Chain Of Death

CHAPTER XI THE SHADOW’S FINDING

As Professor Devine neared the outer door, he clicked on the light switch. He fumbled with the door knob; then turned it. Standing with book in one hand, he stood gaping in bewildered fashion as the door swung inward. He was face to face with a swarthy, stocky-built man.

“What — what’s the trouble?” stammered the professor. “Has — has any trouble happened?”

“Yes.” The reply came in a growl. “There’s been a murder in this hotel. Did any one come through here?”

“I–I don’t think so,” protested the professor. “I was dozing over my book, there in the bedroom. I am sure that this door was locked.”

“I’m Detective Cardona from headquarters,” informed the stocky man. “I just arrived here. I’m in charge. We’re searching this entire floor. Come on, men.

Professor Devine hobbled toward his bedroom. Cardona was forced to smile at the bewilderment of the bushy-haired old man. Two policemen followed the ace detective to search the suite.

While Cardona was staring about him, he failed to see a motion beneath the radiator. There, the mailing tube was completing its final revolution. Across the sill of the opened window, a streak of green fish line was marking its final course. Cardona missed that sight also. When the detective strode in the direction of the window, the cord was gone.

Leaning from the window, the sleuth flicked the rays of a flashlight along a narrow cornice. Satisfied that no one could be clinging to the wall, he turned and entered the professor’s bedroom. The old man was pulling on trousers and coat.

“You’d better put on slippers, too,” urged Cardona. “We’re sending every one down a floor, while we complete this search. We’re up against a murderer. It’s not safe here.”

The professor nodded. He donned his slippers and hobbled into the living room. Cardona ordered a bluecoat to accompany him. Reaching the hall, the professor joined a group of other guests who had been aroused on the twenty-fourth floor.

FIFTEEN minutes later, Joe Cardona was standing glumly in the corridor, when an elevator door clanged open and a wiry young man stepped from the car. The arrival grinned as Cardona stared in his direction. The newcomer was Clyde Burke.

“Say!” Cardona’s tone was indignant. “How did you pull in here? I told them downstairs that reporters weren’t to get by until I gave the word.”

Burke drew back his coat. On his vest was a glittering detective badge. The reporter grinned as he watched Cardona’s expression.

“I picked it up in a hock shop, Joe,” laughed Clyde. “It fooled those dumb clucks downstairs. I told them I was coming up here to join you.”

“You’ve got plenty of nerve,” growled Cardona. “You’d better stow that medal, before I put some bracelets on you. If you like tinware, I’ll let you have it.”

“Forget the handcuffs, Joe,” suggested Clyde, plucking the phony badge from his vest. “You’ve got plenty to do without pinching me for impersonating an officer. I’m in — that’s all I wanted — and I won’t make any trouble.”

“All right,” decided Cardona.

Clyde Burke proceeded to make himself inconspicuous while Cardona gave new orders to a squad of detectives who were still engaged in concentrated search of the twenty-fourth floor. When the ace turned to go up the stairs to the penthouse, he motioned Clyde to follow.

At the top of the stairs, they found Inspector Timothy Klein. The red-faced official was talking with the house dick, whose grazed arm was bandaged. Two elevator operators and a policeman were also in evidence. Clyde Burke recognized that the four must have played some part in the murderous affray. He listened while Klein spoke with Cardona.

“I’ve been checking on these statements, Joe,” announced the inspector. “The house detective says that the murderer was a gloomy faced fellow.”

“Looked like an undertaker” informed the house dick.

“I seen him,” added one of the operators. “He was a solemn looking bloke, if you ask me.”

“They are positive,” resumed Klein, “that he could not have gone below the twenty-fourth floor. The house detective covered the stairway. The officer was in the elevator. The killer must be somewhere hereabout.”

“But where?” demanded Joe. “I’ve got men on the roof — others in here — still more on the twenty-fourth. I’ve even had a report from the street, to make sure the guy didn’t jump to his death.”

“How about the guests on the twenty-fourth?”

“They’re down on the twenty-third floor, under guard. The manager is there to identify them.”

“We’ll go down there,” asserted Klein, “as soon as I post men to stay on watch.”

CLYDE BURKE was a member of the group that descended to the twenty-third floor. In a spacious suite, he saw the guests who had been driven from their rooms. There were not more than half a dozen. The hotel manager was with them. He arose protestingly as Klein and Cardona entered.

“Gentlemen,” he announced to the officials, “I can vouch for every one of these guests. It is preposterous to suppose that any could be the culprit for whom you are searching.”

Cardona nodded as he eyed the group. Most of the guests were half clad. They had been aroused by the excitement. None of them answered the descriptions given by those who had seen Garwald.

The ace, however, insisted upon the formality of an identification. He questioned the two operators and the house detective, as well as the policeman. All four were positive that none of these guests could have been the fully-clad murderer who had loosed shots during his mad flight.

The test was convincing. Cardona, himself, saw that these people must be innocent. Of all the half dozen, Professor Langwood Devine impressed him as being the one who was least suspicious. The hobbling old man, with his bushy white hair, could not possibly have been the active murderer in the penthouse. The other guests seemed nearly as innocuous as Devine.

“Here’s what I suggest, inspector,” decided Cardona. “No elevators are running to the twenty-fourth floor. The stairway is blocked. Let these people go to other rooms, below. In the morning, we can have their belongings brought down to them. In the meantime, we’ll make another search. We’ll go through every spot on the two floors above; and we’ll do it so clean that even a rat won’t escape us.”

The inspector nodded his agreement. Cardona strolled from the room with Clyde Burke in his wake. Growling, the detective swung and faced the reporter.

“Listen, you with the tin medal,” asserted the sleuth, “I’ll give you the details of this case. Then you can beat it and write your story. You’re out so far as this search is concerned.”

“But suppose you find the guy—”

“You’ll hear about it.”

“How soon?”

“Call me on the telephone. Give your name; ask to be connected with the penthouse. But don’t bother me more than once an hour. Is that understood? All right; get out your pencil and copy paper and take down the details.”

Fifteen minutes later, Clyde Burke appeared upon the street outside of the Hotel Salamanca. He strolled to a store a block away. He put in a telephone call to Burbank. Methodically, Clyde gave all the details of the double murder in the Salamanca penthouse.

In addition, he listed the names of the guests who had been cleared and dismissed. He added the numbers of their rooms. That finished, Clyde Burke left the phone booth and headed for the Classic office.

ONE hour elapsed. The search was still continuing in the Hotel Salamanca. Cardona had begun with the twenty-fourth floor. He had then headed up to the penthouse, leaving two detectives to patrol the twenty-fourth floor. Not a possible hiding place had been missed.

A third detective was standing by the elevators. He was within earshot of his companions. His duty was to watch the stairway. He was following the same procedure that had made it possible for Clyde Burke to come upstairs as a false detective: in brief, he was watching to see that no one left the twenty-fourth floor, not to look for any arrival.

Hence his eyes were not toward the stairway. They were turned toward the corridors where the patrolling detectives were in charge. These men were pacing back and forth; occasionally one strolled up to the penthouse to report to Joe Cardona.

The stairway that led below was black. From its solid darkness came a strange, moving patch that extended along the floor. It became the silhouette of a hawklike profile. It rested almost at the feet of the detective who was standing by the elevators.

The patch moved inward. It was followed by a form. The sinister figure of The Shadow came in sight. Noiselessly, the tall being approached until he reached a corner of the wall beyond the elevators. The single detective was standing near the corridor. The Shadow was less than three feet from him.

Silently, The Shadow waited. The detective, wearied of what seemed a useless vigil, drew a cigarette from his pocket. He followed with a match. He turned as he applied the flame to the cigarette.

Strolling from the entrance to the corridor, he approached the elevator. The flicker of the match showed his face to The Shadow. The sleuth, however, busied with his light, did not observe that tall black shape in passing.

The Shadow swung noiselessly from his hiding place. He swept toward the corridor. The doors of rooms were opened. A patrolling detective was moving in the opposite direction. Before the man had reached his turning point, The Shadow had glided into one of the empty rooms.

There The Shadow waited until the man had passed in the opposite direction. Again, the black-garbed phantom moved into the corridor — across — then through another open door: the one marked 2410.

Safe in Professor Devine’s suite, The Shadow began an intermittent investigation. He timed his actions to the passing of the detective. Whenever the man’s footsteps approached, The Shadow slid to cover; at other times, he continued his examination.

THE SHADOW had chosen this suite with a purpose. The Hotel Salamanca, though tall, was a narrow building. It fronted for half a block on Seventh Avenue. Its north side was high above an empty lot that awaited new construction. Its western exposure was a solid wall. Its south side, however, loomed above the dark cross street. There were but four rooms on this side street. Two were in an unoccupied suite; the others belonged to Professor Devine.

The Shadow had picked 2410 before examining the empty suite. His keen eyes, peering about the professor’s living room, told him that there could be no one hiding here. But they saw items of interest which Cardona had not noticed.

Beneath the radiator beside the opened window, The Shadow spied a cylindrical object. Swiftly, he crossed and picked up the mailing tube. He carried it to the bedroom. He opened the capped end. The tube was made of more than cardboard. It had weight, due to a hollow metal cylinder within. A faint, whispered laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips.

Peering from the bedroom, The Shadow noticed three canes in the corner. He glided forward, touched each in turn; then moved back to the bedroom with the cane that the professor had furnished with tip and knob.

Removing the silver ornamentations, The Shadow examined the cane. He saw that it was a plain one; that no scoring had been provided for cap and ferrule. The Shadow replaced the cap and the tip. He waited until the patrolling detective had passed the door of 2410; then he went into the living room and put the cane in the corner; the mailing tube beneath the radiator.

Returning to the bedroom, The Shadow observed the professor’s empty bag. He noted the bed lamp, which was still lighted. Again, The Shadow moved into the living room. He paused beside the open window. He noted scratches upon the sill; stooping, he saw where paint had been rubbed from the iron pipe of the radiator.

This time The Shadow was forced to move swiftly before the detective again passed the door of 2410. Gaining the bedroom, the black-cloaked investigator waited calmly while long minutes passed. At last came the sound of voices. Men had arrived from the penthouse. Joe Cardona was talking in the corridor, near the open door of 2410.

“Somebody’s gone looney,” the ace detective was announcing. “We’ve gone through this whole place clean. There’s no sign of the guy we want. He must have made some sort of get-away down those stairs.

“I figure he passed the house detective. At any rate, he’s not on this floor; he’s not in the penthouse; he isn’t on the roof. I even sent two men up into the water tank.

“The hunt is off. I’m leaving two of you men up in the penthouse; but that’s all. So far as this floor is concerned, there’s no use watching it.”

Tramping footsteps were followed by the clangor of the elevator doors. Then came silence. The Shadow was alone on the twenty-fourth floor. Gliding out into the living room of the suite, he turned off the main light; then moved to the open window.

THE roof of the opposite apartment house lay dull beneath the city’s glow. The Shadow’s gaze looked toward the parapet; then beyond it, to the upright of the water tower on the deserted roof.

As clearly as if it still stretched above the chasm of the street, The Shadow could visualize the cable-line that had been provided for Fullis Garwald’s escape. The mailing tube was evidence of the final fish line. Knob and ferrule, attached to the wrong cane, were proof of another shaft — the one which had been used like a harpoon. The empty bag told of the cable itself.

The Shadow had found the answer to the killer’s escape. He had not learned the identity of the murderer who had made a get-away with Gaston Ferrar’s highly valuable collection of gems; but he had settled upon one person who had been accessory to the crime.

With Clyde Burke’s detailed description of the crime; with the reporter’s added comments upon the guests who had removed from the twenty-fourth floor, The Shadow had picked one member of the crime chain. Though he had not yet learned of Crime Incorporated, the master sleuth had made his start toward the unknown goal which he had determined to reach.

The Shadow had gained the identity of one man through whom others might be forestalled before new evil struck. By working backward as well as forward, he had opportunity to solve baffling cases of the past while he worked to prevent crime of the future.

Through one man, whom he would trail with unrelenting skill, The Shadow could find the facts that he needed. A sibilant laugh came from The Shadow’s unseen lips. Whispered mirth floated above the stilled canyon that lay between the high-walled buildings.

The laugh of The Shadow was eerie as it faded. Lingering echoes sighed from the night air. Echoes like laughter boded ill for Professor Langwood Devine!