The Dark Death

CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL FACTS

“DETECTIVE CARDONA is here, sir.”

Police Commissioner Ralph Weston looked up and nodded to the secretary who had spoken. The man turned about and went out to admit the detective. Commissioner Weston glanced at his clock and smiled.

It was three o’clock on the afternoon following the terrible affair at the Club Cadiz. Detective Joe Cardona was due to report at this hour. Weston was pleased at the sleuth’s punctuality.

A man of brusque, dynamic forcefulness, Commissioner Weston handled the New York police force in almost military fashion. Weston looked like an army officer; his firm face and short, pointed mustache gave him a distinctive bearing. His eyes were both stern and alert when Joe Cardona entered the office.

Stockily built and swarthy of countenance, Cardona made a contrast to the police commissioner. Time had been when the star detective had chafed under Weston’s driving methods. That period had passed.

The two had reached accord; then Ralph Weston had resigned his post as police commissioner in order to visit a South American republic, where he had reorganized the police system.

During Weston’s absence, the post of police commissioner had been held by a gentleman named Wainwright Barth. A pompous individual with his own ideas about crime problems, Barth had proven a trial to Cardona. Joe was glad to see Weston back on the job. Weston knew it.

“Hello. Cardona,” he greeted, in a pleasant tone. “You don’t seem as glum as you used to be.”

“That’s because you’re back,” admitted the detective. “Don’t think I didn’t get along with Commissioner Barth. I did. But when things came up like this Cadiz Club business, I never knew what slant he might decide to take.”

“Well,” mused Weston, “Wainwright Barth has taken a trip to Europe. For the time being I am on the job. I take it that you have decided just what my course will be in this case.”

“I have,” stated Cardona. “You won’t stop, commissioner, until you’ve found out what killed those people. I’ve been trying to find out for you. I haven’t got it yet.”

WESTON eyed Cardona seriously. The detective began to feet ill at ease. He always did when Weston studied him in that fashion. Looking for an out, Cardona picked up a newspaper that was lying on the desk.

“This story in the Classic,” he remarked. “It takes up the theory that we had last night. Some sort of gas attack. But it doesn’t hold together, commissioner. They want something stronger.”

“Who? The reporters?”

“Yes. Particularly Burke, the fellow who wrote this story for the Classic. I was talking to him only an hour ago.”

“Hm-m-m.” Weston became thoughtful. “Didn’t Burke have some sort of a run-in with Barth while I was gone?”

“Yes,” replied Cardona, with a slight grin. “He panned Commissioner Barth in a column. He lost his job on account of it. The only reason he’s back with the Classic is because you’re police commissioner again.”

“Then I think we can handle Burke,” Weston, with a smile. “You told him that you had an appointment this afternoon?”

“Yes,” answered Joe, “That stalled him for the time being. And if we can keep Burke in line, we won’t have trouble with the other news hawks.”

Weston nodded. He took the newspaper from Cardona’s hands, glanced at the sheet and then laid it aside. He noted a stack of report sheets upon his desk; then settled his elbow on the desk and leaned his chin against his hand.

“Cardona,” said the commissioner, seriously, “we’re going to stick to this gas theory, so far as the press is concerned. We’ll hold it until we have found something better. When we uncover something that looks like the truth, we shall still keep it secret.”

“In order to bluff the people in back of the murders?”

“Precisely. Autopsies have shown that these victims died from a shock that could have been caused by some electric impulse. But the examining officials are still puzzled. We are up against the same trouble that the gas theory gives us.

“Why did some die and others survive? We know that the roulette table was above the floor when the tragedy took place. But some of those in contact with it lived; and some who were a dozen feet from it died.”

“The roulette wheel was wired, commissioner.

“It was provided with a space for some mechanical device. But I do not know of any machine that could have delivered death in the fashion that it arrived.

“Somebody made a get-away, commissioner. By rights, that fellow ought to have loaded the roulette table aboard his truck. That was what the truck was there for.”

“Probably the man was panic-stricken. He decided to flee on his own account. Nicky Donarth was dead. There was no reason to save his reputation by removing the gambling device.”

“But the fellow could have carried away something that was in the roulette table.”

“I understand that. It brings us back to my former point. Cardona, there is no type of electrical current that can behave in so extraordinary a fashion as—”

THE commissioner broke off as his secretary entered. The man had come to announce a visitor.

“Mr. Cranston is here, sir,” stated the secretary. “He says that he must see you regarding an urgent matter.”

“Tell him to come in,” ordered Weston. Then, to Cardona, as the secretary was leaving: “You may remain here while I talk with Cranston. I don’t suppose he will be long.”

The tall, calm-faced visitor arrived in the commissioner’s office. Weston arose to shake hands with his friend. Joe Cardona also greeted the globe-trotter. Weston invited Cranston to a chair.

“We are having an important conference,” he reported, “But there is always time to talk to you, Cranston. I trust, however, that your subject can be handled briefly.”

“Very briefly,” came the quiet, even response, “Particularly because it concerns the very matter that I believe you are discussing. The murders at the Club Cadiz.”

Weston stared, puzzled. He caught a momentary gleam in his visitor’s eyes. It was one of those revealing glimpses that showed the personality of The Shadow behind his affected guise of Lamont Cranston. The flash, however, was too brief for Weston to realize its symbolism.

“I read this account in the Classic,” remarked The Shadow, picking up the newspaper. “I was much interested in it, because it was written by a man named Clyde Burke. Curiously, it was another article by this same writer that gave me an inkling as to what might have caused death at the Club Cadiz.”

“How is that?” questioned Weston.

“Some time ago.” responded The Shadow. “I read an account by Burke that concerned a Q-ray, developed in the laboratories of the Universal Electric Company. The function of that ray was to change the structure of the epidermis; so that persons of light skin would gain the qualities of darker races.”

“I recall the story,” nodded Weston.

“It interested me,” resumed The Shadow, in the quiet tones of Cranston. “I saw a use for such treatments in connection with my tropical explorations. I went to the laboratory of the Universal Electric Company.”

“You saw the machine?”

“Yes. And I learned its danger.”

“Its danger? I thought you said it would prove beneficial.”

“To persons of light complexion, yes. But to those of darker skin the Q-ray means death.”

Weston sat staring. So did Cardona. But the detective’s swarthy face began to show a sudden change.

Leaping to his feet, Joe pounced his hand upon the desk.

“Do you get that, commissioner?” he queried. “It fits! Every one that died at the Club Cadiz had a dark complexion. Those brunettes; that South American official; young Thaling. Nicky Donarth, Turk Berchler, Tony Luggeto—”

“Cranston,” snapped Weston, “where is this machine?”

“I saw it,” came the reply, “in the laboratory of the Universal Electric Company.”

“That is where we are going,” stated the commissioner. “Let us start at once.”

HALF an hour later, the trio had arrived at the big laboratory. They were seated in James Sundler’s office. The supervisor was making a statement in response to Commissioner Weston’s questions.

“Our machine could have caused that terrible damage,” admitted Sundler. “I thought of it when I read this morning’s newspaper. But I understood from the accounts that some unknown gas had caused the deaths.”

“That was merely a statement for the press,” snapped Weston. “Where is this Q-ray machine?”

“Locked in its testing room,” replied Sundler. “That is another reason why I did not communicate with you, commissioner.

“Let me see the machine.”

Sundler led his visitors down the hall. He unlocked the door and showed the death machine.

Approaching it, he ran his finger along the top of the glass device.

“Dust,” remarked Sundler. “I assure you, commissioner, that it has not been removed from this room. Our laboratory operates twenty four hours every day.”

“Perhaps another machine was used,” returned Weston, a trifle testily.

“There is no other,” informed Sundler. “This is the only Q-ray machine in existence. It was built in our own laboratory.”

“Who invented it?”

“It was partly developed by our own experimenters. An outside expert cooperated with them, however.”

“What was his name?”

“Seth Brophy.”

“Where is he at present?”

“I believe he has gone away for a vacation. I can give you his address, however. He lives in New York.”

THIRTY minutes later, the same group arrived at Seth Brophy’s secluded house. The four alighted from the commissioner’s car and found the door of the residence locked. Cardona went around to a side door, broke in and admitted the others through the front.

They found the place deserted. It was obvious that Brophy must have packed up for a trip. A search of the house brought them to the laboratory. Here, Sundler made a thorough inspection. He shook his head.

“There is no evidence here, commissioner,” he stated. “If there were any parts of a Q-ray machine, I would recognize them.”

“Brophy could have removed them.”

“That is true. But to remove them, he would first have had to obtain them. That would have been impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because all the experiments were conducted in our laboratories. Certain materials could be supplied only by us. We have kept strict watch on the removal of any parts of machinery.”

“Then Brophy could not have constructed a machine of his own?”

“I am positive that he could not have done so.”

Weston paced about the deserted laboratory. He seemed to be coming to some decision. Finally he gave it.

“Sundler,” stated the commissioner, “the only answer is that someone managed to remove and return the Q-ray machine that is in your own laboratory. I intend to make a complete investigation there.”

“Very well, commissioner.”

“And in the meantime, I shall place a guard over that Q-ray machine.”

“We can do better than that if you wish. We can dismantle it and destroy the vital parts.”

“But you have spent a great deal of money on the Q-ray.”

“Certainly we have. But the money has been wasted. We have given up further experiments. The Q-ray is a menace — a scientific monstrosity! I am ready to advise its sacrifice.”

“I appreciate your attitude, Sundler. That course will absolutely forestall further crime. Come; let us leave here.”

During the return trip to the Universal Electric laboratories, Weston and Sundler reached an agreement.

The new theory concerning the Club Cadiz murders was to be kept from the press, in return for the dismantling of the Q-ray machine. Should it be proven that someone at the laboratories was criminally responsible for the deaths, a statement could then be made. But, in the meantime, silence was to be preserved.

Lamont Cranston did not return to the Universal Electric Company. The commissioner’s car dropped him at the Cobalt Club. Weston and Cardona alone returned with Sundler, anxious to see that the menace of the Q-ray machine would be ended.

Dusk arrived. Seth Brophy’s deserted house seemed gloomy in the fading light. For a while, all was still about the shrouded building. Then a motion occurred beside the side door.

A blackened shape had arrived there. The Shadow was working on the door that Joe Cardona had broken open. The detective had barricaded it before leaving; but it required only a few minutes for The Shadow to effect a new entry.

Soon afterward, a tiny light glimmered in Brophy’s laboratory. The searching beam shone upon one definite spot. That was the top of the bookcase. Keen eyes spied the edge of the shoe box that Brophy had replaced there. The Shadow, as Cranston, had noted a corner of that object, but had said nothing.

A gloved hand plucked the shoe box from its place. A grim laugh whispered in the laboratory as The Shadow removed the lid and discovered a white guinea pig inside. This was the answer to the riddle.

Proof to The Shadow that Seth Brophy had conducted experiments of his own.

The light shone about the room. It showed the tiled wall. Approaching, The Shadow stared keenly. He noticed a slight chip in the edge of a single tile. His fingers loosened the piece from the wall. The flashlight showed the hidden switch.

The secret panel opened when The Shadow pressed the switch. The rays of the light shone upon the scene within. Seth Brophy’s body huddled on the floor; his outstretched hand almost touching another dead object — the brown guinea pig.

FIVE minutes later, The Shadow’s unseen form was swishing down the stairway of the Brophy house.

The master investigator had left the little laboratory as he had found it, with Brophy’s body still concealed in its secret tomb.

The Shadow had gained the final proof he wanted. He knew the source of the Q-ray machine that had delivered death at the Club Cadiz. His problem was to uncover its present owner. He had played the part of Lamont Cranston only to gain the beginning of a trail; to learn what James Sundler would have told only to the police commissioner — namely, who had been responsible for the creation of the death machine.

Commissioner Ralph Weston intended to keep facts from the press; to let the police remain in ignorance of what had caused the deaths at the Club Cadiz. Weston felt justified, since he had taken measures to eliminate what he believed was the only Q-ray machine in existence.

Similarly, The Shadow had decided to let the police commissioner remain in the dark. He, too, was justified. He had followed clues that Weston and Cardona had failed to see. The Shadow, like the law, intended to move unhampered.

With the final facts established, The Shadow was prepared to seek the next meeting between men of crime. His laugh, delivered outside the dreary walls of the old house, was proof that his next trail would not fail.