The Dark Death

CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW LISTENS

“HELLO, Fritz.”

Detective Joe Cardona gave the greeting from behind his battered desk at headquarters. He was speaking to a tall, dull-faced janitor. Clad in overalls, the fellow had entered with mop and bucket.

“Yah,” responded Fritz.

A smile showed on Joe Cardona’s swarthy face. Fritz, the janitor, was a card. His vocabulary seemed limited to that single expression, “yah.”

Fritz began to work with mop and bucket. That was his policy when Joe Cardona stayed overtime in his office. Fritz mopped up when he was ready. Joe had to like it. So Joe always managed to get a laugh out of the situation.

A man stepped into the office. It was Detective Sergeant Markham. Joe Cardona had been waiting for him. As acting inspector, Joe had sent Markham out to gather facts.

“Anything new on that Congo Mollin killing?” questioned Joe.

“Not a thing,” replied Markham. “They had the machine gun on the garage roof; but they must have made an easy get-away while everybody was running around in the alley.”

“And it was half an hour before anybody found Congo,” mused Joe. “Well, there’s another crook gone. What I can’t figure is why anybody wanted to get Congo.”

“Maybe they thought he was playing stool pigeon,” put in Markham. “He’d been behaving himself ever since he came back from the Island.”

“That’s just it,” declared Cardona. “He was behaving too well. Keeping away from tough spots. Nobody would have figured him as a stoolie. Particularly since he wasn’t one.”

“Have you checked up on him?”

“Yes. But it looks like he’s been on the level. The people up at the apartment house say he was quiet and orderly. Minded his own business.”

“How about the guys with the typewriter, Joe? Have you figured who they might be?”

“Not yet. I thought of half a dozen. They all have alibis. Take Turk Berchler, for instance. I figured he might have been capable of the job. But he was up at the Club Cadiz all evening. Nicky Donarth said so.”

“Nicky’s reliable, too. Say — he’s running a little strong with that gambling joint of his.”

“It wasn’t operating when I was in there. But that was in the afternoon. I told Nicky that he’d better watch himself, though. If we found any gambling equipment, we’d crack down on him.”

“What did he say?”

“Told me to pay a visit any time I wanted. Said if I found a roulette wheel there I could pinch the place. He’s got one, though. But I guess it’s only temporary. It wasn’t there this afternoon. But let’s get back to Congo Mollin.”

“All right.”

MARKHAM drew a list from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona. Joe read it and shook his head.

“Places he worked at before he went to the Island,” said Joe. “Those don’t mean anything. I’ll keep the list though.”

He tucked it in a desk drawer.

“There’s just one thing that puzzles me,” observed Cardona, “I looked Congo’s body over at the morgue. What I want to know is why that guy was wearing a dress suit.”

“He must have had a date.”

“Where? Why the glad rags? Congo didn’t play the gentleman. Anyway, he hadn’t worn that dress suit for a long time. It smelled so strong of camphor that you couldn’t smell the formaldehyde in the morgue.

“That’s odd, all right.”

“I’ll say it is.” Joe got up from his desk. “A crook that’s doing nothing but minding his own business. Dolled up in a dress suit for the first time in months. Plugged by machine gunners who went out of their way to get him. It beats me.”

“Do you think anybody was up there with him?” questioned Markham.

“No,” replied Cardona. “There was some liquor gone from a decanter; but only one glass had been used. Congo might have taken a drink for himself.”

“Did the doc say he’d been drinking?”

“No. But he might have taken one drink an hour or two before he was bumped. It doesn’t mean anything, Markham. Well, just between us, nobody’s going to lose any sleep over the murder of Congo Mollin. We’ll keep on the case; but you know what the commissioner thinks.”

“Good riddance?”

“Right.”

Cardona and Markham went out, leaving Fritz mopping by the wall. A strange shadow flickered across the floor as the tall, stooped janitor turned toward the desk. A sudden gleam appeared in Fritz’s listless eyes.

The janitor plucked the list from the drawer. He read Markham’s notations. As he replaced the list, he indulged in a soft, whispered laugh. Fritz, the janitor, was The Shadow!

CARRYING mop and bucket, The Shadow left Cardona’s office and shuffled off to an obscure locker.

He set down the objects that he carried. He drew black garments from a shelf and donned them. The overalls slipped from beneath the dark cloak. The Shadow hung them in the locker. He stepped away.

His cloaked figure faded suddenly beyond the locker.

Footsteps. A scrawny, stooping man came into view. It was the real Fritz. The fellow opened the locker, donned his overalls and picked up mop and bucket. He departed. Again, The Shadow laughed softly.

He had arrived ahead of Fritz. He had played the role of the janitor and had ended the clever part just before Fritz reached headquarters. With Fritz gone, the way was clear.

Finding a deserted corridor, The Shadow glided out into the night.

LATER, a tiny flashlight glimmered in a room where dull illumination came from three windows. The Shadow was in the living room of Congo Mollin’s apartment.

The room was exactly as the police had found it. The Shadow knew this through a report from Clyde Burke, who had covered the story for the Classic. Every detail fitted Clyde’s description. But the reporter had mentioned something beside the decanter and the glass. He had noted several cigarette stumps, all of the same brand.

The Shadow found them. Four in an ash tray in the living room. Three in the bedroom. Like the single glass beside the decanter, these apparently meant nothing. Congo Mollin could have smoked the seven cigarettes himself. But The Shadow noted something that gave a different indication.

Of the four cigarettes in the living room, two were slightly ragged at the end. They had been held between moistened lips. The other two had a twisted crimp; furthermore, they had been smoked a half inch further.

The three cigarette stumps in the bedroom also had twisted ends. They had been smoked close to their limit. The Shadow turned his tiny flashlight on the bureau. Its glow showed odds and ends that Cardona had found in the pockets of Congo’s discarded suit. The Shadow looked for a cigarette holder. None was present.

The light clicked out. The Shadow moved about in the gloom. Then a door opened softly and closed again. The Shadow had departed from the apartment.

LATER, a click sounded in a pitch-black room. A bluish lamp glowed upon a polished table. Long, white hands appeared beneath that light. A shimmering gem glowed from a finger of the left. Those pale hands were like detached creatures. The Shadow was in his sanctum.

A hand began to write in bluish ink. Words dried, then faded as The Shadow inscribed his thoughts. With uncanny precision, he was reconstructing events at Congo Mollin’s. He had disregarded the decanter and the glass. Only one man had imbibed liquor. But two had smoked cigarettes.

Congo Mollin, lacking a cigarette holder, had consumed two in the living room, while his visitor was smoking two cigarettes in a holder. Then Congo had gone into the bedroom to don evening clothes. His guest had accompanied him. Three cigarettes — all smoked in a holder — gave evidence of the visitor’s presence.

Cigarette holders were no longer fads. A person using one would probably be fastidious. The type of man who would wear evening clothes. A soft laugh told that The Shadow was gaining an answer to the mystery of Congo Mollin’s death.

Picturing a visitor in evening clothes, The Shadow visualized Congo dressing to accompany his friend.

Congo coming out into the living room. Passing the windows, a target for waiting snipers.

Crooks had seen the visitor enter clad in full evening dress. They had mistaken Congo for him. Their quick fire had found the wrong man. The desired victim had departed, unscathed. Chances were that he, like Congo, was a crook.

The Shadow, however, left nothing to chance. He had taken special interest in the death of Congo Mollin because it lacked motive. His deductions proved that assassins had missed their man. Someone was still at large, a tribe of killers ready to find his trail.

The Shadow saw an important task: To determine whether or not this person was a crook like Congo.

He pictured the unknown as a smooth, keen individual. One who had not lost his nerve after seeing Congo die. One clever enough — if crooked — to have coaxed Congo into doom intended for himself!

Writing on the sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed names from memory. Those names had been on Markham’s list. They were the persons in whose employ Congo had served prior to his imprisonment on Welfare Island.

There were six names in all. Among them was that of Cuyler Willington — for Congo had at one time served as valet to the fashionable crook. That name had no special significance as yet. The Shadow passed it as he went to the bottom of the list.

Titus Thoreau. That was the final name. Thoreau, a New York banker, was Congo’s employer at the time the crook had been arrested for robbery. Thoreau would remember the man. Again, The Shadow laughed.

This very evening, Joe Cardona had mentioned the most important point regarding Congo Mollin: namely, the dead man’s past. But Cardona could see no link between the past and the present. Congo Mollin had been quiescent since his release from Welfare Island. He had had no gang connections, even before his imprisonment.

To The Shadow’s analysis, the fact that Congo had been on good behavior since leaving the Island was an indication of some past connection. Why had Congo found it good policy to settle down to quiet life after his release?

That was a question that The Shadow was determined to answer. Through it he could see some chance of learning the identity of Congo’s unknown visitor. He could then discover why that man’s life had been sought.

The light clicked out. A soft laugh crept through the black walls of the sanctum. It rose to a mocking tone that faded with eerie echoes. Then came silence. The Shadow had departed.

THE master sleuth had seen no cause for haste. He had divined that the man he sought must he cunning enough to keep away from danger for days to come. In that assumption, The Shadow was correct.

But at the very moment of The Shadow’s decision, chance was creeping into affairs of crime. Strange circumstances were due to cause a change of tactics on the part of Cuyler Willington. Already, the man whom The Shadow sought was on his way to a meeting that was destined to inspire him to a desperate counter-thrust.

Murder was in the making, thanks to that attempt by Turk Berchler. Cuyler Willington, the hunted, was fated to become the hunter!