The Death Giver

CHAPTER I. DEATH UNEXPLAINED

“EXTRY! Extry! Anudder moider on de Suboiban!”

The New York newsboys wigwagged a large-headlined journal in front of a stocky, swarthy-visaged man, who was walking hastily along the street. The man pushed the newspaper aside and growled aloud as he turned his steps into one of Manhattan’s downtown canyons.

“Extry! Extry!”

All along his route, the swarthy man had been hounded by that cry. A product of sensational journalism that knew how to awaken public interest, the story dominated the front page, and brought inspiration to every hawker who peddled evening newspapers.

“Second moider on de Suboiban!”

The walking man restrained himself with difficulty. He glowered toward the leather-lunged youth who had shouted this new cry to the swarthy man, these were words of derision directed at himself. They were utterances that foretold a stormy event in store for him.

There was a reason.

The swarthy man was none other than Joe Cardona, ace detective on the New York force; and this afternoon Joe was on his way to an interview with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, regarding this very case.

Two successive, unexplainable murders on the Suburban Railway. Both had taken place at the same spot; both at the same hour of the day. One had occurred yesterday morning; the other had taken place this morning.

Joe Cardona, back from a fruitless investigation, had walked directly into the area where newsboys were blaring forth the latest details from the huge presses of the evening journals.

The cries waned as Cardona neared his destination. The silence of the elevator in which he rode upward to the commissioner’s office brought him no ease of mind. To Cardona, this was the quiet preceding a hurricane. Joe Cardona dreaded his meeting with the police commissioner.

IMMEDIATELY after he announced his arrival, the star detective was ushered into the presence of the commissioner. Stepping into a large office, Cardona faced a stern, keen-eyed man whose firm face and mustached lip gave him the appearance of a business executive. This was Ralph Weston, whose power had been constantly increasing ever since he had taken over the duties of police commissioner.

Commissioner Weston was talking into a desk telephone. He noticed Cardona from the corners of his eyes, and motioned the detective to be seated.

Cardona took a chair opposite the commissioner and assumed his usual attitude — a poker-faced expression that served as a defensive. He made no move; he registered no change of countenance, even when Weston finished his call and turned from the telephone to stare squarely at the detective.

“Well?” questioned Weston. “What about it?”

“No clews, sir,” responded Cardona gruffly. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow? Why?”

“To reconstruct the scene of the crime.”

“Humph!” A derisive smile flickered on the commissioner’s lips. “Wait until tomorrow, eh? Why didn’t you do it to-day? You might have prevented the second killing.”

“I know that now,” responded Cardona grimly. “It simply looked like an accident — that first death. It looks the same now, commissioner, but two accidents like that one don’t happen. We’re watching the scene to-day — and I’ll be there tomorrow—”

Ralph Weston settled back in his chair. The police commissioner, despite his sternness, had a great deal of confidence in Joe Cardona. Nevertheless, it was his custom to drive the detective.

When Weston summoned Cardona, it meant that the detective was being called to the carpet. The result was usually intensive effort on Cardona’s part. An efficient trailer of crime, a man who had done great things on the force, Cardona, nevertheless, remained in constant awe of his superior, the brusque police commissioner.

“Give me the details,” stated Weston.

“Pretty much as you’ve already had them,” declared Cardona. “A Suburban commuters’ train reaches Felswood station at eight thirty-eight in the morning. Yesterday, when the train was leaving the station, the conductor noticed a man slumped by the window. The side of his face was bruised and slightly scarred. Looked like it had been scratched with glass and burned by acid.

“The conductor thought the man was unconscious. It turned out that he was dead. A regular commuter, named Arthur Howley. Got on the train at Barbrook, two stations before Felswood.

“It had all the earmarks of an accident. Some object must have come through the open window, struck the man, and rebounded onto the right of way.

“It might have happened before Felswood; it might have happened after the train left the station. But we couldn’t find anything in the car — nor along the tracks.

“The station is only a platform with a small waiting room. A vacant lot is near by, with commuters’ cars parked. We searched the whole place on the accident theory. I looked at the body. Police surgeon found poison traces — but we couldn’t figure what had hit the victim.

“We left it as an accidental death. This morning, the same thing happened again. Same train; same car — and almost the same seat. This time the dead man was discovered by a fellow sitting alongside of him.

“The new victim is Julius Forkney. He got on at Claytown, three stations up.

“Same marks — like scratches and burns. Same result — nothing to show what hit the victim. We haven’t gotten to the beginning of an explanation, commissioner. That’s why the only thing to do is watch the place carefully tomorrow.”

“What details do you have on the slain men?” questioned Weston.

“Howley was the head waiter in an uptown restaurant,” answered Cardona. “Married — wife and two children. Forkney was an ad writer, with an agency in the Stanford Building. Single man — lived with relatives.

“I have the reports on both of them” — Cardona paused to draw typewritten sheets from his pocket — “and there’s nothing to show. They are both unimportant persons — apparently had no enemies — and didn’t know each other.”

“Which backs up the accident theory,” remarked Weston.

“Yes,” agreed Cardona, “except for the manner of death and the mystery about it—”

“Which indicates,” interposed the commissioner, “that some one desired to kill, but didn’t particularly care who the victim might be.”

Cardona nodded. He had held the same idea himself, but had been loath to put it forth.

JOE CARDONA was noted as a practical detective. Commissioner Weston had little regard for his abilities as a deductive reasoner. But with the commissioner putting forth a theory, Joe was ready to agree with it.

“You think I am correct?” quizzed the commissioner sharply.

“Yes,” replied Cardona, with emphasis.

“Why?” asked Weston shrewdly.

The detective clenched his fists. He had walked into the trap. Weston had put forward the theory simply to try him out. Cardona had no answer.

“A hunch again?” demanded Weston.

“I guess that’s it,” growled Detective Cardona.

“Cardona” — Weston’s voice was critical — “we’ve talked over this hunch business before. You know what I think of you — you’re the ideal man to take practical evidence and follow it up for facts. But when you come to theory, you take no basis. If an idea looks right to you, you lay it to a hunch.”

“Hunches work sometimes.”

“Perhaps — but not always. When you get them, see if you can find a tangible reason.”

“There’s a reason here, commissioner. Two men with no connection, killed at the same spot—”

“A reason to look for something unusual,” interrupted the commissioner, “but not a reason to lay it on a killer instead of an accident. You’re just where you were, Cardona. You know nothing. Find out something. Then talk to me.”

“I’ll get somewhere, after tomorrow,” said Cardona gruffly.

“See that you do,” said the commissioner dryly. “If you find facts, follow them. If you gain theories, substantiate them.”

There was a long pause; then the commissioner spoke again, his voice still hard in tone.

“I admire good theory, Cardona,” he said. “It clears the way to fact.”

“If it’s on the level,” responded Cardona.

The commissioner winced. For a moment, he appeared angry; then a thin smile crept beneath his trimmed mustache. He knew the meaning of Cardona’s subtle thrust. Once the commissioner had teamed the detective with a professor who had claimed great ability in the theories of crime. The professor had turned out to be a criminal himself!

Cardona was sorry that he had spoken; for the thought of the past pricked the detective’s conscience. In the case to which Cardona referred, the detective had received credit for the death of the supercriminal.

In reality, Cardona had been aided by a master mind who warred on crime — a strange being known only as The Shadow. In Commissioner Weston’s mind, The Shadow was a myth. Cardona could tell by Weston’s smile that reference to that fact was coming:

“AH, yes,” observed the commissioner. “I recall that I made a mistake upon one occasion — a very serious mistake — in my handling of crime theory. We all make mistakes, Cardona. By the way, have you heard anything more of a certain person called The Shadow?”

“I haven’t mentioned such a name in any of my reports,” declared Cardona cautiously.

“Then we may eliminate all thought of such an absurd person,” said Weston, looking straight into Cardona’s eyes. “The Shadow — some one dressed in black— a hidden face — a mysterious being who can be used very conveniently to fill a gap in reports that would otherwise be incomplete.

“The Shadow, as I remembered the accounts concerning him, had a penchant for bringing criminals to bay. But he did it in his own way— independent of the law. Such a person — if he exist — would be quite dangerous, Cardona. He might even turn crook himself.

“Perhaps — with the two mysterious deaths on the Suburban trains — The Shadow might be testing out his ability as a crime maker.”

Commissioner Weston shook his head thoughtfully.

“I must desist from these thoughts,” he said, in a sorrowful tone. “I am stepping into your error, Cardona. Theory without substantiation. So let us forget The Shadow — and let him remain forgotten. In the meantime” — Weston shrugged his shoulders — “go ahead as you are. Keep working on these deaths and see what you can learn tomorrow. I shall reserve further opinion until then.”

The interview was ended. Joe Cardona left the office and departed from the building.

He threaded his way between mammoth skyscrapers. A few belated newsboys were still crying out their wares in terms of death unexplained; but Cardona did not notice the occasional shouts.

The ace detective was deep in thought. The reference to The Shadow had aroused old memories. To Cardona, The Shadow was an identity — a supersleuth who could fight crime as effectively as he could trace it — who never knew failure.

Death unexplained!

That was the lure that would bring The Shadow. These mysterious killings aboard the Suburban trains were the very type of crime that The Shadow had so often met and unraveled.

Perhaps tomorrow’s investigation would bring a clew to the mystery. If so, Cardona would rise to his zenith. If not, the detective could see no possible way of tracing the unusual deaths, unless The Shadow should enter into their discovery.

The Shadow!

Who was he?

Where was he?

Cardona had never managed to trace the whereabouts of the mysterious stranger. There was no reason, at present, why The Shadow should even be in New York. But somehow Cardona, walking through the gloom of that later afternoon, gained a new hunch for his collection. He seemed to see the hand of The Shadow entering into a new perplexing mystery, of which these deaths were the forerunner. If it were only so!

Cardona was still thoughtful as he made his way to headquarters. He was wondering if, somewhere in great Manhattan, The Shadow was at work. The question persisted, even after he had reached his office.

WHILE Cardona sat at his battered desk, speculatively drumming with his finger tips, another man in a different part of Manhattan was also considering the Suburban train deaths in terms that included The Shadow.

In the inner office of his suite in the towering Badger Building, a chubby-faced investment broker named Rutledge Mann was carefully clipping items from a stack of evening newspapers. The columns which he chose were ones which referred to the strange killings at Felswood.

The windows of adjacent buildings were glimmering amid the dusk when Rutledge Mann slipped his accumulated clippings into a large envelope. Pocketing the packet, the investment broker left his office.

He rode by cab to Twenty-third Street, entered a dilapidated building, and went to the second floor. He stopped before a door which bore a name upon its smudgy glass panel: B. JONAS

Rutledge Mann had never seen the interior of that office. His occasional visits terminated at the door.

Here, Mann produced the envelope and dropped it in a letter slot. His work of the afternoon was complete.

An agent of The Shadow, it was Mann’s duty to bring items on unsolved crimes to this particular place.

Deposited there, such data reached The Shadow.

Whether or not The Shadow was in New York; whether or not The Shadow would display an interest in these reports — these were factors which did not concern Rutledge Mann.

The agent had performed his appointed task. The details of crime had been accumulated for use. Action now lay with The Shadow himself.