the body. With cold, unflinching gaze, he surveyed this murderous work. His eyes turned toward the frosted windows; through them, The Shadow could see the outlines of bars.

The window in the little room was also barred. Loring Dyke’s suite, with its locked door, was a stronghold. Yet the killer had found some means of entry and departure.

On the wall, close to the spot where Dyke’s body lay, was the opening of the shaft which contained the dumbwaiter. The sliding door of the shaft was raised. Here was proof of The Shadow’s keen discovery two floors below. The killer had come and gone by the lift in the dumbwaiter shaft!

To The Shadow, the fact was apparent. He had already discovered that the desk at Meldon Fallow’s had been a factor in the inventor’s death. The dumbwaiter shaft here at Dyke’s could have been used in the same manner as the desk.

Others, however, would be incredulous. Joe Cardona would never believe it possible that a mangling murderer could possess proportions small enough to admit him through the narrow opening at bottom and top of the dumbwaiter shaft.

Even to The Shadow, the situation remained paradoxical. This mode of vicious killing was unparalleled.

LONG minutes passed while The Shadow persisted in his investigation. He examined the body of Loring Dyke. Mangled, torn and beaten, it lacked the marks which The Shadow had hoped to find— prints that would lead to identification of the killer.

The Shadow gazed toward the open shaft. He saw an unlighted bulb beside it; he knew that this lamp must have come as a signal to Loring Dyke, indicating that the little lift was at the top of the shaft.

Assuming the part of Dyke, The Shadow approached the opening. Dyke had raised the sliding door of the shaft; then had come the action of the killer. Murder accomplished, its author had been lowered to the basement.

To what extent had the killer been aided? Had he come alone, or had he been carried here? The Shadow suspected an accomplice within the house; but his keen observation carried further. It told him a definite fact concerning the killer.

Whoever — whatever — had come up this shaft was capable only of one action: namely, the delivery of death. Brutal — totally inhuman — the slayer was completely lacking in brains. The answer was before the eyes of The Shadow. It was the raised door of the opened shaft.

Deceptive though this murder would be to the police, it lacked one obvious touch that would have made it perfect. The killer had slain Loring Dyke without molestation. He had hammered the chemist almost to a pulp — a procedure that was quite unnecessary. Yet the merciless slayer had omitted a simple and final action — the closing of the door which Dyke had raised.

Investigators would wonder about that opened door. It would stand as proof that Dyke had been slain immediately after answering the light on the wall.

Why had the strangler missed this point? Why had he failed to perform the action that would have diverted all speculation from the mode of entry which he had used?

The Shadow had already gained the answer. A brainless killer — a slayer who performed his monstrous deeds with machinelike stubbornness. From this point, The Shadow gained another. He began to picture the type of killer that must have entered here; one upon which the sender could absolutely rely for murder; but nothing else.

A solemn laugh sounded through the tiled laboratory. Its tones were an eerie shudder, confined entirely to the room itself. Grim echoes responded in creepy, fantastic whispers. They were the answer to The Shadow’s mirthless mockery.

Silence. The Shadow was moving about the laboratory. His eyes saw a lighted burner; beside it, a beaker, half filled with liquid. Dyke had been ready to begin a chemical experiment when the summons to death had come.

A pounding from the outer room. The Shadow listened. A muffled voice was calling. It was a servant, trying to summon his master.

“Mr. Dyke!” The Shadow, moving to the outer room, could hear the loudness of the tone. “Mr. Dyke! Are you there, Mr. Dyke?”

THE SHADOW made no response. The call was repeated; then came the sound of departing footsteps.

The Shadow produced the pick and opened the door. He closed it behind him, silently locked it with his peculiar key, and descended softly to the first floor.

A voice was coming from the library. The servant was using the telephone. The Shadow waited, listening beyond the opened door.

“Headquarters?” The servant’s tone was anxious. “Yes?… I am calling from the home of Loring Dyke… Loring Dyke, the chemist. My name is Parsons; I am his servant… I am afraid some harm has befallen him.

“Yes… Let me explain… A friend called him with an urgent message. I thought Mr. Dyke had gone out… Yes… I called the house where he was to be. He was not there… Where?… Unless something happened to him on the way, he is still here. No, I cannot reach him. He may be in his laboratory… Yes, the door is locked. He does not respond to the call…”

The Shadow had reached the outer door. He could tell from the tone of the servant’s voice that Parsons was genuinely alarmed. Soon the police would arrive. They would break through the locked door. They would find the mangled body of Loring Dyke.

The outer door closed and latched. A spectral form flitted against the surface of the brownstone steps. It glided past the range of a street light, then faded into darkness.

The Shadow had viewed the scene of the second crime. His task at Dyke’s was ended. Two deaths — not one — were to be avenged. The Shadow would find the mysterious murderer before the hand of death could strike again!