Circle of Death

CHAPTER XX CARDONA ENTERS

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was strolling past Times Square. The big advertising clock was chiming fifteen minutes before the hour of nine. Cardona’s face showed glumly in the bright illumination of Broadway.

Joe Cardona had reason to be troubled. He was on the trail of murder, and he had gained no results. The finding of a dead body — still unidentified — in a taxicab within a few blocks of Times Square was sufficient proof that foul play had occurred.

In other cases, Cardona had learned the names of victims. Yet there had been no direct proof of murder in those instances. Now, when a definite case of homicide was present, Cardona could not find a starting point.

Joe had been assigned to this case. Inspector Klein expected him to get results. The detective had a definite hunch that the fourth death was connected with the other three. To follow it, he knew that he must at least identify the victim or obtain some potential inkling to the source of the mysterious crime.

An abandoned cab, its license and its ownership faked, bore out Cardona’s hunch that a group of murderers was at work. A vigilant patrol of Times Square and its adjoining area seemed the only course of action; yet the quest was proving futile.

Cardona was still on the lookout for the man whom he had seen on Seventh Avenue — the one whose eyes reminded him of The Shadow. But he had seen no further sign nor trace of Henry Arnaud.

Turning a chance corner; Cardona walked along a side street. He decided to cross the thoroughfare and picked an opening in front of a parked coupe. There was a man seated behind the wheel. It was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent recognized the detective.

Cardona was headed almost directly for the entrance of the Hotel Delavan. Cliff gave a signal with his hand. Clyde Burke, standing at the door that led into the hotel, moved away as he caught Cliff’s gesture.

The signal was one used for emergency; it worked well. Joe Cardona, had he seen Clyde Burke, would have recognized him. The detective might have wondered what the Classic reporter was doing in this vicinity.

Joe did not enter the Hotel Delavan. Instead, he picked a small, cheap-looking lunch room a few doors away. He entered there, sat at the counter, and gloomily ordered a cup of coffee.

Two men came along the street. One was a portly fellow, the other, a cadaverous looking individual whose face showed an ugly, gold-toothed grin. The pair entered the Hotel Delavan. Clyde Burke, returning, followed them into the lobby and saw them enter the elevator.

Seated in an armchair, Clyde picked up a newspaper. Looking over the top of it, he saw the dial of the elevator. It swung to the topmost point — the mark that indicated Felix Tressler’s penthouse.

This was the first evidence of any entry into the place that Clyde was watching. This word must go to The Shadow. Before sending it, however, Clyde decided to stroll across the street and learn whether or not Cliff Marsland had observed the entrants.

JOE CARDONA, sipping at a cup of coffee, was listening to the conversation between a taxicab driver and the man behind the counter. The cab driver was evidently a frequenter of this lunch room. He happened to notice a newspaper in back of the counter.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “Gimme that. There’s somethin’ I wanted to show you. Look at this.”

Cardona, from the corner of his eye, saw the cabby point to a picture in the day-old journal. It was the photograph of the man who had been found murdered in a taxi.

“I was readin’ this,” informed the cab driver, “because the guy was bumped off in a cab. Looked funny, didn’t it? Well, I sort of remembered this bird’s mug. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere. Then I remembered. It was in here.”

“This guy?” The man behind the counter shook his head as he looked at the printed photo. “Don’t remember him.”

“Sure you do.” The cab driver laughed. “The cranky bird that raised a holler because you dished him up some cold pie. You said he came in here and always raised a squawk.”

“Say” — the counter man remembered — “I know the bloke you mean. He ain’t been around for a couple of weeks. Sore on our joint, maybe.”

“Yeah? Well, this looks like his mug.”

“Don’t think it’s him, though. Don’t care if it is, anyway.”

“Who was he?”

“Some guy that worked for the fellow that lives in the penthouse at the Hotel Delavan. One night, he took up a bottle of coffee for his boss. That’s how I come to know where he worked.”

“I’d swear that mug was his.”

“Naw — you’re wrong.”

Studying the picture, the taxi driver mumbled to himself; then grunted and tossed the newspaper aside. Joe Cardona, watching the man’s face, had a hunch that he was correct in his assumption. The taxi driver looked like a keen observer.

Cardona flung a coin on the table and went from the lunch room. He turned directly toward the Hotel Delavan.

CLYDE BURKE spied him from the opposite side of the street. The Shadow’s agent waited until Cardona was in the hotel. Then he followed and strolled to an obscure corner of the lobby, where he seated himself and perused a newspaper, keeping his face out of Cardona’s sight. Clyde was too far away to hear the detective talking to the clerk at the desk.

“Who lives in the penthouse?” Cardona was questioning.

“A Mr. Tressler,” responded the clerk. “Felix Tressler.”

“Any one up there with him?”

“His secretary, Wilton Byres.”

“Are they up there now?”

“Mr. Tressler is always at home. As for Byres — he goes out on occasion.”

Cardona swung toward the elevators. The clerk called him back.

“You can’t go up to the penthouse,” he remarked. “Mr. Tressler has left orders—”

“Can’t I?” quizzed Joe. He flashed his badge. “I’m going up right now. I want to see Mr. Tressler. That’s all.”

The clerk shrugged his shoulders as Cardona strode to the elevator. The door of the lift was opening. Cardona entered.

“Penthouse,” ordered the detective.

“Sorry, sir,” returned the operator. “I can’t take you there without orders from—”

The operator paused as he caught the clerk’s eye. The man behind the desk gave him a nod. The operator closed the door and started the upward journey with Cardona as his only passenger.

The clerk walked away from the desk. In a hidden alcove, he picked up a telephone and put in a prompt call. Felix Tressler’s voice responded.

“A detective from headquarters,” informed the clerk, in a low voice. “He’s on his way up.”

“Do you know his name?” came Tressler’s question.

“No,” answered the clerk. “He showed his badge. That was all. I couldn’t argue with him.”

“Did any one else see the badge?”

“No.”

“All right. Keep it to yourself.”

Clyde Burke did not observe the clerk while the man was engaged in the telephone conversation. The Shadow’s agent was watching the dial of the elevator. He had a suspicion as to Cardona’s destination. The dial indicated the penthouse. Clyde arose and strolled into a telephone booth.

The hands of the clock above the desk in the Hotel Delavan were almost at the hour of nine when Clyde put in his call to Burbank. The report of The Shadow’s agent was coming through at the time when Channing Rightwood, by appointment with Logan Mungren, was scheduled to enter the circle of death!