Death Clew

CHAPTER XIII. THE COMMISSIONER SPEAKS

IT was midnight. Inspector Timothy Klein and Detective Joe Cardona were at the scene of crime.

Standing in the room where Hiram Engliss had died, they were discussing the facts that they had learned.

The telephone bell began to ring. Inspector Klein picked up the instrument from the table beside the bed.

The call was from police headquarters. Cardona judged that from Klein’s conversation.

“We’ve fixed one point,” declared the inspector, grimly, as he laid the telephone aside. “They’ve compared the bullets. The same gun was used to kill both Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss.”

“Which means the same murderer,” asserted Cardona. “I saw that right away, inspector. Those ashes in the living room grate—”

Cardona paused as a man entered the upstairs room. It was Clyde Burke. The detective stared at the reporter.

“No alibi for being late tonight,” announced Clyde. “It doesn’t matter, though. Looks like I’ve walked in on something interesting.”

“You have,” admitted Cardona. “Here’s the link you want. You can tell the public that we’re after one murderer. The same man killed both Neville and Engliss.”

Clyde nodded as he scrawled the item on a sheet of folded copy paper. He was about to put a question when the telephone bell jingled. Again, Klein answered.

“Hello,” greeted the inspector. “Yes. This is Midtown nine-one-three-six-two… Final report, eh? Only one call out of here tonight? Yes…We know about that one… It was a call to the police…”

“Engliss heard the murderer break in,” explained Cardona, to Clyde. “He put in a call for help. The killer must have got him right after that.”

“Fingerprints?” inquired Clyde, briskly.

“None,” responded Cardona.

“No link-up with the Crane case?” asked Clyde.

“None at all.” Cardona was almost savage in his retort. “That’s out, Burke. Do you understand? We’ve got enough trouble without you—”

“All right, Joe.” Clyde’s easy tone mollified the detective. “Don’t worry. I’m not mentioning it. This is enough. How did the murderer get away tonight?”

“In a taxicab,” stated Cardona. “Chased the driver and the passenger to the sidewalk. We picked up the empty cab a dozen blocks away. It’s the same story. Nobody got a good look at the killer. Of all the dumb clucks—”

KLEIN and Burke turned toward the door as they saw Cardona pause. Like the detective, they recognized the stalwart form of the new arrival. It was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.

“Have you completed your report, Cardona?” questioned Commissioner Weston, brusquely.

“Yes, sir,” replied the detective. “Inspector Klein just received word from headquarters. They say that the bullets—”

“I’ve heard about the bullets,” interrupted Weston. “You take charge here, Inspector Klein. I want Detective Cardona to come along with me. Are you ready, Cardona?”

The detective nodded. Weston turned and started down stairs. Cardona followed. Inspector Klein spoke warningly to Clyde Burke.

“Go easy in your story,” said Klein. “Don’t play it up about the commissioner being here. I think he’s on the war path. He doesn’t like it when we give out too much.”

“All right, inspector,” agreed Clyde. “Give me a few more facts and I’ll call it a night. I’m due at the office anyway.”

Staring from the front window, Clyde saw Weston and Cardona passing through the archway to the street. The Shadow’s agent wondered what urgency had brought the police commissioner here. Clyde watched the pair enter the commissioner’s car. The vehicle pulled away.

CLYDE BURKE would have given much to have heard the conversation that began between Weston and Cardona. The police commissioner was prompt with the reasons that had made him seek the sleuth.

“Inspector Klein informed me of this Engliss murder,” announced Weston. “I linked it right away with the death of Neville. Two killings in two nights. This is more than mere coincidence.

“You will recall, Cardona, that when we discussed the death of MacAvoy Crane, we foresaw a possibility of further killings. That is why we began our search for Lester Drayson.

“Are these deaths — Engliss and Neville’s — an aftermath of Crane’s? That is the question which now besets us. We have linked Engliss and Neville to the same killer. Can we go further back?”

“I don’t know, commissioner;” admitted Cardona, frankly. “We studied Jerome Neville’s case. The man was a refrigerator salesman. He had no enemies. Now comes Hiram Engliss. I’ve been busy calling his friends; the old man was a retired architect with an innocent past.

“On the face of it, you can’t link these killings with the Crane case. Strangler Hunn bumped MacAvoy Crane. Strangler is dead; Crane was a man investigating crime. But here’s a new killer — and two victims who don’t seem logical persons to be murdered. At the same time—”

“Well?” inquired Weston, as Cardona paused.

“I’ve got a hunch, that’s all,” returned Cardona. “I’m still thinking about that slip of paper. Thirteen men—”

“Men thirteen,” objected Weston.

“It’s the same thing,” commented Cardona. “Crane was the first; then Neville; now Engliss—”

Further confab ended. The car had swung a corner past an uptown hotel — the Morrisette. The driver was pulling to the opposite curb. Cardona, for the first time, realized the destination. Commissioner Weston was taking him to the home of Roscoe Wimbledon.

THE servant who admitted the commissioner and the detective was prompt to usher them into Wimbledon’s library. There they found the aviation magnate awaiting them. Ross Harlton was with Roscoe Wimbledon. It was evident that the police commissioner had made a telephone call here.

Weston came to business promptly. Taking a chair, the dynamic police commissioner opened his conversation.

“I am here, Mr. Wimbledon,” asserted Weston, “to confer with you regarding consequences which may have been the outgrowth of the murder which we previously discussed. When you told me that MacAvoy Crane had served as your private investigator, I advanced the theory that other murders might be forthcoming.”

“That is right,” nodded Wimbledon. “As I recall it, commissioner, you accepted my belief that Lester Drayson may have had friends in New York.”

“Exactly,” agreed Weston. “That is why I instituted a search for Drayson. The hunt is still on; to date it has brought no results. At the same time, however, we considered the possibility that Strangler Hunn had been a hired killer and that another assassin might be employed to continue his work.”

“That theory,” recalled Wimbledon, “was pressed by a gentleman who had called on me. I refer to Mr. Lamont Cranston. I believe that he suggested looking for the potential killer rather than beginning a hunt for Lester Drayson.”

“Yes,” agreed Weston. “I remember Cranston’s statements. They had merit. Present developments have proven so. I told you, over the telephone tonight, that the police are confronted with two new killings. I am anxious to learn whether or not they are the follow-up of Crane’s death.

“Assuming that Lester Drayson ordered the killing of Crane because the man was an investigator into his affairs, it is logical to suppose that Drayson would continue by ordering the murder of others who might have facts about him.”

“Quite logical,” nodded Wimbledon. He reached for a newspaper beside his desk. “I read of the death of Jerome Neville. Here is the story — in to-day’s Classic. What puzzles me, commissioner, is why a refrigerator salesman should have been slain.”

“His place was rifled,” interposed Joe Cardona. “Papers taken to be destroyed. Just like the situation at Crane’s.”

“That is true,” said Wimbledon. “What about the case tonight? You told me, commissioner, that a man named Hiram Engliss had been murdered. What was his occupation?”

“Retired architect,” stated Cardona. “His living room was rifled. Papers were burned in the fire place.”

“Ah!” Wimbledon became alert. “That is interesting. This does make it look like more than mere coincidence.”

“What I want to know,” declared Weston, “is whether or not these men could have been friends of Lester Drayson. Have you any record of them, Mr. Wimbledon? Do you know the names of Drayson’s former associates?”

“No,” returned Wimbledon. “That is why I hired Crane. We had positively nothing to go on, except the knowledge that Drayson probably had confidants. In fact, I thought that Crane might have been looking for a lone man. Now, however, I am ready to believe that there must be more than one.”

“What gets me,” announced Cardona, suddenly, “is this matter of the papers. We have a good idea why Strangler Hunn burned the documents after he killed MacAvoy Crane. The investigator’s reports could have made trouble for Lester Drayson.

“But what papers would the others have? None. If they were secretly hooked up with Drayson, about the only thing they would have had would be money. Drayson could have planted cash with them—”

CARDONA stopped suddenly as Wimbledon raised his hand. The aviation magnate had struck an idea through the detective’s words. The same thought hit Cardona as he paused. It was Wimbledon, however, who voiced the theory.

“Papers were destroyed!” exclaimed Wimbledon, as he tapped his desk significantly. “Papers which the new murderer found when he killed Neville and Engliss. But were papers the object of his raids?

“Is it not possible that he found money also? That he may have seized negotiable securities held by these men? Suppose that Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss were friends of Lester Drayson. Their very obscurity would have made them the right persons to serve as guardians of his stolen funds.”

“I get it,” declared Cardona, turning to Weston. “There’s a game that holds water, commissioner. Suppose Drayson had planted dough with Neville and Engliss. What would he do? Come back — get his profits — and pay them off.

“But Drayson was a fugitive. These fellows knew too much. He could find a simpler way to get that dough. Bump them off — through some killer — and end all chances of them squealing. You can hire a thug cheaper than you can pay off men who know too much.”

There was a pause. Roscoe Wimbledon ended it by turning to speak to Ross Harlton.

“Suppose, Ross,” he suggested, “that you go upstairs and resume work on those technical reports. I shall join you after I have ended this conference.”

“Very well, sir.” Harlton arose, bowed good-night, and left the library. Wimbledon waited until the door had closed behind him. Then the aviation magnate leaned across the desk.

“That paper which you found at Crane’s,” he said, cautiously to Cardona. “Has any one seen it except myself and Commissioner Weston?”

“No,” returned Cardona. “I have it here.”

The detective reached in his pocket and produced the slip. He placed it on the desk. Weston drew close to examine it with Wimbledon.

“I’ve got a hunch about that paper, asserted Cardona. “I read it thirteen men and I figure that three of the lot have gone the voyage. Crane — Neville — Engliss—”

“Not Crane.” Wimbledon shook his head. “He was the investigator. His job was to learn the names of all who had been associated with Lester Drayson. It seems incredible that there could have been thirteen. Nevertheless—”

Wimbledon paused thoughtfully as he picked up the torn paper and returned it to Cardona. Then he added:

“The more men, the less each one would have to hold in keeping. Yet thirteen — the number seems too great. There is one way, however, that the theory might be tested.”

“How is that?” questioned Weston.

“By making it public,” declared Wimbledon. “Lester Drayson is known to be a rogue. It seems likely that he dealt with his associates individually; that one could not know another.

“Bring out the facts. Spread them through the newspapers. Let it be known that murder is still in the making. All who have facts regarding Drayson will come scurrying to you for protection.”

COMMISSIONER WESTON tugged at the points of his mustache. Joe Cardona knew why the official was pondering. Weston’s cardinal principle was to avoid publicity while the police were concerned with unsolved crime.

“We must wait,” came Weston’s decision. “Sometimes newspaper reports do more harm than good. We can always use the journals as a final resort; but once we have taken such a step, we cannot withdraw.

“A double hunt is on, Cardona!” Weston pounded the edge of Wimbledon’s desk as he turned to the detective. “We shall search for two men: Lester Drayson and the unknown killer. I shall find the latter even if Drayson cannot be had.

“The order is going out. Scour the underworld. Bring in this skulking murderer who has taken the place of Strangler Hunn. Examine the records; give out descriptions of all who knew Hunn in the past.”

“The dragnet?” questioned Cardona.

“If necessary,” agreed Weston. “There are three ways to work.” Unwittingly, the commissioner began to paraphrase the statements of Lamont Cranston. “First: find the plotter. Second: the potential murderer. Third: the victims that are to be.

“We shall use the first and second methods. The third is impossible. Our double system will bring the results that we require.”

With this assertion, Commissioner Weston arose. His mind was decided. From now on, the law would not concern itself with the single search for Lester Drayson. Weston was throwing all his power to the uncovering of the unknown murderer whose identity The Shadow already knew.

Though the process might be delayed, eventually the dragnet would close in an effort to ensnare the missing slayer: Shakes Niefan.

Without realizing it, Commissioner Ralph Weston was following the lead of The Shadow!