Cyro

CHAPTER IV THE MAN FROM DES MOINES

JOE CARDONA had missed his guess about the lower courtyard. His powerful torch had thrown a broad glare into that silent space; but its rays had failed in their effectiveness. Joe had missed the inner corner by the bottom of the fire escape.

Thus he had failed to see the one spot where a figure lurked. The fringe of the flashlight’s circle had stopped at the very feet of a shrouded form that had stood absolutely motionless. It was not until Joe had given up the search that the blackened figure moved.

Swiftly, silently, The Shadow traveled through the passage to the street. A taxicab was standing thirty feet from the opening. For a moment, a darkened shape showed as it passed a street lamp. Then the fleeting form reached the cab. The Shadow stepped aboard.

“Cobalt Club.”

The order came in a quiet voice. The driver nodded. He had not heard the passenger enter; but he had expected this arrival. Moe Shrevnitz, the driver of that cab, was in agent of The Shadow. He had posted himself at this appointed spot in response to an order previously received.

EIGHT minutes later, the cab wheeled up in front of the exclusive Cobalt Club. This time the door opened visibly. A tall, stoop-shouldered man alighted. He was wearing neither hat nor coat; his gray hair formed an untidy shock beneath the light of the marquee.

Moe Shrevnitz closed the door and drove along the street. He had a delivery to make. A bag was to go to the Metrolite Hotel, to be left there for Mr. Lucaster. Moe had brought the bag in his cab, empty. Delivered, it would contain garments of black — hat, cloak and gloves — which the owner would later regain.

The stooped man with gray hair had entered the Cobalt Club. An attendant stopped him. Excitedly, the man spoke in a crackly voice:

“The police commissioner! I must see him! Tell him so, at once.”

The attendant paused, doubtfully.

“It is urgent,” came the plea. “Urgent!”

“Your name, sir?”

“Lucaster. Mr. Northrup Lucaster. From Des Moines. I must see Commissioner Barth. Tell him I shall explain.”

The attendant went to a card room. He returned and nodded to the gray-haired man. Lucaster started forward. He encountered a tall, baldheaded individual who was coming from the card room.

“Are you the police commissioner, sir?” questioned Lucaster.

The baldheaded man paused to study the questioner through a pair of pince-nez spectacles. He thrust his head forward with the manner of an eagle. In a pompous tone, he declared:

“I am Wainwright Barth — the police commissioner. You are the gentleman who asked to see me?”

“Yes.” The response was eager. “I am Northrup Lucaster. Here is my card, commissioner. I am from Des Moines, Iowa. A recently retired manufacturer—”

“Ah, yes. And your purpose here?”

“Look, commissioner.” Lucaster drew a large envelope from his pocket. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars here. Fresh from the bank this very afternoon. Men are seeking it—”

“Then why do you carry it with you? Are holdup men on your trail?”

“No, no. Swindlers! They want me to bring the money to them.”

“Have you informed detective headquarters?”

“This afternoon, commissioner. Let me explain what has happened. I had an appointment this evening with a man named Roke Rowden. I was to bring this money to his apartment. I suspected a swindle. I called headquarters and talked to an inspector. His name was Cardona—”

“Yes. Go on.”

“He said that he would go in my place. That he would trap the swindler. I suppose that he has done so already. But I have not heard from him. I think that I should go there at once, to the apartment where Rowden lives.”

“Why so?”

“To identify Rowden after he is arrested. The man is crafty, commissioner. But I made a mistake. I drew my money before I notified headquarters. I do not like to go to Rowden’s. Commissioner, the man is a most persuasive talker. It was intuition only that made me believe him a swindler. I can not leave this money at my hotel. Yet I am afraid to carry it. I learned that you might be here, at this club—”

“One moment, Mr. Lucaster,” interrupted Barth. The commissioner’s eyes were agleam with interest. “Where does this man Rowden reside.”

“At the Mallison Apartments. Less than ten blocks from here.”

“And Cardona is already there?”

“He should be.”

“Very well,” decided Barth. “I shall accompany you there, Mr. Lucaster. My car is outside. Let us start at once. Your description of this swindler intrigues me.”

A slight smile showed on the cracked lips of Northrup Lucaster. A singular shadow swept across the floor as the gray-haired stranger stalked by the commissioner’s side. The Shadow knew Wainwright Barth’s penchant for viewing crime in person. He had decided to bring the commissioner into this case.

TWELVE minutes later, Detective Sergeant Markham burst into Rowden’s living room, where Joe Cardona was watching a police surgeon make his examination of the body. Markham was excited.

“Lucaster’s here,” he told Joe, “and the commissioner is with him! They’re coming up.”

“Lucaster — with the commissioner?” Joe evidenced surprise.

“Both of them,” replied Markham. “That’s why we couldn’t get Lucaster at his hotel. He got all excited and went to see the commissioner. They’re coming now, Joe.”

Markham stepped away from the door. Ten seconds later, Wainwright Barth stepped into view, his face gleaming with interest. Behind him was the gray-haired figure of Northrup Lucaster.

“I learn that it is a case of homicide,” exclaimed Barth to Cardona. “I am glad that Mr. Lucaster came to see me. Let us hope that he can identify the body. Ah, Mr. Lucaster, is this the man?”

Cardona watched Northrup Lucaster move falteringly toward the form. He appeared greatly distressed at the sight of death. His head nodded slowly; and his expression showed pity.

“That is Roke Rowden,” he stated. “Poor chap. I am sorry for him. I–I hope you did not have to kill him — on my account.”

“He was dead when we crashed the door,” announced Cardona. “It looks a lot like suicide. See that glass, broken on the floor, commissioner?”

“What has that to do with it, Cardona?”

“I’ve seen other cases like it, commissioner. Fellow deciding to take poison. Pills in this case, it would be. They get so shaky they drop bottle, glass, or whatever they’re holding.”

“And then?”

“They figure a gun the best way out.”

“Did you know this fellow, Cardona?”

“No. But I’ve heard of him. Mr. Lucaster’s identification settles it. Roke Rowden was a con man, commissioner. But I’m not sure he committed suicide.”

“Ah! You have a clue?”

“Ask Mr. Lucaster.”

“Why me?” questioned the Des Moines manufacturer, in a quivering tremor. “How should I have a clue?”

“From what you told me this afternoon.”

Eyes glimmered as heavy eyelids blinked. Joe Cardona did not catch the gleam. The Shadow, in his pose as Northrup Lucaster, was careful to keep the light behind him when he faced Cardona.

“I understand!” he exclaimed, in the crackly tone he had assumed. “There was a man to be here — with twenty-five thousand dollars, the same sum that I was to bring. And yet” — he paused — “yet why should Rowden have been murdered? He had no money.”

“No?” Cardona laughed. “You were falling for a con game, Mr. Lucaster. The man who was to be here must have been Rowden’s pal. They had the money, probably; and maybe — in fact, very likely — all of it was Rowden’s.”

“I see.” A nod from the pretended Lucaster. “Perhaps they had an altercation.”

“That’s it,” declared Joe. “The blind — that’s the other fellow — may have figured that Rowden’s dough was a better bet than yours.”

“Excellent deduction, Cardona,” commended Barth. “Have you any other clues?”

“This,” declared Joe, stepping to the desk. “It looks as though Rowden wrote it.”

“C-Y-R-O” — Barth paused in his spelling. The name is incomplete, Cardona.”

“I don’t think so,” responded the sleuth. “About a year ago, commissioner, a couple of Scotland Yard men came here from London. They told me about a swindler who was burning up the Continent. A fellow who had gypped members of the nobility. They said he called himself Cyro.”

“An odd name.”

“The one by which he was known to his confederates. They said to watch out for him in New York. Well, it looks like he’s been here.

“Yes. I don’t think a swindler of his class would have played for so small a stake as twenty-five grand. But he might have had a grudge against Roke Rowden. To bump Rowden and take the fellow’s money — well, that could suit Cyro’s style. That’s only my theory, commissioner; but—”

“It is a good one, Cardona. Proceed with your inspection. New clues may develop.”

FORTY minutes later. Joe Cardona was summarizing his findings. He was standing by Rowden’s desk, where he had placed torn letters and envelopes taken from the wastebasket. Commissioner Barth and Northrup Lucaster were listening to the acting inspector’s summary.

“Roke Rowden was murdered,” declared Cardona. “He was slain by the man who had come here to aid him in his swindle scheme. We have checked with the bank, regarding the key that was in Rowden’s possession. We know that he went to his safe-deposit vault and removed valuables just prior to his return here.

“The switchboard operator and the elevator man both testify that Rowden returned about twenty minutes before I came to arrest him. But they can furnish no clue to any visitor. Rowden’s pal must have come here earlier.

“We have the name ‘Cyro,’ which Rowden managed to write before he died. The job is to find Cyro. The chances are that the killer left town. The question is: Where did he go? These letters on the desk were picked up by Rowden a couple of hours ago. There are ten of them, all from different cities, and none of them look important.

“We’ve got about as much chance of tracing the killer through one of these letters as we have of locating him by one of those timetables over there in the alcove. The man may have gone to any one of these ten cities. Or he may have cut for anywhere on the map.”

Wainwright Barth approached to examine the spread-out letters. The commissioner shook his head. He walked around to the alcove and looked at the table drawer. A mass of timetables, spread in disarray. Barth looked about to find Lucaster standing near.

“Your false friend Rowden was ready for prompt departure,” announced Barth. “The way he mixed these timetables indicates that he was choosing some destination.”

“That surprises me,” replied The Shadow, retaining his crackly tone. “I should think that Rowden had already made his plans. But this other man — the one who killed him—”

“That’s a point,” put in Cardona. “Maybe Cyro dug into this table drawer. He must have been waiting here for Rowden.”

“May I look at these timetables?” came Lucaster’s inquiry.

“Sure,” agreed Cardona.

He watched indulgently while the gray-haired manufacturer made an inspection. Carefully, Lucaster was sorting out the schedules. At last, Cardona heard him speak.

“Quite odd,” was The Shadow’s crackled remark. “You would think that Rowden had gathered timetables for almost every point that can be reached from New York. But he has not.”

“Some are missing?” inquired Joe.

“Yes,” came the reply. “Certain Southern schedules, all of a definite sort. Florida timetables are here; but those to Atlanta, Montgomery, Mobile and New Orleans are missing.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. I had intended to take a trip to the Gulf Coast before returning to Des Moines. I am familiar with those particular timetables.”

“COME back to the desk,” suggested Cardona. “Let’s take a look at Rowden’s mail. Maybe he had a tip-off to something and the fellow who killed him decided to grab it for himself.”

They reached the desk. Cardona pointed out the various letters. Lucaster’s gray head nodded four times during the detective’s count.

“A letter from Atlanta,” began Joe. “One from New Orleans; another from Birmingham. The fourth is from Mobile. Those cities are all listed on the missing timetables?”

A nod from Lucaster.

“Four chances, commissioner,” said Cardona to Barth. “But they’re all slim ones. After all, these letters don’t mean a thing. They came to Rowden, not to the killer. There’s nothing about any one of them to indicate a con game.”

“There is a peculiarity here,” remarked The Shadow, in Lucaster’s tone. His eyes were gleaming as he stared toward the desk. “See this New Orleans letter, Mr. Cardona.”

“It’s from a shipping company,” observed Joe. “Gives information on cotton shipments. I don’t see anything special about it.”

“But the envelope—”

“Is addressed to Rowden.”

“Yes. But I should say that it was done on a different typewriter.”

“That’s a point, Mr. Lucaster,” agreed Joe. “But the envelope might have been typed by another stenographer.”

“It has no return address. Of course, Mr. Cardona, that is not entirely unusual. But—”

As the speaker paused, Cardona saw him carefully fold the torn letter along its creases. Then Lucaster’s fumbling hands tried to fit the folded letter into the rearranged envelope. They failed.

Cardona, without inquiring the purpose, tried to help. It was then that he realized what Lucaster was attempting to do.

“The letter won’t go in the envelope!” exclaimed Joe. “A long letter and a short envelope. They don’t fit.”

“That has significance,” put in Commissioner Barth. “Let us see. What could that signify—”

A crackly chuckle from Lucaster. Barth faced the gray-haired visitor from Des Moines.

“I am a business man,” stated The Shadow, with a beaming smile that fitted Lucaster. “I have received many letters at my office. They always fit inside their envelopes, commissioner.

“If I had a letter and an envelope that did not correspond, I would say that the letter did not come in that envelope. Maybe poor Rowden received two letters from New Orleans.”

“Then where is the other one?” demanded Barth.

“Perhaps the murderer took it,” suggested The Shadow. “Taking the letter, he might decide to take the envelope also. Looking in the wastebasket, he found—”

“The other envelope!” broke in Cardona. “That’s it, commissioner! The killer found the letter first. It meant something to him so he kept it. When he was ready for his getaway, he thought about the envelope.

“He was in a hurry. He grabbed the first envelope that bore a New Orleans postmark. He found the other half of it and thought he had what he wanted. We’re down to one city, commissioner. New Orleans!”

BARTH nodded slowly. Cardona watched him steadily. The Shadow, peering from the visage of Lucaster, also studied the commissioner. At last, Barth spoke.

“You are going to New Orleans, Cardona,” he proclaimed. “There you will trace a man called Cyro. He is wanted for the murder of Roke Rowden.”

“It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” objected Joe. “Maybe, commissioner, if we first inform the New Orleans authorities—”

“The needle has a thread attached,” interposed Barth, wisely. “Perhaps you may find the thread and trace it to the needle. First, of course, you must check on outbound trains to New Orleans. That failing, you will go there, on special assignment.”

His order given, Barth motioned to Northrup Lucaster. Together they walked from the apartment, leaving Joe Cardona standing by the desk. They reached the commissioner’s car and drove to the Metrolite Hotel.

“Good night, Mr. Lucaster,” said Barth. “Keep in touch with us after you have returned to Des Moines and we shall tell you how our search has progressed.”

“You think that your man will find Cyro?”

“I do. Cardona is capable. Given a lead, he will make the most of it. I am counting upon him to run down the murderer of Roke Rowden.”

INSIDE the Metrolite Hotel, Northrup Lucaster stopped at the porter’s office. He made reservations for Chicago on the Midnight Limited. His bags were brought downstairs; among them was the one that Moe Shrevnitz had delivered.

Singularly, Moe’s cab was the one that wheeled up when Lucaster arrived on the street with his luggage. The gray-haired passenger stepped aboard and crackled his destination as a railroad terminal.

He changed that order as the cab wheeled away. Likewise, he changed his appearance. Black cloak and hat came from the bag. When Moe’s cab stopped on a secluded street, a silent form emerged unseen.

Shortly afterward, a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays threw an eerie shimmer upon a polished tabletop. The Shadow was in his sanctum. His lips phrased a sibilant laugh. The character of Northrup Lucaster was ended. So was all thought of Des Moines.

The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, was making plans for an immediate trip to New Orleans.