Death Clew

CHAPTER XXI. DRAYSON SPEAKS

“WHO are you?”

The challenge came from Commissioner Ralph Weston as he faced the leveled gun. The man at the door had finger set on trigger. The moving muzzle of the revolver warned all to hold their ground.

“I am Lester Drayson.” The intruder raised his free hand to brush back his dyed hair. “I am the man for whom you have been searching. I have come to end the search.”

“Heed my warning!” countered Weston. “You are wanted for fraud and murder—”

“No more words!” Drayson’s fierce statement brought silence. “I am here to speak. Until I have finished, no one can interrupt me. Since I am wanted for murder” — Drayson’s lips were scornful — “I promise you that I can shoot to kill. After I have told my story — then you may decide your answer.”

Drayson paused to glare in challenge. Every member of the group was silent. Weston and Cardona were tense with suppressed rage. Wimbledon had paled. Cranston’s firm-set visage had alone retained its calm.

“I have returned to New York,” announced Drayson, in a cold tone, “to find a man named Dudley Arment. I have been living here under the name of Martin Hyslop, at the Morrisette Hotel. I have been evading the law because I have been awaiting Arment’s return.

“Dudley Arment was once my secretary. He still served as my confidential man. When the Universal Aircraft scandal broke, I was in Chicago. Arment wired me to flee. I reached Canada. There, I received further word from Arment.

“Jackson Gleek, general manager of Universal, had been working to swindle Universal Aircraft. Falsified books, cheapened materials, faked expenses — all were his work. All the while, he was but the tool. A bigger man than Gleek was behind it. A man who was clever enough to know that by planting the blame on me, he could gain further millions.

“I wrote to Arment. I told him to await my return; to hold the papers which he had; to get more evidence outside of New York. He was not in town when I arrived. I sent another letter to his hotel, telling him where he could reach me.”

Lester Drayson paused. Stepping aside, but with revolver still in readiness, he used his free hand to indicate the man beside him.

“This man,” he announced, “is Dudley Arment. He has gathered the final documents — papers which will support my story — authentic letters received by Jackson Gleek from the master crook behind a game of crime. He has brought them for you, Commissioner Weston.”

AT a sign from Drayson, Arment advanced and handed the documents to Weston. Drayson’s gun still pointed its challenge, but the man’s eyes no longer followed Weston. They were gazing straight across the room, toward Roscoe Wimbledon.

Joe Cardona shifted his hand to his pocket. Unobserved by Drayson, the detective began to draw a gun.

To Weston, who was studying the papers, he mumbled:

“Be ready, commissioner. I’m going to fire on this guy.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Weston, suddenly. He looked up and gripped Cardona’s arm. “Don’t touch Drayson! These papers prove his story. There is the man we want!”

The commissioner was pointing to Roscoe Wimbledon. The man behind the desk was livid. Afraid to move because of Drayson’s gun, he could only scowl in fury when he heard Weston’s statement.

“Cover Wimbledon,” ordered the commissioner.

Cardona obeyed. Weston turned to Drayson.

“Your case is here,” asserted the commissioner, tapping the papers. “We shall take care of Roscoe Wimbledon. You will have the opportunity to testify against him. Deliver up your gun, Drayson.”

The man at the door stepped forward and gave his revolver to the commissioner. Weston tossed it in a chair. Drayson appeared both apologetic and relieved.

“They tried to murder Arment tonight,” he explained. “Some unknown rescuer battled with the killer and Arment escaped. He came to me. I had seen your car from my window. The best course was to come here. I feared Wimbledon, however. Had I been unarmed, he might have shot me, before I could explain; hoping to justify himself because the law was seeking me.”

“I understand,” nodded Weston. “Your course was a radical one, Drayson, but it at least assured you of the hearing that you deserved.”

Lamont Cranston was smiling. Drayson had not mentioned that the visit here had been suggested by Arment, who was acting under instructions that his mysterious rescuer had given him. The Shadow had arranged this climax, almost to the detail.

ROSCOE WIMBLEDON had steadied. The exposed crook had feared Lester Drayson’s wrath. With Cardona covering him, Wimbledon was not afraid to talk. He blurted forth denouncing statements.

“Forged papers!” was his cry. “Those are the documents that Drayson has brought you. You are treating with a crook, commissioner. Drayson is a fugitive from justice — a branded thief — a murderer—”

For a moment, Weston wavered. He had been convinced by Drayson’s statements. Now he was on the verge of listening to Wimbledon’s logic. It was Lamont Cranston who intervened.

“MacAvoy Crane was murdered,” came Cranston’s statement. “Why? Because he had learned the name of the one man who could aid Lester Drayson. Crane was honest. Had he seen that his investigation led to Dudley Arment’s death, he would have spoken.

“So it was necessary to destroy Crane’s evidence. It was necessary also to eliminate Crane. Strangler Hunn did that work; acting under orders, he wrote down the only data that he needed — the name, telephone number and address of Dudley Arment, the man whom Crane had learned was Drayson’s secretary.”

Cranston was speaking to Weston. The commissioner was nodding his agreement.

“Wimbledon hired Crane,” resumed Cranston. “Wimbledon ordered Crane’s death. That was paradoxical; therefore, it proved deceiving. Strangler Hunn destroyed his own notation. All that was left was the bit of paper that Cardona found as a clew. To whom did you show that paper, Cardona?”

“Only to the commissioner,” replied Cardona, “and to Wimbledon here. They were the only ones that saw it, until—”

“Until you showed it to me,” interposed Cranston, quietly.

Cardona nodded. He had been about to mention the name of Clyde Burke. Cranston had intervened in time to stop him.

“Wimbledon,” asserted Cranston, facing the man behind the desk, “your guilt is proven. Why should any one follow the method of killing men whose names had the letters M—E—N and whose telephone numbers contained the figure 13?

“Only one man would have chosen that method. You are the man — the only one who saw the clew and who recognized its meaning. You blundered when you ordered the deaths of Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss. I mentioned that fact before Drayson arrived.”

“How could I have found those names?” stammered Wimbledon. “Where was I to get the numbers—”

Cranston’s tall form was beside the desk. Long fingers gripped a knob. A drawer came open. Cranston’s hand pulled forth a stack of papers.

“Here is the final evidence.” Cranston passed the crumpled sheaf to Weston. “Wimbledon formed a list of his own. He had four days to work on it between the time that you first came here, commissioner, and the night when Jerome Neville was slain.”

Commissioner Weston was thumbing the papers. Lamont Cranston had guessed aright. This list, like the one that the telephone company had prepared in short order, was formed of names with number thirteen listings.

MORE damaging was an attached sheet which Weston discovered with the sheaf. It bore four names, with telephone numbers. Jerome Neville, Hiram Engliss, Dudley Arment and a fourth that Weston had not known: that of Clement Hessling.

“One more point.” Cranston was emphatic with his final statement. “The compilation of this list was a private job; but it would have required the work of two persons to be completed within four days.

“I know now why Roscoe Wimbledon and Ross Harlton went into continued seclusion. Presumably, they were making a technical survey of the affairs of Universal Aircraft. Actually, they were preparing this murderer’s list. There’s another man you want, commissioner. Ross Harlton, accessory to the murders of Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss—”

Lamont Cranston paused suddenly and swung to the door. The others followed his move. Keen ears had caught the sound of footsteps just in time. Standing in the doorway, his face glowering above the barrel of a raised revolver, was Ross Harlton.

Roscoe Wimbledon’s accomplice had returned unexpectedly. From the hallway, he had sensed the truth.

He was here to thwart the law; here to save Roscoe Wimbledon, the master crook whose schemes he had abetted!