Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER XVIII THE PROOF OF CRIME

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA had admitted a fact when he had stated that he was completely bewildered by the complications that surrounded crime. Until this night, Joe had been convinced that Donald Powlden was the murderer of three men. Now the sleuth agreed otherwise.

Kip Nethro had believed Philo Dreblin the murderer. The magnate, in turn, had suspected the investigator. Their theories were riddled as bad as Cardona’s. There had been three in the boat when Cardona had paced Dreblin’s study, awaiting the arrival of Markham.

In fact, Cardona had begun to doubt that Lamont Cranston knew more than he had told. Not connecting Cranston with The Shadow, Joe had merely believed that he had been dealing with an amateur detective who had made a lucky guess.

Then out of a clear sky had come the bombshell that had started Cardona to a new destination. A cryptic telephone call from Wainwright Barth, the last person from whom the ace had expected to gain a new and important lead. For Joe had little faith in the acting commissioner’s ability as a crime detector.

Barth had ordered Cardona to come to Hiram Caffley’s home on Long Island. Tersely interrupting Cardona’s own statements, Barth had advised the detective to be prompt. He had also admonished Cardona to tell no one where he was going. Joe was to come alone by taxicab, and meet the commissioner upon his arrival.

Cardona had taken a cab at a corner near Dreblin’s. As the taxi rolled across a huge East River bridge, the detective began to form a definite conclusion regarding the new developments. Cardona remembered that Caffley had left the Cobalt Club to go straight home; he also recalled that Barth had remained at the club.

Either Caffley or Barth had struck upon something. That seemed definite. Barth had gone to Caffley’s; there the two had decided that they needed Cardona for their conference. Joe began to have a lurking suspicion that he had nearly made another slip at Dreblin’s.

After all, neither Nethro nor Dreblin had actually substantiated their well-stated alibis. Joe remembered Lamont Cranston’s advice: to hold the two men until the alibis had been checked. Well, Markham was holding them. That was cause for satisfaction.

The taxi was far past the bridge when Cardona’s mind was trying to puzzle out what Barth and Caffley could possibly have learned about Dreblin. Had the two found some lead that showed Nethro’s connection as investigator for Dreblin?

That seemed the only logical answer, for a very definite reason. Barth had deliberately called Cardona at Dreblin’s and had instructed the ace to leave there. The commissioner had not said to arrest Dreblin.

As the cab rolled along a broad, well-lighted boulevard, Cardona came to the decision that this trip would probably be of little consequence. He doubted that Barth had any important data concerning Dreblin; if he had, he would have called for the magnate’s arrest.

Cardona was also sure that no news could have reached Barth concerning the flight of Al Sycher from the Belgaria Apartments. It looked merely like a call from Caffley, asking for a conference with the police commissioner; with Barth, after his arrival, deciding that Cardona should be in on the talk.

Cardona felt that he would be the real news bringer when he reached Caffley’s home; that his account of recent developments would dwarf any information that either Barth or Caffley had to offer.

Joe chuckled loudly as the cab turned from the boulevard, on to the last short stretch before Caffley’s home.

THE ride had been a quick one, despite the distance. Cardona was surprised at the amount of the taxi fare when he alighted at the long front walk that led to a large, gloomy building — the home of Hiram Caffley.

The trip had required little more than twenty minutes; yet Cardona had reached an isolated district tucked off from the heavy traffic of the boulevard, in the direction of Long Island Sound.

Joe noted a large car parked in a driveway alongside the house. Its parking lights were on, and the detective recognized the automobile as the acting commissioner’s car.

A stocky servant answered Joe’s ring. The menial ushered the detective through a large, dimly lighted hall, into a fair-sized room that looked like a library. Here Cardona found Barth and Caffley awaiting him.

The acting commissioner greeted the detective with a sour smile. Cardona sat down in a chair that Caffley indicated, wondering what he had done to incur Barth’s displeasure.

There was a telephone on a table beside the commissioner. It was probably from this room that Barth had made his call. All about the library were bookshelves. Cardona had come in from a side door; directly opposite was an exit to a sun porch. Joe noted a curtained doorway at the front of the room; another at the rear.

“Well, commissioner,” asserted the detective, “I’m here. I made good time, too. Couldn’t break away from Dreblin’s right off; but it didn’t take me more than five minutes to get started. Came out by cab, like you told me. What’s up?”

Cardona thought this to be a good introduction. He wanted to let Barth talk first, for he felt sure that the commissioner had nothing more than trifling information. That meant that Cardona would provide the real life of the conference when he spieled his own adventures.

Oddly, it was Caffley who answered. The gray-haired man took it upon himself to be spokesman without so much as a glance toward Barth.

Cardona wondered at that fact; he was also puzzled by the peculiar smile which appeared upon Caffley’s droopy and usually solemn face.

“LESS than an hour ago, Cardona,” asserted Caffley, “I called the Cobalt Club, hoping that Commissioner Barth was still there. He was; and I told him that I had discovered some important letters which Newell Frieth had written me while he was promoting Duro Metal.

“I asked Commissioner Barth to come out here and study that correspondence with me. I requested also that he bring you along. I was rather surprised when the commissioner arrived alone. He then informed me that he had thought it unwise to disturb your interview with Philo Dreblin.”

“But you did call me at Dreblin’s, commissioner,” put in Cardona, turning to Barth. “Did you change your mind about it after you arrived here?”

“I did,” replied Barth, with a short nod.

Cardona stared at the commissioner, puzzled at Barth’s manner. The detective heard Caffley speak again; the man’s voice carried a sarcastic touch.

“I persuaded Commissioner Barth to call you, Cardona,” came Caffley’s statement. “I also suggested that he make his statements brief; that he order you to come alone—”

“It was not his threat against me, Cardona,” blurted Barth, coming up in his chair. “I would not have done it on my own account alone. But the scoundrel had captured Lawrence, my chauffeur! He said that unless—”

Barth was glaring furiously toward Caffley. Cardona swung about, to see the gray-haired manufacturer of ferroluminum standing in the center of the room. Caffley had drawn a revolver from his coat pocket. He held the weapon lowered but in readiness.

“When I persuaded Commissioner Barth,” affirmed Caffley, in a dry harsh tone, “I used this weapon as a means of pressing my point. But as the commissioner says” — Caffley’s eyes were narrowed; his mild face had become vicious — “my threat might have failed, had I not told him that I held Lawrence helpless.

“I then convinced the commissioner” — Caffley’s words held an insidious twang — “that it would be wise to bring you here, unaware of the situation. I told him that you were the only man with whom I would discuss a compromise. I added that—”

CARDONA, hands gripping arms of chair, had been slowly steadying himself for a spring. Gauging the distance between himself and Caffley, he felt sure that he could pounce upon the villain before the man had time to level the revolver and discharge it.

Cardona tightened for the crucial leap. Barth, closer than Caffley, saw the coming move. Quickly, the commissioner uttered a warning cry — an order for the detective to forgo the mad attempt.

Cardona came to his feet as Barth shouted the warning. He stopped his leap instinctively, sensing that it would prove futile.

It was well that Cardona did so. The cackle that came from Caffley’s lips proved that the man had not been unready. Cardona stared at Caffley’s gun; the weapon was still lowered. Then Joe gazed to left and right. His jaw fell; he remained open-mouthed.

Two men had stepped into view: one from the door to the sun porch; the other from that curtained entrance at the front of the library. Both were men whom Cardona had seen before; their presence here left the detective dumfounded.

The man from the sun porch was George Garsher, the stubby, red-faced cigar salesman who had reported the finding of Jeremy Lentz’s body. The man from the curtained front of the room was Al Sycher, the pale, long-faced elevator operator at the Belgaria Apartments.

Each of the rogues was ready with a leveled gun. There had been no need for Caffley to raise his weapon. Indeed, he was both deliberate and disdainful as he pocketed his own revolver and pointed to the chair from which Cardona had risen.

As Joe subsided, Caffley turned toward the entrance at the side of the room; he snapped his fingers loudly. The servant who had admitted Cardona appeared and caught Caffley’s nod. Retiring, the servant reappeared a dozen seconds later, accompanied by another stalwart menial.

Between them, they were lugging Lawrence. They shoved Barth’s chauffeur on a long divan. Lawrence groaned slightly. Cardona knew that the fellow had been slugged.

Garsher and Sycher advanced until they were flanking Caffley. Garsher was covering Cardona; Sycher had his revolver trained on Barth. Caffley nodded to the servants; the two went out through the side door. Their footfalls faded off into the house.

Hiram Caffley chuckled as he drew up a chair and planted it squarely before Cardona and Barth. Seating himself, the millionaire faced his prisoners, confident in the security furnished him by the guns of Garsher and Sycher.

It was plain that Caffley was ready to talk terms. Wainwright Barth was glaring through his pince-nez spectacles, indignant at the humiliation under which he had been placed. To the acting police commissioner, the coming discussion was one that must be met with challenge.

But to Joe Cardona, the situation was far different. The detective could see deep evil lurking behind that smile that Caffley wore. Barth might think that this was a dilemma from which there would be some salvation. Not so Cardona.

The ace had gained one of his hunches. In his eyes, Caffley was a murderer. No matter what terms the villain might offer, there was only one fate that he would be willing to deliver to his victims.

That, Cardona sensed, would be death.