The Killer

CHAPTER VII THE MEETING

IN the apartment above Mullrick’s, Burbank was carefully arranging shorthand reports which he had made of the conversations which he had heard. He placed the first notations at the left of the table.

A gloved hand came through the gloom. It plucked the notes from the table. While Burbank sat stolidly in his chair, The Shadow read the full discourse which Harland Mullrick had held with an unknown speaker.

A soft laugh sounded in the semidarkness. The Shadow knew the motive of the telephone call. The man who had communicated with Harland Mullrick was the first of the four who had been named on the list given Mullrick by Luis Santo.

The list existed now in Mullrick’s memory alone. Last night, Mullrick had dispatched a letter, which Pascual had mailed. The recipient had responded. Had Mullrick mentioned the name, The Shadow would have gained a clew.

All that The Shadow knew was this: somewhere in New York, a man would be in a taxicab, awaiting Mullrick’s appearance. The signal of a horn would be the token by which Mullrick could recognize the stranger whom he had planned to meet. Together, in the cab, the pair would be free to ride to the stranger’s apartment. There a discussion could be held.

The Shadow plucked the second report from the table. This was the account of Mullrick’s conversation with Herston. Its purpose was obvious. Mullrick, after his first call, had decided that an alibi might prove useful after tonight; and he had arranged for that alibi to begin prior to nine o’clock.

The Shadow laughed. Even Burbank, accustomed to the occasional presence of The Shadow, felt the chill of that sinister taunt. The Shadow was studying Harland Mullrick’s game. Keenly, he could shape the intentions of the man who had come from Mexico. But without a clew to the place of the nine-o’clock meeting, or the destination to which the taxicab would go, The Shadow was powerless.

Burbank sensed the situation. As he answered a low buzz which indicated a telephone call, he hoped that this would be news of value. Burbank’s monotonous voice conducted a short conversation. When the call was ended, the tones remained the same. They did not show the disappointment which Burbank felt.

“Report from Vincent,” he announced, in his quiet way. “Mullrick slipped away from him. Went out through a side entrance of a drug store. Next corner down the street.”

The swish of a cloak. Again, Burbank felt a gust of wind. He knew that The Shadow had made another exit by the window.

Had the report of Vincent’s failure inspired The Shadow to drastic action? Burbank did not know. He had not seen into the apartment below while Mullrick had been talking on the telephone.

A LONG black shape was pressed against the wall of the apartment house. Steadily, The Shadow was descending. A smudgy sound gave evidence of the method which he used to move along the precipitous wall. With rubber cups affixed to hands and feet, The Shadow was moving downward in flylike fashion.

Burning eyes peered through the window of Mullrick’s apartment; not the window opposite the door, but the window at the side, near the telephone table. Mullrick had left the sash unlocked. Slowly, The Shadow raised it.

Pascual was standing by the window opposite the door. He did not see the long, black-garbed arm that came in from the side. The Shadow’s left hand was no longer gloved. It had been released from its rubber cup. The girasol glimmered with fantastic rays as stealthy fingers noiselessly tore away the sheet of paper that now topped the telephone pad.

Hand and arm disappeared. The window sash closed. But Pascual, like Burbank, noted a gust of wind. Swinging, the servant stared toward the window which had glided shut.

With a spring, Pascual reached the spot and raised the sash. He stared out into the night. His gaze went upward.

With a horrified exclamation, the stolid Mexican staggered back. Superstitiously, he cowered. For in that instant of upward staring, he had seen a weird apparition, a creature that appeared to be a mammoth bat, spreading its mighty wings.

Burning eyes! Pascual had seen them. The monster had met his gaze. After his momentary spell of terror, Pascual leaped again to the window. His eyes glittered as his hand drew forth a long machete, the knife which Pascual well could wield. With the weapon in his grasp, the Mexican shot his head from the window and peered upward. There was no sign of the creature which he had seen before.

Pascual sank back in relief. He muttered to himself as he closed the window. He trembled as he gripped the machete. His mumbled words were audible.

“Vampiros! Vampiros!”

Unafraid of human foe, Pascual had quailed at sight of what he believed must be the supernatural. Nothing human could have clung to that perpendicular wall.

Pascual locked the window. His breath came in long hisses as he watched for the return of the weird monster. He hoped only that the giant bat had flown.

The Shadow had returned to the apartment above. He stopped at a table in a darkened room. The rays of his tiny flashlight cast a vivid focus upon the sheet of paper which he had taken from Mullrick’s apartment.

With the fingers of his right hand, The Shadow sprinkled a powder that resembled graphite. It formed a grayish-black coating on the slip of paper. With easy, rubbing motion, the fingers smudged the powder. A wave of the hand dispelled loose particles.

Where Harland Mullrick’s pencil had made indentations through the top sheet of the pad — the sheet which Mullrick had destroyed — marks of black revealed the notations on the second sheet. In a faint inscription, like a carbon tracing, The Shadow read the statements:

The hand of The Shadow crumpled the piece of paper. The light went out. The luminous dial of a watch appeared in the darkness. Its hands indicated fourteen minutes before nine. Moments of silence in the darkness; the light returned.

The Shadow’s hand, now gloved, stretched toward the table. Its long forefinger traced a triangle in a film of dust. The points represented three places. The long side showed the space between the Club Galaxy — well known in Manhattan — and the uptown apartments known as the Commander.

The third point of the triangle was The Shadow’s present location. It lay closer to each of the other points than they did to one another. Strategically, it offered opportunity. The Shadow, if he could not reach the Club Galaxy before nine o’clock, could certainly arrive at the Commander Apartments and be waiting there when the taxicab appeared.

The Shadow’s choice lay purely in his study of the situation. Would the menace of murder arise before the cab reached the apartments? Or would it exist only when the riders had gained their destination?

The Shadow’s laugh gave the answer. The light clicked off. The Shadow moved through darkness.

NINE o’clock. The strident gong of a huge advertising clock near Times Square was blasting forth the hour, following a medley of discordant chimes. A hard-faced man with military stride stepped up to a taxicab.

“Club Galaxy,” he ordered. “Make it in a hurry.”

“It’s only down this side street,” protested the cab driver. “Half a block is all—”

“I’m picking up a friend,” returned the hard-faced man as he entered the cab. “Stop in front of the Galaxy. Honk your horn twice.”

“Right-o,” returned the driver.

One minute later, the cab pulled up in front of the glittering night club. People were moving in and out. The driver gave the horn two toots. No one appeared.

“Wait,” came the order from the back seat.

A minute passed. The doorman strode to the cab, spoke to the driver.

“You can’t stay here, bud,” he began. “No parking in this space—”

“We are picking up a passenger,” came the harsh voice from in back. “Blow the horn again, driver.”

Two honks sounded. A man appeared beside the cab. Seeing the arrival, the doorman opened the door of the taxi. The driver caught a glimpse of a tall, stoop-shouldered man who wore a gray fedora. Then came the order from the man who had hired the cab.

“Commander Apartments. Uptown. You know the address?”

“Yes, sir,” returned the driver.

As the cab sped uptown, the driver caught snatches of conversation. Automatically, some of them persisted in his mind. He swung from traffic, and took the narrow side street upon which the Commander Apartments fronted. He brought the car to a quick stop.

The door opened before the driver could reach it. Out stepped the man who wore the gray fedora. With rapid stride, he entered the apartment building. The driver turned to look for the hard-faced man who had first entered.

At that instant, a touring car jammed to a shrieking stop beside the cab. The driver turned quickly to note three pasty faces leaning from the car. He caught the flash of revolvers; he dropped to the floor of the cab as shots broke loose.

With a fierce, deliberate fire, the mobsters riddled the interior of the cab. The driver, peering upward, caught a glimpse of his first passenger, half rising, groggy, from the seat. Then the leaden missiles gained effect. The hard-faced man sank with a dull cry.

The touring car started forward. It shot on toward the avenue beyond the apartment building. The driver, seeing its tail-light, rose mechanically and clambered to the street. The doorman from the Commander Apartments came faltering forward.

Unsteadily, the driver yanked open the door of the cab. The stock body of the hard-faced man tumbled out. It plunged across the step, struck head foremost upon the curb and rolled face upward on the sidewalk.

GUNS were barking at the corner of the avenue. Neither the driver nor the doorman sensed the sound. Both were staring in dumbfounded recognition. The driver saw the face of the man who had hailed him near Times Square — the passenger who had ordered him to the Club Galaxy to pick up a friend.

The doorman saw a face he knew. His gasping words expressed his recognition in short, horrified tones.

“It’s Mr. Selbrig!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Selbrig — Roy Selbrig. He’s — he’s been living here for months. That’s Roy Selbrig. Call the police — the police—”

Other men were coming from the apartment house. They were surrounding the body on the sidewalk. They stared, sickened, at the bleeding, bullet-riddled form. The doorman’s identification had been correct.

This was Roy Selbrig. He was the man who had called Harland Mullrick tonight. He had kept his appointment at the Galaxy. Death was the result.

“He’s been murdered!” gasped the doorman. “Roy Selbrig murdered—”

“There was a fellow with him,” began the driver.

“The police—”

The doorman’s demand ended. New shots were bursting from the corner. The crowd scattered for the shelter of the apartment house. Roy Selbrig’s dead body lay alone upon the sidewalk. Ganged at the entrance to the place he lived, Roy Selbrig had been slain. Death had fallen. The hand of The Shadow had not been there to stay it!