Death Clew

CHAPTER XVII. MOVES IN THE GAME

Two hours had passed. The blue light was burning in The Shadow’s sanctum. Upon the table lay a torn fragment of paper. It was an exact replica of Cardona’s clew. The Shadow had prepared it from memory:

Beside this reminder lay the stacked up papers of the list which The Shadow had taken from Cardona’s office. Long-fingered hands were running down the columns of a final page.

A strange clock rested upon the table. Instead of hands, it showed marked circles which registered the passage of seconds, minutes and hours. Each second seemed to pause as though waiting The Shadow’s order to depart. Meanwhile, the hands were finishing their task with untiring swiftness.

Though The Shadow’s work was thorough, his rapid study of the listed names had been moving at the rate of one page a minute. Allowing for the time that it had taken for him to reach the sanctum, with brief minutes out for calls to Burbank, The Shadow had reached the finish of his survey in one hundred and twenty minutes.

With the last page checked, The Shadow gathered up the heap and deftly removed four pages. He spread these upon the table. Each page bore a mark — a penciled circle around a chosen name.

One page showed the marked name of Jerome Neville, with the telephone number Quadrangle 2-4138.

Another revealed a circle about the name of Hiram Engliss, the telephone number Midtown 9-1362. The Shadow placed these pages aside.

The third page showed the marked name of Dudley Arment, with the telephone number Carmody 5-9213. The fourth also had a marked name: Clement Hessling, Riverview 6-3130.

Earphones clicked as The Shadow drew them from the wall. Burbank’s quiet tone came across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Marsland. He is at the apartment house where Clement Hessling lives in Greenwich Village. There is a party at Hessling’s. Marsland on watch.”

“Instructions. Marsland to remain on duty.”

“Instructions received.”

A pause; then came Burbank’s next statement:

“Report from Vincent. He is stationed outside Tewksbury Court. Dudley Arment out of town. Expected back tonight.”

“Instructions,” ordered The Shadow. “Vincent to remain on duty until nine thirty. Then to join Marsland.”

“Instructions received,” came Burbank’s final reply.

A map of Manhattan came into view upon The Shadow’s table. A long, white finger touched one spot; then another. The Shadow was picking the locations where Clement Hessling and Dudley Arment lived.

IN some remarkable fashion, The Shadow had picked these two men from the entire list of ten thousand.

He had narrowed the total number of potential victims to four. Two had already died: Neville and Engliss.

Two were still in danger: Hessling and Arment.

During his checking of the list, The Shadow had ordered agents on duty.

First, Harry Vincent to watch Dudley Arment, when The Shadow had selected Arment’s name. Second: Cliff Marsland to guard Clement Hessling.

Should either of these possible victims be threatened, a stalwart aid of The Shadow would be there to encounter Shakes Niefan. The Shadow had found no other possible victims, according to his survey of the list. He had decided, therefore, to participate in person.

Why had he chosen Dudley Arment in preference to Clement Hessling? Only The Shadow knew; his soft laugh came in mocking tones as his fingers picked up the torn slip of paper which he had prepared as a duplicate of Cardona’s clew.

Of two men, Dudley Arment was the one whom The Shadow intended to visit. Still planning to guard Clement Hessling, he was ordering Harry Vincent to join Cliff Marsland. Two agents would form a better guard than one.

The Shadow’s finger pointed to a spot on the map. It marked the location of the Cobalt Club. It moved to the district where Dudley Arment’s apartment was located — Tewksbury Court was the name of the big apartment house. This indicated that The Shadow would first travel to the club; then to Arment’s uptown residence.

The dialed clock was nearing the hour of nine. Hands folded the map. The light clicked out. The sanctum was in darkness. A swish; then an eerie laugh. The Shadow had departed.

DOWN in Greenwich Village, Cliff Marsland was loitering beside the only entrance to the small apartment house where Clement Hessling lived. The sound of boisterous laughter was coming from opened windows in the second story front. A party was in progress in Hessling’s apartment.

A stroller stopped his pace on the other side of the street. His right hand shook as it raised a match to light a cigarette. The flame revealed the face of Shakes Niefan. Cliff, though he glanced across the street, did not observe the countenance because of the raised hand.

As he tossed the match away, Shakes glanced toward the lighted windows of Hessling’s apartment. He heard the revelry. With a scowl, he moved along the street. He turned a corner, entered a telephone booth and made a call.

“Hello…” Shakes announced himself by his tone. “Yeah… I’m down here… The guy’s throwing a party… Listen; what about the other bird? Suppose I go up there tonight and pick this fellow tomorrow…

“You called his place, eh? I see… No answer… Well, maybe he’ll be in when I get there… Sure… If he isn’t there, I’ll come back here later on…”

Shakes left the telephone booth. He sauntered from the store and walked at a rapid pace until he neared an entrance of the Eighth Avenue subway. Shakes descended.

IN his darkened room at the Hotel Morrisette, Lester Drayson, alias Martin Hyslop, was gazing from the window. The glow of his cigar kept flickering as the smoker took quick, short puffs.

Gazing to the street, Drayson saw a limousine pull up in front of Wimbledon’s. Two men alighted. One was Commissioner Ralph Weston; the other was Detective Joe Cardona. An impatient growl came from Drayson’s throat.

The hiding man sensed danger in this new visit. Well did Drayson know that through Wimbledon he could be brought to trial and convicted for his connection with the Universal Aircraft Corporation. Wimbledon in touch with the police commissioner. This was a repeated token that time could not be lost.

Moving back into the room, Drayson picked up the telephone. He hesitated; then replaced the instrument on the table. After a few impatient paces, he again picked up the telephone and spoke to the clerk below.

“Call that number again,” he ordered. “Carmody 5-9213.”

The number of Dudley Arment’s telephone! While The Shadow and Shakes Niefan, each with a different purpose, were on their way to find if Arment had returned, Lester Drayson was choosing this method to learn if the man had returned home.

There had been a peculiar accent to Drayson’s voice, when he had spoken to the clerk. Arment, should he be at home, would not recognize that tone, even though he might know Drayson’s usual manner of speaking.

A few apologetic words — a bluff about a wrong number — these would suffice if Drayson chose to conceal his identity. But no need for such measures came. As Drayson waited, the clerk’s voice responded with the statement that the number did not answer.

TEN minutes after Lester Drayson had made this futile call, a man appeared at the nearest corner to the towering building known as Tewksbury Court. Shakes Niefan, agent of death, had arrived to seek his newest victim: Dudley Arment.