Death Clew

CHAPTER XX. THE FUGITIVE APPEARS

“MR. LAMONT CRANSTON is here, sir.”

It was Harkin who made the announcement from the door of Roscoe Wimbledon’s library. The president of the World Wide Aviation Company looked toward Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.

“Shall we have Cranston join us?” questioned Wimbledon. “Or shall I have Harkin tell him to wait?”

“Let him come in,” decided Weston. “I sent Ross Harlton to the testing field,” stated Wimbledon, as soon as Harkin had departed, “because I did not think it wise for him to be at this conference. Of course, commissioner, Cranston is a friend of yours, as well as mine. I suppose it is all right for him to enter.”

“I think it is,” declared Weston. “I remember that Cranston gave us some excellent suggestions when he was here before. Perhaps, if we take him into our confidence—”

Weston paused. The door had opened. Lamont Cranston, quiet of demeanor and perfect in attire, was standing on the threshold.

“Good evening, commissioner,” greeted the arrival. “I thought I recognized your car outside the house. Good evening, Cardona.”

With a quiet smile, Cranston stepped forward to shake hands with Roscoe Wimbledon, who had advanced to greet him. Then, before taking a chair, the visitor inquired:

“I am not intruding?”

“Not at all,” asserted Weston. “Sit down, Cranston. Our conference may interest you. We are still on the subject of murder.”

“No clews to the death of MacAvoy Crane?”

“Yes — and no. There have been two killings since then. Two men: Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss have been slain. We fear that a second murderer is at work — following up the evil deed of Strangler Hunn.”

“I believed that such might happen,” Cranston spoke seriously as he leaned back in an armchair. “I noticed in the newspapers that Neville and Engliss were killed by the same gun. What connection have you found between the two men?”

WESTON glanced toward Cardona. The swarthy detective nodded. The naturalness of Cranston’s statement answered a point that Cardona had been making; namely, that the thirteen clew had merit as the only link between two deaths.

“We have very little,” stated Weston. “Cardona has noted that both Neville and Engliss had phone numbers that contained the number thirteen. He has obtained a list” — Weston raised a sheaf of papers from his lap — “of all such numbers in Manhattan. Our theory is that other murders are coming; that in this list we have the names of men who are threatened.”

“And the list contains how many names?” quizzed Cranston.

“Ten thousand,” replied Weston, glumly.

There was a pause. Roscoe Wimbledon shook his head. His attitude showed disappointment.

“Too bad,” he remarked, “that Crane did not manage to communicate with me. Too bad that Drayson cannot be brought to justice. This list of names seems too hopeless.”

“Ten thousand names.” Cranston was speaking quietly. “Number thirteen. Can you tell me this, commissioner: why did the number thirteen appear so significant?”

“Because it was in both telephone numbers,” broke in Joe Cardona.

“So I understand,” rejoined Cranston. “But from the importance that you attach to it, I can see that there is something behind it all. Some clew — some document — perhaps an incomplete notation — bearing the number thirteen.”

Commissioner Weston stared at the speaker. Then he swung to Joe Cardona.

“Cranston has hit the bull’s-eye,” declared the commissioner. “If he can do that, he might have something better to tell us if he saw the clew itself. Show him that paper, Cardona.”

The detective produced the folded envelope. He removed the paper fragment. He carried it to Cranston.

The visitor studied it with interest. The Shadow had viewed that torn, bit while guised as Fritz, the janitor.

Seeing it now, in the guise of Cranston, he acted as though he had never observed it before.

“That paper,” announced Weston, “was found in MacAvoy Crane’s apartment. The scrawl — letters and figures wide apart — indicate that it was done by Strangler Hunn.”

“The remains, I suppose, of a paper that Hunn destroyed?”

“Probably.”

“And something, I assume, that Hunn copied from Crane’s papers?”

“That is our assumption.”

“Thirteen,” mused Cranston. “Part of a telephone number. What do these letters mean above? M — E—N

“Something about men,” stated Cardona. “Maybe a message like kill men with number thirteen telephones, or something to that effect.”

“Write down the names of the two men who were murdered,” suggested Cranston. “Put the proper telephone number beneath each name.”

Cardona took a sheet of paper from Wimbledon’s desk. The aircraft magnate and the police commissioner leaned forward in new interest as Cardona followed Cranston’s order. The detective passed the notations to the millionaire. A thin smile came to Cranston’s lips.

RISING, Cranston handed the torn bit of paper to Weston. Pointing to it, Cranston said:

“Those letters: M—E—N. Crudely formed and poorly spaced, they might be part of one word. On the contrary, a separation might be intended between them. M, for instance, or E, might end a word. The next letter might begin one.”

“Yes,” agreed Weston. “At the same time, they could all belong to one word — like ‘men’—”

“I am not disputing that,” interposed Cranston. “I merely wanted to call your attention to the fact that you have a more complete clew than the mere number thirteen. Look at these names.”

He passed Weston the paper that Cardona had just written, with the names and telephone numbers:

“The name Jerome,” remarked Cranston, casually, “ends with the letters M and E. The name Neville begins with the letter N. There you have it.

M—E—N.

“Now look below. Hiram ends with M. Engliss begins with E; its next letter is N. Again the same rotation.

“That’s it!” cried Weston, excitedly. “Look here, Cardona! The torn paper is explained! Strangler Hunn wrote a name — below it the telephone number!”

“Let me have your list, commissioner.” Cranston took the sheaf of papers from Weston. “Yes, it would be a great task to kill off all people in New York who have a thirteen in their telephone numbers.

“But I should judge that we will find very few who have the M—E—N combination in their names. This is a double clew — based on your paper slip, Cardona. One man is wanted by the killers. So they have decided to eliminate all. Evidently they are taking no chances.”

Cardona grabbed a copy of the list that was lying on Wimbledon’s table. He began to run down the columns— something that Lamont Cranston was already doing.

“We can cut this list down to almost nothing!” exclaimed the detective. “We’ve got all the names with thirteen. I’m looking for names with M—E—N in—”

“Here’s one,” remarked Cranston. “Under letter A. Dudley Arment; telephone is Carmody 5-9213.”

Writing the name and number on a sheet of paper, Cranston handed the data to Cardona. The detective stared at the information; then jumped to the telephone.

“I’m going to talk to this man Arment,” he asserted, as he dialed the number. “I’ll be foxy — he won’t suspect anything. If he’s at his place, I can go over there and find him—”

Cardona paused. A voice was clicking over the wire. Cardona parried with his conversation.

“Hello…” Cardona was planning to fake that he had the wrong number. “Is that you, George? What’s that?… No… I think I’ve got the wrong number… Yes… You say George is there… I mean George Jennings… He’s there?”

Cardona lowered the phone and held the mouthpiece against his chest. He spoke in a low tone to Weston.

“I don’t get this,” admitted the detective. “I fake the name George — they say they’ll let me talk to him. So I fake George Jennings — they say that’s the guy that’s there—”

CARDONA broke off. The receiver was clicking. Weston and Wimbledon seemed puzzled. Cranston, making notations on sheets of paper, was unobserved as he enjoyed a quiet smile.

“George Jennings?” Cardona was inquiring. “My name?… Terry Drake… Yes… Where am I calling from?

Say… Cardona’s scowl suddenly changed. “Say… Is that you, Inspector Klein? Yes… This is Joe Cardona. I had a tip that there was going to be trouble where you are… Yes… Yes… Right. I’ll call back.”

Cardona hung up. With a grim face, he turned to Weston. The commissioner was staring anxiously, awaiting the news.

“I was stalling” declared Cardona, “and so was Inspector Klein. It looks bad, commissioner. Man shot — thrown out the window eighteen stories into the courtyard. They think it’s Dudley Arment. They’re trying to identify the body.”

“Another murder!” blazed Weston, rising. “The same clew. You’re right, Cranston! They’re killing innocent men to get the one they want. Neville, Engliss — now Arment—”

“Dudley Arment,” interposed Cranston, “is the one the killers wanted. They did not need to murder Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss.”

“Why not?” queried Weston.

Cranston passed him three sheets of paper. On each one, the millionaire had printed a name and a telephone number, using capital letters. The papers read:

“The name on one line,” remarked Cranston. “The telephone number beneath. Probably the address below— that part was destroyed. Even allowing for Strangler Hunn’s unique scrawl, it is obvious that Dudley Arment is the man.

“In his name, only, do the figures that form thirteen come directly beneath the letters M—E—N. You can search this entire list” — Cranston was tapping the sheaf which he held — “and you will probably fail to find another name that fills the requirement.”

“If Arment has been killed!” exclaimed Cardona.

“It may not be his body that was found in the courtyard,” suggested Cranston.

“If Dudley Arment is alive,” shouted Weston, as he pounded Wimbledon’s desk, “we’ll find him. He is the key to all these crimes!”

“Why Arment?” questioned Wimbledon. “I have told you that Lester Drayson is the man in back of it. Why not find Drayson?”

“We shall find both!” announced Weston. “Every man of the force will be searching for them. I’ll start the search tonight. Lester Drayson and Dudley Arment—”

“A search will not be necessary, came a sarcastic tone from the door.”

Commissioner Weston wheeled to stare at two men who had entered during the excitement. One, with black hair and black mustache, was holding a leveled revolver. The other, middle-aged, was pale-faced as he stood unarmed beside his companion.

Joe Cardona had turned with Ralph Weston. Like the commissioner, the detective was startled. Roscoe Wimbledon was rigid behind his flat-topped desk, his hands spread on the woodwork while he glared at the intruders.

Only, Lamont Cranston appeared unperturbed. In leisurely fashion, the millionaire was raising a match to light a cigarette. The sight of the revolver did not trouble him. Like a playwright watching a drama of his own creation, The Shadow was ready to enjoy the coming scene.