Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER IV MURDER AT SIX

THE Belgaria Apartments were located on a side street just west of Broadway, not far north of Times Square. The apartment building was an old-fashioned one, eight stories in height; and it looked like a well-preserved establishment when Wainwright Barth and his companions gained their first view of its small lobby.

To the right of an ornamental pillar was a desk with switchboard. A detective was in charge there; two other headquarters men were standing by. One of these dicks recognized the commissioner and hurried to ring the bell of the single elevator.

“What’re the details, Tilden?” questioned Cardona. “As you’ve got them?”

“The dead guy’s name is Howard Morath,” replied the dick whom Joe had addressed by name. “A lawyer, living in Apartment B on the eighth floor. Inspector Klein is up there now, with the doctor.”

“Headquarters told me it was death by gunshot.”

“That’s right. Somebody plugged Morath in the hallway outside of his apartment. Here’s the elevator. Logan is running it.”

The door of the elevator opened to show a detective who had taken over the operator’s duty. Barth and Cardona stepped aboard; when the commissioner looked around, he saw Lamont Cranston strolling leisurely aboard.

The car rose to the eighth floor. Logan opened the door. The arrivals found themselves staring squarely at a body that lay a dozen feet away. The form was that of a middle-aged man, whose thin hair showed a conspicuous bald spot atop his side-tilted head.

Like Jeremy Lentz, Howard Morath had been shot through the heart; but he had slumped sidewise to the floor. His light gray vest was tinged with blood from a gaping wound. He, too, had been shot at close range.

A GRIZZLED police officer was standing near the body. This was Inspector Timothy Klein. Beside him was a police surgeon, who had completed an examination of the body. Klein looked about as the arrivals stepped from the elevator. He came forward to speak to Barth.

“An odd case, commissioner,” informed the inspector. “The surgeon here agrees with me that it wasn’t an ordinary bullet that killed this man. More like a slug; and I’ve got something here to prove it.”

Extending his hand, Klein showed a tiny copper cap and a fragment of burned paper wadding. Barth eyed the objects; then looked toward Cardona and nodded wisely.

“Must have been an old-time muzzle-loading pistol,” went on Klein. “The kind they load with a ramrod. Those guns are mighty dangerous at close range.”

“I understand that,” stated Barth. “What other clues have you gained, Klein?”

“Nothing else yet, commissioner. But I’ve got some witnesses in Apartment B; elevator operators, clerk at the desk—”

“Have you cross-examined them?”

“Not yet.”

“Let us talk to them.”

Klein led the way to the apartment. Entering a well-furnished living room, the arrivals found three solemn-looking men seated on a long divan. A man in overalls was slouched in the corner. A middle-aged woman was seated in a large chair beside a table, fidgeting nervously with her fingers. A policeman stood on guard.

“All right, Sycher.” Klein addressed a pale, long-faced fellow who was one of the trio on the couch. “We’ll hear your story first. This fellow, commissioner, was the operator on duty in the elevator.”

Barth nodded. He and the others watched Sycher as the man came to his feet. Sycher was wearing street clothes; evidently the Belgaria employees were not required to don uniforms.

“I came on duty about a quarter of six,” began Sycher, in a hoarse tone. “Wilkert here” — he indicated a dull-faced occupant of the couch — “was due to go off and I got in early. Mr. Tukel here” — Sycher pointed to the other man on the divan — “was at the desk. I was talking to him.”

“How long?” asked Klein.

“Up until six o’clock,” returned Sycher. “Nobody coming in; nobody going out. But it was while I was standing around that I saw the spectacle case that somebody had dropped on the elevator floor.”

“He refers to this, commissioner.”

Klein produced a worn case of imitation leather and snapped it open to show it empty. “Has the name of ‘Dunbar and Dobbs, Optometrists.’ Sycher found it and turned it over to Tukel.”

“Go on with your statement,” ordered Barth, eying Sycher as he spoke.

“Well, commissioner” — the operator was steadying as he spoke — “it’s six o’clock, see? And the signal buzzes in the elevator. Bzzz — bzzz — bzzz — impatient like. I says to Tukel that I’ll bet it’s Morath calling. Always went out to eat at six sharp, Morath did; and he was always in a hurry.

“So the buzz starts again and when I gets in the elevator, it shows the eighth floor. I shoves the door shut and starts up. Quick buzzes again; then they quit. Kind of puzzled me, that did. Morath always kept ringing until the elevator showed up.

“When I’m at the eighth floor, I open the door. That’s when I see Morath, laying there like he is now. Dead like a doorknob. I stood shaking like this” — Sycher quivered as he spoke — “and I kept staring at the body. Then I got scared. I slammed the door and dropped down to the ground floor in a hurry. So’s I could tell Tukel.

“I find he’s just got a call from Mrs. Ditting in Apartment D on the eighth. The janitor’s there in the lobby just by luck — come into the lobby from outside — so Tukel hangs on to him and chases me out for a copper.”

Sycher stopped abruptly. He looked about nervously; then sat down on the couch, indicating that his testimony was ended. Klein turned to Barth.

“FULL name is Albert Sycher,” stated the inspector. “He has been working here for seven weeks. He found Officer Steele at the corner of Broadway and brought him here. Steele reported the murder.”

“Let us hear Tukel’s testimony,” suggested Barth.

The clerk arose without prompting. He was a dapper, sleek-haired man, who looked nervous but spoke steadily. He began by giving information about himself.

“Lane Tukel is my name,” he stated. “I have been clerk at the Belgaria Apartments for nearly two years. I came on duty this afternoon at four o’clock; but I was not at the desk constantly. Other duties caused me to leave the switchboard for short intervals.

“I was present at quarter of six when Sycher relieved Wilkert. I found it necessary to reprimand Wilkert because he had left the elevator at times during the afternoon. I warned Sycher, also, that I would not tolerate poor service on his part. That, however, was merely a detail.”

Tukel was displaying an air of self-importance. His expression changed when he noted that Barth was becoming impatient. Tukel spoke quickly as he came to the important testimony.

“Sycher made remarks about Mr. Morath, when he heard those buzzes at six o’clock. He went into the elevator and I remained behind the desk. I saw a light on the switchboard about two minutes later. I answered the call; it was Mrs. Ditting, in Apartment 8 D.

“Mrs. Ditting spoke very excitedly. She said that someone had been murdered. She thought it was Mr. Morath. She wanted aid at once. I promised prompt response, and was about to call the police, when the janitor — Riggs — came in from the front door.

“I told him what had happened; and I was about to send him for an officer when the elevator arrived from the eighth floor. Sycher came out, very white, and blurted what he had seen. I sent him for the policeman. Riggs and I waited here until he returned.”

Tukel looked about as though expecting questions. Klein was about to ask one when Barth waved an interruption. The commissioner called for the janitor’s testimony. The man in overalls slouched from the corner.

Riggs said simply that he had been out front replacing a broken window pane. The job completed, he had walked into the lobby just as the excitement started.

Barth waved the janitor back and called on Wilkert.

“THERE ain’t nothin’ I can tell you,” asserted the dull-faced operator. “I was off duty at quarter to six. Eatin’ down at the lunch room at the corner when a cop comes in an’ asks for me. Tells me I’m wanted here.”

“Perhaps you can tell us exactly what we wish to know,” remonstrated Barth. “Did any strangers come into the elevator while you were on duty? Did anyone ride to the eighth floor?”

“Seems to me there was one fellow did,” recalled Wilkert, scratching his head. “Yeah, there was a guy just before I went off duty. Tall fellow, wearin’ a gray overcoat. I thought he was an elevator inspector, maybe.

“Why so?”

“Because he was lookin’ at the card hangin’ in the elevator. All the way up to the eighth. I let him off there. That was the last I seen of him.”

“He did not go out again?”

“I don’t know. It was right after that — right after I came down — that I seen Tukel wasn’t at the switchboard. So I sneaked out to have a smoke.”

“One cigarette?”

“A couple of ‘em. Three, maybe. When I come back, it was pretty close to quarter of six. Tukel had just come on at the switchboard again. So maybe that guy in the gray overcoat figured he’d walk downstairs. Yeah, I guess that’s what he did, maybe, because the arrow inside the elevator was pointin’ to Number 8. I knocked it off.”

Wilkert glanced warily at Tukel, as though fearing that this confession would cost him his job. Tukel glared indignantly; then spoke to Barth.

“Wilkert must have been out fully fifteen minutes,” declared Tukel, “I was absent nearly that length of time. I was not at the desk when this man with the gray overcoat entered.”

“Could he have walked down the stairs?” inquired Barth. “Could he have left while both you and Wilkert were absent?”

“Yes,” returned Tukel, “he could have.”

“Suppose the man stayed up there until after six, commissioner,” put in Cardona, suddenly. “He could have come down the stairs after that. He could have been the murderer.”

“He could not have come down afterward,” remarked Tukel. “Both Riggs and I were there, at the foot of the stairway. We remained while the officer went up to the eighth floor. Then more policemen arrived.”

“And the lobby has been guarded since,” asserted Klein. “But you have forgotten Mrs. Ditting, commissioner. She is an important witness—”

“Ah, yes.” Barth turned and bowed to the nervous woman. “We should like to hear your testimony, Mrs. Ditting.”

“I was in my apartment,” declared the woman, her voice surprisingly steady, “and first I heard angry voices in the hall. That was followed by the slam of a door.”

“At what time?” quizzed Barth.

“About half past five or a little later,” recalled the woman. “I knew that Mr. Morath must be one of the speakers, because he is the only other person who has an apartment on this floor.”

“Proceed, please.”

“Then, at about six o’clock, I heard an odd sound that seemed quite muffled. I was terrified when I thought that it might have been a pistol shot. I don’t know what prompted me to do so, but I opened the door of my apartment.

“Just as I reached the hallway, I heard the elevator door slam shut. That must have been a full minute after the gunshot, because I hesitated before going out. On the floor by the elevator, I saw the body.

“I ran back into my apartment. I closed the door and bolted it. Then I went to the telephone and called Mr. Tukel at the desk. I waited in my apartment until after the officers arrived.”

Barth paced the room while all present watched him. Apparently the commissioner was deep in thought. But conclusions were barren; for Barth finally turned to Cardona and asked:

“What do you think about it, Cardona?”

JOE suppressed a grin. Passing the buck was an old trick of Barth’s. Joe knew that his superior was pretending that he had formed some theory. Actually, Barth had thought of nothing; and Cardona knew it.

“Well, commissioner,” decided Joe, “somebody murdered Morath. What’s more, the killer made a get-away. He couldn’t have gone down the stairs. How else could he have left?”

“By the fire tower!” exclaimed Tukel. “It leads down to a courtyard beside the building. It would have been a sure method of escape.”

“Where does it go from there?” quizzed Cardona.

“The courtyard,” returned Tukel. “It has a passage to the front street.”

“Not to the back street?”

“No. The only way that the man could have reached the rear street would be through the basement. It connects with an apartment building behind this one. But he could not have reached the basement.”

“Why not?”

“Because the door to it leads off from the lobby. What is more, the door is locked. Riggs has the key; and Riggs was with me in the lobby.”

Cardona looked at Riggs. The janitor nodded and produced a ring of keys, indicating the one that fitted the basement door.

“Suppose we look at the fire tower,” suggested Cardona, turning to Barth.

The commissioner nodded his approval. Cardona and Klein started out; Barth beckoned to Cranston, who followed with him. When they reached the tower, they found Cardona and Klein blinking flashlights on the steps. The four descended.

One floor down, Cardona stopped abruptly. He focused his flashlight on a step and pointed. The others looked into the circle of light. They saw a short, blackened stump.

“A cheroot!” exclaimed Barth.

“Looks like a thin cigar,” observed Klein.

“It’s a cheroot, Tim,” explained Cardona. “Kind of a stogy clipped off at both ends. What’s more” — Joe picked up the stump triumphantly — “it matches the one we found at Lentz’s. We’re on the right trail, commissioner. Let’s keep going.”

They reached the bottom of the fire tower. There Cardona made another discovery. Stacked near the lowest step were several cans of paint. Fluid had dripped from one to form a splotch beside the step.

Squarely in the undried paint was the mark of a rubber heel. It bore the diamond-shaped imprints. Cardona leaned down to examine it closely.

“The same as at Lentz’s!” exclaimed Joe. “The trail again, commissioner! Say — if that spectacle case upstairs—”

“We shall examine it, Cardona. Possibly the murderer dropped it.” Barth paused musingly. “A tall man, in a gray overcoat. Come, Cardona! Look about along the passage to the street.”

CARDONA moved along with Klein, and Barth followed. As soon as they had moved out from the fire tower, a flashlight blinked where they had been. Barth would have been surprised had he returned at that moment; for he would have found his friend, Lamont Cranston, showing unusual zeal.

Stooped above the paint splotch, The Shadow was examining the heel print by the glow of a tiny flashlight that cast a beam no larger than a silver dollar.

A whispered laugh sounded in the darkness above the glow. Again, The Shadow had detected a fact that Cardona had failed to note. The position of the splotch; the careful insertion of the heel — both were indications that the paint had been purposely spilled and the print implanted within it.

The light blinked out. The soft laugh faded. Strolling from the fire tower, The Shadow was joining the others. He had resumed the leisurely role of Lamont Cranston.

Once again, however, The Shadow had gained a definite clue. The second cheroot; the second heel print — these did not surprise him, for he was expecting a planted trail.

But the sequel to The Shadow’s finding was one that even he had not anticipated. It came shortly after he had joined Barth, Cardona and Klein. The three had continued a futile search. Barth, glancing at his watch, was remarking that it was after seven o’clock, when hurried footsteps came pounding down the fire tower.

Cardona blinked his flashlight in that direction. Into the glare came Logan, the dick who had manned the elevator. Logan’s face showed excitement as he blurted news to Commissioner Barth.

“Another murder sir!” exclaimed the detective. “Just heard about it from headquarters. Over at the Hotel Gilderoy, near Lexington Avenue. A man named Newell Frieth — shot through the heart—”

Barth waved interruption. He barked an order at Klein, telling the grizzled inspector to remain in charge of the Morath case. With that, Barth strode through the passage toward the front street where his car was parked.

Cardona swung along beside the commissioner. The Shadow followed at an easy pace. His tall form was almost lost in the darkness of the passage.

Again, a grim whisper came from The Shadow’s disguised lips. Once more, murder had struck upon the hour.