Death Clew

CHAPTER II. AT THE MELBROOK ARMS

THE Melbrook Arms was an old-fashioned apartment house in the upper eighties. Six stories in height, it formed a square-shaped building that stood across the street from an empty lot.

Automobiles parked in the open space; high rows of signboards against a blank-walled garage beyond — these formed the prospect as viewed from the front windows of the decadent apartment house.

Strangler Hunn had been seen entering the Melbrook Arms. The detective who had spied him was waiting in the parking space across the street. Acting under instructions from Inspector Klein, Detective Farlan was to be in readiness only in case of emergency.

The plainclothes man had done nothing to excite Strangler Hunn’s suspicion. Farlan knew that the wanted man was in the apartment house. That was sufficient. Until the police cordon had formed; until Joe Cardona was here to act, all must remain quiet.

While Farlan watched, a lean, stoop-shouldered man came briskly along the sidewalk. This arrival entered the Melbrook Arms. Farlan decided that he must be a tenant of the apartment house. In this surmise, the detective was correct.

Passing through the deserted lobby, the stoop-shouldered man entered the automatic elevator and rode up to the third floor. There he unlocked the door of a front apartment and entered an unpretentious living room. There was a desk in the corner away from the front window. The man seated himself there and pulled the cord of a desk lamp.

The illumination showed the man to be about fifty years of age. His face, though colorless, was sharp-featured; and the furrowed forehead was that of a keen thinker. Reaching into an inside pocket, the man who had arrived in the apartment drew out a small stack of folded papers.

HE spread one of these upon the desk before him. He began to read it in careful fashion, starting his forefinger along the top lines, which stated, in typewritten letters: To Mr. Roscoe Wimbledon.

The perusal of this document required only two minutes. Reaching to the side of the desk, the stoop-shouldered man brought up an old-fashioned portable typewriter. He inserted the paper, clicked off a short additional paragraph, formed a space and beneath it typed the line: Special Investigator.

Removing the paper from the machine he produced a fountain pen and inscribed his own signature: MacAvoy Crane.

Pushing the paper to one side, the man at the desk picked up a telephone. He dialed a number and sat with ear glued to the receiver. He was paying no attention to the paper which he had just signed. It lay at the left of the desk, upon the other documents. The unblotted ink was still damp.

“Hello…” MacAvoy Crane was speaking in a sharp tone. “Hello… Is Mr. Wimbledon there?… Yes, this is Mr. Crane… What’s that?… Yes, I can call him in half an hour. Where is he now?… At a conference in the Hotel Goliath? I see… National Aviation Board… Yes… It’s important…. If I can’t get him there, I’ll call you again in half an hour…”

Pausing, MacAvoy Crane still held the telephone. Hanging up, he set the instrument down impatiently. He reached for the paper which he had signed; pushed it aside and picked up the documents below it. He sorted these; his forehead furrowed in deep perplexity.

Then, with decisive thought, Crane dropped the papers and picked up a telephone book from the floor.

He looked up the number of the Hotel Goliath. His finger ran down the page. There was impatience in his action. Evidently he was anxious to get his call through to Roscoe Wimbledon.

The number found, Crane reached for the telephone. He paused. He seemed to be making up his mind whether he should interrupt Wimbledon at the conference or wait until the man had returned home. Then, with a sudden change of plan, MacAvoy Crane again picked up the telephone book. An odd smile showed upon his lips as he began to turn the pages.

SOMETHING crinkled at the side of the desk. Crane swung in his swivel chair. His eyes, upon the desk top, bulged as they saw a huge, hairy hand cover the papers that he had laid there. Looking upward, the investigator found himself staring squarely into one of the ugliest faces that he had ever seen.

A vicious, thick-lipped countenance; glowering eyes beneath bristly brows— these were the features that Crane spied. Gripping the arms of his chair, the investigator began to rise. As he did so, he lowered his gaze. He saw that the intruder was a man with one arm.

The single hand was rising from the sheet of paper on the table. Its clutching fingers were symbols of prodigious strength. A sudden gasp came from Crane’s lips. He knew the identity of this unwelcome visitor.

“You — you are Strangler Hunn?” he blurted.

The leering face had thrust close to the investigator. The thick smile on the brutal lips was answer enough to Crane’s question. The hand from the table was creeping upward; its fingers seemed like preying claws.

One hand alone! The mate to that fierce talon was missing. One-handed, Strangler Hunn was ready to attempt murder. Crane knew it. With a quick jolt backward toward the wall, the special investigator thrust his right hand to his pocket to snatch forth a revolver.

That was the instant which Strangler Hunn chose for his lunge. The murderer’s left arm came up with a vicious sweep. With wide spreading fingers, Hunn made a quick grip for Crane’s throat. His hand reached its mark.

Crane writhed as the talon clutched his neck. His left hand rose; he dug his fingernails into Strangler’s massive wrist. Out came Crane’s right, with a stub-nose revolver. The action was too late.

Clutching the investigator’s throat as one might snatch a helpless puppy, Strangler used his single arm to yank the investigator toward him. Then, with a piston-like jerk, he slammed Crane back against the wall.

The powerful blow found full force against the back of the investigator’s head. Crane’s arms dropped as Strangler yanked him forward and propelled him on a second journey.

This time, the investigator’s head bashed the wall with even greater force. Stunned, Crane began to slump. Strangler Hunn still held him upright. All the while, those vicious claws did not once relax their pressure.

A long minute passed, while inarticulate gurgles came from the stunned man’s throat. The noise ceased.

Only then did Strangler relax his grasp. Crane’s body crumpled behind the desk. The light, showed livid welts upon his throat.

Strangler Hunn, his face a study in ferocity, stood in admiration of his handiwork. MacAvoy Crane was dead, another victim of the murderer’s terrible strength.

With a snarling laugh, Strangler picked up the papers that Crane had brought to the apartment. The killer looked at each one, then tossed the packet into a metal wastebasket that lay beside the desk. Only one paper remained upon the desk; that was the one which Crane had signed — the report.

THE killer pulled a match from his pocket. He struck it on the mahogany desk top. He set fire to the papers in the wastebasket.

Augmented by a crumpled newspaper that lay beneath, the flames rose rapidly. Strangler shoved the basket away from the desk. He looked at the report sheet.

Running his forefinger along the typewritten lines, the killer stopped at a certain point. His bloated lips formed a triumphant smile. Tearing a sheet of paper from a small pad on the desk, Strangler took Crane’s fountain pen and began to make an inscription.

It was evident that the killer could not write well with his left hand. Instead of script, he printed letters in crude and clumsy fashion. The small sheet of paper slipped occasionally as he formed the words; Strangler managed to hold it by pressure of his hand.

This job complete, Strangler dropped the fountain pen and uttered a contemptuous laugh. He tossed Crane’s report sheet into the wastebasket, where the paper was still burning briskly.

Then, with vicious action, Strangler kicked Crane’s dead body to one side. The murderer began to yank open desk drawers. In one he found a stack of papers that he tossed into the wastebasket without examination. In another, he found several dollars in bills. Strangler pocketed the money.

The room formed a strange tableau. The flames from the wastebasket threw a lurid glow upon the huge, ill-faced murderer who stood before the desk. Reflected light from the wall showed the pale face of MacAvoy Crane, murdered investigator.

All the while, the piece of paper on which Strangler had penned his printed words lay in plain view near the side of the desk. The murderer had not forgotten it. His evil eyes fell upon it; his big hand reached to pluck it from the desk.

Word had reached headquarters too late to save the life of MacAvoy Crane. Strangler Hunn had performed his deed of murder. But while the fiend still gloated, avengers were on their way to find him at this spot.

Before he left this apartment where he had delivered death; before he could make use of the information which he had copied upon a sheet of paper, Strangler Hunn would have other persons to encounter.

Joe Cardona — stalwart detectives — a cordon of police. These were the foemen who would arrive to trap the slayer. But more formidable than all was the hidden warrior who had also set forth to deal with Strangler Hunn.

The Shadow, he who feared no living man, would play his part in the strife that was to come!