Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER III THE SHADOW’S CLUES

SHORTLY before six o’clock, two persons arrived at the antiquated office building where Jeremy Lentz had been murdered. A policeman stationed at the street door saluted as he recognized one of the two men as Acting Commissioner Wainwright Barth.

Tall, forward stooped and bald-headed, Wainwright Barth looked like an eagle in search of prey. Upon his nose the acting commissioner wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles. His eyes gleamed through the glasses in eager fashion.

His pace, too, showed that Barth was keen in his desire to look into crime. With brisk stride, he headed for a waiting elevator; reaching that spot, he waved impatiently for his companion to join him.

“Come, Cranston!” exclaimed Barth. “We must not dilly-dally. Detective Cardona is awaiting us. This case demands my prompt supervision.”

Barth’s companion strolled into the elevator. He, like the acting commissioner, was tall; but there the resemblance ended. For Lamont Cranston, erect of carriage, calm of demeanor, showed none of the haste that characterized the commissioner.

Known as a globe-trotting multimillionaire, Lamont Cranston spent much of his leisure time at the exclusive Cobalt Club. There he drifted about in languid fashion, accepting life with absolute ease.

Wainwright Barth was also a member of the Cobalt Club; thus he was a friend of Lamont Cranston. Oddly, the only times that Cranston seemed ready to snap out of his indolence were on those occasions when Barth was called to a scene of crime.

Time and again, Cranston had accompanied the commissioner; and Barth had come to welcome his presence. For Barth fancied himself an expert on crime solution and he liked to impress Cranston with this ability.

Master crime investigator, The Shadow had found it advantageous to gain first-hand information on various cases. As a friend of Acting Commissioner Barth, The Shadow gained those opportunities. One had come this very afternoon. The Shadow had been chatting with the commissioner when a hurry call had come to the Cobalt Club.

WHEN the elevator reached the third floor, a waiting policeman saluted the commissioner and directed both arrivals to Lentz’s suite. Passing through the outer room, they reached the inner office, to see the body still lying on the floor.

Two men were present with the dead form of the inventor. One was a solemn-faced police surgeon. The other was a swarthy, stocky man from headquarters: Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector who had come to the scene of crime.

“Hello, commissioner,” greeted Cardona. “Well, we’ve picked up some new dope while you were on your way here. Don’t get too close to that door; you may step on some of the evidence.”

Barth backed away, staring through his spectacles. He saw nothing on the floor by the door. Cardona grinned. He motioned toward chairs in the corner.

Barth nodded and sat down. The Shadow, in the deliberate fashion of Lamont Cranston, took a seat beside him.

“To begin with,” asserted Cardona, bringing out a notebook and referring to it, “we’ve got a line on this afternoon. There wasn’t anybody who came into this office between one o’clock and five. That is, just before five.”

“How did you learn that?” inquired Barth, eagerly.

“From Markham,” explained Cardona. “He went up to Ninety-sixth Street and found Lentz’s stenographer at her apartment. Girl named Grace Farthington. Markham talked to her and put her on the wire. She answered some questions that I asked her.”

“Excellent! Proceed, Cardona.”

“Miss Farthington came back from lunch at one o’clock. That’s when Lentz went out to eat. She cleaned up the inside office. Emptied the ash tray; got out a package of blueprints. When Lentz came back, he began smoking and working. Right through until five o’clock.”

“Ah! Is that his package of cigarettes on the table?”

“Yes. He smoked all but two of them during the afternoon. I questioned Miss Farthington on that. She said he smoked a pack in the morning and another in the afternoon. Regularly.”

“Good. Always the same brand?”

“Yes. Crowns. Cork-tipped. But I’ll get back to that, commissioner. After I’ve completed the story.”

Cardona paused. He rubbed his chin and registered a slight smile. Joe had a hunch that his coming remarks would make an impression on Wainwright Barth.

“Lentz spoke to Miss Farthington shortly before five o’clock,” declared the detective. “Told her she could go home. She left; on the way to the elevator she bumped into a tall man in a gray overcoat. He was coming to this office.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Barth, adjusting his pince-nez. “Did he speak to the girl?”

“No. It wasn’t until she was getting on the elevator that she saw him enter this outer door. But the corridor was gloomy. Dusky outside and no lights. So the girl didn’t glimpse the fellow’s face. She decided there was no use to go back. The man had already entered the office.”

“Proceed.”

“Just after five o’clock, a cigar salesman named George Garsher came into the lobby. Spoke to the elevator dispatcher — fellow named Jennings — and to Terry O’Dool, the officer on this beat. Garsher came up to deliver a box of cigars to Lentz.”

“Was that something usual?”

“Yeah. Garsher has been selling cigars in this building for a month. Lentz was a regular customer.”

“But he smoked cigarettes—”

“Only around the office. Both Miss Farthington and Garsher told me he used to take the cigars home. For himself and his friends, in the evening. I checked on that, commissioner, by calling a jeweler named Wilson. Friend of Lentz’s — name here in an address book — and he gave me the same information.”

Barth nodded admiringly. He looked toward Cranston to see if his friend was also approving of Cardona’s thorough methods. But the face of Lamont Cranston was immobile — a chiseled countenance that registered no more than passing interest in Cardona’s statements.

“GARSHER says he knocked at the door of this inner office,” resumed Cardona. “No answer. So he walked in. Found the body. Kind of shook his nerves; but he managed to call downstairs. Number of the building phone was attached to the mouthpiece in the outer office. Garsher brought up Jennings and O’Dool.”

“What of this tall man?” demanded Barth. “The chap in the gray overcoat, that the stenographer saw?”

“No sign of him. He must have left before Garsher came up. He didn’t go out afterward.”

“How do you know that?”

“The rush was past. Elevator operators would have noticed him. The last car that came down full was the one in which Garsher went up.”

Cardona paced across the room. He stopped by the table. There he carefully picked up the ash tray and brought it over to the commissioner. Barth stared with interest while Cardona pointed out a black stump twice the thickness of a cigarette.

“Know what that is, commissioner?” asked the detective.

“It looks like a cheroot!” exclaimed Barth.

“That’s it,” acknowledged Joe. “One of those little cigars that are black and thin. Lentz never smoked them. Miss Farthington didn’t know what a cheroot was when I asked her over the telephone.”

“You mean that the murderer—”

“Must have smoked it when he came in to talk with Lentz. Or maybe he was carrying it and it had gone out. Anyway, he made the mistake of leaving it here.”

Cardona replaced the ash tray on the desk. This time the eyes of The Shadow followed him. There was keenness in the gaze of those optics that shone from the false countenance of Lamont Cranston.

“We know that Lentz had a visitor,” decided Cardona. “He must have got up from the table to walk with the fellow to the door that leads into the outer office. That’s where the guy turned on him and plugged him. From here.”

Stepping across, Joe reached the connecting door and wheeled about, facing the spot where the body lay. He motioned to the commissioner.

Barth arose; Cranston followed.

“One back step as he fired,” remarked the detective, “would have put his foot right there. On that varnished spot by the wall. Where you looked, commissioner, but saw nothing.”

Barth stooped. An eager exclamation came from his lips. He motioned to Cranston and pointed. In leisurely fashion, The Shadow leaned forward.

Like Barth, he saw the perfect imprint of a rubber heel.

“THERE’D have been no reason for anyone else to step there,” asserted Cardona. “Particularly from that angle. Only the murderer would have done it — when he fired. Look at the suction imprints, commissioner. Diamond-shaped. Apex is the only brand of rubber heels that makes a mark like that.

“So we’ve got the size, the make of heel, and we know that the heel was a new one. If we get a suspect whose shoe matches, we’ll know we’ve landed the bird we want.”

Barth rubbed his chin half doubtfully. Cardona smiled. Slowly, the detective began a list of assertions.

“Tall man,” counted off Joe, “with a gray overcoat. Smokes cheroots. Wears a shoe with a new Apex rubber heel. Killed his victim with an old-fashioned muzzle-loading pistol. An antique.”

“What!” exclaimed Barth. “How do you know that, Cardona?”

“Look beside the body,” suggested Joe.

Barth complied. He spotted a disk-like bit of copper upon the floor.

“A percussion cap!” ejaculated the commissioner.

“Like they use on the muzzle-loaders,” reminded Cardona. “And look a little closer to the body, commissioner. See that singed paper by the dead man’s elbow?”

“The wadding!”

“That’s right. They load those old cannons by pouring in the powder; then they jam in a wad and ram the bullet home. The whole works comes out when they fire.”

“But why would a murderer rely upon such an obsolete weapon?”

“Maybe you can give us a pointer on that, doc.”

Cardona turned to the police surgeon as he spoke. The solemn-faced man addressed the commissioner.

“When we probe and remove the bullet,” announced the surgeon, “we will certainly find it to be a large, soft-nosed slug. The shot was discharged at close range. The bullet showed dumdum characteristics, flattening as it penetrated, causing a most horrible wound.”

“A better bet than a modern revolver,” specified Cardona. “It would have been no good at long range, commissioner. But close up, that slug out of a smooth-bore could rip like nobody’s business. The killer wasn’t taking chances when he counted on one shot doing the job.”

“Most amazing!” exclaimed Barth. “You have certainly gathered evidence, Cardona. All you might need—”

“Would be fingerprints,” interposed Joe, “and it looks like we’ve got them right here.”

CARDONA opened an envelope, produced a pair of tweezers and brought out a small, torn piece of paper, He held this into the light. Barth noted a thumb impression on one side; Cardona turned over the paper to show a fingerprint on the other.

“This was lying under Lentz’s shoulder,” explained the detective. “It looks as though he and the killer had some wrangle about a letter. The killer got it; but Lentz managed to hold a fragment of it.”

“Then these impressions,” observed Barth, doubtfully, “may be Lentz’s.”

“Nope. I took impressions from the body. Here they are, commissioner” — Cardona produced another envelope — “and here are samples of Garsher’s fingerprints. I took them before I sent him down to headquarters.”

“Neither matches those on the paper!”

“Way different. There’s only one fellow those impressions could belong to. The tall guy who barged in here and plugged Lentz.”

Cardona pocketed his envelopes. He made final reference to the notebook; then spoke cannily.

“I’m holding George Garsher,” declared the detective. “His story sounds right; the fact he called the elevator dispatcher is in his favor. What’s more, he came in here openly, on business. No sneak to it.

“He’s kind of nervous and woozy, though. That’s to be expected. It won’t hurt to question him more and to keep him jittery. But after all, he hadn’t any gun on him and no cheroots.”

“Could he have been in league with the murderer?”

“I thought about that. But I don’t see how or why. The tall guy must have beat it while the last rush was on. What percentage would there be in Garsher coming up here so soon after?

“But just the same, he was on the ground — with no alibi. There’s been cases where smart killers have made out they’ve discovered the body. We’ll hold Garsher, right enough, until we get some real trail from these clues we’ve started with.”

“Tell me, Cardona, where was Garsher when the patrolman arrived with the dispatcher?”

“Waiting at the door of the outer office. He was done up when they arrived.”

BARTH walked into the outer office. Cardona followed; the surgeon did likewise. The Shadow was alone in the room with the murdered body. In a twinkling, his indolent pose ended. Though he wore the guise of Cranston, he acted with the speed of The Shadow.

Approaching the near side of the desk, The Shadow stood by a half-turned chair that was opposite Lentz’s. This would have been the seat that a visitor would have taken for conference with the inventor.

Turning to his left, The Shadow noticed flicks of ashes near the corner of the table. Looking downward, he spied similar shades of gray upon the floor. Leaning across the table, he peered into the ash tray that Cardona had replaced at the right of Lentz’s chair.

Once again, gray ashes. Typical of Crown cigarettes; but not the blackened wisps that would have come from the burned cheroot. Eying the cigarette stumps themselves, The Shadow spied something that he had noticed before. This closer inspection brought a soft, whispered laugh from his immobile lips.

One cigarette stump differed from the others. Where Lentz had let his own supply burn down to the corks, this one cigarette had been carefully pressed against the metal of the tray. The indication was plain.

A visitor had seated himself opposite Lentz. He had accepted one of the inventor’s cigarettes; had flicked some of the ashes to the floor, because the tray was too far away. At the finish of his smoke, however, he had leaned across the table and extinguished the cigarette with considerable care.

Where Cardona had picked out a visitor who had smoked his own cheroot, The Shadow had found traces of a man who had taken one of Lentz’s cigarettes. This, however, did not indicate two visitors. To The Shadow, it meant only one; but it showed planted evidence of a different person.

The police surgeon was returning. Back in his role of Cranston, The Shadow strolled toward the door and met the physician. Keeping on, The Shadow found the anteroom empty. He strolled into the hall.

Barth and Cardona were standing by the window at the end of the corridor. The window was partly opened.

The telephone bell began to ring from Lentz’s office. Cardona completed a statement to Barth.

“We won’t find any further clues,” affirmed the detective, “but I’m going to check up on all Lentz’s friends. Wait a minute, commissioner. That must be headquarters calling.”

Barth glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes after six. The commissioner walked back toward the office, which Cardona had just entered.

The Shadow stood by the open window. He peered downward, into the darkened alleyway below. He placed his hands upon the window sash; then paused abruptly as he heard a startled exclamation in the tone of Wainwright Barth.

Stepping toward the office, The Shadow encountered the commissioner coming out. Barth’s manner showed wild excitement; his eyes were glittering through his spectacles. Joe Cardona was close behind him. The detective’s face was grim.

“We must leave at once, Cranston!” cried Barth. “We have just received word of another murder. One that occurred ten minutes ago, at the Belgaria Apartments!”

“And from what headquarters says,” added Cardona, “it’s the duplicate of this one. The killer is loose, commissioner. He’s started a trail of victims!”

Barth was hurrying toward the elevators, with Cardona behind him. The Shadow followed last; and for once, his disguised countenance showed definite expression.

A faint smile no longer showed on the lips of Lamont Cranston. The Shadow’s feigned face was grim.