The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER XIII WORD TO THE SHADOW

WHEN Malden’s limousine pulled up in front of the Latuna Museum, the building showed light from its open front doorway. Two policemen arrived with flashlights; they recognized their chief as soon as Grewling stepped from Malden’s car.

“We’ve got the watchmen inside, chief,” informed one of the cops. “They’re the fellows who found the bodies.”

“Was the place lighted up like this?” inquired Grewling.

“It was when we got here,” said another policeman. “But one of the watchmen said he switched on the lights.”

“Let’s go inside,” suggested Grewling, turning abruptly to Rush and Malden.

The trio entered the museum. They followed the corridor on the right and came to the office. There they found a policeman outside the door, while, at the end of the corridor, stood two solemn-looking men. They were the watchmen.

The police chief stepped into the office. He saw the bodies lying on the floor. Joseph Rubal’s upturned face was distorted from the dying agony that the curator had suffered. Hollis looked grim in death.

Strafford Malden and Quirby Rush viewed the bodies from the doorway. They stepped back as Grewling came from the room. They waited while the police chief quizzed the watchmen. The story that the two men told was simple and straightforward.

They had arrived at the accustomed hour of nine. When Hollis did not answer their prolonged ring, one of them had the inspiration of trying the door. It was found to be unlocked. The watchmen had naturally gone to the curator’s office.

They had turned on lights all along the line. After discovering the dead bodies of the curator and the chief attendant, they had called police headquarters from the curator’s telephone.

“There’s not much mystery about the killing,” announced Grewling, turning to Rush and Malden. “The museum closes up at eight. Somebody must have rung the bell; after that, Hollis let him in and he killed Rubal.”

“What about the other attendants?” inquired Rush.

“They go out at eight o’clock, don’t they?” retorted Grewling.

“I know that,” replied Rush. “But it is possible that one of them could have been responsible for this crime.”

“That’s possible!” exclaimed Grewling. “Here, Toxter” — he turned to a policeman — “dig down to town and look up those other attendants. Bring them out here.”

THE order given, Grewling paused to eye a stout man with a bag who was coming down the corridor. He recognized a local physician, who had arrived in response to a call from headquarters. He told the doctor to examine the bodies. While the physician was busy, the police chief resorted to his first theory.

“Somebody could have come in here,” he declared. “Some special visitor, between eight o’clock and nine.”

“Just whom would Hollis have admitted?” questioned Malden.

“Any one who might know the curator,” replied the police chief. “That’s a good lead, Mr. Malden. If some ordinary thug had showed up here, Hollis wouldn’t have let him in.”

“He might have forced his way in,” observed Rush.

“He’d have had Hollis to deal with first,” returned Grewling. “No, the thing’s plain, mayor. Somebody got by the door and came in here. Hollis must have heard the shot and come in — to get his dose of lead.”

“Odd that he walked into the trap so easily,” said Malden.

“Not if he knew the man who was calling,” declared Grewling. “He might have thought the shot was accidental.”

New footsteps in the corridor. It was Singler, Malden’s chauffeur. The man had come in to inquire if he might be needed. Malden told him to remain.

“Well, doc?” questioned Grewling, as the physician finished his examination. “Anything unusual?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” declared the physician, in a doubtful tone. “Death may not have been instantaneous in the case of Rubal; but it was with Hollis. In both cases, however, the wounds show tendency to enlargement. I am not an expert on bullet wounds; but I would say—”

“May I take a look at them?” inquired Singler, the chauffeur.

“What for?” snapped the police chief.

“I’ve seen some pretty mean wounds,” replied Singler. “Seven years with the Foreign Legion. I’ve seen what ricochet shots can do. As for dumdums — well, the Arabs never minded using them. As for the Tuaregs—”

“Let him take a look, doc,” broke in Grewling.

Singler joined the physician and noted the doctor’s comments. When he arose from beside the body, the chauffeur was nodding. He had apparently made a discovery.

“I’ll bet ten to one on it,” declared Singler.

“On what?” inquired Mayor Rush.

“That there was a silencer on the gun that got those fellows,” said the chauffeur.

“Did they use silencers in the Foreign Legion?” quizzed Police Chief Grewling, in a scoffing tone.

“No,” replied Singler, soberly, “but there were plenty of lowlifes — Apaches and what not — who had used them in the past. I’ve seen and heard about plenty of guns; and a silencer — particularly a poor one — will put aquiver to a bullet. Like this.”

Singler paused to make a wiggling motion with his right hand, as an exaggerated idea of the course that a bullet might have followed.

“Turn it over to a bullet expert,” suggested the chauffeur. “Get those slugs, chief, and they’ll tell their own story.”

“This coincides with your theory, Grewling,” observed Mayor Rush. “Hollis might have come back in here not knowing that anything had happened to the curator.”

“We’ll have the bullets extracted,” declared the police chief, grimly. “You seem to know what you’re talking about, Singler. Thanks for the information.”

The chauffeur nodded, and Strafford Malden gave him an approving smile.

AT that moment, there was a stir from the front end of the corridor. Voices carried down the passageway as a group of men put in their appearance. Two policemen were arguing with the newcomers.

“Harrison Knode!” exclaimed the mayor. “With a couple of his reporters. They must have heard the news.”

“Keep them out!” bellowed the police chief, to the cops.

“No, no,” rebuked the mayor. “Let them come here. Don’t be annoyed, Grewling. Remember what I told you tonight.”

“All right, men,” called the chief. “Let them by.”

Knode arrived with Burke and Drury. While his reporters stood in the background, the long-faced editor nodded to mayor and police chief. He smiled sourly as they failed to return his greeting. Knode turned and shook hands with Strafford Malden.

Two policemen appeared with the museum attendants. They had found the men in town. There were two; and Grewling quizzed them briefly. Both stated that they had left as usual, at eight o’clock. Hollis had bolted the door behind them.

The frankness of the attendants was convincing. The police chief, already moving along a solid theory, accepted what they said. But he quizzed the two men definitely on one point: the possibility of some one having remained in the museum after closing time.

Both men stated that they had inspected with Hollis, after the museum was closed, and that Rubal could have had no lurker in his office.

Another newcomer arrived at the finish of the quiz. This was Howard Dunham, tall, cadaverous-looking editor of the Latuna Gazette. Dunham covered big stories in person; and his arrival pleased the police chief, for it gave Grewling a chance to bait Knode.

Stepping into the curator’s office, Grewling invited Dunham to accompany him. While the editor stood by the desk, the police chief made a careful inspection. The room had been lighted by one of the watchmen; the same man who had peered into the little filing room. Grewling inspected both portions of the suite.

“Sit down,” he said to Dunham, motioning the Gazette man to the chair behind the curator’s desk. “I’m going to give you my theory, Mr. Dunham. That will give you a chance to run a story before the coroner holds his inquest.”

Grewling shot a glance at the doorway where Knode was looking on with Rush and Malden. He was willing that Knode should listen in. The Gazette being a morning paper, it would beat the Enterprise with the news.

“JOSEPH RUBAL was murdered,” declared the police chief, “by some visitor who came here after eight o’clock. That unknown party had a firearm that was equipped with a silencer. He shot and killed Joseph Rubal.

“The same murderer was forced to slay Hollis in order that the chief attendant would not reveal his identity. We shall have an examination made of the bullets. Through them we may be able to trace the gun and the killer himself.”

Grewling paused and began to pace the room.

Dunham, pausing in his note taking, chanced to notice the calendar on the desk. Idly, the editor of the Gazette lifted the pages until he came to the current date.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed. “Two notations! The first says: ‘Eight P.M., appointment, office.’ The second says ‘Nine P.M., appointment. Mayor.’ These refer to tonight!”

The police chief came to take a look at the date pad. Mayor Rush crowded through the doorway and also examined it. Grewling spoke to the mayor.

“You see?” said the chief. “Some one was due here at eight o’clock. Unless Rubal intended to go to your office.”

“It says nine o’clock for me,” objected Rush. “That was the time he expected to come to my home.”

“He couldn’t have been going to see you, Mr. Malden,” said Grewling, turning toward the door. “You have no office. I was not expecting Rubal — so office means here. The question is who was due here at eight o’clock?”

“I suppose you’ll be suggesting that I had an appointment here with Rubal,” jeered Harrison Knode, thrusting his head through the doorway. “There’s a theory for you, Grewling. Fancy that — my calling to see Rubal.”

“Is that notation in Rubal’s handwriting?” demanded Grewling, suddenly turning to the mayor.

Rush nodded.

“That’s a break for you, Knode,” stormed Grewling, turning to the door. “You and Rubal were anything but friends. It’s lucky that Rubal marked this appointment himself. It shows you weren’t the person he expected. It leaves you out.”

“Very good,” chuckled Knode. “That suits me. Good-by, chief. I’ll read the details in the Gazette tomorrow morning.”

ACCOMPANIED by Burke and Drury, Knode left the museum. The trio rode to the editor’s home. There they entered and Knode spoke privately with Drury for a few minutes. Then the editor shook hands with both men. They left together.

Drury took Clyde to a lunch wagon. He picked a spot at the far end of the counter.

“The old man asked me to speak to you,” confided Drury, in a low tone. “You heard him fox Grewling. Pulled it clever on the chief, didn’t he?”

Clyde nodded, as he lowered a cup of coffee.

“He wants us to keep mum about that appointment he had with Rubal,” added Drury. “After all, Knode didn’t keep it. So it means nothing. But if anybody knew about it, Grewling would be on Knode’s neck. The old man wouldn’t be able to cut loose in the sheet. Get the idea?”

Again Clyde nodded.

“So we’re saying nothing,” decided Drury. “Shake on it.”

Clyde shook hands. Then he made a suggestion.

“I’d like to shoot this story to the Classic,” he said. “They don’t belong to the Interstate Press. If they could beat the other New York sheets, it would put me in right back there.”

“Go ahead,” agreed Drury. “You can beat the wired service by a couple of hours anyway. Dunham will be slow sending it over the Interstate Press. He’ll stay late at the museum, getting his story.”

“Where’s the telegraph office?”

“I’ll show you.”

At the telegraph office, Clyde prepared a press-rate telegram. He let Drury read it.

“It says here,” commented Drury, “that they’re to use ‘Jory by-line.’ What’s the gag, Burke?”

“I used to write stuff under the name of Kirt Jory,” explained Clyde. “It will do instead of my own. They wouldn’t use my own name, since they’ve fired me. The police commissioner would be sore.”

“I get it,” laughed Drury. “A good stunt, Burke!”

Clyde smiled. The ruse had passed. For that by-line, “Kirt Jory,” to indicate the author of the wired story, would do more than establish the story as Clyde Burke’s.

The Shadow had provided for just such an emergency as this; the possibility that Clyde could best report to him through a story in the New York Classic. The Shadow, alone, would recognize the message in the words “By Kirt Jory.”

That, to The Shadow, would mean more than the simple fact that murder had occurred in Latuna. It would signify that cross-purposes were at work; that the deaths of Joseph Rubal and Hollis might be but the beginning of other strange events.

To The Shadow, Clyde Burke’s chosen by-line would carry the single message. “Come!”

Clyde Burke smiled to himself as he walked from the telegraph office with Bart Drury. Outside, they passed a strolling stranger. Clyde did not even notice the hawklike visage and the keen eves that stared in his direction.

Once more in the guise of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow was abroad in Latuna. He knew that his agent had dispatched a prearranged signal that was intended to bring him here. He had allowed Clyde to do so, unknowing that his chief was already in town.

For The Shadow’s plans would begin tomorrow, after nightfall. Then would he survey the spot that Clyde had already seen. With reports received, The Shadow would fare forth to visit the Latuna Museum.