Shadowed Millions

CHAPTER XVI THE SHADOW’S THEORY

IT was after midnight. Detective Joe Cardona was still in the office of John Hendrix. He was alone. The bodies had been removed and now the shrewd detective was examining the evidence.

There was a knock at the door. Cardona uttered a gruff command to enter. A policeman came into the room and announced that Lamont Cranston had arrived.

“Show him in,” ordered Cardona, “but keep the reporters out, until after I have talked with him.”

Lamont Cranston, tall and calm-faced, entered.

The man was faultlessly attired in evening clothes. He looked inquiringly at Cardona. The detective pointed to a chair beside the desk. Cranston sat down and Cardona leaned against the wall and began to speak.

“Glad you got here, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “I have been talking to a fellow named Roger Cody and he said that he had better discuss matters with you.”

“Certainly,” said Cranston, with a quick smile. “Cody could not very well discuss the subject of financial arrangements that Hendrix made. He was quite right to refer you to me. This is a terrible tragedy” — Cranston’s face became stern — “and I intend to do all in my power to aid in the capture of the murderer.”

“We should have had him,” said Cardona ruefully. “He didn’t get away until after I was here. Broke loose through a whole squad. They charged him, but he dodged them in a car.”

“I should like to know the details,” suggested Cranston. “Then I can tell you whatever facts may be of assistance to you in following this case.”

“Well,” said Cardona, “Hendrix was here in his apartment all afternoon. His man, Jermyn, was here also. There may have been some one else here, but they don’t seem to know about it downstairs. People go in and out of this apartment house pretty freely. We do know that Hendrix had some business with a man named Legira, but there is no telling if Legira was here or not.

“At any rate, this fellow, Powell, came to see Hendrix. We haven’t got any dope on when he came in, either; they’re careless downstairs. Shots were heard, just before nine o’clock. They might not have been noticed, but the receiver was off the hook of the telephone and central heard the shots.

“Central made a call to police headquarters and another to the apartment house. When I got here with my squad, we met a couple of men who had come down from this floor. They had been beating at the door, but hadn’t been able to break it. We came and crashed in; the killer got out the window.”

“At what time was that?” asked Cranston.

“Nine twenty-five,” replied Cardona.

“Did the murderer leave any evidence?” questioned Cranston.

“I’m coming to that,” said Cardona. “This man Cody called up from the Baltham Trust Company. He seemed to have something on his mind. He came up here at our request.

“He told us that Legira, who is a consul from some country called Santander, came in to see him, at the order of Hendrix. It was Cody’s business to give certain funds to Legira. Now, here comes the important part!

“Cody was to hear from Hendrix before nine o’clock. Hendrix was killed before nine o’clock, so that may be why Cody didn’t hear from him. Cody figured the best thing to do was to locate this fellow, Legira, but I found out he was worried only about his own affairs, and he couldn’t tell me much more beyond the fact that he had delivered the money to Legira.

“I wanted to see some connection between Legira and the murderer. As soon as I figured the time element, I saw that it didn’t work. The murderer was here at nine twenty-five; Cody tells me that Legira was at the bank at nine thirty.”

“The murders were committed before nine o’clock, were they not?” asked Cranston.

“I thought of that,” said Cardona, “but it doesn’t mean anything, because the murderer was still here when we arrived. One man did all the shooting — we’re sure of that — we’ve got his gun, right here on the desk.”

CRANSTON reached forward to pick up the gleaming revolver. Cardona stopped him with a gesture.

“Don’t touch it,” said the detective. “There’s finger prints on the handle. That’s the one clew we have to the murderer. Finger prints; they’re on the gun; they’re on the neck of Jermyn; they’re on the window sash. Now, what I want to get is the man who made those finger prints.”

“What about Legira?” asked Cranston, coming back to the original subject.

“I’ve waited to see you about him,” said Cardona. “The man is a consul, and I haven’t found a thing to implicate him in any way. The only suspicion is that Legira might not have wanted Hendrix to call Cody at the bank. That’s why I want to find out more about Legira’s affairs, before taking any action. What can you tell me?”

“What I say,” declared Cranston, in a low careful voice, “must be treated with absolute confidence. Hendrix had full authority to deliver certain funds into the hands of Alvarez Legira. I was concerned with those funds. Like Cody, I should like to be sure of their safety, but I cannot see how they connect Legira with this terrible affair here tonight. However, there is a very simple way in which you can learn if Legira had anything to do with this affair.”

“How’s that?” asked Joe Cardona, eagerly.

“Call at his residence,” said Cranston, calmly. “Legira conducts all his affairs in person, or through his secretary, Lopez. Very probably Legira does not know that Hendrix has been killed.

“If you want to make sure of things, try to get finger prints of both Legira and his secretary. If they give them and they do not correspond with the marks that you have, you will know definitely that Legira and his man are not connected in this matter.”

“That sounds logical,” agreed Cardona. “I’ll do it, immediately. But what about this matter of the money?”

“I shall attend to that,” declared Cranston. “My car is outside. It might be best for us to go together. If Legira is there and all is well, I shall have no question to ask him. He had full right to obtain the money and I shall be satisfied to find him at home.”

Cranston’s plan was so direct that Cardona lost no time in accompanying the quiet-faced millionaire to his car. They found the limousine parked outside the apartment house; Cranston gave an address to the chauffeur. Fifteen minutes later, the detective and the millionaire alighted in front of Legira’s home.

Cardona pressed the bell; a few seconds later there was a sound of bolts being undone and Lopez opened the door to admit them.

“Remember me, Lopez?” asked Cranston. “I met you at the consular office. I am Lamont Cranston.”

“Yes, senor,” said Lopez seriously. “Do you wish to see Senor Legira?”

Cranston nodded. The secretary conducted the two men upstairs. They found Perry Wallace, still in the guise of Alvarez Legira, seated in the chair, smoking one of the inevitable cigarettes.

The false Legira looked up wonderingly as they entered. Lopez suddenly realized his mistake in bringing the visitors in unannounced. He spoke quickly to Perry, indicating Cranston with a gesture.

“Mr. Cranston has come to see you sir,” said the secretary. “I do not know the name of this other gentleman—”

“Detective Cardona, from headquarters,” answered Cranston.

Perry looked at the detective with unfeigned surprise. Cardona noticed the glance and made haste to explain the purpose of his visit.

“I have very bad news,” declared the detective. “Mr. Hendrix was killed tonight — murdered!”

“Mr. Hendrix!” The exclamation came from Perry. He did not know just what the connection between Legira and Hendrix might be, but he realized that it was his part to show both surprise and consternation. He did this well.

“We want to know,” began Cardona, “just what you can tell us about Hendrix. We want to know when you saw him last.”

“Let me explain,” interrupted Cranston quietly. “The police have found evidence that will lead them to the murderer of Mr. Hendrix and two other men. That evidence consists of finger prints. The simplest method is to try to eliminate every one who might have known Hendrix or who might have been there in his apartment.

“Detective Cardona called me in because I knew Hendrix. In order to help the law, I gave him an impression of my finger prints. I think it might be a good idea, Mr. Legira, if you and your secretary would do the same. That will make further annoyance unnecessary.”

Cardona looked at Cranston in admiration. The simple way in which his companion had handled the matter impressed him. At the same time Perry Wallace looked relieved.

This was a complication which he had not anticipated, in the role of Legira. He knew that whatever had happened, both he and Lopez were innocent; hence, in true Legira fashion, he bowed to give his consent.

TEN minutes later Cardona and Cranston were back in the millionaire’s limousine, riding toward the apartment where Hendrix had lived.

“You handled that admirably,” commended Cardona. “It’s a difficult job to deal with such people, and it sometimes runs us into complications. That was a great idea, telling him that you had given me impressions, yourself.”

“I thought of it on the spur of the moment,” admitted Cranston, “as soon as we get back to the Hendrix apartment, I shall give you those very impressions. It is your business as a detective to suspect every one. It will save me, as well as Legira, the inconvenience of going into details regarding my whereabouts tonight.”

Cardona laughed at Cranston’s frankness. He decided that the millionaire would have made a good detective.

They arrived at the apartment. Cranston did exactly as he said he would. He gave Cardona the finger prints. It did not take the detective long to ascertain that none of the three — Legira, Lopez, or Cranston — could have been the man who fired the fatal shots.

“Well, there are three eliminated,” declared Cardona, with a short laugh. “I hope I have better luck with the next impressions I get.”

“Perhaps you will,” responded Cranston, in a cryptic tone.

THE millionaire left the apartment. Joe Cardona was thinking about him after he had gone. He liked Cranston’s quiet, businesslike manner. Again Cardona said to himself that Cranston would have made a great detective.

Cardona had now formulated a theory. Legira was definitely out of the picture. He had no idea who the murderer might be, but he intended to scour the underworld, believing that some gangster might be responsible.

It was logical to suppose that a gunman had entered to make certain demands upon so wealthy a man as Hendrix, and that, in the ensuing fight, Hendrix and his companions had been slain.

Cardona felt very pleased because he had the evidence of clear finger prints. His one regret was that he had not managed to prevent the escape of the man he believed to have been the murderer. Not for one minute did the star detective begin to realize the tremendous amount of data that he had missed.

Lamont Cranston, friendly and helpful, could have told Cardona facts that would have amazed him. Cardona was looking at Cranston’s finger prints now. What would he have thought if he had known that they were the finger prints of The Shadow; that strange, mysterious personage whose very name spelled terror to the underworld?

Cardona would not have believed it if some one had told him that Cranston was the same man who had fought his way through the cordon of police surrounding the apartment house. Yet that was only a fraction of the work The Shadow had done tonight.

As The Shadow, he had taken away documents which linked Hendrix with Legira, thus lulling suspicion in the direction of the consul. He had settled the matter of Cody’s worries regarding the transaction in which the true Legira had received ten million-dollars.

He had saved Perry Wallace, the false Legira, from the trouble of answering pointed questions, and had rescued him from death at the hands of Lopez. More than that, he had obtained, for Cardona, finger prints of the false and not the true Legira.

Besides, The Shadow had changed the time element in the murder, thus taking the last vestige of suspicion from Legira; and to even matters, he had trailed the real consul to his secret retreat.

The hand of The Shadow was working stealthily tonight. Its purpose was mysterious. Even Joe Cardona, the only detective on the New York force who had ever encountered The Shadow in person, did not suspect the work of the man in black.

Now, while Cardona pondered, The Shadow had gone on some new mission. His work was not yet ended. Cardona did not know that he was thinking of The Shadow. Yet he was, for he was thinking of Lamont Cranston.

Alone in the room of death, the detective was still staring at those finger prints and to his mind came the chance remark that Cranston had uttered when Cardona had expressed the wish that he might obtain the finger prints of the murderer.

“Perhaps you will,” Cranston had said.

Actually, it was The Shadow who had spoken. Whenever The Shadow spoke, his words were significant.

The words of The Shadow were often prophetic.