Chain Of Death

CHAPTER VI THE SHADOW WAITS

WHILE Culbert Joquill and Garry Hewes were discussing their successful crime, the murder of George Hobston was receiving close attention elsewhere. A tall, calm-faced personage was seated in a bizarre room, reading the complete accounts in the morning newspapers.

He was the same hawk-faced stranger who had rescued Howard Norwyn on the previous night. His chiseled countenance was steady, even when relaxed. His eyes seemed burning as they scanned the headlines.

The room in which this personage dwelt at present was remarkable to the extreme. Its walls were furnished with a remarkable assortment of curios.

Tapestries, adorned with golden dragons; a huge Malay kris suspended from the ceiling like the sword of Damocles; a portion of an Alaskan totem pole; a mummy case standing in a corner — these were but a few of the articles that made the place look like a museum.

The hawkish face turned toward the door as a knock sounded. Thin lips gave the order to enter. A servant appeared and bowed from the doorway.

“What is it, Richards?” questioned the occupant of the curio room.

“Your guest is awake, sir,” replied the menial. “I have served his breakfast. He is finished.”

“And now he wishes to speak with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Usher him to this room.”

Richards departed. He returned a few minutes later with Howard Norwyn. The young man was attired in a dressing gown that Richards had evidently provided. Norwyn blinked at sight of the odd curio room. He stared toward the seated figure; in response to a gesture from his host, he entered and seated himself on a cushioned taboret. Richards departed.

HOWARD NORWYN recognized his host as the person who had conducted him to the subway. Yet the young man seemed bewildered. He had slept steadily and had not awakened until late in the morning. The effect of The Shadow’s opiate had caused prolonged slumber.

“I presume,” came the tones of a quiet voice, “that you are somewhat befuddled regarding your surroundings. Perhaps you are a bit uncertain as to the circumstances which resulted in your arrival here.”

“I am,” admitted Norwyn. “It seems as though I have had a nightmare; yet events were too realistic to have been false. I know that my employer — George Hobston — was murdered. I realize that I was in a predicament from which you rescued me. But — but—”

“But you do not know where you are.” Thin lips formed a slight smile. “Nor do you know who I am.”

Howard Norwyn nodded.

“I shall explain,” resumed the tall personage. “My name is Lamont Cranston. Perhaps you have heard it.”

“Lamont Cranston!” exclaimed Norwyn. “The famous globe trotter?”

“Yes. This is the curio room of my New Jersey home.”

“I begin to understand,” declared Norwyn. “You purchased stock from Mr. Hobston some months ago. I remember him mentioning you as a customer.”

The thin lips still retained their smile. There was a reason for the expression. The face which Howard Norwyn viewed was the countenance of Lamont Cranston; but its wearer was not he.

The real Lamont Cranston — a singular individual who traveled as fancy suited him — was at present in Afghanistan. He would not be back in America for six months to come. When he made his long excursions, Cranston never announced his destination. His friends as well as his servants had no idea when he might return.

There was one, however, who kept a close check on Lamont Cranston’s journeys. That one was The Shadow. When The Shadow knew that Cranston was far away, he frequently found it useful to take advantage of the millionaire’s eccentricities.

Cranston always kept his establishment in operation. He never talked with his servants regarding his travels. They were trained to expect him home at any hour, on any day; and they were used to his strange departures. Hence The Shadow, during Cranston’s absence, often assumed the character of the globe-trotting millionaire. The secluded New Jersey mansion served him well as a headquarters.

“I was one of Hobston’s clients,” stated The Shadow, in the quiet tones that characterized Lamont Cranston. “I called his club last night and learned that he had gone to his office. So I went there, myself, to call on him.”

“You registered in the lobby?”

“No. I happened to pass the man who was on duty. It was not until the elevator was going up that I realized that I had neglected to sign. There was no use in my returning to the ground floor. As matters developed, it was fortunate that I did not register.”

Norwyn stared as the speaker paused reminiscently. He saw significance in the quiet smile.

“When I reached Hobston’s office,” resumed The Shadow, “I found his body. George Hobston had been murdered. There was a light in the vault room. I opened the door—”

“But it was locked!”

“Not quite.” Again the smile. “It was jammed and it caused me a bit of trouble. You were in the vault room, coming to your senses as I worked with the door. When it swung open, you apparently took me for an enemy.”

“I remember. I had a gun—”

“Which I took from you. There was no time for palaver. I was forced to overpower you and carry you away, for your own good. I feared that the police might find you.”

“And blame me for the murder?”

“Yes. As they have already done.”

WITH these words, The Shadow passed a newspaper to Howard Norwyn. The young man paled as he saw his name in the headlines. The newspaper trembled in his hands. Then came the reassuring voice of Lamont Cranston.

“By good fortune,” remarked The Shadow, “I brought you to the basement; thence to the subway. My chauffeur was waiting with the limousine on Fourteenth Street. He drove us here.

“No one knows where you are — no one, except myself.”

“But — but I must surrender to the police!” blurted Norwyn. “I–I must tell them my story.”

“And thereby play into the murderer’s hands. That is not the proper course. No, my friend. I have decided that you shall remain here as my guest.”

“Until when?”

“Until this case has cleared.”

Howard Norwyn uttered a sigh of relief. He remembered the confidence that he had gained from this stranger last night. He was beginning to feel more at ease. He realized that Lamont Cranston was a friend upon whom he could rely.

“Make yourself quite at home,” declared The Shadow, in an easy tone.

“Free yourself from all qualms. No one will ever guess where you are staying. Richards, my valet, will see that you are provided with whatever you may need.”

With this reassurance, The Shadow became silent. Howard Norwyn realized that it was his turn to speak. The steady eyes were inquiring; they wanted his story.

“I didn’t expect what happened last night,” asserted Norwyn. “It all began around half past eight, when I received a telephone call from a customer named Seth Deswig. It was Deswig’s secretary who called. He insisted that he must have some stocks that belonged to him — shares of Middlebury Preferred — and I knew that Mr. Hobston had them in the vault.

“So I called Mr. Hobston at his club. He said he would go to the office and open the vault. I was to join him there. When I arrived, I–I found him dead.”

“And the vault?”

“Was open. Envelopes and folders were scattered on the floor. Before I could investigate, some one landed on me. When I woke up, I was in the vault room. You were opening the door. I had a revolver.”

“The gun that was used to kill Hobston.”

“So I realize. It — it must have been planted on me.”

“Exactly. With you were envelopes containing listed securities that belonged to Hobston’s customers. It looked as though you had been trapped, while committing robbery.”

“I understand that. But what I can’t guess is why the murderer didn’t take those securities that he must have come to get—”

Norwyn paused abruptly. He saw a new smile forming on Lamont Cranston’s lips. He waited, expecting an explanatory statement. It came, as a question.

“Did Hobston,” questioned The Shadow, “ever show you an itemized statement of the securities in his vault?”

“No,” admitted Norwyn.

“Did he ever mention,” resumed The Shadow, “that he had invested a considerable amount of money in securities of his own choice?”

“He said that he never missed opportunities when they came his way.”

“You have given the answer. You were not the only person to whom Hobston made that statement. Let us suppose that Hobston had purchased — privately, of course — securities worth about half a million dollars. Where would he have kept them, assuming that he might wish to sell at the most opportune time?”

“In the vault.”

“Under whose name?”

“His own.”

Silence.

THE truth dawned on Howard Norwyn. He realized that wealth had been taken from that vault. The murderer had rifled the strongbox of Hobston’s own possessions — of wealth known to the dead investment man alone — of securities that would not be listed in the office records.

The burglar had deliberately passed up the stocks and bonds that Hobston held in other names. Many of these might have been poor investments; others might have proven non-negotiable. The unlisted wealth had been taken; the rest had been left to add proof to the frame-up against Howard Norwyn.

“That is why,” declared The Shadow, “your story must remain untold. There is much to learn; until we have the murderer’s trail, you shall remain here.”

The tall speaker arose. He opened the door of the curio room and summoned Richards. He told the servant to see to his guest’s comfort. With that final order, he departed.

Howard Norwyn, returning to the room which had been assigned him, heard the purr of a motor. Looking through the window, he saw the limousine rolling from the driveway of the broad-lawned estate.

TWO hours later, a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays shone upon a polished table. White hands — one wearing a gleaming gem that sparkled in the glare — appeared upon the woodwork.

The Shadow had reached Manhattan. He was in his sanctum, a strange abode known only to himself. Clippings appeared upon the table; with them, reports in ink, inscribed in code.

Writing faded as The Shadow finished reading these reports. Such was the way with messages that The Shadow gained from his agents. Passing to the clippings, The Shadow studied them with care.

These newspaper reports were of various dates. They told of unsolved crimes in different cities. To them, The Shadow added items that pertained to the death of George Hobston. The hands rested upon the table.

George Hobston’s murder was the latest of several crimes that seemed disconnected except for one vital point. All had remained unsolved. Was that coincidence, or did it mean an actual connection? This was the answer that The Shadow sought.

Reports from agents told of possible crimes that might be committed. When The Shadow was temporarily balked in the face of crime, he looked for opportunities that might attract crooks.

This was how he had learned of George Hobston. On a sheet of paper, The Shadow was writing the name of Rutledge Mann. A secret agent of The Shadow, Mann conducted business as an investment broker. He had informed The Shadow that George Hobston had made large purchases of stock that might logically be kept in the vault at the Zenith Building.

The Shadow had not mentioned Mann’s name to Howard Norwyn. But he had already sent word to Mann to perform another duty on this case. A light was gleaming on the wall beyond The Shadow’s table. The white hands removed earphones from the wall. The Shadow spoke in a whisper. A quiet voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report,” ordered The Shadow.

“Report from Mann,” declared Burbank. “He called Seth Deswig. The man is in Florida.”

“Deswig’s secretary?”

“Deswig has no secretary.”

“Report received.”

The earphones clattered to the wall. A creeping laugh sounded within the enshrouding walls of the sanctum. From Rutledge Mann, the message relayed through Burbank, The Shadow had learned that Howard Norwyn had been hoaxed.

Had Norwyn stated to the police that he had received a call from Seth Deswig, the check-up would have proven another mark against Norwyn. Had the young man added that it was Deswig’s secretary who had called, his statement would have sounded like an excuse.

Norwyn knew Deswig as one of Hobston’s customers. Had Norwyn, as the police supposed, gone to murder and rob George Hobston, only to be trapped, his natural action would be to give some reason for summoning Hobston to the office. To lay the call on Deswig’s non-existent secretary would have proven disastrous. Here was another point that showed how well-planned the frame-up had been. The Shadow knew that he had work ahead. Cunning men of crime had played a crafty game.

Men of crime. The Shadow’s laugh indicated that the master sleuth knew the game involved more than a single individual. His hand was making notations, that came as written thoughts, disappearing after the ink dried.

SOME one had learned that George Hobston had great wealth in his vault. That might have been any one of many who knew Hobston. Some one else had learned that Seth Deswig, one of Hobston’s customers, had left Middlebury Preferred in Hobston’s keeping. Some one else had arranged the murder and the robbery. Crime had been planted on Howard Norwyn through multiple scheming.

Again the earphones clicked. In response to Burbank’s voice, The Shadow gave an order.

“Instructions to Vincent,” was his whispered command. “Cold-canvass the Zenith Building. Look for suspicious tenants. Check on those who have recently taken offices.”

“Instructions received,” came Burbank’s reply.

The earphones clattered. A click sounded as the bluish light went out. A grim laugh sounded in the blackened sanctum. It awoke shuddering echoes that died in hollow emptiness.

The Shadow had departed. As yet, he could rely only upon a long shot — an investigation of persons in the Zenith Building, through the aid of Harry Vincent, a capable agent. The Shadow knew that he was on the right trail; but it was one that would take time and might prove hopeless.

Coming crime. The Shadow scented it. For the present, he had shredded clues that might lead in different directions. All of them, The Shadow knew, would end abruptly. Criminals of a strange sort had cooperated in clever crime.

The dying laugh had been foreboding. Mirthless in its sound, it had told The Shadow’s thoughts. At times, this master investigator found himself confronted by problems that could not be solved before crime struck again.

New robbery — perhaps with murder as its accompaniment — this was the token of the future. Though The Shadow might not gain the opportunity to prevent it, another episode of evil might bring him close enough to strike.

The Shadow knew that he was facing supercrime. He expected to encounter methods that he had never met before. In that assumption, The Shadow was correct.