Death Clew

CHAPTER III. DEATH TO THE KILLER

“LOOK there, Joe!”

The speaker was Farlan, the detective who stood by the parking space across the street from the Melbrook Arms. Farlan was pointing upward to the third floor of the apartment house.

Cardona nodded. The police car had driven into the parking space; Joe had alighted; he had found Farlan promptly. Now he was staring at the window which Farlan had indicated. The flickering light of flames was reflected from the inner wall.

“Maybe that’s where he is—”

“You stay here.” Cardona interrupted Farlan. “I’m going in with Markham. The cordon is forming; send in a crew of men as soon as they close in. I’m going up to get Strangler.”

With this, Cardona headed across the street, Markham at his heels. Farlan, stepping forward, wigwagged to a pair of bluecoats at the corner. As the officers approached, a young man swung up and headed toward the door of the Melbrook Arms.

“Hold it,” growled Farlan. “Where are you going?”

“I’m Burke of the Classic,” replied the arrival. “Cardona told me I could tag along. I’m going in.”

“Stick here.” Farlan drew Burke back toward the parking lot. “See that window? That’s where Cardona’s gone. We think Strangler Hunn is in the apartment. You might get plugged if you went up there.”

Clyde Burke shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing to do but wait. Like Farlan, he stared up toward the flickering light that showed in the third story window. The policemen were at the entrance to the apartment house. Two detectives had arrived; Farlan now was pointing them into the building.

A trim coupe purred into the parking lot. Keen eyes spied Clyde Burke. They also noted the spot toward which the reporter was gazing. A soft whisper — almost inaudible — sounded from within the car.

The Shadow had encountered a longer journey than had Joe Cardona. He had arrived in time to avoid any trouble with the police cordon; but too late to precede Cardona into the apartment house. His quick brain summed the whole situation in a moment.

Policemen were closing into the parking lot. They did not see the figure that was emerging from the coupe. They did not glimpse the black-cloaked form that moved among the darkened cars toward the wall at the inner side of the lot. Nor did they see The Shadow as he merged with the darkness behind the tall tiers of signboards.

The Shadow was moving upward. He knew that police would be at the rear of the apartment house. He knew that Cardona must now be at the third floor. His one opportunity to gain even a partial glimpse into that spotted room lay in taking a vantage post from across the parking lot.

UP in the apartment, Strangler Hunn had completed his brief process of rifling MacAvoy Crane’s desk.

The killer paid no attention to the burning papers in the wastebasket. He thought that the flame was too far away from the window to be visible from outside. This assumption was partially correct. Farlan would not have noticed the reflection of the flames had he not been watching the apartment house.

Strangler, himself, was in the alcove where Crane’s desk was located. The killer was completely out of range of the window. He was picking up the paper that he had worded. He was folding it clumsily with his single hand; making ready to thrust it in his pocket, when a thump at the door brought him to a standstill.

“Open the door!” came a growled voice. “Open the door!”

Strangler made no move.

“Open in the name of the law!”

Strangler knew the voice. He recognized it as the tone of Joe Cardona. His face took on a ferocious glare. Then came a terrific smash. The door seemed to bulge inward. Another crash; a panel began to splinter.

Raising his hand toward his face, Strangler Hunn gripped one end of his paper between his teeth; he held the other end with his fingers. Clumsiness gone, he tore the paper in half; He placed the pieces together.

Another tear. Once more; as Strangler stared at the ripped fragments, the upper hinge of the door broke loose and the barrier swung inward a full foot.

Springing forward, Strangler emitted a vicious laugh as he let the torn pieces of paper drop from his hand.

Downward they fluttered. Strangler saw them waver into the upward licking flames. That was sufficient.

The message gone, Strangler yanked a big .45 from his left hip.

The fluttering papers seemed to dance into the licking flames. Strangler had taken it for granted that they would be destroyed. He was needing them no longer. The flames seemed to catch the pieces individually.

Two ragged slips bobbed upward from the rising heat; the flames sucked in one as it wavered on the edge of the basket.

But the last piece, a single portion of the torn sheet, fluttered free. Striking the edge of the metal basket it toppled outward and drifted, unburned, to the floor. Strangler Hunn never noticed it. His eyes were busy elsewhere.

Crash!

THE lower portion of the door shot free. As the barrier caved, the body of Detective Sergeant Markham came sprawling into the room. Had Strangler taken a shot at that door-breaking form, it would have been his last.

For there was another man behind Markham — a swarthy-faced fellow whose revolver muzzle came into view with promptness. Joe Cardona was covering his pal. This was what Strangler Hunn had expected.

The killer’s arm came upward.

A bark from the big revolver. A bullet flattened itself in the doorway, an inch from Cardona’s ear. The detective fired in return. His hasty shot was wide.

New shots sounded in this duel. Cardona, half protected by the door, was safe. Yet his own shot again was wide.

More shots. The fight was an odd one. Both Strangler and Cardona were shooting left handed. The murderer had no right hand; Cardona could not use his because that side of the door was the only one which gave him cover.

Strangler was a dangerous shooter. It was the protection in the doorway that gave Cardona a break. On the other hand, Cardona’s handicapped shots were delivered with a prayer and Strangler knew it.

It was Markham who had caused the prompt duel. Cardona was engaging Strangler chiefly to save Markham. The detective sergeant had the opportunity to change the balance. He sought to use it.

Rising suddenly from the floor, Markham yanked his revolver and blazed at Strangler. Had the shot been well aimed, the battle would have been ended. But Markham was too hasty. His bullet zimmed the tip of Strangler’s left ear. The killer, swinging suddenly, delivered his reply. Markham fell groaning, a bullet in his shoulder.

Strangler aimed a quick shot at the door to ward off Cardona. Then he swung his gun toward Markham’s prostrate body. This time the hammer clicked. Strangler’s last shot had been used. Luck had saved Detective Sergeant Markham.

Springing forward, Joe Cardona fired his last bullet to stop Strangler Hunn. Just as Joe pressed the trigger, Strangler leaped forward. The bullet missed by inches. Cardona dived to the floor to beat Strangler’s leap. He and the killer were after the same object — Markham’s gun. The detective sergeant had let the weapon clatter on the floor.

Cardona dropped his own revolver as he clutched for Markham’s. But Strangler retained his own big gun; and it served him handily. As Cardona grabbed Markham’s weapon, Strangler delivered a sidewipe.

Having no right arm to stay him, the killer lost his balance, but he gained his purpose. His swinging revolver dealt a glancing blow to Joe Cardona’s head. The detective sprawled upon the floor.

CROUCHING on his knees, Strangler seized Markham’s gun. He aimed it promptly toward the door, where a new detective had appeared. Two shots resounded simultaneously. The detective dropped, wounded; a second man yanked him to the cover of the hallway.

Strangler, edging toward the wall beside the window, gained his feet. The stump of his right arm was against the wall. His left hand was close against his body, holding the precious gun that it had gained.

A hoarse laugh came from Strangler Hunn. The killer saw the way to freedom. Detective Sergeant Markham was wounded and helpless; so was a detective in the hall. One man outside was still in action; Strangler was ready to mow down any ordinary dick.

But for the moment he had a score to settle. Joe Cardona, unarmed, was rising to his feet. The ace detective who had opened the battle was a helpless victim for Strangler’s wrath.

With an evil smile upon his twisted lips, Strangler Hunn thrust his huge fist slowly forward. The revolver and the hand that held it moved just past the edge of the window. The hand steadied as the finger rested on the trigger to deliver the murderous shot.

Joe Cardona, almost to his feet, was staring squarely into the revolver muzzle. Certain death was before him. Aid from the door could not suffice; Strangler had covered that spot also.

ACROSS the street, a blackened, huddled shape lay atop the highest advertising sign. Keen eyes could see Joe Cardona by the door of the apartment living room; those same eyes were upon the hand and gun that had come past the inner edge of the window, fifty yards away!

An automatic barked as The Shadow’s finger pressed the trigger. A tongue of flame spat from the top of the signboard. As if by magic, that distant hand dropped from view!

JOE CARDONA, facing death, saw Strangler’s arm drop as The Shadow’s bullet clipped the killer’s wrist. The report of the automatic seemed to follow, muffled. Yet to Cardona, the event was miraculous.

It was as though a hand from nowhere had delivered the lifesaving stroke.

Cardona was leaping forward to grapple with the slayer. With his single arm swinging like a club, Strangler pounced forward to combat the detective. His hard swing swept the detective aside. Then came two shots from the door.

The detective in the hallway had come to aid. With Strangler bounding squarely toward him, the man had fired point-blank, not knowing that the killer had been rendered helpless.

The Shadow, peering huddled from beyond the parking space, saw the collapse of Strangler Hunn. He knew that deserved death had been received. The Shadow, once he had crippled Strangler, had refrained from its delivery. The actual death had been scored by an excited detective.

Excitement was reigning in the street. All members of the closing cordon had headed toward the apartment house. Along with the shrill of police whistles and the approaching sirens, The Shadow’s lone shot had been mistaken for one from the beleaguered apartment.

Yet The Shadow, with that single, long-range delivery, had turned the tide of battle. He had saved the life of Joe Cardona. He had spelled the end of Strangler Hunn’s murderous career.

A soft, whispered laugh sounded from atop the signboard. Then the blackened form descended into the hidden space against the wall. The echoes of The Shadow’s mockery became a hollow shudder that died unheard!