Mox

CHAPTER XVII DEATH INTERRUPTS

THE following afternoon found Joe Cardona at the county jail. The New York ace had taken it upon himself to watch affairs there, even though his capacity was ex officio. If Junius Tharbel preferred to go hunting when he should be grilling prisoners, that did not relieve Cardona from the duty which he felt was his lot.

Somehow, Cardona had a hunch that a break was coming soon. He mentioned the fact to Clyde Burke and Cuthbert Challick, both of whom were with him, but he did not state the underlying reason for his hunch.

“There’s something phony about the way Tharbel is acting,” was Cardona’s chief declaration. “Maybe he knows more than he says; that’s the only answer I can figure out.”

It was not Tharbel’s part, however, that weighed so heavily in the formation of Cardona’s hunch. The New York sleuth was positive that another figured in this case; one whose power was sure to be felt ere long. Cardona was thinking of The Shadow.

Knowing The Shadow’s ability at crime detection, realizing that The Shadow was also a master of disguise, Cardona was sure that the master investigator had been present at important events.

He was sure that The Shadow had witnessed the dog tests, particularly the first, for it was after that occurrence that Cardona had found the note that pointed to Irving Salbrook.

Consideration had enabled Cardona to analyze the game, even though he could not place the participants as he wished. The inclusion of The Shadow made Cardona’s analysis hold water.

It was evident, first of all, that Mox must be matching his wits against the law. The superfiend had disappeared, yet Cardona felt that he was still present, playing an important part.

The note naming Hoyt Wyngarth could well have been supplied by Mox. The villain’s plan was to shift his identity on to a man who for some reason feared to speak.

The Shadow had countered Mox’s move. He had enabled Cardona, through a second note, to uncover Irving Salbrook. That had temporarily shattered the case against Hoyt Wyngarth.

Although Junius Tharbel did not seem to like it, Hoyt Wyngarth had actually been cleared of the threatening suspicion which surrounded him. Irving Salbrook now shared the burden which had originally rested upon Wyngarth.

Either of the two could be Mox; and with two possible claimants at hand, it was even more logical that neither man was Mox.

MOX!

The name maddened Cardona. He felt that Mox was clever enough to be in this game, throwing the mechanism of the law out of kilter. By posing as a person interested in the case, the man of murder had many opportunities to cover his evil trail.

The Shadow!

There was the gleam of hope. He, too, was clever. Cardona was sure that The Shadow was playing the part of an individual who had some interest in the case, and that he — the master of detection — was breaking down the barriers that Mox was setting.

Cardona could do nothing but wait and let the atmosphere clear. It might take days, but the star detective hoped that the break would be soon. That was why he stayed about the jail, and even while Cardona waited idly, the break arrived.

It was the local jailer who brought the news. Cardona saw the beefy man at the door. He approached as the jailer beckoned. Clyde Burke and Cuthbert Challick followed:

“This guy Wyngarth is gone cuckoo,” announced the jailer. “Walking about his cell like a caged lion. He wants to talk. Says he’s got to see Tharbel.”

“Get Tharbel,” said Cardona quickly.

“I’ve called the hunting lodge,” returned the jailer. “They’re out shooting. A car has gone out to look for them. Meanwhile Wyngarth is getting wild.”

“Call Scudder,” suggested Cardona.

“Say!” The idea hit the jailer as he spoke. “That’s a good idea. Sure thing — Scudder’s over at the inn, ain’t he? I’ll tell him to come here.”

The call was made. Three minutes later, Scudder appeared with Neswick. The trouble was explained. Scudder beckoned as he started for Wyngarth’s cell.

The prisoner appeared pitiable. He was clutching the bars of the cell door, staring through, with pale face pressed against the metal. His lips were parched. His voice was hoarse.

“I can’t stand it!” he shrieked, as he saw the people who arrived. “I’m afraid — afraid — afraid—”

Scudder did not know what to say. Joe Cardona, noting the hesitation of Tharbel’s assistant, took it upon himself to assume charge.

“You’d better talk, Wyngarth,” he declared.

“I’ve been afraid to talk!” Wyngarth’s tone was pleading. “I’ve been afraid — because I know what will happen if I do talk. But I’m going to break — it’s coming — and the sooner I chance it, the better I’ll be.”

“Tell us about it.”

“Not here! Not here!” Wyngarth screamed. “Take me away from this cell — away from this jail. I’ll tell all I know! But don’t leave me, now that I’ve promised to speak. You can’t leave me!”

Convulsive sobs came from Wyngarth’s throat. The listeners stared solemnly. They knew that Wyngarth’s fears were real.

“We’ve sent for Tharbel,” assured Cardona. “He’ll be coming in here shortly. He’ll take you to his office. He’ll let you talk.”

“I can’t wait!” wailed Wyngarth. “If I wait, I’ll lose my nerve! I won’t talk — ever — if you don’t hear me now. I can’t talk in this place. Unless you get me out of here—”

“How about it?” questioned Cardona, turning to Scudder. “Why not take him up to Tharbel’s office? You have a key, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” admitted Scudder, “but Tharbel has left orders to keep Wyngarth in here.”

“Perhaps,” returned Cardona testily, “but Tharbel ought to be around. I’ve seen cases like this before. When a man wants to talk, you’ve got to take advantage of it.”

“Something may happen to me,” pleaded Wyngarth. “I’d talk here, if I dared. But these bars frighten me. I’ll be freed after I tell my story. Take me out of here!”

He began to rattle the bars furiously as he spoke. There was no question about Wyngarth’s highly nervous condition. Joe Cardona saw that much could be gained by removing him at once.

“Tharbel’s a fine guy,” growled Cardona. “Thinks he’s the big boss of this county. No one can make a move without his permission—”

“What about the county prosecutor?” The subtle suggestion came from Cuthbert Challick, who was standing by.

“You’ve hit it!” exclaimed Cardona. “He’s over Tharbel! Where’s his office, Scudder?”

“Down the street,” was the reply. “He should be there now.”

“I’ll get him,” decided Cardona, in a grim tone, as he left the cell room.

FIVE minutes afterward, Joe Cardona returned, accompanied by a squat, gray-haired man. This was Barry Davies, the county prosecutor. Scudder approached as the official arrived.

“Hello, prosecutor,” he said. “This fellow Wyngarth wants to make a confession. He won’t talk while he’s in his cell. He says he can’t wait to talk.”

“Tharbel is out hunting, eh?” questioned the prosecutor.

“Yes,” returned Scudder. “We’ve sent for him.”

The prosecutor looked at Wyngarth. The prisoner began a new plea, in a sincere, quieted tone.

“I’m worried here,” he explained. “I’ve heard — I’ve seen” — he threw a quick glance over his shoulder toward the barred window of his cell — “well, I can’t tell you my fears until I’m somewhere safe. Somewhere above ground, where I’m free to talk—”

“I never like to interfere with Tharbel,” interposed the prosecutor. “He is a highly competent man. Interference only destroys his work. I would prefer to keep this man in his cell until Tharbel arrives.”

“This is an emergency,” insisted Cardona.

“I know that,” nodded the prosecutor. “Therefore, I am willing to depart from my customary policy. Everything must be done in precise fashion. Scudder, you can bring the prisoner to Tharbel’s office. I shall have a court stenographer present to take down his statement.”

A sigh of relief came from Hoyt Wyngarth’s lips. Then, with glowing eyes, the prisoner spoke to the prosecutor.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he promised. “About the dog, too — why he knows me. You can bring the dog there. Let me see him. I’m sorry I treated him the way I did when he was thrust into the room where I was. Poor old fellow! He’s my friend!”

The prosecutor was doubtful. Finally, he made another decision of approval.

“Have the dog taken to the front office of Tharbel’s suite,” he ordered. “Wyngarth to the rear office — the regular one. Wait a moment — let me see whom I’ll admit there.”

He glanced at the faces of those about him. Joe Cardona supplied the introductions.

“Clyde Burke, reporter of the New York Classic,” said the sleuth. “This man is Joel Neswick, who was rescued from the old house. This is Cuthbert Challick, whom I brought from New York to testify that he had been asked to visit Mox—”

“All right,” nodded the prosecutor.

“These men will be admitted.”

The group broke up. As they were leaving the cell room so that Scudder could take the prisoner alone, they heard Hoyt Wyngarth babble wildly.

“Guard me!” were his words. “I’m being watched! There will be danger when I’m outside! Please be careful. Mox is a fiend!” It was the first time that Wyngarth had uttered the monster’s name. “Mox has creatures who do his bidding! I know that one of them must be near!”

Scudder and the jailer took charge of Wyngarth. They did not bring the prisoner through the front. They whisked him out by a side entrance, into a back door of the building which contained Tharbel’s offices and up the stairs.

SULTRY dusk was settling around the buildings. Joe Cardona, strolling alone beside the jail, saw the lights come on in Tharbel’s offices. The detective hurried up the stairs. When he arrived in the rear office, he found Scudder and the jailer with Wyngarth in charge.

“You can go back,” said Scudder to the jailer. “This man and I will guard the prisoner.”

There were no handcuffs on Wyngarth’s wrists, but Scudder had a revolver in his hand, and Cardona drew one also. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Clyde Burke arrived, followed by Joel Neswick.

Cuthbert Challick was the next to appear. He stood with Neswick, in a corner by the door. The windows were open; Cardona was lounging beside one. Burke was in another corner. Scudder had placed Wyngarth by the desk, which was vacant, awaiting the arrival of the prosecutor.

Barry Davies appeared, with a court stenographer. The prosecutor took the seat behind the desk. The stenographer sat on his right, by the rear window where Cardona was stationed.

Hoyt Wyngarth, face buried in hands, was seated at the left of the desk, close to the side window. Scudder, holding his revolver, blocked the door.

Wyngarth raised his head. He seemed very pale. He looked about him; then stared at the prosecutor.

“Where is the dog?” questioned Wyngarth.

“In the front room,” broke in Scudder.

“We shall produce the dog later,” asserted the prosecutor, in a businesslike tone. “Proceed with your statement. We are ready.”

Wyngarth gripped the edge of the desk. Half rising from his chair, he began his story, as he stared steadily at the prosecutor.

“I knew a man named Harlew,” he said. “Schuyler Harlew. He was an agent of Mox. He — he knew of things that I had done, and he threatened me — threatened me unless I came to see Mox. I–I did not know where Mox lived. I was brought by Harlew — to do what Mox commanded—”

THE stenographer was taking the jerky remarks in shorthand. Wyngarth’s facial muscles began to twitch. He gripped the edge of the desk more fiercely. He rose to his feet and clung, stoop-shouldered.

“Mox is a fiend!” gasped Wyngarth. “He is not an old man, as he pretends to be. I have never seen his real face, but I know that his hair and beard are false, because—”

“Look out!” The warning came in a quick, firm voice from Cuthbert Challick, who was facing the window. As he uttered the words, the tall inventor sprang forward and shot out his long arms to wrest Hoyt Wyngarth from a point of danger.

The prisoner was paralyzed. Had he been responsive to Challick’s instantaneous warning, had he acted with any of the quick instinctiveness that the inventor displayed, Wyngarth might have been saved. His bewildered senses, however, failed him in the crisis.

Just as Cuthbert Challick clutched the prisoner’s motionless arm, something whirred through the window and flashed as it struck Wyngarth’s back, directly between the shoulders. With a shriek, Wyngarth lost his hold, and twisted sidewise. Challick, with a display of unusual strength, caught the man’s body with his right arm, and eased Wyngarth’s horror-stricken face forward on the table.

Startled gasps came from every person in the room. Men were on their feet, staring in horror. Cuthbert Challick was gazing downward at the man whose life he had been unable to save.

Hoyt Wyngarth was coughing blood upon the desk. His breath was choking. He was dying. Straight upward from his pitifully bent shoulders projected the weapon that had brought his doom; the quivering rounded handle of a knife that was buried to the hilt in the victim’s body.

Death had interrupted the testimony of Hoyt Wyngarth. The doom that Wyngarth feared had been delivered!