Circle of Death

CHAPTER III THE EVIDENCE

“FUNNY, the way that fellow Cruett dropped.”

The speaker was Detective Joe Cardona. Stocky, swarthy-faced and square-jawed, Cardona was recognized as the ace of Manhattan sleuths. He was talking to Inspector Timothy Klein, at headquarters.

“No signs of foul play?”

The question came from Klein. A gray-haired veteran of the force, the inspector had come to recognize Cardona as the most able detective with whom he had ever dealt.

“None.” Cardona was emphatic in the statement. “I’ve got a hunch — that’s all.”

Klein nodded. He had great faith in Cardona’s hunches.

“There’s the stuff from his pockets,” resumed the detective. “Look it over, inspector. You won’t find anything in the lot. A Pullman stub from Washington. Cards of identification. A pack of cigarettes. Matches. Nothing else of consequence.

“We’ve gotten in touch with Cruett’s relatives, since he dropped dead last night. From all they tell us, he was out of a job. Had money in the bank, though, several thousand dollars. Probably down in Washington, looking for a job.”

“His line?” queried Klein.

“Sort of a jack of all trades,” returned Cardona. “Been a promoter in his time — traveled a lot — connected with oil-well deals down in Texas. Had a lot of acquaintances, but very few close friends.”

Klein looked up suddenly. He had heard a footfall at the door. Cardona turned. He joined the inspector in a grin.

A tall, stoop-shouldered man had entered the office. He was wearing overalls and he carried pail and mop.

“Hello, Fritz,” greeted Klein. “On the job again, eh? You like to clean up early, don’t you?”

“Yah.” The janitor stared dully as he spoke.

“They come and go,” commented Cardona, “but Fritz is always here. Say, Fritz, why don’t you work on regular schedule. It would work out better, wouldn’t it?”

“Yah.”

It was plain that the janitor did not understand the question. Cardona and Klein laughed.

“Fritz is all right, Joe,” remarked the inspector. “Some nights he shows up early — some nights late. That’s what puts variety into his work.”

“I guess you’re right, inspector.” Cardona surveyed the janitor closely. “He looks different at times, too, Fritz does. Sometimes he seems paler and thinner. Looks like he changes day by day.”

“Maybe,” admitted Klein. “But there’s one thing sure. Fritz will be here until the place falls down. He’ll be here when they’ve forgotten us, Joe.”

THE inspector arose. He picked up the objects from the desk and piled them in a little box.

“Well, Joe,” he decided, “if these don’t give you any clew on Cruett’s death, you’ll have to work on a hunch. That’s all. Meanwhile, the report stands. Death from natural causes.”

“I’d accept it, inspector,” agreed Cardona, “if it wasn’t for that toxic condition. The doctors said it could be natural — a sort of poisoning that crept into the man’s system. Cruett was registered at the Hotel Zenith. He left there in good shape. Then this hit him. That’s what bothers me. A slow condition like that shouldn’t hit with a bang.”

“A man has to succumb some time, Joe. Poor physical condition often means quick death. According to your report” — Klein was pointing to a paper on the desk — “Cruett smoked as many as five packs of cigarettes a day. That’s a pretty big load for one man’s system.”

“I got that from his relatives,” nodded Cardona. “They all said Cruett was a nervous sort. Well, I guess natural death goes, inspector. Just the same, I’ve got a funny hunch.”

Klein had put the little box in a desk drawer, along with Cardona’s report sheet. Fritz, his tall form bent almost double, was swabbing up the floor near a corner. The two men paid no further attention to him as they left.

Alone in the office, Fritz kept on mopping. He went about his work in a slow, methodical fashion. His tall form threw a grotesque shadow across the floor. It formed a blackened splotch upon Klein’s desk as the janitor stepped in that direction.

Five minutes had elapsed since Klein had departed with Cardona. Straightening, Fritz deposited his mop in the bucket and let the handle rest against the wall. With a sudden stride that showed unusual swiftness, he approached the desk.

Klein had locked the drawer. Fritz produced a bundle of keys. With them was a thin, skeleton-shaped piece of metal. The janitor inserted it into the keyhole of the drawer. Long fingers twisted in expert fashion. The lock gave; the drawer came open.

THE dullness was gone from Fritz’s eyes. The janitor studied the articles in the box. Keenly, he read Cardona’s report sheet. Then, with definite intent, he plucked the half-used pack of paper matches from the desk drawer.

The packet was a type seen commonly in Manhattan. It advertised a show about to open at a Forty-second Street theater. This was the very reason why Fritz, suddenly turned sleuth, had picked it from the other articles.

The janitor had suspected something which had passed Joe Cardona. Dustin Cruett, according to Cardona’s report, had come in from Washington. He had gone directly to the Hotel Zenith by taxicab. The Pullman stub substantiated this fact.

Unless Cruett had purchased cigarettes at a stand in the Pennsylvania station, he would not have obtained a packet of paper matches. The cigarette pack was almost empty. It did not bear the customary label on packs sold at station stands.

Where, then, had Cruett obtained this pack of matches — a paper folder which bore an advertisement seen only in Manhattan? Certainly not on the train. It was probable that this pack of matches had entered Cruett’s pocket after his arrival in New York.

Fritz’s study of the packet indicated this train of thought. It also showed that the mind of someone more capable than a dull-faced janitor was at work.

With deft fingers, Fritz pried up the bit of wire that held the matches in their place. He removed the matches from the pack. From his overalls, he produced another pack of matches; he removed its matches in the same fashion and inserted them instead of those he had taken.

Fritz added to this procedure by plucking away several matches so that the pack appeared exactly the same as it had been. The drawer slid shut. Fritz locked it with the pick. Gathering mop and bucket, the janitor shambled from the office. He turned out the light and closed the door so it locked automatically behind him.

Fritz’s tall, bent figure showed a weird silhouette as the janitor moved crablike through a gloomy, deserted corridor. Fritz reached an obscure spot where light was almost absent. He opened a locker. Overalls went into the locker; mop and pail were deposited beside the wall.

Dark cloth rippled as Fritz drew garments from the locker. Long folds of black descended upon the janitor’s form. A soft, ghostly laugh rippled from unseen lips. The changed form turned; two spots like blazing eyes were all that showed until the figure stepped forward.

Had Inspector Timothy Klein or Detective Joe Cardona been there to view that transformation, they would have gaped in amazement. Instead of Fritz, the janitor, a tall shape in black was now apparent.

A being clad in a cloak that shrouded form and shoulders. A personage whose visage was concealed by the turned-down brim of a slouch hat. A weird creature whose very presence was awe inspiring.

Fritz, the janitor, had become The Shadow!

AN amazing specter who roamed Manhattan, The Shadow was a mystery to all. Though he had shown his hand on definite occasions; though it had been proven that his power sided with the law against men of crime, neither the police nor the underworld had gained a tangible clew to the identity of this phantom being.

A supersleuth as well as a fighter who dealt in action, The Shadow used many ruses which had escaped all knowledge. His impersonation of Fritz, the janitor, was one. Through this device, The Shadow had access to detective headquarters. There, he could obtain evidence to certain crime cases that could be gained in no other way.

Moving stealthily through a deserted corridor, The Shadow now appeared as a black-garbed apparition. His very course was scarcely discernible. His tall form reached a side door. The barrier seemed to open of its own accord. A few moments later, a thing of blackness descended stone steps. Merging with the darkness of a wall, The Shadow moved forth upon an untraceable course.

Fleeting blackness beneath a lamp light, a block from headquarters. A whispered laugh that came with an eerie shudder — a peculiar strain of mockery that seemed to cling with sighing echoes. These were the tokens of The Shadow’s strange departure.

Where Joe Cardona had had a hunch, The Shadow had gained a clew. With him, this phantom of blackness was carrying the one bit of evidence that pointed to the sudden death of Dustin Cruett.

The circle of death had taken its first victim. Tonight, twenty-four hours after Cruett’s demise, The Shadow had gained the evidence!

Master who battled crime, The Shadow was embarking upon one of the most difficult episodes that had ever marked his strange career.

Death was due to strike again before The Shadow could solve the riddle that hovered about Times Square!