Death Clew

CHAPTER XIV. FIGURES IN THE NIGHT

INSPECTOR TIMOTHY KLEIN and Clyde Burke had not lingered long at the home of Hiram Engliss.

Inspector and reporter had left five minutes after the departure of Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona.

Klein had gone directly to headquarters. Burke had headed to find a telephone, ostensibly for the purpose of calling the Classic office. Instead of performing that duty, however, Burke had reported to Burbank.

Hence, while Weston and Cardona were still at Wimbledon’s a strange figure made its appearance in the secluded courtyard of Ballantyne Place. A blackened shape that moved with gliding tread, The Shadow had come to view the scene of crime.

Unseen, The Shadow entered the house where Engliss had died. His probing flashlight showed the broken fastenings of the front-door chain. It glimmered in the fire place where ashes rested as the crumbled remainders of papers which had belonged to Hiram Engliss.

The same light reappeared upstairs. It revealed the door that Shakes Niefan had jimmied. It swung along beside the bed; across the spot where Engliss had collapsed; then to the telephone on the little table.

The searching circle rested there. A silver disk, the flashlight’s beam stayed poised. Then came a click.

The light went out. A whispered laugh shuddered through the room. A swish announced the departure of The Shadow.

ONE block away from Ballantyne Place, a dozing taxi driver was startled to hear a quiet voice from the interior of his cab. The driver had not heard a passenger open the door. This fare seemed to have dropped from nowhere. Nodding drowsily, the perplexed driver heard the destination which the quiet voice gave him:

“Hotel Morrisette.”

UP near the destination that The Shadow had ordered, Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona were at that moment coming down the steps of Roscoe Wimbledon’s home. Weston, stopping by the door of his car, began to talk to Cardona.

“You’ll get instructions at headquarters,” asserted the commissioner. “You’ll work with Klein to find this murderer. It’s a harder job, Cardona, than finding Strangler Hunn. Nevertheless, I rely on you to perform it.”

“Give me time, commissioner,” pleaded Cardona. “I want to get the stools working before we use the dragnet. I may be able to spot the guy before he knows what’s up. I’m going after anybody that ever worked with Strangler Hunn.”

“In the meantime,” remarked Weston, “the search will continue for Lester Drayson. If the man is in New York, we will land him.”

“Here’s his picture,” commented Cardona, drawing a photograph from his pocket. “Gray hair — clean shaven — he couldn’t grow a beard without it being gray, too.”

Weston nodded. He took the photograph and stepped away from the car so that he could hold the picture in the light of a street lamp. The commissioner nearly jostled against two men who were walking by. Then he began to examine the picture while Cardona looked on.

“So that’s Lester Drayson,” commented Weston. “I saw this photograph before; but I hadn’t analyzed it closely. There’s a dignity about the fellow, Cardona. He might change that expression; but otherwise—”

“Gray hair,” recited Cardona, “and bushy gray eyebrows. Thirty plainclothes men looking for Lester Drayson. They ought to find him.”

A strolling man came between Weston and the light of the street lamp. Weston handed the photograph back to Cardona. The stroller paused a few yards along to apply a match to his cigar. Then he crossed the street and entered the lobby of the Hotel Morrisette.

Commissioner Weston stepped into his car. As Cardona stood by, a taxicab pulled up on the other side of the street. Neither Weston nor Cardona noticed it. The commissioner was repeating his previous remarks with new emphasis. He concluded by giving an order to his chauffeur. The big car pulled away.

Cardona watched it depart; then turned and walked away.

ACROSS the street, the taxi driver was waiting for his passenger to alight. He had opened the door of the cab; no one had come out. Impatiently, the driver turned and looked into the back. He pressed the light switch.

The door on the left was ajar, like the door which the cabby had opened on the right. A five-dollar bill was lying on the cushion of the back seat. Otherwise the cab was empty.

The driver reached mechanically as he picked up the ample fare. Shaking his head, he started his cab along the street. His mysterious passenger had vanished as weirdly as he had arrived. The driver did not know that he had taxied The Shadow!

Lurking in the darkness on the street side of the cab, The Shadow had caught the last exchange of words between Weston and Cardona. He had heard the commissioner’s repeated demand for action in the underworld. He had detected the utterance of a man’s name:

The Shadow had arrived too late to learn more definite facts; but his keen brain had divined the answer.

He knew that Commissioner Weston had chosen a double course. The police would follow the plan which The Shadow — as Lamont Cranston — had advocated; namely, to search for a potential killer as redoubtable as Strangler Hunn.

Gliding into darkness, The Shadow passed along the street. Weston’s conference with Wimbledon had ended; there could be no purpose in adopting the guise of Lamont Cranston now that the brief visit was over.

THE SHADOW was not the only watcher who had witnessed the departures of Ralph Weston and Joe Cardona. Stationed just within the lobby of the Hotel Morrisette, a man had waited until the commissioner and the detective had both gone on their way.

Turning, this watcher strolled into the lobby and advanced to the desk. He rapped to attract the attention of the drowsy clerk.

“Key to 614,” he ordered. Then, as the clerk produced the key: “Any messages for Martin Hyslop?”

“None,” replied the clerk.

The man went to the elevator. He reached the sixth floor and entered Room 614. He turned on a table lamp; then walked over and drew the window shades. There was a large bureau in one corner of the hotel room. On either side were light brackets. The man turned on these lights. He stood before the mirror.

In the glare, the face of Martin Hyslop showed as a rounded visage. Black hair glistened in the light. Thin black eyebrows formed straight lines beneath. Hyslop’s upper lip had a heavy black mustache. His low jaw possessed a forward thrust.

Only this direct light revealed a certain artificiality to Martin Hyslop’s countenance. As the man brought his face closer to the mirror, the black hair showed more glisten. The eyebrows, viewed closely by the man who studied his own reflection, gave bare evidence that they had been clipped.

Martin Hyslop relaxed his jaw. That slight action gave the clew. A challenging countenance changed to one of formal dignity. The man stared fixedly; then resumed the forward thrust of his chin. The alteration pleased him. He laughed in surly fashion.

In those brief moments of inspection, Martin Hyslop had given a trace of his real identity. This man who had registered at the Hotel Morrisette was none other than Lester Drayson, the man for whom the law was searching!

As a stroller in the night, Drayson had heard the words between Weston and Cardona. He had seen the police commissioner examining the photograph of a face that Drayson, himself, was trying to disguise!

Lester Drayson turned out the lights. He raised the window shades and stared out into the night. Below, he could see the darkened house where Roscoe Wimbledon lived. A spiteful snarl came from Drayson’s lips.

Craftily, Drayson had chosen a bold course. This hotel, just across the street from the home of the man who had denounced him, was the best place in New York for the returned fugitive to use as temporary residence. It was evident from Drayson’s snarl that the ex-president of Universal Aircraft felt himself capable of avoiding discovery.

Moving through the darkness of his room, Drayson found the telephone. He waited until an answer came from the clerk below; then he gave a number:

“Carmody five — nine — two — one — three.”

Minutes passed. Then came word from the desk:

“No answer, sir.”

Lester Drayson muttered to himself as he returned to the window. Then his tone changed to a short, grunted laugh. Lighting a cigar, the man who called himself Martin Hyslop sat beside the window and stared out into darkness.

ELSEWHERE in Manhattan, a figure had arrived within the walls of a darkened room. A swish amid blackness; then came the click of a light. A bluish incandescent threw its focused rays upon a polished table. The Shadow had reached his sanctum.

White hands appeared beneath the light. They stretched forward and obtained earphones. A voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.” It was The Shadow’s whisper.

“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “All quiet at Shakes Niefan’s old hideout. Much discussion about the gun fight that took place. Marsland does not think that Niefan will return.”

“Report received.”

A whispered laugh came from the darkness as The Shadow thrust the earphones to the wall. The hands produced pen and paper. They began to make notations:

The hand paused. Blue ink dried. The words began to vanish. Such was the way with the ink that The Shadow used. This fluid vanished after drying unless sealed within an envelope. The Shadow used it for communications with his agents. He also employed the special ink for inscribing the thoughts that gripped him when he planned his ways to counter crime.

The hand wrote once more:

Another wait. The ink vanished, word by word. There was significance in the soft laugh that The Shadow uttered. It seemed to indicate a change of policy. The Shadow had left the first method to the police while he pursued the second. Now that the law had followed The Shadow’s lead, the master sleuth was planning another course.

Again the hand inscribed:

This time a new laugh throbbed within the black-walled sanctum. The Shadow had chosen a more startling course. Yet it was one that offered high reward should it succeed.

Two men had been slain since Strangler Hunn had murdered MacAvoy Crane. Had The Shadow possessed a clew to lead him to Jerome Neville or Hiram Engliss, he could have saved the lives of those unfortunate victims.

Did new murder lie ahead? The Shadow could combat it by learning who Shakes Niefan planned to slay.

The Shadow’s task was a grim one; yet this master had a faculty for turning past and present into a foresight of the future!

These were the names that The Shadow wrote. The names vanished while hidden eyes studied them.

Next came addresses. Finally, telephone numbers.

Here The Shadow paused. When the writing faded, he repeated the inscription.

FROM the facts that Clyde Burke had furnished, The Shadow had found a meager clew. Taking two sheets of paper, he wrote the name and telephone number of Jerome Neville on one.

Upon the other sheet, he placed the same data concerning Hiram Engliss.

The papers read:

As each sheet dried, The Shadow inserted it in an envelope before the ink had time to vanish. Then, upon a larger sheet of paper, he inscribed a coded message. He folded this, placed it in the envelope and closed the flap. On the face of the envelope, he wrote the name of Clyde Burke.

This envelope went into a larger one. Using another pen, with a blacker ink, The Shadow addressed the outer envelope to Rutledge Mann, Badger Building, New York City. The inscription dried. It did not fade.

A soft laugh sounded in darkness as the light clicked out. The weird mockery rose to a sinister tone; then faded into shuddering reverberations.

Two deaths — both the work of Shakes Niefan — had given The Shadow opportunity for a chance comparison. Between now and the next night, The Shadow was sure that he would gain facts to aid him in pursuance of his clew.