The Killer

CHAPTER XVI THE FINAL CLEW

JERRY HERSTON rapped at the door of Harland Mullrick’s apartment. Pascual opened the door. Herston stepped in and sought to close the door behind him.

It was then that he felt the nudge of a revolver muzzle in the middle of his back. Half raising his hands, the ex-detective stumbled forward.

“Turn around,” came the growled command. “Up against the wall.”

As Jerry obeyed, Pascual, in the living room, swung quickly to see who had spoken. The Mexican was reaching for his machete. He stopped as he saw Jim Clausey turning his revolver in his direction.

It was Herston’s voice that caused Pascual to raise his arms also. Jerry called to the Mexican, and wiggled his own hands in indicative fashion. Pascual, realizing that he was covered, also placed himself at Clausey’s mercy.

Jerry Herston grinned. Despite the fact that Mullrick had been trailed by this detective — Jerry recognized Clausey’s profession at once — there was still a chance for first-class bluff.

“Are you Harland Mullrick?” questioned Clausey.

“No,” retorted Herston. “But you’re a wise guy from headquarters. A new man on the job. Say — I’ll bet you’re this bird Jim Clausey that’s been snooping into the rackets.”

“I’m Clausey, right enough. If you aren’t Mullrick, who are you?”

“You’d know me quick enough if you were as wise as you think you are. Ever hear of Jerry Herston? That’s me.”

Jim Clausey was puzzled. He had heard of Jerry Herston. The ex-detective was well known as a private investigator. Despite his knowledge of the affairs of racketeers, Herston had a clean slate.

“What’re you doing here?” quizzed Clausey.

“Just dropped in to see a friend,” returned Jerry, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Say — you don’t mean to tell me you’re looking for Harland Mullrick. What’s the matter — is somebody after him? Have you come here to put him wise?”

“I’ve come to get him for murder,” growled Clausey.

“Murder!” Herston laughed. “Say, have you gone loco? Mullrick’s the straightest guy on two feet. You can take my word for that.”

“Oh yeah?” Clausey was obstinate. “Well, if he’s on the level, he wouldn’t mind seeing me right now. Where is he?”

“How should I know?” snorted Jerry. “Say — what are you trying to do. Playing you’re a wise old fox? The lone-hand business?”

“I’m working on my own,” retorted Clausey. “I’ve got the goods on Mullrick. He’s going to the jug when I grab him, and you’re not going to stop me. Nor anyone else, either. The credit for this pinch is going to Jim Clausey. Savvy? I’m waiting here until Mullrick shows up; and I’m calling headquarters in the meantime. You and this Mex had better play good.”

So saying, Clausey strode to the telephone. He held his gun so that he could cover either Jerry Herston or Pascual by an easy motion of his wrist. He lifted the receiver and called detective headquarters.

“That you, Cardona?” he questioned. “This is Clausey… Say, I’ve located the hide-out of the guy we’re after… It’s not Slugs Raffney… No. The bird with the gray hat…”

Clausey grinned as he heard a startled exclamation over the wire.

“Hop up here,” he continued. “Belisarius Arms… Yes… Apartment 4H… His name is Mullrick — Harland Mullrick…”

Clausey broke off, staring. A man had entered the apartment. He had stepped between Jerry Herston and Pascual. Heavy, with glowering face and vicious air, the intruder came as a menacing enemy. A revolver glimmered in his hand.

“Slugs Raffney!” cried Clausey, recognizing the missing gang leader.

UP came Clausey’s gun. Slugs Raffney had the drop. It would have been the end of Jim Clausey at that moment, but for unexpected intervention. Jerry Herston, also spotting Slugs Raffney, leaped forward to grab the mobster’s arm.

The impulse showed quick thinking on Jerry’s part. In an instant, the ex-detective had realized the situation. The death of Jim Clausey would be no protection for Harland Mullrick. The alibis which Jerry Herston, himself, had provided, were the methods that must stand the test.

Slugs Raffney, enraged by the sight of Jim Clausey, the detective who had not been able to pick up his trail, had lost all discretion. In that quick instant, Jerry knew that by overcoming Slugs Raffney, he could best serve Harland Mullrick. It was an effort on Jerry’s part to square himself with Jim Clausey.

As Jerry Herston wrestled with Slugs Raffney, the gang leader’s gun went off. Raffney cursed as he fought. Jerry had diverted his aim. The shot was wide.

Jim Clausey fired spontaneously. That bullet was the beginning of the end. It did not find its mark in Slugs Raffney’s body. It entered the shoulder of Jerry Herston.

The ex-detective staggered. Slugs Raffney’s hand was free. The snarling gang leader fired twice, point-blank, at Jerry Herston. Down tumbled the man who had tried to thwart Slugs Raffney.

Swinging across the room, Jim Clausey fired at Slugs Raffney, and missed. He paused for more certain aim. He had the bead on Raffney this time, but the unexpected surged against him.

Pascual, scarcely understanding, realized only that Jim Clausey was an enemy. The man had come here to seize his master. Clausey, first, had shot Jerry Herston. Senor Herston — Harland Mullrick’s friend.

Springing as he drew his machete, Pascual buried the wicked knife to the hilt in Clausey’s back. The detective staggered. His final shot at Slugs Raffney was futile. Seeing the knife blade deep in his enemy’s back, Slugs waited no longer. He turned and hastened from the apartment.

On the street, things were strangely quiet. Evidently the noise of the firing had not been plain. Slugs Raffney piled into his car and growled an order to the man at the wheel. As the automobile — a sedan — pulled away, a coupe started in pursuit. Harry Vincent had heard the shots dimly. He was taking up the trail.

“Get that guy that’s after us!” snarled Slugs, looking backward.

A fusillade was the result. Slugs Raffney joined in the outbreak. The coupe swerved, and ran up on the sidewalk. It stopped against a wall. Harry Vincent had been too prompt in his pursuit; he had, however, used his intuition when he had seen the gangsters lean from the sedan to fire. The Shadow’s agent lay unscathed, behind the wheel of the coupe. His chase, though, was finished.

IN Apartment 4H, Jim Clausey was crawling pitifully along the floor. Pascual was watching him, with the expression of a faithful mastiff that had slain a trespassing beast. The Mexican had done the duty that he believed he owed to Harland Mullrick.

Jerry Herston lay dead. The shots from Slugs Raffney’s revolver had ended the ex-detective’s picturesque career. Clausey did not seem to see Herston’s body. He was looking for his revolver. Pascual had kicked it underneath the big table. Clausey tried to creep to the telephone.

The detective had dropped the receiver on the hook at the abrupt finish of his conversation with Joe Cardona. The movement had been quite automatic; the sudden finish of the talk might well have been regarded as natural by Joe Cardona.

Clausey wanted to resume that connection. He crawled on, despite the fact that he carried a knife blade in his back, and that his blood was issuing forth upon the carpet in spurting drops.

The telephone began to ring. Pascual stood motionless. Clausey tried to reach the instrument. He collapsed and lay coughing. Pascual suddenly sprang to the telephone and raised the receiver. His face gleamed as he recognized Mullrick’s voice.

“Do not come here, senor,” warned the Mexican, in his jargon of mixed lingo. “Senor Herston — he is dead… I, Pascual, must flee… Si, senor… The police; they are coming…”

A pause. Pascual was listening to hasty instructions over the wire. When the servant replied, his words were uttered in a tone of faithful assurance.

“I shall destroy it, senor,” said Pascual. “I shall leave here to meet you afterward. Adios.”

The Mexican turned to the large table. He stepped over the huddled body of Jim Clausey. The detective, unable to reach the telephone, had tried to crawl in the opposite direction. Pascual pounced upon the big volume which related to the conquest of the Aztecs.

Harland Mullrick had made a most fortunate telephone call. Anxious to learn if Jerry Herston had returned to the apartment, he had made the connection just in time to give important orders to Pascual. He had told the servant to destroy the list that was in the volume of Aztec lore.

As he lifted the huge book, Pascual was momentarily forgetful of Detective Jim Clausey. He did not see the wounded man’s reviving motion.

Stretching forth his right hand, Clausey had managed to regain his lost gun. With a final effort, the sleuth tried to rise. He reached his knees; then, as he weakened, he made a sudden clutch at Pascual with his left hand.

The scene was a grim one. Pascual, holding the book half open, turned to view Clausey with a malignant glare. The detective, the knife still protruding from between his shoulders, was staring up toward the Mexican with a determined look.

Clausey had caught hold of Pascual’s belt. With a snarl, the servant leaped away. As he saw the detective wavering with the gun, Pascual raised his arms to hurl the huge book at his antagonist’s head.

The same instant, Clausey fired. Weakened though the detective was, he managed to find his mark. A bullet entered Pascual’s body.

As the Mexican staggered, Clausey fired again. With a scream, Pascual toppled. The book, hurtling from his hand, missed Clausey’s head, but struck against the detective’s shoulder. Clausey’s unsteady body sprawled upon the floor.

Gasping, the detective viewed the form of Harland Mullrick’s servant. Pascual, dying, was incapable of motion. Clausey, having finished the man who had stabbed him, gave a nervy grin. His misty eyes saw the large book that had struck his shoulder. They also observed a folded sheet of paper on the floor.

Prone, Clausey stretched his arms. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. He clutched its edges between his tightened fists as he tried to read the names he saw upon the paper. A spasm overcame him.

Still clutching the sheet which had fallen from the Aztec volume, Jim Clausey gave a coughing gasp as his head plopped to the floor.

JERRY HERSTON was dead. So was Pascual. Only a few minutes of life remained to Jim Clausey. To all appearances, the detective was dead also. The room of tragedy was silent. Something swished just within the door.

The Shadow, his burning eyes upon the scene, was viewing the slaughter. The black-garbed phantom had arrived in answer to Burbank’s call. The grim events within this room had taken place in a short succession of dramatic minutes.

With long strides, The Shadow reached Jim Clausey’s side. The detective turned his head. He sensed that someone was beside him. He gasped out what little he could say.

“Slugs — Raffney” — Clausey’s words were chokes — “got — away. This — this — paper—”

The Shadow reached for the sheet between Clausey’s hands. The detective’s fierce grip did not relax. On the spread-out paper, however, The Shadow read the list of names. His grim laugh sounded as he saw the one that was as yet uncrossed: the name of Donald Gershawl. His keen eyes saw the book upon the floor. The Shadow knew whence the paper had come.

With a sudden sweep, The Shadow rose from the floor. He could hear footsteps in the hall. Other men were coming. It was time for him to leave.

His long paces carried him to the window beside the telephone. The sash moved upward. Out into the darkness that had replaced the dusk went the tall figure of The Shadow.

The sash had just descended when Joe Cardona burst into the room. The sleuth’s first thought was for his dying comrade, Jim Clausey. Joe reached the other detective’s side.

“Jim!” he exclaimed. “This is Joe Cardona! Tell me, Jim — who got you—”

Blindly, Jim Clausey thought that Cardona was the one who had been here before. He repeated words that he had uttered to The Shadow. They were weakened gasps — barely audible.

“Slugs — Raffney,” was Clausey’s dying statement. “He — got — away. This — paper — from — from the book. Get — Mullrick; Harland Mull—”

The voice broke.

“Merk,” gasped Clausey. “Merk—”

That was all. Jim Clausey lay dead.

Cardona caught the fluttering paper as the numbed fingers relaxed. Mullrick was the name of the man who lived here. Mullrick — Merk -

Clausey, like Burton Blissip, had tried to pronounce the name with a final gasp.

Other detectives were in the room. Cardona turned to a steady-faced man: Detective Sergeant Markham. He ordered him to take charge of the bodies. Then Cardona studied the paper. His eyes lighted.

Roy Selbrig. Dead. Crossed off the list.

Burton Blissip. Dead. Crossed off the list.

Sidney Cooperdale. Dead. Crossed off the list.

Beneath their names was the name of a fourth man. Cardona recognized that name. Donald Gershawl!

Cardona had actually been to Gershawl’s penthouse, atop the mammoth Solwick tower. He had gone there with Police Commissioner Weston, who was a friend of Gershawl’s. A financier who possessed great wealth, Gershawl had established himself in a sanctuary so lofty that it seemed impregnable against any crime. Weston had taken Cardona there to let the detective see the place.

So Donald Gershawl still remained upon the list! A firm smile rested upon Cardona’s lips. Harland Mullrick, clever though he might be, would have trouble dealing with Donald Gershawl, unless he took the millionaire unawares.

Therein lay the danger. Cardona thrust the list into his pocket. He knew that Donald Gershawl must be warned; that through him, steps must be taken to apprehend Harland Mullrick. Cardona looked toward the telephone; then changed his mind. He decided to visit Donald Gershawl in person.

“Markham,” he said to the detective sergeant, “I’ve got a job ahead. You are in charge here. Tell Inspector Klein that I’ll call him at headquarters.”

With this final statement, the star detective strode from Harland Mullrick’s apartment, without another glance at the three dead bodies that lay upon the floor.

On the wall of the apartment house, a huge, batlike form was resting beside the window of the apartment above Mullrick’s. The figure moved; a squdgy sound came as rubber suction cups were detached from the surface which they gripped. From the outer darkness, The Shadow entered the apartment where Burbank was stationed.

A gloved hand picked up Burbank’s brief shorthand notes. The eyes of The Shadow read the remarks which Joe Cardona had made before he left. The Shadow’s laugh was a creepy whisper that made even stolid Burbank shudder.

“Remove.”

The order was understood. Burbank knew that his vigil here had ended. He arose to detach his equipment. Harland Mullrick would not return to his apartment. With the police in charge, a prompt removal of all apparatus was Burbank’s present work. All would go but the microphone behind the radiator in Mullrick’s living room. That piece of apparatus would not be discovered.

As Burbank worked, he knew that The Shadow had departed. The lone fighter had other duties to perform. He, like Joe Cardona, knew of an impending encounter.

Harland Mullrick and Donald Gershawl: the two were due to meet. The fourth man on the list was to face a formidable adversary. Joe Cardona was on his way to anticipate that meeting.

The Shadow, too, was bound for the spot where death now loomed to complete the schemes of a man who dealt in murder!