Chain Of Death

CHAPTER VIII ONE WEEK LATER

IT was late afternoon. A chubby-faced man was seated at a flat-topped desk, staring meditatively through an office window. Beyond was the skyline of Manhattan. Towering buildings, shadowy shapes in the dusk, showed glimmering twinkles from their lighted windows.

The chubby man clicked a desk lamp. He set to work sorting a stack of clippings. He made a reference to penciled notations and began to inscribe a message that consisted of coded words in bluish ink.

This individual was Rutledge Mann. A contact agent of The Shadow, Mann was compiling data for his master. During the day, he had received reports from such workers as Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke. These were ready to be forwarded to The Shadow.

Rutledge Mann was gloomy. He knew that progress had been lacking. Harry Vincent’s travels through the Zenith Building had brought no results. Clyde Burke had learned nothing new at detective headquarters.

Clippings, gleaned from recent newspapers, showed that the search for Howard Norwyn still continued. Mann did not know that The Shadow had provided refuge for the missing man. Mann knew only that until some new phase of investigation developed regarding the Hobston murder, The Shadow would not be satisfied.

Mann referred to a penciled notation that marked a telephone number. Nodding to himself, he picked up the telephone and put in a call. A voice answered.

“Hello…” Mann’s tone was pleasant. “Is this Mr. Seth Deswig?… Good. My name is Rutledge Mann… Yes, I called before. I understood that you would arrive home this afternoon.

“Yes, I am an investment broker… Let me explain my business. It regards a client of mine… His name is Lamont Cranston… Yes, the millionaire. He is interested in the purchase of a certain stock… Middlebury Preferred… Yes, I was informed that you might have some shares of it.

“I see… You do not care to sell?… That is too bad. Mr. Cranston will be disappointed… Perhaps he may wish to see you in person. Would it be convenient?… Good. To-night, then… At your apartment… Yes, I shall inform Mr. Cranston…”

Rutledge Mann inked another brief message. He tucked it in a large envelope along with other sheets and clippings. He scanned the newspapers for a final check-up. He found no news item that he thought worthy of clipping.

IN one journal, Mann noted a brief item that referred to the estate of an old recluse named Barton Talbor. This man had died a few days ago. Mann thought nothing of this short account. To him, Barton Talbor was a person of no consequence, even though the old man had left large sums to some dozen-odd relatives.

Rutledge Mann never realized that he was passing up a clue of vital consequence. Had some hunch caused him to take interest in the affairs of Barton Talbor, Mann would have accomplished much for The Shadow’s cause. As it was, the investment broker merely tossed the newspaper in the wastebasket.

Sealing his large envelope, Mann pocketed it and left his office. He appeared upon Broadway a few minutes later, hailed a taxi and rode to Twenty-third Street. There he sauntered to a dilapidated office building that stood as a relic of a forgotten business period.

Entering this edifice of the past century, Mann ascended a flight of warped stairs. He reached a blackened door; its dingy glass panel was scarcely discernible. Painted letters displayed the name:

Mann dropped the envelope in a door slit beneath the glass panel. He went back to the stairs and left the building. All remained gloomy behind the frosted pane that bore the name B. Jonas. Yet Rutledge Mann’s visit had been no blind errand.

He had dropped the envelope in The Shadow’s letter box. Communications deposited through that obscure door invariably reached the personage for whom they were intended. Though no one ever observed a person leaving or entering that deserted office, The Shadow had some mode of getting within.

THE proof of this occurred an hour later. A light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands appeared, holding the envelope that Mann had dispatched to The Shadow. Fingers tore the wrapper. Keen eyes studied clippings and reports. A soft laugh sounded from the gloom beyond the range of focused light.

A click. The bluish rays were extinguished. Again, the laugh shuddered weirdly through The Shadow’s sanctum. Then came silence amid the Stygian walls. The master who inhabited this strange abode had sallied forth on new business.

ONE hour later, a visitor was announced at the apartment of Seth Deswig. The arrival was Lamont Cranston. Seth Deswig, a thin-faced, middle-aged gentleman, told his servant to usher in the visitor. A few minutes later, Cranston and Deswig were shaking hands in the living room.

“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Cranston,” declared Deswig in a thin-pitched voice. “I am afraid, however, that your visit will be to no avail. Your broker — Mr. Mann — called me in regard to a stock which I own. Middlebury Preferred.”

“Yes,” returned Cranston, quietly. “The stock is not on the market; and I am trying to obtain some shares.”

“I choose to hold mine. I was fortunate in purchasing Middlebury Preferred. I am doubly fortunate in that I still own my shares.”

“How so?”

“The stock was in the hands of my broker, George Hobston. It was in his vault.”

“You mean the man in the Zenith Building? The one who was murdered in his office?”

“The same. I left my stock with him a long while before I went to Florida. Fortunately, nothing was stolen from Hobston’s vault. The police turned the stock over to me, after they learned that I was the rightful owner.”

“You are really fortunate,” observed Cranston, in a thoughtful tone. Then, with a change of expression, he added: “Mr. Mann has informed me that you do not care to sell. I thought, however, that you might know of other persons who held this stock. Perhaps you could name some one from whom I might buy.”

“I know of no one,” returned Deswig, with a shake of his head. “I purchased the stock a year ago.”

“Did Hobston hold it all that time?” questioned Cranston, in a casual tone.

“No,” responded Deswig. “I left it with one of his assistants — young Howard Norwyn — along with other securities, about three months ago.”

“I see. I presume you purchased the stock through Hobston, originally.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Too bad that Hobston is dead,” mused Cranston. “He would have been the proper man for me to see regarding a purchase of Middlebury Preferred.”

“No; you could not have done so.” Deswig was positive on this point. “You see, I wanted to buy more of the stock through Hobston. He was unable to acquire any of it. Hobston was in the market for all that he could get.

“I mentioned the matter to various friends. I told them that I had bought Middlebury Preferred from Hobston; that if they knew of any one who held such stock, to give their names either to myself or Hobston.”

“I understand,” nodded Cranston. “You tried quite frequently to locate holders of Middlebury Preferred?”

“I did. In fact, I discussed the stock with people up until the time I left for Florida. I mentioned it several times to friends at the Merrimac Club.”

“And told them to see Hobston if they learned that more stock could be obtained?”

“To see either George Hobston or Howard Norwyn. I stated that I had turned over my present shares to Norwyn, who had deposited them in Hobston’s vault for safe keeping. You see, I intended to go away—”

“Do you believe,” came Cranston’s casual question, “that any of those club members might have uncovered some Middlebury Preferred during your absence? I suppose that you remember the names of the men to whom you spoke?”

“Unfortunately,” declared Deswig, seriously, “I never mentioned the matter to any particular individual. Investments become a group discussion at the Merrimac Club. I remember only that I spoke of Middlebury Preferred in a general way — to whomever happened to be on hand when the talk turned to securities.”

“Well, Mr. Deswig” — Cranston’s tone signified readiness for departure — “it appears that we are both in the market for Middlebury Preferred. Should you learn of any shares that you do not intend to purchase, I would deem it a favor, should you communicate with Mr. Rutledge Mann.”

Five minutes later, The Shadow was leaving the apartment house where Seth Deswig lived. The visit had proven one point; namely, that Deswig’s name had been used by the unknown person who had called Howard Norwyn, prior to the murder of George Hobston.

UNFORTUNATELY, Deswig had been unable to name definite persons to whom he had mentioned that his shares of Middlebury Preferred had been placed in Hobston’s vault through Howard Norwyn. Again, The Shadow was balked in his tracing of a clue.

The odds pointed heavily to some member of the Merrimac Club as the one who had duped Norwyn. But there were as many members in the Merrimac Club as there were offices in the Zenith Building.

Sifting, alone, could find the culprit. It would be a process that might require many weeks. All that The Shadow had gained was a negative opportunity. Should he find a suspect who belonged to the Merrimac Club; should he find one who had offices in the Zenith Building, he would know that he had men of crime before him. But to reverse the process was a prolonged task!

Coming crime! Again The Shadow scented it. But when and where was it to strike? Who would be the men responsible for it? While the police still followed their hopeless hunt for Howard Norwyn, The Shadow was far in advance. Yet the master sleuth, like those of lesser skill, had encountered an impasse.

Coming crime! While The Shadow considered its potentialities, the beginnings of such evil had been planted. On this very night, cunning crooks were to spring their next attack.

IN the room where Barton Talbor had died, Fullis Garwald was standing alone. The former secretary of the dead plotter was smiling as he tore two sheets of paper and applied a match to them.

Garwald was living in Talbor’s home. It was his headquarters for the present; this house would be his abode until he chose to move. The sheets that he had torn were coded messages. They were the final replies to communications which Garwald, at Talbor’s instruction, had sent along the chain of Crime Incorporated.

Evil which Barton Talbor had plotted was to find its completion to-night. Aided by other members of the strange criminal group, Fullis Garwald was ready to fare forth. His smile was one of recollection, coupled with confidence of the outcome.

For Barton Talbor had schemed well. Crime Incorporated had promised its full aid. Before this night was ended, the law would find itself confronted by a mystery fully as perplexing as the murder of George Hobston!

Fullis Garwald dropped the burning papers in an ash receiver. With a chuckle that was reminiscent of his dead employer, the solemn-faced man walked from the room. He descended to the street and stepped out into the night.

Two blocks from his starting point, Garwald hailed a taxicab. He gave the driver an address on Seventh Avenue. As the taxi swung into the broad thoroughfare, Garwald, looking far ahead, saw a distant sign that blazed this name:

Again Fullis Garwald chuckled. The address that he had given the taxi driver was in the block this side of the glittering sign. Fullis Garwald’s actual destination was the building that carried the flashing letters.

Bound on crime, Garwald intended to alight and complete his journey on foot. The Hotel Salamanca was his goal. Arrived there, he would be ready to complete the scheme of evil that Barton Talbor had designed.