Death Clew

CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW FOLLOWS

IT was late the next afternoon. Joe Cardona was seated at his desk in headquarters. The detective looked up from a stack of papers to see Clyde Burke at the doorway.

“Hello, Burke,” greeted the sleuth. “Great stuff, that story of yours. Thanks.”

“Same to you,” returned Clyde. “I scooped the town because you let me in on it. That’s why I’m here now. Looking for another beat.”

“You mean on MacAvoy Crane?”

“Yes.”

“No luck, Burke.” Cardona’s tone seemed dull. “I thought your story would bring us a lot of facts on Crane. It didn’t. So far as we’ve learned, Crane hadn’t had an investigating job for three months.”

“What of it? Maybe it was before that when he ran into Strangler Hunn.”

“Crane’s last job,” — Cardona paused to refer to the papers in front of him — “was a six-month assignment for the S.P.C.A. He trekked all over New York City looking into livery stable conditions and checking up incoming shipments of live stock.”

“Before that?”

“A job with a credit bureau, finding out about phony collection agencies that never turned in the dough on bad accounts. He was in that work for nearly a year.”

Clyde became thoughtful. Joe Cardona studied the reporter; then added a new statement.

“Let me tell you something about Strangler Hunn, Burke,” vouchsafed the detective. “He was a tough guy that worked along with a tough mob. They took a beating in the dock fight about seven months ago. That’s where Strangler lost his right arm.

“The whole crew scrammed out of town, and it was good riddance. They were tough gorillas and some of the others were as bad as Strangler. But he was the only one that we had with the goods. He was wanted for murder. That’s why we got him.”

“The others?” inquired Clyde.

“We haven’t seen any of them back in town,” returned Cardona. “Strangler was working alone — that’s a sure bet. There’s a chance that some of his old cronies may be hereabouts. We haven’t seen them, though. But the main point is that we can’t hook Strangler with MacAvoy Crane.”

“Listen, Joe.” Burke became serious. “I’m not so sure that there was a past tie-up between Strangler and Crane. I’m thinking about the present. Maybe Strangler was put on the job to get Crane — to stop him from going through with some investigation—”

“I’ve covered that, Burke,” interrupted Cardona. “Haven’t I just told you that Crane wasn’t working for the past three months? There’s no use worrying about it. We’ve got nothing yet. More than likely Strangler went in to rob the apartment. Maybe he had some imaginary grudge. The point is that he killed MacAvoy Crane and we got him for it.”

With that, Cardona went back to a consideration of the papers on his desk. It was evident that the detective was concerned with other matters; that he had tabled Strangler’s case for the time.

“So long, Joe,” remarked Clyde Burke.

The Shadow’s agent strolled from the office. As he reached the street he became thoughtful. There was something in Cardona’s manner that had given Clyde a hunch. The glib explanation of Crane’s past activities had aroused Clyde’s suspicions.

Entering a store, Clyde went to a telephone booth. He put in a call to Burbank, to inform the contact man of his interview with Joe Cardona. When Clyde reappeared on the street, he headed for the Classic office, beneath a dark, early evening sky.

BACK at headquarters, Joe Cardona continued to busy himself with his papers. Half an hour passed.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Cardona looked up. He saw Inspector Timothy Klein. The official made a sign with his hand and nodded. Cardona arose to follow Klein into the latter’s office.

“Burke was here,” began Cardona. “I stalled him.”

“Good,” decided Klein.

“I hated to let him down,” growled Cardona, “but it had to be done. Maybe I’ll have a chance to treat him better later on. He’s a real guy, Burke. That story of his was good for both of us.”

“That’s true,” nodded Klein, “and I can see why Burke showed up here. It’s natural for him to think that we’ve learned something about what MacAvoy Crane was doing. If the information had come directly to me, Joe, Burke might have had it. But it came in to the commissioner and he wants it kept quiet. I’ve just been talking with him. He wants you to go along tonight.”

“Fine. Did he tell you any more about the call that came to him?”

“A little. Here is the story, Joe. You remember that Universal Aircraft mess a few months ago — the big swindle that the government uncovered—”

“Sure thing. Jackson Gleek committed suicide. He was general manager of Universal Aircraft. I was up at the morgue when they brought his body in. Then there was another fellow implicated — Lester Drayson, the president. He took it on the lam. Supposed to have made off with plenty of cash.”

“That’s the case. Well, Joe, the commissioner has just informed me that MacAvoy Crane was investigating the affairs of the defunct Universal Aircraft Corporation.”

“I thought that would be a government job!”

“It was. But the federal authorities let down after the receivers for Universal Aircraft sold out to the World Wide Aviation Company. It was the president of World Wide — Roscoe Wimbledon — who put Crane on the job.”

“To find out if others were implicated?”

“Exactly. If he can uncover other crooked workers, he can turn the job over to the government. Stolen funds may be recovered. Maybe Lester Drayson planted a lot of dough with other people—”

Klein paused suddenly. A shadow had fallen across the door sill. Joe Cardona turned to follow the direction of the inspector’s gaze. Both men smiled as a tall, stoop-shouldered janitor shambled into view, carrying a mop and bucket.

“Hello, Fritz,” greeted Cardona. “On the old job again, eh?”

“Yah,” returned the janitor, staring with a dull expression upon his stupid face.

“Keep going,” laughed Cardona. “Don’t mind us, Fritz. We’ll be out of here soon.”

The janitor began to work with mop and bucket. Inspector Klein arose from his desk.

“That’s about all I know, Joe,” he told Cardona. “I wanted you to keep mum on the whole business until I’d seen the commissioner. I can’t go along tonight. He’s taking you to see Wimbledon.”

“Where?”

“At Wimbledon’s home. Incidentally, a call came in to Wimbledon’s last night. It was MacAvoy Crane who called. He said that he had a report to make. Wimbledon, was out at the time. Crane didn’t call again.”

“Then those papers—”

“Were probably documents that Wimbledon wanted. They may have contained important information regarding the tangled affairs of Universal Aircraft Corporation.”

Inspector Klein glanced at his watch. He turned again to Joe Cardona.

“Better get started, Joe,” he ordered. “You’ve just about got time to get up to the commissioner’s before he is ready to leave.”

Klein and Cardona strolled from the office. As Joe passed Fritz, the janitor was busy mopping in the corner. Cardona gave a friendly jab against the man’s ribs. Fritz jumped away and almost upset the bucket.

“So long, Fritz,” laughed Cardona.

“Yah,” returned the janitor, stooping to pick up the mop that he had dropped.

FOOTSTEPS faded along the corridor. A few minutes passed. Fritz suddenly ceased his work. Picking up the mop and the bucket, the stoop-shouldered worker slouched from the office. He followed the corridor, made a turn and stopped in an obscure space where lockers were in evidence.

Fritz opened a locker. Then began a strange transformation. Out came a folded mass of black cloth. It slipped over the stooped shoulders. Next a slouch hat settled upon a head. Black gloves covered long hands. Fritz, the janitor, had ceased to exist.

In his place stood, a tall, erect being garbed in black. Impersonating the headquarters’ janitor, The Shadow had listened in on the conversation between Inspector Timothy Klein and Detective Joe Cardona!

Informed through Burbank that Clyde Burke suspected concealed facts held by Joe Cardona, The Shadow had come here to investigate. He had arrived before the hour when the real Fritz usually put in his appearance. He was leaving in time to avoid the genuine janitor.

The blackened form glided from the locker. It picked an obscure exit to the street. The Shadow merged with darkness, as a soft, whispered laugh came from his hidden lips.

THE SHADOW next appeared within his sanctum, some time later. White hands beneath a bluish light were the only tokens of his presence. Those hands were fingering clippings and typewritten statements which concerned the scandal that had swept the affairs of the insolvent Universal Aircraft Corporation.

The light clicked out. A soft swish sounded in the Stygian blackness of The Shadow’s secret abode.

Again, a whispered laugh. The sound died, with fading echoes. The sanctum was empty.

HALF an hour later, a tall, dignified individual alighted from a taxicab in front of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed as he passed. This personage, a gentleman clad in faultless evening attire, was evidently some one of high consequence.

In the light of the club lobby, the arrival’s face showed as a keen, chiseled visage, characterized by thin, firm lips beneath a hawklike nose. Strolling across the lobby, the arrival approached a telephone booth and entered. A long, blackened silhouette stretched from the booth across the tiled floor, as the newcomer dialed a number.

“Hello…” The occupant of the booth spoke in an even-toned voice. “Yes… I should like to speak with Mr. Wimbledon… He is busy? Inform him that Mr. Lamont Cranston has called… From the Cobalt Club… I shall call on him this evening…”

The receiver clicked. The speaker stepped from the booth. A thin smile showed upon his firm lips.

Parting, the lips seemed to voice a soundless laugh.

This personage who called himself Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. Club man of wealth, he had entry to the homes of the elite.

As Fritz the janitor, The Shadow had learned that Joe Cardona and the police commissioner were going to visit Roscoe Wimbledon. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had arranged a trip to the same destination.

Like the police, The Shadow was anxious to learn why Strangler Hunn had murdered MacAvoy Crane.

Chance had enabled the law to move first. Joe Cardona had dashed forth last night to fight with Strangler Hunn. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had to-day received a call concerning MacAvoy Crane.

Tonight, Weston and Cardona were interviewing Roscoe Wimbledon, the man who had hired Crane as an investigator.

The Shadow had chosen to follow. He was taking the trail that the law had opened. Such was his only policy for the present. The time would come soon when he would outstrip the action of the law.

A soft, whispered laugh pronounced that fact with prophetic mockery as Lamont Cranston strolled forth from the Cobalt Club.