Crooks Go Straight

CHAPTER IX. THE ONLY CLUE

SIX minutes after the departure of Beak Latzo and Lucky Ortz, an elevator arrived at the penthouse level. From it stepped a swarthy, stocky man, who was followed by three others.

The leading arrival was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force. The other men constituted a squad that Joe had brought with him.

The detectives went through the apartment. They arrived at the living room. A brief glance told them that they had come too late. They saw the bodies of Luftus and Barry; beyond the crumpled men the yawning front of the rifled safe.

Joe bent over each body in turn. He saw at once that Theobald Luftus was dead. But Barry’s form seemed feebly alive. Joe raised the servant’s head. The semblance of a groan came from Barry’s lips.

Glassy eyes stared at Joe Cardona. It was plain that Barry’s wound was mortal. Yet there was a chance that the servant could speak.

Joe’s gruff voice came in urging terms. Barry’s lips moved.

Slow, gasping words. Yet Cardona heard them as the faithful servant tried his utmost to explain what had occurred. The statement came with breaks.

“The — the funds,” gasped Barry. “Thousands of dollars — gone. Murson— Murson — the broker — he was here. He brought them — brought them all with him—”

A hideous cough. Blood showed on Barry’s lips. The servant sank in Cardona’s grasp.

Joe lowered the body to the floor. He came to his feet, drew out a pad and pencil and wrote down the words that he had heard.

Detectives were prowling about. They saw no sign of the departed raiders. One sleuth, out in a side hall of the penthouse, passed by the door of the service elevator, thinking it was the entrance of a locked closet.

By the time that Joe Cardona had called his squad together, their consensus was that the killers had made a deliberate get-away down through the regular elevator.

Joe went out to quiz the white-faced operator who was standing in the car, aghast at the news of murder.

“How long have you been on duty?” questioned Joe.

“Only half an hour,” answered the lad. “I have the night shift. Supposed to be on at nine o’clock — I came early tonight—”

“Any other cars running?”

“Only this one.”

“Your name?”

The operator gave it.

“And the fellow you relieved?”

The operator gave that name also.

“Where did he go?” asked Joe.

“To a movie, I think,” said the operator. “I don’t know which one. He had a date.”

“Did he say anything about bringing people up and down from this penthouse?”

“Not a word.”

THOUGH the shooting of Luftus and Barry had unquestionably been recent, Joe Cardona had no proof that it had occurred within the last half hour. In view of the operator’s testimony, he was inclined to believe that it had happened during the previous shift.

With this false start, the ace detective turned to routine. Unaware that there was a service elevator to the penthouse, he put in a call to headquarters. While waiting for the arrival of a police surgeon, Joe began an inspection of the death room. The other detectives watched him as he examined the safe.

Out in the hallway of the penthouse, a slight tremble occurred at the doors of the service elevator.

Peering eyes gazed through a crack; then the doors opened. A figure came into view. Tall, cloaked and sinister, The Shadow had arrived to find this mode of entry to the penthouse.

Hearing the sound of voices, the weird intruder moved toward the living room. Standing just outside the door, he took in the entire scene.

Cardona had stepped back from the door of the safe. He was eyeing the interior of the strong box while his squad watched him.

The bodies were fully visible upon the floor. The Shadow, from his lookout post, was able to visualize the entire setting. He remained there, listening to gruff comments that came from Cardona.

The telephone rang. Cardona gestured to a detective. The Shadow faded as the man turned in his direction. Joe’s aid did not see the figure vanishing from the open door. The sleuth picked up the telephone. He growled a hello, listened, then turned to Cardona.

“A news hound downstairs,” he informed. “Burke of the Classic. Wants to come up.”

“Tell him to wait for the police surgeon,” stated Joe. “You’d better go down, Cassidy. Stay in the lobby. Send Burke up with the doc.”

The Shadow was sweeping along the hallway before Cassidy reached the door. He disappeared beyond the turn to the service elevator. After he heard the clang of Cassidy’s departure, The Shadow stepped aboard his own elevator and closed the doors behind him. He began a descent.

It chanced that one of the other dicks came out into the hall just after The Shadow’s departure. This sleuth heard the dull noise of the service elevator. But it was mingled with the sound of the regular lift, in which Cassidy was descending. Hence the incident of The Shadow’s departure passed unnoticed.

The Shadow had seen the spot of crime. He knew that he had arrived too late to save Theobald Luftus.

The news that Clyde Burke was coming was all that The Shadow needed.

Evidently the reporter had put in a routine call to Burbank. The contact man, always alert in The Shadow’s service, had told Clyde to call headquarters. Phoning there, Clyde had learned of murder at the Swithin Apartments. He had beaten the police surgeon to the place where Cardona was.

FIVE minutes after The Shadow’s exit, Clyde Burke came up with the police surgeon. The two formed an odd pair as they entered the penthouse living room. Clyde was a frail but wiry chap who looked underfed. The police surgeon, heavy-jowled and overweight, looked as though he had been summoned while in the midst of a late dinner, which, as a matter of fact, he had.

“Outside, Burke,” ordered Cardona brusquely, as he spied the reporter. “Wait until after the examination.”

Clyde strolled along the hall. He turned the corner; there he stopped short and noted the doors of the service elevator. He strolled back to the entrance of the living room. Lingering beyond the portal, he heard a discussion between Cardona and the police surgeon.

“It can’t have happened after nine o’clock, doc!” Joe was exclaiming. “There’s nobody been up or down since the operator came on his shift. These victims must have been shot before that.”

“Your own statement supports my finding,” returned the surgeon. “I tell you that this one man” — he pointed to Barry — “could not have lived for more than a dozen minutes, if that long. Yet you talked to him.”

“Then how did those killers get away?” demanded Cardona, savagely. “I can’t figure it.” He turned toward the door and noted Clyde. “Why the snooping, Burke? I told you to stay out.”

“Just found something, Joe,” reported Clyde, in a friendly tone. “A service elevator around the corner of the hall. Thought maybe you’d passed it up—”

Clyde broke off as Cardona came hurriedly forward. The detective thrust past, followed the direction that Clyde had indicated and pulled up in front of the telltale doors. He swung about to the two detectives who had followed him.

“Didn’t you spot this, Morey?” he questioned, as he indicated one dick. “You looked around out here—”

“Thought it was a closet door,” interposed Morey. “Looked like it was locked. The guys we wanted were gone—”

“Are you dumb!” fumed Cardona. “Well, they’re gone, all right. With plenty of time for a good get-away.

This is the way they blew. Where’s that regular elevator operator—”

“Went down again,” broke in Morey.

“Then ring for him,” snapped Joe. “Get busy. Here — come along; I’ll ring myself. You might muff it.”

WITH that sarcastic thrust, Cardona headed for the main elevators. The telephone was ringing in the living room; he turned in that direction, gesturing for Clyde Burke to press the elevator button. Even before Clyde did so, the sound of mechanism issued from the shaft. The elevator was coming up.

Clyde pressed the button anyhow. He heard Cardona coming back from the living room. The detective’s face was sour.

“Worse and more of it,” informed Joe. “You know who’s on his way up? The police commissioner. Cassidy just called me. Listen, Burke; stroll around the corner and stay there until I send for you. The commissioner might be sore if he knew a reporter got here ahead of him.”

Clyde grinned and nodded. He turned about and drifted down the hall, making the turn just before he heard the sound of the arriving elevator.

Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of a stalwart man of military appearance, stepping from the elevator.

A momentary flash of a determined face, with short, pointed mustache. Cassidy’s call had been correct.

The arrival was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.

Clyde paced the hall. Weston and Cardona had gone into the living room. The reporter knew that the two were in conference. He wanted to learn their subject of discussion; but he could only wait in hope that he would be admitted later.

Morey appeared to announce that other reporters were downstairs, according to a call from Cassidy.

Weston had said to keep them there. Clyde took this news glumly. Five minutes passed, then Morey reappeared.

“Slide in,” said the detective. “Cardona’s fixed it for you. The commissioner is going to make a statement for the newspapers. You’re on the inside track, Burke.”

Clyde nodded.

“But make out like you just came up,” added Morey. “Cardona told me to go down and get you. Guess he doesn’t want the commissioner to know he had you up here.”

Another nod from Clyde. The reporter strolled about for a minute, then sauntered into the fixing room.

Weston observed his entrance and gave Clyde a short nod.

“Explain it, Cardona,” ordered Weston.

“IT’S this way, Burke,” stated Cardona. “We landed one clue to these murders. Just one. The servant here, talked for a few seconds before he died. Mentioned the name of Murson, old Luftus’ broker. Said that Murson had been here. This is the servant’s statement.”

Clyde noted the paper that Cardona held out. Nodding, he copied it word for word.

“Murson’s first name is Adolph,” resumed Cardona. “We called his home from here. Then we got his secretary on the telephone. Murson is out of town. Supposed to have gone to Washington.”

“A stall?” questioned Clyde.

“We’re going to find out,” returned Cardona. “They’re bringing us his picture and we’re going to watch all the railroad stations to see if the fellow leaves New York—”

“Omit that, Burke,” snapped Weston, by way of interruption, as the reporter began to make a note. “The statement to the newspapers is this: Adolph Murson is wanted in connection with the murders of Theobald Luftus and his servant. From the servant’s statement, it appears that Murson brought killers with him here tonight.

“Presumably the only man who could have known the value of securities in this rifled safe was Murson. His announcement — this afternoon — to the effect that he was leaving town is an indication of premeditated crime.

“We believe that he is still in New York. Not in Washington, as he said he would be. That sounds like an attempt at an alibi. He had an eleven o’clock appointment for to-morrow morning. He changed it to one-thirty, stating that he would not be back until then. One-thirty to-morrow afternoon.”

“I can use all this?” questioned Clyde.

“All except the fact that we are watching the depots,” returned Weston. “You may state that the police have begun an intensive search for Adolph Murson.”

“That Murson is still here in New York—”

“Yes, and that we have acted with a promptness that will prevent his departure from the city.”

“That indicates that railroad stations, bridges, and the Holland Tunnel will be watched, commissioner.”

“Perhaps so. But I am depending upon you to minimize the fact; and to have other reporters do the same.”

“All right, commissioner, I think we can soft-pedal it. Particularly if we get Murson’s picture.”

“You will have it.”

TWENTY minutes later, Clyde Burke and other reporters left the Swithin Apartments carrying photographs of Adolph Murson, brought by the broker’s secretary. The other news hawks headed for their offices. But Clyde made a stop-over on his trip.

With plenty of time to make the edition, The Shadow’s agent had a preliminary duty to perform. He stopped at a drug store and made a telephone call to Burbank. He gave the contact man full details, with a verbatim report of Barry’s dying words.

Clyde considered the case as he rode by subway to the Classic office. In his opinion, it looked bad for Adolph Murson. Yet Clyde, knowing of The Shadow’s search for Beak Latzo, could see cross purposes beneath the surface of crime.

Of one thing, Clyde felt sure. The Shadow, like the police, would look for the missing stock broker. And Clyde was willing to bet his bottom nickel that his mysterious chief would precede the law in its intensive search.