The Death Triangle

CHAPTER X MURDERERS GLOAT

A NEW evening had descended upon Manhattan. In the living room of a sumptuous hotel suite, two men were reading the latest editions of the afternoon newspapers. One man chuckled as he looked up from his reading. The action revealed the evil, smiling features of Martin Hamprell.

The man who had slain Doctor Johan Arberg seemed pleased with the newspaper reports. He looked at his companion, a big, bluff-faced, domineering fellow. Martin Hamprell spoke.

“All’s well,” he remarked. “Plenty of talk about Doctor Johan Arberg.”

“And none about Martin Hamprell,” chuckled the bluff-faced man.

“Nor Ward Fetzler,” added Hamprell, staring straight at his companion.

A worried look appeared upon the big man’s haughty face. Meeting Hamprell’s steady gaze, the man offered a definite objection.

“Leave my name out of it, Hamprell,” he ordered.

“Your name is out of it, Fetzler,” declared Hamprell. “So is mine. We’re in the same boat, you and I — and it’s a good ship.”

“You did the murder.”

“You offered me the job.”

Fetzler scowled. Hamprell smiled. He tossed his newspaper aside, rose from his chair, advanced, and clapped the big man on the shoulder.

“Why worry?” he questioned. “So long as I stay here, as your companion, we’re both safe. We might as well be pals. You’ve hired me; I’ve done the job. I’m satisfied. You may need me later.”

“It looks that way,” agreed Fetzler, in a sour tone. “Things are still tied up a bit.”

“Look here, Fetzler,” argued Hamprell. “I’ve done the job you wanted. I’ve been paid. I want you to be satisfied. You don’t appear to be. Why don’t you let me in on the whole idea? Maybe two heads will work better.”

Fetzler made no comment. He was staring gloomily. Hamprell lighted a cigarette and began to speak in a reminiscent tone. His words began to take effect upon Fetzler.

“I’ve been crooked for a long time,” he asserted, “and you knew it. Martin Hamprell — fake promoter; fake physician; fake lawyer; fake what-not. There’s my story. Quite a contrast between myself and you. Ward Fetzler has a reputation for honest dealing. Big landowner and developer. Head of corporations. There’s your story.”

Fetzler looked up as Hamprell paused. The murderer gave a shrewd look, then continued with his discourse.

“You knew my unique abilities,” resumed Hamprell. “You learned that I was in Buffalo. You called me by long-distance telephone and invited me here. You told me frankly that you wanted a certain man to die — namely, Cyril Wycliff. The chief obstacle to Wycliff’s death was the fact that he was recovering from thrombosis, under treatment prescribed by Doctor Johan Arberg of Copenhagen.”

“Correct,” agreed Fetzler. “But why continue—”

“Let me proceed,” interposed Hamprell. “I suggested the plan to eliminate Cyril Wycliff. I decided to impersonate Doctor Johan Arberg. I watched the old doctor from the time he arrived in New York. I prepared my make-up. Then I tried to persuade Doctor Arberg not to visit Wycliff’s home. I failed in persuasion, so I committed murder.

“PLAYING the part of Johan Arberg, I visited Cyril Wycliff. I mixed the ingredients for a hypodermic solution. I had some drugs of my own with me. They proved unnecessary. Small quantities of nitroglycerin had been used in Wycliff’s injections. I mixed a solution overcharged with nitroglycerin. The result was Wycliff’s sudden death after the first injection.”

“My tracks are completely covered. The newspaper accounts prove that fact. The motive for Arberg’s death is accepted as robbery. I left a clock on the floor of Arberg’s room, after setting its hands more than one hour ahead. The murder is believed — positively — to have occurred after Doctor Arberg’s supposed return to the hotel.”

“To add to my good fortune, the police today received a call from Doctor Barton Keyes, the physician attending Cyril Wycliff. Keyes stated that Arberg visited Wycliff’s home between nine and ten. Hence they are sure that Arberg was alive during that period.

“They have seen no connection whatever between the deaths off Cyril Wycliff and Johan Arberg. Doctor Keyes has declared Wycliff’s death the result of thrombosis — a sudden passing that was to be expected.

“Now for my conclusion. Doctor Arberg’s death has been laid to mobsters — jewel thieves — and not to any person of my caliber. Therefore, his death is advantageous. Cyril Wycliff is dead, as you desired. Yet you still appear in a quandary and assert that further murder may be necessary.”

“It may,” interposed Fetzler gravely. “I am counting on you, Hamprell.”

“Count on me,” agreed Hamprell, “only on one condition. Namely, I must know the reasons in back of it all.”

Ward Fetzler considered. Hamprell’s decision seemed fair enough. Fetzler grasped the murderer’s viewpoint. He drummed nervously upon the arms of his chair. He motioned to Hamprell to sit down. The murderer knew that an explanation would be forthcoming.

“HAMPRELL,” began Fetzler, “Cyril Wycliff was a friend of mine. Several years ago, he invested more than one hundred thousand dollars in a large purchase of Utah land that I owned — acreage which offered future profit through the development of shale oil production.”

“Rather speculative,” remarked Hamprell.

“Yes,” agreed Fetzler, “but a sound investment at the price which Wycliff paid. I retained a smaller tract of land adjacent to the acreage which Wycliff purchased. I was not anxious for people to know that I had sold the land. Wycliff was not anxious to have it known that he had bought the property. So he gave me additional money, and I continued to pay the taxes.

“Recently, I discovered pitchblende deposits on the Utah property. I am positive that large quantities of uranium can be produced there. The land, at my estimate, is worth millions. I realized my mistake in having sold the property to Cyril Wycliff. I met him, just prior to his illness, and offered to repurchase it on a profitable basis. He refused to sell.”

“You did not tell him,” remarked Hamprell, “that the land contained pitchblende.”

“Certainly not,” resumed Fetzler. “On my next trip to Utah, I went to see if Cyril Wycliff had registered the new deed to the property, I found out that he had not. The land, to all appearances, is mine — provided only that Wycliff’s deed is never registered!”

“Ah!” Hamprell nodded shrewdly. “Cyril Wycliff will not register the deed now. Someone else, however—”

“The deed is hidden,” interrupted Fetzler. “Cyril Wycliff had a habit of keeping his important papers in places which he alone could reach. When I learned of his illness, I hoped that he would die. As he began to recover, I decided that I must take extreme measures.”

“Which succeeded,” said Hamprell, “thanks to me.”

“Which succeeded only in part,” returned Fetzler.

Martin Hamprell arched his eyebrows in quizzical fashion. He did not understand this statement. Ward Fetzler offered the explanation.

“When Cyril Wycliff was dying,” he stated, “he managed to blurt out something about a deed — hidden, he said, somewhere in his library. The deed which I hoped would be forgotten — its existence unknown to Howard Wycliff, the son — will now be the objective of a search.”

“How did you learn what Cyril Wycliff said?” questioned Hamprell suddenly.

“My plans have been carefully arranged throughout,” asserted Fetzler. “I have long since had contact with — well, with a certain man who knows what takes place in the Wycliff home. This man was present when Cyril Wycliff died. He heard what was said.”

“Someone at Wycliff’s home?” quizzed Hamprell. “Was he there when I called — as Doctor John Arberg?”

“Yes,” replied Fetzler calmly.

Martin Hamprell chuckled. He took the affair as a huge joke. He pictured the various incidents at Cyril Wycliff’s home. He remembered eyes that had watched him during his visit there.

“I think I know your man,” he declared. “Did he know that I was not Doctor Arberg?”

“He was posted,” answered Fetzler, “to stand by you in case of emergency. He knew that your visit was a crucial test. He does not, however, know your actual identity.”

“What are you going to do now?” demanded Hamprell.

“I am receiving reports from my man,” responded Fetzler. “He will play a part in the search. He will try to uncover the deed before the others find it. Moreover, he will notify me in case some other person discovers the deed. That will mean—”

“A job for me,” interposed Hamprell.

“Exactly,” agreed Fetzler. “I wish to avoid further murder merely as a matter of policy. If, however, an emergency arises, I shall put you on the job immediately.”

“I see,” laughed Hamprell. “I wondered why you wanted me to remain here, instead of taking for cover. It wouldn’t take long to get from this hotel to Wycliff’s. Maybe I’ll have to bump off the son like I did the father.”

“I hope not,” said Fetzler, in a calloused tone. “Another murder might make trouble. However, if my man fails to discover the deed before someone else, it will be too bad for the person who does find it.”

MARTIN HAMPRELL picked up the newspaper that lay upon the floor. He crinkled the sheet and tapped it significantly. His evil leer registered the confidence that he felt from reading the newspaper.

“The cops are shooting wide,” he asserted. “This fellow they call Cardona — the ace detective — is a sap. He will never trace me as the murderer of Johan Arberg. He will never even visit Cyril Wycliff’s home. He is wide of his mark; the further he goes, the worse off he will be.

“What is another murder?” Hamprell snapped his fingers. “Nothing — provided it is intelligently accomplished. Your man is competent at Wycliff’s?”

“Very competent,” assured Ward Fetzler.

“Then we are ready for the emergency,” decided Hamprell. “We are murderers — you as well as I — and we can be murderers again. We can bide our time until murder is necessary; then strike. The deed of which you speak is ours.”

“I must see it destroyed,” declared Fetzler. “After that, all will be well. Once that attested document is in fragments, I shall be free to harvest millions. You and my other aid will receive liberal compensation.”

“I’m satisfied,” returned Hamprell shrewdly. “We’ll wait and take it as it comes. No one will be the wiser.”

Martin Hamprell’s wicked grin was well received by Ward Fetzler. A gloating smile appeared upon the big landowner’s puffy lips. What Hamprell said, Fetzler believed to be true. Murder, past and future, would remain undiscovered. No one who sided with the law would be cunning enough to grasp the truth.

Yet while murderers gloated, there was one who was already seeking the answer to two deaths. The Shadow, whose keen deductions had seen through a murderer’s ruse, was taking up the cause of justice!