Chain Of Death

CHAPTER IV THE POLICE SEARCH

ONE hour had passed since The Shadow had carried Howard Norwyn from the Zenith Building. In that space of time, much had taken place within the walls of the towering skyscraper. Office 3318 had become the headquarters of a massed investigation.

Three men were standing by the desk where George Hobston’s body lay. One, a grizzled veteran of the police force, was Inspector Timothy Klein. The second was a police surgeon. The third was a stocky, swarthy man, whose keen dark eyes were watching the other two as they spoke. This was Detective Joe Cardona, ace sleuth of the New York force.

Though Klein was technically in charge, Cardona was the man upon whom the investigation hinged. As a hound upon the trail of crime, Cardona was conceded to be the best in Manhattan. He was listening to the surgeon’s report: the statement that death had been caused by a bullet wound; that the shot had probably been fired from a dozen feet away.

When Klein turned to Cardona, he found the detective ready with theories. Joe stepped toward the door to the outer office. He pointed toward Hobston’s body.

“A shot would have got him from here,” volunteered the detective. “Suppose Hobston came in and sat at his desk. A fellow sneaking in from outside could have picked him off before he had a chance.”

“That looks likely,” agreed Klein. “But what about—”

“The vault,” interposed Joe. “That’s right. I’m coming to it. Suppose Hobston had opened the vault. He might have gone back to his desk. The theory still stands.”

“Why would he have left the vault open?”

“Only because he suspected no danger. Because he knew that the only visitor would be a man whom he could trust. Like this fellow.”

Cardona produced the registration book. It had been brought up from the lobby. He pointed to the name of Howard Norwyn.

Klein nodded. “I think you’ve got it, Joe,” he declared. “Norwyn must have come in; seeing the vault open, he took a shot at Hobston. He started to rifle the vault; then got scared and made a get-away.”

THERE was commendation in the inspector’s tone. The detective, however, made no response. Cardona was studying his own theory, putting it to a stronger test. At last he came to a point that puzzled him.

“The phone call,” he declared. “I can’t figure it.”

“Why not?”

“Picture it this way.” Cardona strode toward the open door of the vault room. “Hobston opens the gate. He goes to his desk” — Cardona paused while he approached the body in the chair — “and while he’s there, Norwyn enters. He sees two things that interest him.”

Cardona paused emphatically and backed toward the door to the outer office, to indicate that he was playing the part of Norwyn from this point on.

“He sees the open gate over there,” resumed Cardona, with a gesture, “and he sees Hobston sitting by the desk. He’s got a chance to grab what’s in the vault. All right, inspector. What does he do?”

“He takes a shot at Hobston,” answered Klein. “Puts a bullet in his back, as you suggested before.”

“Yeah?” questioned Cardona, wisely. “And after Hobston is shot, he picks up the phone and calls downstairs, where the watchman hears the shot all over again?”

“I see your point, Joe,” nodded Klein. “Norwyn must have covered Hobston from where you’re standing. He threatened him. Hobston picked up the telephone to call the watchman. Norwyn fired.”

“Wrong again.” Cardona shook his head. “Norwyn wouldn’t have given him a chance to do all that. I’ll tell you where Norwyn found Hobston, inspector. He trapped him at the door of the vault room.”

Keeping the role of Norwyn, Cardona crept toward the open vault room. He suddenly made a leap, as for an imaginary antagonist. He stopped short and faced Klein.

“That’s what happened,” announced the detective. “Norwyn didn’t pull a gun. He tried to knock out Hobston; but his boss must have handed him a haymaker instead. Then Hobston shoved Norwyn in the vault room and went over to make the phone call.”

Klein was nodding unconsciously as he listened to Cardona’s deduction. The police surgeon was standing attentive. He, too, seemed deeply interested.

“Norwyn woke up,” resumed Cardona. “He was here, in the vault room. He heard Hobston trying to make the call. He pulled his gun — Hobston probably didn’t know he had one — and either shoved the door open or shot through a hole in the grillwork. Come over here; take a look at the body from this angle.”

The police surgeon accompanied the inspector to the door of the vault room. Klein was the first to nod as he studied the angle. He looked toward the police surgeon; the physician added his nod.

“I’ve got a hunch,” decided Cardona, “that Norwyn was behind the door. Maybe Hobston jammed it, but didn’t get it locked. The point is that Norwyn was in too much of a hurry to get away. He didn’t have time to grab up the swag he wanted.”

“He only had a few minutes,” agreed Klein. “Our men got here mighty quick after the watchman reported the shot. It’s a sure bet, Joe, that Norwyn is still here in the building.”

“Right,” declared Cardona. “That’s why there’s no use going into more detail on this reconstruction. Our job is to find Norwyn. Suppose we go down to the lobby and find out how the search is coming.”

THE three men left the office. A uniformed policeman was standing in the corridor. Klein ordered him to take charge of the body. The inspector led the way to the elevators and rang the bell. The car arrived and the trio descended.

They were met in the lobby by Detective Sergeant Markham. Klein’s inquiry regarding the search received a negative response.

“They’re reporting in from every floor,” declared Markham, as he went to answer a buzz at the telephone. “Not a ripple. Here’s another report.” He picked up the receiver and uttered a few short sentences; then hung up and turned to Klein. “That was Grady from the twenty-fourth. Nothing doing on that floor.”

“What about the elevators?” demanded Cardona.

“Only one operating,” spoke the watchman, from beside the registration desk. “You know, when I heard that shot and reported it, I watched the elevator dials like a hawk. Not a move from any of them — except the car that was in use.”

“None of these fellows is Norwyn,” stated Markham, pointing toward the end of the lobby.

Cardona turned to see a group of a dozen men under guard of two policemen. The watchman approached the detective in pleading fashion.

“You took the book upstairs, sir,” he reminded. “It has the names of all these gentlemen in it. They were in their offices when the police entered.”

“Here’s the book,” declared Cardona. “We can check on these men right now. Sorry to trouble you, gentlemen, but there’s been a murder in this building. There’s one man we want to get. His name is Howard Norwyn.”

One by one, Cardona quizzed the men. He made each sign his name; then compared the signature with the one that the man had written in the book. He also checked each name with the watchman.

By the time this procedure was finished, five more men had come down under police guard. Cardona went through the same formality with them.

“Look at this, inspector!” Cardona’s exclamation was a triumphant one. “We’ve checked on every name except one. That’s Howard Norwyn.”

“But he’s the one you need,” said Klein, glumly.

“Sure,” resumed Cardona, “but if we get anybody now, we’ll have a suspect. By rights — according to this register book — there should only be one man left in the whole Zenith Building. That’s Howard Norwyn.”

“I get it,” nodded Klein. “There might be somebody else here; somebody that sneaked in.”

“Yes.” Cardona turned suddenly as the elevator door clanged open and men appeared. A disappointed frown showed on the detective’s face. The final squad of searchers had arrived, without another man with them.

Reports were checked. The lobby teemed with foiled searchers. The manhunt had started promptly after the police had discovered George Hobston’s body. Outfitted with pass keys, detectives and officers had gone through the skyscraper from top to bottom.

Even the basement was to be searched, according to Klein’s new decision. The watchman was positive that Norwyn could not have gone there, but the inspector was determined to make this last effort to trace the one man who had registered and who had not reappeared.

CONFERRING with Cardona, Klein decided not to hold the other occupants of the building. None of them had been found in the vicinity of the thirty-third floor. All had legitimate business that had brought them to the building. Cardona quizzed each man closely and checked with the officers who had taken them into custody. That formality ended, the lobby cleared. Inspector Klein and Joe Cardona waited for the small squad of searchers to return from the basement.

While the detective was making another check-up with the watchman, a policeman entered and advanced to Joe Cardona. This officer was one of two who had been stationed outside the building.

“Some news hounds out there,” began the bluecoat. “I told em they couldn’t come in. Said you’d see them later.”

“That’s right,” growled Cardona. “Let them wait. The weather’s good for them.”

“But there’s one guy that raised a squawk. Says you’ll want to see him. His name’s Burke — he works for the Classic.”

“Burke, eh?” Cardona laughed. “Tell him to come in. I’ll talk to him.”

The officer left. Cardona swung to Klein and spoke a few words of explanation.

“You know Burke,” said Joe. “He’s all right. We’ve got to let the newspapers have this story. If Burke acts as spokesman, he’ll give them the right slant. He’ll hand us the credit that’s our due. None of this stuff about a futile search by the police.”

As Cardona finished speaking, a young man appeared from the outer door. He grinned as he removed his felt hat and splashed water from the brim. Clyde Burke was a typical newspaper man. His manner was keen; his expression genial. He was wiry but not husky. His eyes began a prompt survey of the lobby.

“Hello, Joe,” was his greeting. “Say, have a heart, won’t you? Let the boys in out of the rain. They’re sticking around to get the story and they’re pretty sore because their police cards won’t get them through.”

“I’ll let them in pretty soon,” returned Cardona. “They’ll cool off when they get the story. But I want to talk to you first, Burke.

“Get this straight. In less than ten minutes after the watchman here heard a shot over the telephone, there were three detectives in room 3318, where the shooting took place. There were five men more down here in the lobby.

“The murderer had no chance to get out. So far as we know, he’s still in the building. We’re completing the search. We haven’t found him; but it’s not because of any slip-up on our part.”

“What about those men who filed out of here?” questioned Clyde. “Some of the boys were going to duck along after them. I held the fellows though, by promising to get them in to see you.”

“Those men,” explained Cardona, “were business men who were in their offices. We checked them on the register and released them. We have accounted for every one except the one man we want.

“You give that to the other newspaper men. See that they get off to the right start on the story. Then bring them in and I’ll answer questions.”

“Leave it to me, Joe.”

CLYDE BURKE hurried back to the door. Joe Cardona smiled as he turned to Timothy Klein. The searchers were returning with the news that the basement was unoccupied except for the employees in the engine room. Cardona had expected that report. His elation was due to the way in which he had handled Clyde Burke.

“A real fellow, that reporter,” declared Joe. “I’m glad he got this assignment. More brains than any other news hound I ever met. Why he sticks to the Classic job is more than I can figure.”

There was logic in Joe Cardona’s statement. There was also an answer to his speculation regarding Clyde Burke. It came half an hour later, after the reporters had entered, gained the details of the murder and search, and left for their respective offices.

Clyde Burke, nearing the Classic building, stepped into a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He called a number and heard a quiet voice respond:

“Burbank speaking.”

For the next few minutes Clyde Burke delivered terse details of the police findings at the Zenith Building. These facts were not for the New York Classic.

Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. Through Burbank, The Shadow’s contact man, he was reporting all that he had learned. His statements would be forwarded as soon as his call was finished.

Thus The Shadow, who had played so important a part after the murder of George Hobston, was to learn the vital news that no killer had been found in the Zenith Building.

The fact that Howard Norwyn was suspected and missing was one that The Shadow expected to hear. But The Shadow was to learn another fact that he would find important: namely, that no unregistered prowler had been found at large.

That fact was to play a part in The Shadow’s coming plans. It was to give him the inkling that the murder of George Hobston had been well planned beforehand. It was to place The Shadow face to face with the truth; that craft had been used in murder.

The planting of crime on Howard Norwyn had been the first evidence of cunning preparation. The disappearance of the actual murderer was even more remarkable. Already, word was on the way that would make The Shadow prepare for new and unseen crime!