Master of Death

CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW SEES

WHILE Merle Clussig, alone and unobserved was experiencing the prelude to death, fate was playing its tricky hand in the whole affair. Clussig himself had signed his death warrant when he had told the telephone operator to admit no reporters to his apartment.

Down in the lobby of the Starleigh, a visitor was waiting to see Merle Clussig. Clyde Burke, reporter from the New York Classic, had arrived less than five minutes after the inventor had gone upstairs.

Seated in one of the uncomfortable lobby chairs, Clyde was puzzling over certain incidents which had attended his arrival here. At the Classic office, the reporter had received a telephone call from Burbank.

He had been instructed to look up Merle Clussig and obtain an interview.

Clyde was a reporter who could exert the privilege of choosing his own assignments. He had left the Classic office promptly. He had arrived at the Starleigh in a taxicab. Something had occurred immediately.

Approaching the apartment house, Clyde had observed a man coming out. The fellow had walked along with a peculiar gait. Clyde had seen his face beneath the light of a street lamp. The sight of that countenance had caused the reporter to stop in wondering amazement.

As a police reporter, Clyde had come openly in contact with certain persons of the underworld. As an agent of The Shadow, Clyde had also encountered such individuals on other occasions. Clyde seldom forgot a face, and, this one was familiar to him. That square jaw, with its pock-marked chin, was the sign of recognition.

“Spud” Jagron, small-time racketeer, who had disappeared some time ago — he was the man whom Clyde Burke saw upon the street. Spud, Clyde recalled, had incurred the enmity of more influential racketeers, and it was generally believed that he had paid the price of indiscretion.

Nevertheless, as Clyde had seen the man pass around the corner of the apartment building, he felt more convinced that the fellow was Spud Jagron. He decided that the racketeer must be laying low, living in an obscure apartment at the Starleigh.

IN the lobby of the apartment house, Clyde had encountered his second surprise when he had approached the little booth where the switchboard operator was stationed.

In response to his inquiry for Merle Clussig, the girl had asked if Clyde was a reporter. When Clyde had answered in the affirmative, naming the Classic as the journal for which he worked, the operator had stated that Mr. Clussig was not at home.

Instead of leaving, Clyde had decided to wait a while. Time had rolled along. No one had come in or gone out. The reporter had become impatient. His thoughts had been directed more toward Spud Jagron than to Merle Clussig; now, with ten o’clock approaching, Clyde had decided that it was useless to waste further time.

The reporter approached the operator’s booth. The girl looked up and spoke sharply.

“I told you that Mr. Clussig was out,” she stated. “I do not know when he will return. Probably not tonight.”

“No?” inquired Clyde, as he noted the girl’s tone. “I had an idea that he would be here. Would you mind ringing his telephone to make sure that he is out?”

“I know that he is out,” asserted the girl.

“How do you know that?” quizzed Clyde.

“Because he told me so,” said the operator. “He told me that he was going out — that he would be out—”

“So far as reporters were concerned?” interposed Clyde.

The girl became impatient. She stared at Clyde Burke, and the reporter met her gaze with a smile.

“I understand,” he said. “I should have known it in the first place. Mr. Clussig told you not to ring his telephone — which means that he is out — if any reporter called. Is that it?”

“I have my instructions,” snapped the girl. “That’s enough.”

“Did Mr. Clussig give any reason for his action?” queried Clyde. “Did he state why he did not wish to see reporters?”

“No,” admitted the operator.

“That makes it different,” asserted Clyde. “I have an idea why Mr. Clussig might not want to see reporters. He wishes to avoid an interview. I came here for a different purpose. I have a business proposal which might interest him. Signed articles, under his own name. It is to his advantage to see me.”

The operator hesitated. Clyde became convincing in manner.

“Suppose,” he suggested, “that you call Mr. Clussig. Simply tell him that Mr. Burke is here, and would like to speak to him. Mention that I came from the Classic, but do not refer to me as a reporter.”

“If I call him,” declared the girl, “will you agree to leave in case he decides not to see you?”

“Yes,” replied Clyde.

“All right,” said the operator.

The girl plugged the switchboard, and rang Clussig’s apartment. There was no answer. Again she rang; still no reply. She looked toward Clyde in perplexity.

“He must be there,” said the operator. “He said positively that he would be in. That is, except to reporters. He is an odd sort of a man. I–I wonder if anything could have happened—”

“To Mr. Clussig?”

“Yes. I am sure that he did not go out. There was a stranger who came down the stairs just after Mr. Clussig went up. A terrible-looking man — his face was ghastly. I wondered what he was doing here.”

“Did Mr. Clussig seem apprehensive when he went upstairs?”

“Yes,” decided the operator, nodding. “He seemed quite worried. He is not answering my ring. Do you think—”

Clyde Burke was prompt. He saw a sure way of reaching Merle Clussig. He responded with a wise nod of his head, and turned the operator’s thought into a definite suggestion.

“It would be best,” he declared, “to learn if Mr. Clussig is in his apartment.”

THE operator left the booth and went to the office. She returned with a man in shabby uniform, evidently an attendant who served as both janitor and elevator man. She was explaining the situation. The janitor beckoned to Clyde Burke. He conducted the reporter to the elevator. They ascended to the third floor.

The janitor rapped on the door of Clussig’s apartment. When no response was received, he unlocked the door with a pass-key.

They found Clussig’s living room deserted. The janitor knocked heavily at the inner door. There was no response. The door refused to budge when the janitor tried it.

“He’s in there,” asserted the janitor. “It’s bolted from the other side. Say — this guy Clussig is a queer duck. Maybe something’s the matter with him. I don’t want to call a copper, but I guess I’ll have to.”

“How about a detective?” questioned Clyde.

“That’s better,” decided the janitor. “Come on.”

He led the way across the hall to a deserted apartment. He called the operator and told her to get detective headquarters. The janitor then handed the telephone to Clyde Burke.

The reporter heard a voice from the other end. He recognized the tones of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York force.

“Hello, Joe,” volunteered Clyde. “This is Burke, of the Classic. Up at the Starleigh Apartments to interview an inventor named Clussig. He’s locked in his room, and won’t reply. Something may be wrong!”

Clyde hung up the receiver and turned to the janitor. The reporter nodded.

“Detective Cardona will be here right away,” he said. “In the meantime, let’s bang again. Maybe we can get some answer.”

It was not long before Joe Cardona arrived. The detective was not alone. There were two men with him — one, another detective, the other a police surgeon. This was proof of Joe Cardona’s confidence in Clyde Burke’s judgment. The detective knew that when the Classic reporter scented trouble, it was likely to exist.

“In that room?” queried Cardona, pointing to the locked door.

“Yes,” returned Clyde. “Bolted from the other side.”

Cardona looked carefully about him, to study the situation before he proceeded. He drew a blackjack from his pocket, and dealt a vicious blow against the panel of the door, just above the knob. He repeated the action. The panel cracked; then broke. Cardona thrust his hand through the opening, drew the bolt, and swung the door inward. He held out a restraining hand as the others crowded forward.

MERLE CLUSSIG’S body was in full view. The inventor’s face was turned toward the door. It had a blackened appearance. There was no question: Clussig was dead.

After a short pause, Cardona strode into the room and went directly to the window. He raised the shade; then, noting that the sash was locked, he smashed the glass to admit a current of fresh air without disturbing the condition of the window frame itself.

The police surgeon approached the body. He did not stoop over it until he was assured that the air in the room had cleared. Then he began an examination.

He turned to Detective Joe Cardona.

“Carbon-monoxide poisoning,” he declared.

“You mean from the door and window being closed?” asked the detective. “The air supply giving out?”

“No,” returned the surgeon. “This is not a case of death by suffocation, produced simply by the exhaustion of oxygen in the air. Carbon monoxide gas has been admitted to this room.”

“I’ve handled garage suicides,” returned Cardona, “but they have always been due to the exhaust from the engine. What is there around here that could do it?”

“I do not know,” admitted the surgeon. “This room is just about air-tight. The carbon monoxide must have risen from the floor, until it overcame this victim.”

“If it’s been piped in here,” declared Cardona grimly, “we’ll find out how.”

Leaving his assistant in charge, Cardona went down to the lobby. Clyde Burke accompanied him. There, the detective called headquarters for more men. Clyde went to call the Classic office. Instead, he telephoned Burbank. He reported what had happened.

It was when Clyde was returning across the lobby that he saw something which made him stop short.

The stairway beside the elevator was dimly lighted. Projecting from its edge was a streak of blackness that lay along the floor. Although that patch was motionless, Clyde knew its meaning. It indicated the presence of an unseen being.

The Shadow had arrived!

“Burke!”

Cardona was calling from beside the switchboard booth. Clyde moved in answer to the detective’s bidding. He found Joe talking to the operator.

“This girl,” announced Cardona, “states that a man came down the stairs and went out after Clussig had gone up. She describes him as short and stocky — about my build — and says that he had a big, heavy jaw that looked scarred. You came in a few minutes afterward. Did you see any man who answered the description she has given?”

“I did,” returned Clyde. “I saw the man outside here. I thought I recognized him.”

“Who?” queried Cardona.

“Do you remember Spud Jagron?” asked Clyde. “The small-fry racketeer who got out of a couple of jams, and thought he was a big shot?”

Clyde paused. Cardona, smiling sourly, was shaking his head. Evidently he doubted Clyde’s recognition.

“Guess again, Burke,” said the detective. “Spud Jagron took the bump. I got it straight from three different stool pigeons. Some real big shot sent him for a ride. He never came back.”

“Maybe I was wrong, Joe. I thought I recognized Jagron, though.”

“I don’t blame you, Burke. The girl’s description sounds a lot like Jagron. But Jagron got his a good while ago. No doubt about it.

“We’ve got a good tip, though. There’s lots of boys on the force who know Jagron’s mug, and if they’re out to find a guy that looks like him, they’ll have a good start.”

Cardona strode toward the elevator. Clyde followed. The reporter’s eye swung toward the stairway.

Clyde saw the streak of blackness fading as it drew away. He knew that The Shadow had heard.

THE wheezy elevator was slow in its ascent. There was trouble opening the door. When Cardona and Clyde stepped out on the third floor, the reporter knew that there had been ample time for any one to come up by foot.

Instinctively, Clyde looked toward the opening to the stairway. Again, be saw a projecting blotch of black.

The Shadow was here!

When Cardona reached the room where Clussig’s body lay, he began a careful study of the place. He closed the door to the little room, and noted that the barrier came against a raised strip on the door sill.

No one could possibly have inserted any device beneath that door.

Cardona examined the window. The lock was strong. Through the broken pane, the detective tested the bars. They did not yield.

Cardona strode from the inner room and examined the outer door of the apartment. Its lock was in good order. As the detective returned to the center of the living room, Clyde looked beyond him to the hall.

There, the reporter saw an unnatural patch of blackness — almost a silhouette that rested against the wall.

Again, the reporter, secret agent of The Shadow, knew that his chief was close at hand.

Cardona’s swarthy face was grim. The detective looked at Clyde Burke and spoke.

“Here’s the story,” he declared. “Clussig came into his apartment. Someone could have entered, but it’s obvious that Clussig found the place empty. He went into the inner room and bolted the door. He began to work at the desk. He died from carbon-monoxide poisoning.

“That gas couldn’t have been there when Clussig came in. It generated while he was here. Somebody arranged it. There’s only one answer. The gas must have been piped into the place. Wait until my men arrive. We’ll find out.”

IT was not long before the detectives appeared. Their arrival was preceded by a distant clang of the elevator door. Clyde Burke knew well that The Shadow would glide from the outer door when he heard that noise. The sleuths, when they reported to Cardona, said nothing of having seen any one.

“We’re going to go through this little room,” explained Cardona. “Take everything apart — all the books come down — but it all goes back like you found it. Get going.”

Clussig’s body was removed. Clyde Burke watched the work that followed.

Detective Cardona had the status of an acting inspector. He performed his work with unfailing method. In the course of one hour, detectives had completely dismantled the room. All the objects moved had been replaced. Nothing had been neglected. Even the desk, at Cardona’s order, had been taken apart. Yet Cardona stood dejected as he surveyed the reconstructed scene.

“We haven’t found a thing,” he said, as he shook his head. “All we’ve learned is that there was no possible way for that deadly gas to get in here. It beats me, Burke.”

The ace detective went over by the desk, and moved a few notebooks to the correct position in which they first had been. As he stepped back, he noted the wastebasket standing beneath the desk.

He tipped it on its side, pointing inward at an angle — the way it had been when he had first seen it.

“That’s all,” decided Cardona. “I’m coming back here, Burke, to look for clews. But I’ve missed the one thing I was sure must be here — either jets or a tank. How that carbon monoxide entered this place is a mystery.”

Motioning to his crew, Cardona led the way from the apartment, after closing the inner door and bolting it by reaching through the panel. He locked the outer door, and the squad followed the chief. Clyde Burke went with the detectives.

The reporter threw a sidelong glance toward the dim blind end of the hall behind him. There he fancied that he once again saw a formation of preternatural blackness — the indication of a hidden, spectral shape.

Mystery had surrounded the death of Merle Clussig. Clyde Burke had watched the thorough search for hidden gas jets. Like Detective Cardona, the reporter was baffled. Yet Clyde knew one fact that Cardona did not.

All during this exhaustive search, hidden eyes had been watching. Where clews could escape the cleverest of detectives, they could not elude the keen eyes of that supersleuth known as The Shadow.

The apartment of death was empty. It had been rearranged in its original condition. The Shadow had seen the work; now it would be The Shadow’s turn to institute his own investigation.

Crime had struck tonight. Clyde Burke was confident that The Shadow, emerging from blackness, would find a starting point to war against the insidious brain which had so amazingly designed the death of Merle Clussig!