Mox

CHAPTER IX CARDONA TAKES A TRIP

“WHAT do you think of it, Cardona?” Police Commissioner Ralph Weston was the propounder of the question. He had summoned the star detective to his office on the second morning after the affray which had occurred in Darport. He was pointing out the latest news reports of the amazing incidents in the house of Mox.

“Burke may be right,” returned Cardona thoughtfully.

“Who is Burke?” inquired the commissioner.

“The Classic reporter,” was Cardona’s response. “He’s written what I’ve been thinking. His link-up of missing inventors seems to hit the nail on the head.”

“Then you see a tie-up with the Harlow murder?”

“I do. Commissioner, I’ve been reading that note we found on Harlow’s desk. I think maybe the murderer left it there because he didn’t see anything in it that would point us to the source of crime.”

“But the reference to The Shadow! Preposterous!”

“The letter was simply addressed to The Shadow. Harlow may have been — well” — Cardona’s tone was reluctant — “maybe he was goofy. I’ve been reading this fellow Neswick’s story. He left New York at just about the same time of night that Greerson started out. They tried to get Neswick in this fellow Moxton’s house. Maybe they did get Greerson.”

“The newspaper reports,” commented Weston, in a wise tone, “are somewhat garbled. I have discovered the reason.”

“Do you mean the guy that’s handling the case?” queried Cardona. “Junius Tharbel — the county detective that thinks he’s a big shot?”

“Yes,” replied Weston. “Tharbel is a big man — in a small way. As county detective, located in Darport, he has gained a remarkable record over a period of twenty years. He has made a name for himself, Cardona.”

“As a sportsman,” returned the detective.

“Yes, that’s true,” laughed the commissioner. “He likes fishing and hunting, and is quite a golfer, I understand. Well, Cardona, you can thank Tharbel for one thing. Your work as an acting inspector has ended. You will be relieved.”

“On account of Tharbel?” Cardona could not repress the indignation in his question.

“Only indirectly,” smiled Weston. “I have arranged with Tharbel to send a special representative of the New York police to Darport. You are the detective whom I have chosen for the job.”

“That’s different, commissioner.” Cardona was somewhat sheepish after his outburst. “It suits me great. If there’s any tie-up between this attempt on Neswick’s life, and the disappearance of Greerson — as well as Harlow’s death — you can count on me to uncover it.”

WHEN the noon express stopped at Darport, Detective Joe Cardona alighted to find a solemn, hatchet-faced man awaiting him. He recognized Junius Tharbel, the county detective who had gained so high a reputation in his section.

Tharbel, rather tall and something of a scarecrow in the old suit that he wore, extended a brief greeting to the New York sleuth.

He led Cardona to an old coupe. The car rattled along the rough streets of Darport, and pulled up in front of a dilapidated building where Tharbel’s offices were located. The rear of the county jail was visible from the second-story room where Tharbel conducted Cardona.

“Where are the reporters?” queried Cardona.

“Somewhere around town,” returned Tharbel tersely. “Playing some of these contraptions, I reckon.”

He indicated a row of broken slot machines along the wall of his office.

“Picked these up on a raid,” he explained. “There’s new ones in; I’ll grab them some day next week.”

Joe Cardona repressed a grin. A county detective who bothered himself about nickel machines was small fry, in his opinion. But the response to Cardona’s next query caused the New York detective to form a reluctant admiration for Tharbel’s ability.

“I can’t figure why the reporters aren’t around,” remarked Cardona. “They’re usually hot on a job like this.”

“They know me,” answered Tharbel. “That’s why they’re not here. The more they pester me, the less they get. I let them hang around until they’re sick of it. One of them saw these machines. That gave him an idea of a way to spend his time. The others went along with him.”

“The city editors will be wondering about the heavy expense accounts,” commented Cardona, with a grin.

“Sit down,” suggested Tharbel, as he took a chair behind a broken-down desk, and removed a stack of papers from a drawer. Cardona accepted the invitation.

“Here’s what I’ve got,” continued Tharbel. “The reporters are all mixed up about it. This is our confidential information.”

Cardona nodded.

“STATE police,” began Tharbel, in a matter-of-fact tone, “raided the home of a man called Jarvis Moxton, two nights ago, shortly after midnight. They heard shots. That’s why they went into the place.

“When they entered, they were shot at from the head of the stairs by a man who answers the description of Moxton. An old fellow, with gray hair and beard. He wounded one of the State policemen. He got away.

“The police found the bodies of four dead men, all of whom have been identified as servants of Moxton. Besides, they discovered a man named Joel Neswick, whom they brought to me. I am holding him as a material witness.”

“The inventor,” remarked Cardona.

“Yes,” declared Tharbel. “He was obviously intended to be the victim. Some one — evidently an enemy of Moxton — intervened to save him.”

“The details?”

“I can give them. Joel Neswick came to see Jarvis Moxton to sell him an invention. He was suspicious of the house after he entered it. He was taken to Moxton’s living room. Then he was conducted back through the hall.

“That, according to Neswick, was when the trouble began. There were shots from the living room. The servant who was with Neswick pulled a gun. Neswick struggled with him. He got a knock-out blow on the head.

“He remembers some one helping him. He was carried to the stairs and all the way along; this rescuer fired at the other servants. Neswick was dropped at the foot of the stairs. He was still bewildered when the police entered.”

“And the man who helped him?”

“He was gone.”

“Hm-m-m,” commented Cardona. “Do you think Neswick’s story is on the level?”

“Yes,” snapped Tharbel, in a positive tone, “and I’ll tell you why. First of all, everybody in the house belonged to Moxton. Second, Moxton battled the police. Third, Neswick had a chance to get away; instead, he helped the wounded State policeman who was lying alone. Fourth” — Tharbel’s words were terse — ” Neswick has stuck to his story about another person being there. It’s the right story, too.”

“But if this other man was not seen by the police—”

“Old Moxton’s servants,” interposed Tharbel, “were shot by bullets fired from a .45 caliber automatic. Neswick had no chance to hide a gun. He was unarmed. Moxton had a revolver, not an automatic.”

“He might have used the automatic first.”

“Yes. But I am sorry to say, I doubt it.”

“Why?” questioned Cardona, in a puzzled tone.

“Because,” declared Tharbel, “we want Moxton for the attempted murder of Joel Neswick. If my theory is right, we will want him for the murder of other persons. If we had proof that Moxton had killed the servants — which I am sure he did not — we would have a more immediate charge against him.”

“But the man who did kill them—”

“Fought in self-defense, by Neswick’s statement. He was there to prevent murder, and he succeeded.”

CARDONA was thoughtful. He was forced to admit to himself that Junius Tharbel was a detective of real ability. He was getting details that the local sleuth had kept from the reporters. More startling information, however, was immediately forthcoming.

“Murder,” asserted Tharbel. “That’s the charge I want to bring against Jarvis Moxton. That’s why I have accepted your cooperation. You can supply the murder charge.”

“You mean—”

“I meant that Joel Neswick has told us who sent him here. He came at the suggestion of a man named Schuyler Harlew.”

“Who was murdered in New York!”

“Yes. But Neswick didn’t know it. He was working on the final details of the invention he brought to Moxton. He had not read the newspapers for several days.”

“That might be a stall.”

“Not a bit of it. Why would Neswick mention Harlew’s name, if Harlew wasn’t in it? Would a man go out of his way to claim that he had not read the newspapers for a week? Listen, Cardona: I base my theories on my judgment of human nature. A crook will show himself, every time. If he tells a good story, it’s a glib one. I’ll let you talk with Neswick. You’ll agree that I’m right.”

“If we can get the man who murdered Harlew,” declared Cardona, “we’ll get the man—”

“Who murdered Greerson,” interrupted Tharbel shrewdly.

Cardona found himself nodding in agreement. The county detective had taken the very thought that he had been about to express.

“The State police are guarding the old house,” continued Tharbel. “They have found some very interesting indications, which the newspapers have missed. We can go over there shortly. In the meantime, I may add that the police captured a witness who has not yet made his statement.”

“A witness? In the house? Did you hold him?”

“Yes. A Dalmatian.”

“Doesn’t he speak English? An interpreter would do the trick—”

Tharbel chuckled by way of interruption.

“The Dalmatian is a dog,” he explained. “A carriage dog; the kind that used to run under coaches. White, with brown spots—”

“I’ve seen them on Fifth Avenue,” nodded Cardona, “but that was a good many years ago. Say — if the breed is rare, you might be able to trace Moxton through the dog.”

“Hardly,” decided Tharbel. “No, the dog will be more useful later on — when we have found Moxton.”

“You mean that the dog will know him?”

“Exactly. The dog, very fortunately, refuses to make friends. When I learned that fact, I had him placed in the jail. The men in charge of him have strict instructions not to coax him. No one — not even myself — has approached him. The dog wants his master. When he sees him—”

Tharbel did not complete the inference. Cardona again admired the county detective’s shrewdness. A dog would know its master. Moxton’s dog would probably be no exception.

“Not only Moxton’s house,” declared Tharbel, “but the man’s own actions indicate his crookedness. He came here some months ago and purchased the old house for cash. It underwent repairs. Moxton, when he lived there, posed as a semi-invalid. He was seen, nearly every day, by persons in the neighborhood, when he took feeble walks about his premises.

“But when he faced the State police, he showed every sign of agility. His disappearance is further proof that he could move with speed. He must have made his way out one of the many downstairs doors. There were two flights of steps in the house. He could have taken the ones opposite those which the police used to come up.”

With this statement, Tharbel arose and picked up his hat. He motioned Cardona to come along.

“Can’t show you the dog,” said Tharbel abruptly, as the two men went down the street. “Nobody sees that Dalmatian. Not until we’ve got Moxton — nobody except the men who are looking out for him. But I’ll take you to the house.”

AS they climbed into the coupe, Cardona put a sudden question. It was something that he had meant to ask, but had forgotten in the discussion of other matters.

“You say that all of Moxton’s servants died?” he asked. “All lost out when they were fighting to get this inventor, Neswick?”

“All that we could find,” returned Tharbel.

“And yet Neswick could give you no description of the man who rescued him?”

“Only a vague description,” answered Tharbel, as he guided the coupe to the avenue which led to Moxton’s house. “So vague, in fact, that it only shows that Neswick must have been knocked pretty hard when Moxton’s servant hit him with the gun.”

“What was the description?” persisted Cardona.

“Well,” recalled Tharbel, “all that Neswick could see was flashes of an automatic. He felt himself lifted up, but everything was black while he was being carried downstairs. When Moxton opened fire from the top, he saw more flashes from the bottom. Then he imagined that he saw a lot of darkness move and spread like it was human. A black ghost — that’s all that Neswick could describe.”

Tharbel was staring along the road as he spoke. He was turning the car to bring it alongside of Moxton’s house. Hence, the famous county detective did not see the gasping look that appeared upon Joe Cardona’s face.

Yet in his remembrance of Neswick’s blurred description, Junius Tharbel had given Joe Cardona final assurance that Neswick’s story was a true one. The mention of a black ghost — a phantom shape that vanished before bewildered eyes — was all that Cardona needed.

The defeat of four armed henchmen by one lone fighter was explained to Joe Cardona’s satisfaction. The star detective had gained a positive hunch of his own. His lips silently framed the name of the being whom he was sure had won that fray:

“The Shadow!”