Charg, Monster

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW HEARS

TWO days later. Joe Cardona was at his desk in headquarters. The detective was staring, grim-faced, at a newspaper which lay before him. Headlines still bellowed the fact that the strangler was at large.

Some one entered the office. Cardona looked up to see a wary-faced young man who carried himself with a confident air. He looked like a gentleman of the press and he was. Cardona knew the visitor: Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic.

“Well?” growled Joe. “What do you want, Burke? If it’s anything new on the strangler, I haven’t got it.”

“You’re a good guesser, Joe,” returned Burke, with a grin. “That’s just what I’m here about — this strangler business. I hear you dragged in a lot of big Tarzans from the tenderloin. What did they have to say?”

“Nothing. We grilled a bunch of suspects. They all had alibis. We’re still looking for our man.”

“Have you tried the Bronx zoo? From what I’ve heard about the murder, maybe an orang-utan was responsible.”

“Burke,” stated Cardona, in a steady tone, “you may think you’re funny. But if you want something exclusive for your sheet, I’ll tell you that I’ve done just the very thing you’ve mentioned. I’ve called the zoo.”

“And the orang-utans?”

“Are still in their cages. Also the chimpanzees, the gibbons, the baboons, the mandrills — all the rest of them. I never knew there were so many kinds of monkeys.”

There was a pause. Clyde Burke could see that it was no time to be facetious. Joe Cardona, when troubled, adopted a challenge toward all newspaper men. The reporter became serious.

“Listen, Joe,” he said. “What about the scene of the crime? I know you’ve gone over it — I know you figure that the murderer must have come in there and laid for Fallow. But haven’t you picked up some clue? Fallow was strangled — I thought there might be finger prints—”

“There aren’t.” Cardona spoke glumly. “No sign of them, Burke, and we can’t figure out what the killer used to pound Fallow. The facts are no more than you’ve published.

“Fallow had no enemies. In fact, he had only friends. Morris Jackling was the last man he saw; previous to that, he visited a consulting engineer named Bryce Towson, to talk about a new invention.

“Towson called us; so did Frederick Thorne, the big financier. Fallow was up to see Thorne earlier in the evening. A money offer for an invention — but Thorne says Fallow didn’t want to consider it for the present.

“Going back — and we’ve traced Fallow for a month or more — we can’t find a thing. Then, out of nowhere, pops a killer. He murders Fallow and gets nothing.”

“What are you doing about the apartment?” questioned Clyde, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Did the furniture belong to Fallow? I understand moving men were going to take it away when they found the body.”

“The furniture,” responded Cardona, “belongs to a dealer named Ephriam Goggins. He holds the bill of sale. He was the one who sent the moving men; and he wants the furniture. I’m letting it go out this afternoon.”

“You’re going up to the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I travel along?”

“No objection. Since you’ve suggested it, we’ll start right now.”

THE detective arose and left the office, accompanied by the reporter. When they reached the apartment house on Fifty-second street, they found a light truck outside. Moving men — the ones who had been with the janitor two days before — were waiting. They recognized Joe Cardona.

“All right, boys,” announced the detective. “You can pull out the junk. Come along up. You won’t find any bodies there to-day.”

They reached the apartment. Cardona opened the door with a pass-key. He ordered the men to take out the furniture. They set to work, while Clyde Burke, idling by the window, took note of all they did.

Joe Cardona, though he had made complete search of the apartment, began to inspect the places from which each article was removed. This was apparently a belated effort to find some clue.

All the while, Clyde, besides studying the detail of the apartment, was retaining mental impressions of the furniture. Strolling into the bedroom, the reporter hastily wrote down a list for future reference.

For Clyde Burke’s purpose here was other than the one that he had given to Joe Cardona. There was no story for the New York Classic, so far as Clyde could see. The reporter was acting for an employer other than the newspaper.

Clyde Burke was a secret agent of The Shadow. He had received instructions, the day after The Shadow’s departure for the Pacific coast. Then had come the news of Meldon Fallow’s death.

Word of the murder had gone by coded telegram to The Shadow. In return, Clyde Burke had received instructions to gain every possible detail regarding the scene of the crime.

Though Clyde, like Cardona, considered the removal of the furniture to be a matter of course, The Shadow’s agent knew that the arrangement of the room would be an important matter to The Shadow.

By his list, Clyde knew that he could make a diagram of the place.

COMING back into the living room, Clyde found Joe Cardona standing in front of the desk. The moving men had gone downstairs with the couch; the desk alone remained. The detective was looking glumly toward the floor. He spoke as Clyde joined him.

“Right here was where Fallow lay,” declared Cardona. “Crumpled on the floor — in front of the desk. It’s close to the bedroom door— that’s where the killer must have come from. Fallow never had a chance.”

Clyde looked at the carpet. He could see deep bloodstains in its pattern. While he watched Cardona, expecting the detective to make some new remark, the moving men entered the room. They had come for the desk.

The little man took hold of the side where the drawers were located; the big fellow was opposite. As they raised, the big man’s end came up; the other portion of the desk did not rise.

“Say, Steve,” protested the little fellow, “you’d better heft this side. Feels like it was made of iron. Grab ahold.”

Scoffing, the big man pushed his helper aside. He began to lift in nonchalant fashion; to his surprise, he found that the weight was beyond his expectation.

“You got it right,” he admitted to his helper. “This here desk is lopsided. I thought you was stallin’, but you wasn’t.”

With that, the big man hoisted. The drawer end of the desk came up. Struggling with the weight entirely in his direction, the big fellow moved toward the door, with the little man supporting the light end of the burden.

Both Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke had noticed the incident. They thought nothing of it. Remaining in the apartment, they did not observe the trouble that the big man had when he descended the stairs.

When Clyde happened to glance from the window, the moving men had raised the light end of the desk to the back of the truck. Pushing together, they shoved the heavy end up afterward. The action, though it seemed to require more strength than should have been necessary, was natural. Clyde thought nothing of it.

The rest of the moving was soon completed. Joe and Clyde stood in the empty apartment; Cardona, after a brief survey, motioned that it was time to leave. The two departed, locking the door behind them.

On the street, they saw the moving men clambering aboard the truck. Joe Cardona announced that he was going back to headquarters. Clyde decided to remain uptown. The pair separated as the truck moved away.

It was then that a man strolled into view from a doorway across the street. He was stocky of build; a sour smile showed on his roughened face. Reporter and detective had departed. The truck, too, was gone. The man seemed pleased.

There was reason why this observer should evidence pleasure. The stocky man was Jerry Laffan, agent of Charg. In duty to his evil chief, he had come to watch the removal of the furniture. Had anything untoward happened, Laffan would have noticed it.

From Laffan’s standpoint, all was well. Strolling from the neighborhood, Charg’s minion nodded as he walked along. There was other work to do; it would be done. The danger of discovery was past.

CLYDE BURKE, when he had left Joe Cardona, continued toward Times Square. He reached a massive skyscraper — the Badger Building — and took an elevator. He alighted at the twenty-second floor and came to an office which bore the statement:

A few minutes later, Clyde was seated at the side of a desk in an inner office. He was talking to a chubby-faced, placid individual who nodded and made notes while the reporter spoke.

Clyde gave a complete description of Meldon Fallow’s apartment. Referring to his list, he described the articles of furniture and how they had been located. This completed, Clyde Burke left.

Rutledge Mann inscribed a message in ink; then folded the sheet and placed it in an envelope. Turning to a typewriter in the corner, he rattled off the items of Clyde’s list and added this sheet to the one in the envelope.

It was nearly five o’clock. Rutledge Mann pocketed his envelope and left the office. On the street, he took a taxi to Twenty-third Street. There he entered a dilapidated building and ascended a flight of stairs.

Mann reached what appeared to be a deserted office. The grimy, glass-paneled door was cobwebbed, Upon the smudged pane was the name:

Mann deposited the envelope in a mail slot. He left the building. The message was delivered, so far as Mann was concerned. An agent of The Shadow, Mann formed contact for the active workers. Letters deposited in that door would reach The Shadow — so Mann knew from past experience.

It was dusk when Rutledge Mann left Twenty-third Street; but it was not until three hours later, when Manhattan was aglow with evening light, that the gloom of twilight descended upon the Golden Gate.

Not far from San Francisco, a monoplane was taking off for an eastward hop. It was the same ship that had crossed the continent three nights before.

The Shadow’s mission had been accomplished. The master sleuth was returning to New York. One task completed, another awaited his arrival.

The Shadow was coming to seek the unknown criminal who had brought about the death of Meldon Fallow. Soon The Shadow would be on the trail of Charg!