Chain Of Death

CHAPTER II FROM THE NIGHT

WHILE grim events were taking place on the thirty-third floor, the lobby of the Zenith Building still maintained its hollow quiet. Two men came walking in from the outer door; simultaneously, the clang of metal announced that the elevator had reached the ground floor.

Two passengers alighted. Like the two men who had entered, they went to the registration desk to sign. The watchman was busy, checking the names of two persons who had entered and watching the departers tabulate the time that they were leaving.

Other eyes observed the cluster at the table. These were the eyes of a watcher at the outer door. Standing against the wall, in from the sidewalk, was a tall figure that was remarkably inconspicuous.

Dressed in dark suit, this spying visitor might well have materialized from the blackened fog. He formed a shape that was almost spectral. Brief minutes had passed since his arrival here; he moved inward through the door. It became the form of a man whose close-fitting suit was glistening with moisture from the drizzle. In his right hand, this arrival carried a black briefcase.

There was something amazing in the stride of this tall personage. Where other footsteps had clicked upon the marble flooring of the lobby, his paces were swift and noiseless. Swinging to the right side of the lobby, where the window of a darkened shop showed black, the intruder was almost invisible as he headed for the elevator.

The watchman turned to see the two men who had registered go toward the elevator. Swinging about, he observed the other two men making their departure. He missed a glimpse of the extra arrival who stood a dozen paces from the elevators.

It was when the watchman turned toward the outer door that the tall intruder came suddenly to life. His quick, noiseless steps brought him to the elevator; he moved into the car just as the operator was about to close the doors.

The two men who had registered were engaged in conversation. The operator was sleepy and had no interest in his passengers. No question was put to the carrier of the briefcase. The operator closed the doors. The elevator was ready for its upward trip.

It was at that moment that the watchman found another duty. A buzzer had been sounding beside the registration table. It indicated a call from an office. The watchman picked up a telephone and growled into a mouthpiece.

“Hello… Hello…”

The watchman received no reply. Instead, he heard a sound that startled him. Over the wire came the report of a revolver. Then a gasp, a gargling, incoherent groan. A voice tried to mouth words. It failed. The thump of a falling receiver was the final token.

“Hello… Hello…”

The watchman looked at the board. He saw the number of the office from which the call had come: 3318. He hung up the receiver and wheeled toward the elevators. The lone night car had started upward. Its dial showed that it had stopped at the eighth floor.

The watchman hung up the receiver. He waited for breathless seconds. Then he raised the receiver with shaking hand and put in a call to the police. He knew that crime had struck within the Zenith Building. He was sounding the alarm.

THE elevator was leaving the eighth floor. Two passengers had left it — they were the men who had registered — and only one remained. The operator looked toward the tall personage who held the briefcase.

“Thirty-five,” announced the passenger.

The operator nodded. The car sped upward. It reached the thirty-fifth floor. The passenger alighted. The doors closed and the elevator began its downward trip.

A soft laugh came from the lips of the visitor who stood in the corridor of the thirty-fifth floor. Long, white hands opened the briefcase. From it, they drew the folds of black cloth.

This became a cloak which slipped over shoulders. A slouch hat settled on the visitor’s head. Black gloves were drawn over white hands. A brace of automatics came from the brief case and disappeared beneath the folds of the cloak.

Then the case itself was rolled into small compass. It went out of sight beneath the cloak as the tall visitant moved in the direction of a stairway. This being who had passed the watchman was indeed a creature of the night.

It was The Shadow who was descending from the thirty-fifth floor of the Zenith Building.

Crime had already struck in the Zenith Building. No word of its completion could have reached The Shadow. Yet he was here, in the building where one man lay murdered and another was held a prisoner, to have crime planted upon him. George Hobston’s suite of offices was on the thirty-third floor. The Shadow had alighted at the thirty-fifth. His course had become a descent. He reached the thirty-third floor and there he stopped.

The corridor was silent. A full four minutes had elapsed since the watchman in the lobby had received the telephone call from 3318. The Shadow had been in the elevator when the watchman had gained word.

An automatic bristled in The Shadow’s fist as the black-garbed visitant stopped before the door of 3318. The free hand turned the knob. The Shadow entered the suite. A tiny flashlight appeared in his left hand. It sent a shining disk of light about the outer office.

The room was empty. Striding to the inner office, The Shadow saw that this dimly lighted room contained but a single occupant. That lone man was dead. The body of George Hobston lay sprawled where the murderer had left it.

THE SHADOW saw the telephone upon the desk. The receiver, lying beside the instrument itself, was proof of what had happened. The Shadow knew that a call had been made below. That call, moreover, had been given during the last four minutes.

Approaching the body, The Shadow detected something else. It was the trace of revolver smoke; a faint odor of burned powder that was most noticeable close to the desk. The Shadow’s eyes saw the swirling of heavy fog from the opened window. The Shadow knew the answer.

A shot had been fired close by this desk. Yet, as The Shadow viewed Hobston’s body, he could tell that the man had been killed from a greater range. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. It sounded weirdly through this room of death.

Subtle in his conclusions, The Shadow could see factors that others would not note. Hobston’s dead left hand was clamped to the fallen receiver. His right hand, however, was loose as it stretched toward the telephone.

An inconsistency that others might pass; yet to The Shadow, it was evidence of what had actually occurred. Beginning with the scent of powder — an odor that would soon be disseminated throughout the room — The Shadow had gained a starting point.

A murderer, he knew, had deliberately given an alarm. Why? The answer must be here. Already, The Shadow was looking toward the spot where it could be found — the grilled door to the lighted vault room.

The Shadow had observed that entrance before he had viewed Hobston’s body. All the while, he had been sending keen glances toward the metal door. Howard Norwyn, slumped behind the grillwork, was motionless. The Shadow had glimpsed the outline of his body; but had left the inspection of the vault room until later.

A sound came upward from the street. It was the whine of a siren. A police car was arriving through the fog. Again, The Shadow laughed. Like a living phantom, he strode to the grillwork and worked upon the automatic lock.

His keen eyes flashed as they surveyed the form within. Lack of motion by Howard Norwyn had indicated that the young man might be dead. But as The Shadow worked, Norwyn moved. He blinked. He stared at the grillwork; he could see the motion of blackness beyond it.

Then Norwyn realized that he held a revolver. The fact impressed itself as he was rising. Thinking that an enemy stood without, the young man emitted a hoarse cry, just as the door swung open in The Shadow’s grasp.

Norwyn raised his gun too late. Like a living avalanche, The Shadow came sweeping in upon him. A blackened fist clipped Norwyn’s chin. The young man slumped to the floor. The revolver clattered from his hand.

The Shadow gained the weapon. He opened the chamber and spied one empty cartridge. A soft laugh came from his lips as he pocketed the weapon. Standing above Norwyn’s slumped form, The Shadow gazed at Hobston’s body.

THE situation was plain. Some one had murdered George Hobston. The killer had thrust Howard Norwyn into the vault room, planting the gun upon him. The grillwork offered numerous loopholes. It would have been easy for a man to have killed Hobston from this room.

The false evidence looked plain. Apparently Hobston and Norwyn had quarreled. Hobston had managed to lock Norwyn in the vault room. Then Hobston had put in his call; Norwyn, coming back to his senses, had shot his employer in the back.

The openings in the grill were too small to push a revolver through. Hence Norwyn could not have gotten rid of the gun until released. Had the police arrived before The Shadow, they would surely have arrested Howard Norwyn as the murderer of George Hobston.

The police! Again, a siren’s whine came cutting up through the foggy night. The Shadow’s laugh was grim. The Shadow could see the truth of what had happened here. He knew that Howard Norwyn must have been overcome by some swift-acting foe.

The real murderer was gone. To leave the wrong man here for the police to quiz would be in keeping with the murderer’s desire. Too late to apprehend the killer himself, The Shadow, at least, could balk the criminal’s schemes.

The Shadow had a double opportunity. First, to release Howard Norwyn from his dilemma; second, to leave the police looking for the murderer. The man who killed George Hobston could not have gone far. Doubtless, he was still in the building; secure in the thought that murder would be blamed upon Howard Norwyn. The Shadow saw a way to save an innocent man from trouble; also to force the police to the search, which the murderer thought would be delayed.

Turning toward the vault, The Shadow stooped and raised Norwyn’s body over his shoulder. Carrying the unconscious young man as a trifling burden, The Shadow strode toward the outer office.

In his possession, the black-clad investigator was carrying the revolver which contained the empty cartridge. The Shadow reached the corridor. It was as silent as before; yet The Shadow knew that any minute would bring men of the law into this hallway.

Swiftly, The Shadow gained the stairway. Still carrying his burden, he turned upward. As he did, a shuddering laugh of triumph came from his lips. Echoes died along the hall. The Shadow was gone; Howard Norwyn with him. Silence reigned for the space of seven seconds.

Then came the clang of the opening elevator doors. Three men leaped into the corridor. Detectives had arrived from headquarters. They were here to view the scene of crime. They did not know that a visitor from the night had arrived before them.

For The Shadow, swift and decisive, had left no trace of his mysterious presence. Yet he had carried away the man on whom crime had been planted; and with him, the weapon that the murderer had used to deliver death.