The Killer

CHAPTER X ONE THREE SEVEN EIGHT

THREE days after the startling events which had marked the death of Roy Selbrig, a short, rotund man entered the lobby of the Hotel Goliath, in New York. He signed the register, marking his name as H. J. Pelley, of Columbus, Ohio. He was assigned Room 1378.

There was something furtive in the bearing of this man who called himself Pelley. The characteristic displayed itself as soon as he was alone in his room on the thirteenth floor. He sat at a writing table in the corner, and stared out into the growing dusk that formed a cloudy haze above Manhattan. Then, with a slight show of nervousness, he picked up the telephone and called a number.

“Mullrick?” he inquired, when he heard a voice over the wire. “Good. This is Burton Blissip, of Buffalo… Received your letter…”

A pause while Blissip listened to Mullrick talk in a matter-of-fact tone. Then the rotund man took up the conversation.

“Followed your advice,” he said. “Nobody knows I’ve come to New York. My name here is — well, never mind that… I’ll tell you where I am… Room 1378… Hotel Goliath, yes…”

Blissip heard a brief acknowledgment. Then, in a cautious tone, he said:

“I can tell you a lot about Mexico, when you get over here… I’ll wait in until you come… What is that?”

Blissip’s face clouded in momentary perplexity. Then it cleared. The man smiled.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll expect to hear from you before eleven o’clock… I’m not telling anyone that I’m in town… This mysterious business of yours has puzzled me a bit, but I figure you can explain it all when you see me… I brought along a map of Mexico, but a larger one would be better if you have it. Good… Don’t forget the room number… 1378.”

Burton Blissip of Buffalo hung up the receiver. He opened his suitcase and took out a folded map. He laid it on the writing table. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was nearly six o’clock. He decided to go out to dinner.

THE telephone call had been one-sided. Harland Mullrick, seated in his living room, had spoken only in short, terse syllables. Rising from his telephone table, he folded a slip of paper upon which he had written the number 1378. He faced Jerry Herston. who was seated at the other side of the room.

“Another one of those nut phone calls,” remarked Mullrick, in a nonchalant tone. “Ever since I’ve arrived from Mexico, I’ve had crazy birds bothering me to find out if there are any opportunities down in that country.”

“I noticed the other fellow was doing most of the talking,” observed Herston. “Who was he?”

“I wrote his name here,” returned Mullrick, holding up the slip of paper. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. I might as well forget it. You heard me stall the fellow, didn’t you? I’ll never bother to look him up.”

Mullrick was strolling by the end window as he spoke. He stopped and raised the sash. Its creaking noise was plain just above the sill. Mullrick tore the paper into two pieces and tossed the halves through the narrow space between sash and sill. He closed the window and sat down to tune in the radio.

In his careless, indifferent pose, Harland Mullrick had not noticed that the torn pieces of paper had not passed beyond the sill. They rested there, white bits upon the darkened sill. It was a mild evening; only a slight breeze was stirring. The pieces of paper remained.

IN the apartment above, Burbank laid aside his ear phones. He dropped his pencil on his sheet of notes. He had heard the monosyllables of Mullrick’s telephone conversation. They merely formed an unintelligible jargon, which read:

“Hello… Who is calling… Oh, yes… I see. You decided to look me up… That’s right. It’s hardly important… Yes… Yes… A good hotel… Yes… I cannot promise to see you tonight… I’m very busy; if I have the opportunity, I’ll get in touch with you. You understand, of course… All right… Good… Yes, I can… I have a large map… I’ll remember it…”

Under the notation, Burbank had added the remarks passed between Mullrick and Herston. After this, he had added the comments: “window raised” and “radio turned on.” Burbank had plainly heard the grating of the lifted sash, which was just above the hidden microphone that Burbank had planted behind the radiator in Mullrick’s living room.

Knowing that there would be no further conversation during the next few minutes, Burbank had deserted his post for the express purpose of learning — if possible — why Mullrick had raised the window. Moving to the corresponding window of his own apartment, Burbank raised the sash and peered below. His back made a bulky block against the dusky twilight. Looking downward, Burbank saw two white spots upon the outer sill of Mullrick’s window.

A slight flutter indicated that these were slips of paper. Burbank wanted them. Unlike The Shadow, he had no capability for making precipitous descents. Nevertheless, Burbank was resourceful. He stepped back from the window. He looked upward; then reached in that direction. He brought down a telescopic curtain rod which stretched above the window.

Burbank, during his long hours of duty, resorted to one methodical habit as he bided away the time. He always had a supply of chewing gum. Holding the curtain rod, he pulled a piece of gum from his mouth and affixed the sticky object to the end of the curtain rod.

Leaning from the window, he stretched the rod downward. He pressed its end against one piece of paper and drew the rod upward. hand over hand.

Detaching the slip, Burbank let the rod down to capture the other piece of paper. Here he made an error in calculation. The elusive paper flipped over from a gust of breeze; Burbank’s curtain rod swung slightly. The slip dropped from the edge of the outer sill. Caught in a slight eddy of air, it floated down the wall for a foot or more, and lodged on the narrow projecting cornice.

This gave Burbank a more difficult task; at the same time, it obviated the need for caution. The slip of paper was away from Mullrick’s window. Climbing to the sill of his own window, Burbank clutched the window frame with his right hand. The swinging curtain rod in his left he stretched his free arm along the wall and let the end of the rod touch the cornice. It barely reached. A motion of his wrist; Burbank planted the gummed end of the curtain rod upon the second slip.

Back to a safer position, Burbank brought the rod up hand over hand, telescoped it, and removed the second bit of paper. He hurried back to the ear phones. He could hear the radio still playing.

Removing the set, Burbank put other ear phones on his head. He connected with The Shadow’s sanctum, while he laid out the slips of paper. The Shadow’s voice came over the wire. In brief words, Burbank explained what he had done. He read off the figures: “One three seven eight.”

“Await arrival,” came The Shadow’s order.

Burbank closed the connection and went back to his dictograph receiver. He heard the radio stop abruptly. He listened for new conversation.

IN the apartment below, Harland Mullrick began to pace the floor. He was wrapped in thought. Jerry Herston sat stolidly awaiting word from him. Pascual was crossing the living room, engaged on some minor duty.

It was quite dark outside; none of the three had observed the manipulated curtain rod which Burbank had carefully maneuvered beyond the window.

“I’ve got to be careful, Jerry,” remarked Mullrick. “That’s why I had you look over the telephone connection to this apartment. You are sure that there’s not a chance of a tapped wire at the terminal box?”

“Not a chance,” returned Herston. “Say, Mullrick, if any dumb dicks are trying to get anything on you, I’d know it quick enough.”

“I’m counting on that, Jerry. At the same time, it pays to be cautious. When I deal with certain people, I don’t tell others about it. I’ve made an exception in your case, because I know I can rely on you.”

Mullrick paused. It appeared for a few minutes that he intended to talk more fully. But as he surveyed Jerry Herston with shrewd eyes, Mullrick evidently decided to keep his important ideas to himself.

“Fix up something for tonight,” he ordered. “I’ll go out with you again, Jerry. I want to think things over a while, by myself. You run downtown for dinner. Suppose I meet you about eight o’clock.”

“And if—”

“Call it eight. If you have to wait a few minutes, or maybe more—”

“It will still be eight o’clock.”

Herston arose from his chair and strolled to the door. Pascual gave him his hat and coat. The ex-detective departed.

When he had gone, Harland Mullrick still continued to pace the floor. At last, he sat down by the table. He drew a pencil from his pocket, picked up a sheet of paper, and wrote the name:

Then, with definite deliberation, Mullrick drove a line directly through the name. That line was an indication that Roy Selbrig was dead. He was the first man on the list that Luis Santo had given Mullrick.

As he had told Santo, Mullrick was keeping those names in mind. But with one gone — off the list forever — Mullrick seemed better able to concentrate when he had marked the fact.

Thoughtfully, Mullrick folded the sheet of paper. He was about to tear it up when he changed his mind. There were some books lying on the table; they were large volumes that dealt with Mexico. Between the leaves of one of these, a book entitled “The Conquest of the Aztecs,” Mullrick placed the folded sheet of paper that bore Roy Selbrig’s name.

“La comida, senor?” questioned Pascual, from an inner door of the living room.

“Dinner?” responded Mullrick. “No, Pascual, I am not hungry. I shall dine later — after I go out.”

Going to a table drawer, Mullrick produced the folded map of Mexico. He opened it and ran his finger from point to point. Burton Blissip had spoken of a map. This was an excellent one. Mullrick placed a finger upon the State of Sinaloa, bordering, a narrow strip, upon the Pacific on a line with the tip of the Lower California peninsula.

He traced his course eastward to the state of Durango. There, reflectively, Mullrick marked the spot that was in his mind. He was debating with himself regarding Burton Blissip, the second of the four.

MILLIONS in mineral wealth — there in the lost mines of Durango! With the knowledge that he already possessed, Harland Mullrick was confident that he could find the chosen spot within the option limit of six months.

Yet Burton Blissip, like Roy Selbrig, could either make or mar the game. Blissip had come to New York in response to Mullrick’s second letter. Mullrick folded the map. What if he should ignore the man from Buffalo, who now occupied Room 1378 at the Goliath Hotel?

If Blissip were ignorant of what Mullrick wanted — and Mullrick’s letter had been a cagey one — Blissip might prove to be of no consequence in this affair. Yet the middle course did not appeal to Harland Mullrick. He opened the Aztec volume and brought out the folded paper. He studied the crossed-off name of Roy Selbrig.

Burton Blissip, if he would accept an offer, would give surety to Mullrick’s option even though Blissip’s demand might be exorbitant. Burton Blissip, if he were dead, like Roy Selbrig, could do naught to interfere with Mullrick’s search for the lost mines.

Nervously, Mullrick folded the paper and thrust it back into the big book. He clenched his fists feverishly, as though inspired by hideous worry.

Then, seeing Pascual watching him, Mullrick laughed. His calm came back. Cool and calculating, he sat down in a large chair and lighted a cigarette.

“Dinner,” he mused aloud. “It is not a bad idea, Pascual. I shall rest a little while, then go out to dinner, alone, at some good hotel. After that, Pascual, I shall meet Senor Herston. I am worried a bit tonight. Restless, Pascual. Tomorrow, I shall feel more at ease — perhaps—”

UPSTAIRS, Burbank, at the ear phones, was recording what Mullrick had said. A clock on the table showed half past seven. A soft whisper sounded through the room. Burbank pointed to the torn paper that lay beside him. He did not turn.

Burbank knew that the hidden eyes of The Shadow were studying that memorandum which Harland Mullrick thought had been destroyed and scattered. A gloved hand reached forward and picked up the shorthand notes which Burbank had taken.

One statement by Mullrick, when he had spoken over the phone, caught The Shadow’s keen attention. It consisted of the words: “A good hotel.”

The figures on the torn slip of paper formed the number 1378.

A coincidence — that number written while Mullrick had been speaking about a hotel. The Shadow knew the answer. The man who had called Mullrick must be registered at some hotel in New York, occupying Room 1378.

The Shadow also noted other statements, particularly Mullrick’s reference to a map. But his main thought was directed to the matter of the hotel. New York, a city with hundreds of hotels, presented a tremendous problem to one who might attempt to locate an individual through his room number alone.

The Shadow spoke to Burbank. His whisper was an order, given in two words:

“Hotel data.”

Burbank reached beside his table. He opened a suitcase which proved to be a portable filing cabinet with two divisions. From the letter “H” he brought out a folder marked “Hotels.” He placed it on the table. The Shadow carried it away.

Beneath a shaded lamp in another room, The Shadow began a quick survey of the information. A soft laugh sounded by the lamp. The Shadow had found a quick solution to the problem. The number of the hotel room was the key.

With ungloved finger, The Shadow was tracing through the tabulated statistics of hotels in Manhattan. These reference sheets, which Burbank always had available as information for The Shadow’s agents, was proving useful. The Shadow was looking at the name of each hotel that had a thirteenth floor!

Oddly, the list was decidedly limited. The Shadow knew that such would be the case. The older hotels, those erected more than two decades ago, were large structures, but not high ones. They were eliminated because they did not reach a height of thirteen stories.

The modern hotels — many in number — reached to greater elevations. Here, however, the statistics showed another point. In the great majority of such hotels, no thirteenth floor existed, by number. To avoid complications with superstitious guests, the modern hotel owners had long since adopted the practice of numbering the floor above the twelfth as fourteen!

Commerce had yielded to superstition.

The peculiar custom was serving The Shadow. One by one, with quick rapidity, he eliminated the newest of Manhattan hotels, until only a scattering few remained which were tall enough to have thirteen floors, and whose proprietors were bold enough to give the thirteenth story its proper number!

Another fact served The Shadow. Of the hotels in the restricted list, there were some of limited floor space. These would not have rooms numbered as high as 78. The Shadow was looking for a large hotel, a modern one, that had introduced the number 13 in its list of stories, in defiance of the accepted custom. It must also be a hotel with ample floor space.

The Shadow’s hand inscribed the names of four hotels. In this final list was the Goliath. It remained only for the black-garbed investigator to visit those four, and learn facts regarding the occupant of Room 1378. With that quest fulfilled, he would know the man who had phoned Harland Mullrick.

Burbank, at his ear phones, had no cognizance of what The Shadow was doing. There were no further sounds from the apartment below — at least no sounds which were distinguishable. Pacing feet, closing doors: these might have been tokens of Pascual as much as Mullrick.

OUTSIDE, Harry Vincent was again watching the apartment house. Piqued at his failure to trail Mullrick on a previous evening, The Shadow’s agent was determined to do his best tonight. He waited across the street. Suddenly, he saw Harland Mullrick appear in front of the Belisarius Arms.

The man who had come from Mexico cast quick, short glances up and down the street. Carelessly tilting his gray fedora, he strolled along; then, suddenly, hailed a passing cab and stepped aboard. Harry leaped into his coupe, parked near by. He took up the chase.

The cab gained as it neared Times Square. It swerved into a side street, and pulled up in front of the Hotel Goliath. Harry, sliding his car into a parking space fifty feet behind, caught a glimpse of Harland Mullrick entering the hotel. He hurried after the man.

Someone accidentally blocked Harry at the revolving door. The delay was short, but it proved fatal to Harry’s chase. When he reached the hotel lobby, Harry could see no sign of Harland Mullrick. He suspected that his quarry had entered one of the many elevators. There was no chance to find him.

Nevertheless, Harry had something to report. He went to a telephone and called Burbank. He gave the information: that he had trailed Harland Mullrick to the Hotel Goliath.

Seated at his table, Burbank spoke in quiet tones, that The Shadow might hear. There was no response. Burbank swung about. He realized that he was alone. The Shadow had already gone. He was not here to receive Harry Vincent’s report.

A strange caprice of fate had manifested itself. The Shadow, with the list of four possible hotels, had gone to make a quick tour of investigation. There was only one chance in four that he would choose the Goliath first, in preference to the other hotels.

Meanwhile, Harry Vincent, though unsuccessful in his trailing of Harland Mullrick, had at least gained information which would have gone well with The Shadow’s list. Harry had seen the man from Mexico entering the lobby of the Goliath; that fact, taken at face value, eliminated the other three hotels.

Would The Shadow fail tonight? Would death strike without the intervention of his hand? These were questions that the coming minutes would answer. The key to grim events once more rested in the realm of chance.

Burbank, at his table, sensed an importance to Harry Vincent’s report. He signaled The Shadow’s sanctum. There was no response. He knew that The Shadow was abroad upon an important mission. He could only hope that he would soon hear from his mysterious chief.

There was no use in instructing Harry Vincent to remain at the Goliath. The Shadow’s agent could do nothing. Somehow, Burbank realized that The Shadow’s destination would eventually be that same hotel. How soon The Shadow would reach there was a matter of speculation.

Such was the situation. Death threatened. The Shadow sought the spot. Meanwhile, the game of doom was in its making!