Master of Death

CHAPTER XXI. CARDONA’S TURN

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood in the room where death had failed. The greenish gas had long since settled. Only black-streaked walls and sooty fixtures remained as evidence of the tragedy that might have been.

With the detective were Holbrook Edkins and Lamont Cranston. The story had been told. It was Cranston, now, who was adding pointed comments.

“I noted the ashes accidentally,” he said. “I had seen powdered preparations which produced deadly gases. I suspected that this might be one. After the test, another thought occurred to me — namely, that this man, Eric Veldon, might have been involved.”

“Do you know anything about Veldon?” questioned Cardona.

“No,” said Cranston smoothly. “I have never met him. But when Mr. Edkins first told me about Veldon, and stated that he was a man who played between inventors and financiers, I suspected that the fellow might be a crook.”

“Swindlers are seldom murderers,” remarked Cardona sagely.

“I am probably mistaken,” admitted Cranston, in an absent-minded tone. “Perhaps, the circumstances startled me. I jumped to a fantastic conclusion, probably induced — ah, now I have it — by something that I read in the papers.

“You see, Mr. Edkins and I had been talking about X-ray inventions — electrical appliances. The blackened marks upon the walls brought up the suggestion of carbon monoxide. I remembered something about an electrical inventor, killed by carbon-monoxide poison—”

As Cranston’s subtle suggestion ended, Joe Cardona’s face lighted with sudden understanding. Before the detective could speak, however, Cranston added another thought.

“X-rays,” he remarked, “generate terrific heat. I read another odd item in the newspaper about a chemist — a man experienced in the study of deadly gases — who died from a strange, burning fever—”

This time Cardona’s interruption came. The detective brought one fist against the open palm of his other hand, as be saw a connection which he had not previously noted.

“Merle Clussig!” he cried. “Wycroft Dustin! Say — do you think this bird Veldon knew those men?”

“Clussig?” questioned Cranston, as though the name meant nothing. “Dustin?”

“Yes,” exclaimed Cardona. “They were the two whom you read about in the newspapers.”

“I didn’t recall the names,” said Cranston. “The only name I remembered recently was that of a physician — a Doctor Barratini—”

“Maybe he was mixed in it, too!” blurted Cardona. “Look here, Mr. Edkins” — he turned to the bluff-faced millionaire — “can you tell me anything about this Veldon? Where he lives? What he does?”

“He is a promoter,” said Edkins. “But I never knew where he made his home. I never had correspondence with him.”

“Are you sure?”

“We can look through my file of recent letters.”

“Good,” decided Cardona. “Get them out.”

A SERVANT came into the room. He announced that there was a call for Mr. Cranston from the Cobalt Club. While Edkins was talking with Cardona, Cranston sauntered downstairs. He spoke quietly over the telephone. Burbank’s voice answered.

“Report from Burke,” informed the contact agent. “He followed the car to its destination. Old mansion, at Turnerdale, Long Island. Burley Road, west of Graypoint Highway.”

No one was in the lower hall. From his pocket, Lamont Cranston produced a printed calling card. It bore the name:

With a pencil, Cranston scrawled the address that Burbank had given him. Pocketing the card, he strolled upstairs and joined Edkins and Cardona. The detective was going through a pile of papers, which included letters, paid bills, and other memoranda.

A bill slipped from Cardona’s hand. It fluttered to the floor. Cranston’s hand dropped to his vest pocket.

Cranston stooped to pick up the bill. Cardona was a moment late; he did not see the card that was neatly clipped between Cranston’s first two fingers.

As he placed the bill upon the stack of papers, Cranston made another dexterous manipulation. He did not drop the card directly beneath the bill; instead, he inserted it farther down in the stack of papers.

“I have received an urgent call from the club,” he remarked. “I must run down there; I can return later, if I am needed.”

“That’s all right,” agreed Cardona. “I’ll call you there, Mr. Cranston, if it proves necessary.”

Cranston shook hands with Edkins, and left the den. His footsteps died on the stairs. Cardona, with Edkins staring over his shoulder, kept on through the stack of papers. A cry came unexpectedly from the detective. Edkins looked at the card which the sleuth had discovered.

“Here it is!” exclaimed Cardona. “Say — this is a find! Veldon’s own card — with his address on it!”

“I don’t remember him giving it to me,” said Edkins, in a puzzled tone. “I wonder if it’s the place he lives—”

“I’m finding out!” asserted Cardona. “It’s all I want. I’m starting with a raiding squad. That fellow sent another man in here tonight — the one who planted the powder when he took the clock. Maybe there’s a bunch to deal with. We’ll show them, if they’re still on deck when we get there!”

TEN minutes later, a siren sounded in the street in front of the house. Joe Cardona hurried down the steps to join four men in a police car. The siren shrieked again, as the automobile shot on its way.

Joe Cardona and his men were heading for the spot on Long Island. Their car whirled rapidly through the streets of Manhattan, heading toward an East River bridge. It passed the traffic areas, and shot along a clear highway.

Joe Cardona was following the trail. He was going to give combat to Eric Veldon, the murderer.

Yet, with all its swiftness, the police car did not overtake a powerful coupe that was burning up the road ahead.

Slashing onward at a ninety-mile clip, his firm hands gripping the wheel of his low-built car, was an intrepid driver who was certain to beat the police to their destination. Unseen in the darkness of his car, the only sign which this personage gave of his presence was a mocking laugh that sounded clearly above the roar of the motor.

Preceding Joe Cardona to the quest was the strange being who had secretly given the detective the information that he needed — the one who had actually learned the location of Eric Veldon’s abode of horror.

The Shadow, swift and formidable, was speeding onward to begin the final battle with the superfiend. It was Cardona’s turn tonight; but it was The Shadow who had called the turn!