The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH TRAVELS AHEAD

“HELLO. Detective Cardona speaking.”

Joe Cardona was answering a call at headquarters. It was the first one that had come since his arrival there. Clyde Burke, a chance visitor, was eyeing the detective.

“Yes…” Cardona spoke solemnly. “Right now?… Important?… I should stay here… I see… You are sure you need me… All right. I can be there in fifteen minutes…”

“One of the stool pigeons?” inquired Clyde, as Cardona hung up the receiver and reached for hat and coat.

“No,” returned Joe. “I’m going up to see Hildreth, the banker. Something is up at his place. It’s important.”

Clyde looked worried. He had a mission here; that was to keep Cardona waiting for a certain call. Clyde knew that he must think of something to delay the detective’s departure.

“Why don’t you send Markham up?” suggested Clyde. “Chances are, some of your stools will locate those killers while you’re gone.”

“I could do that.” Cardona paused. “Yes, I guess you’re right, Burke. I’ll send, Markham.”

He went to the door and called. A burly detective sergeant appeared. Cardona started to give him instructions.

“Go up to Hildreth’s,” ordered Joe, in his capacity of acting inspector. “Find out what he wants. Help him out if he needs you.”

Markham nodded. He was about to start for the door when Cardona stopped him.

“I’d better go myself,” decided Joe. “The commissioner might be peeved. He’s in close touch with Hildreth.”

Clyde Burke was disconcerted. Cardona seemed set on leaving. Quickly, the reporter tried to think of a new argument. Nothing logical occurred to him. But just as Cardona was stepping through the door, the telephone rang. Clyde felt relieved as Joe returned to answer it.

The ace detective growled as he picked up the receiver. He was in a hurry and he showed it by voice as well as action. Then came an amazing change of countenance. Gripping the telephone, Joe stared like a man who was looking at a ghost.

THROUGH the receiver, the ace was listening to the tones of a sinister, whispered voice. It was months since he had heard that commanding note. He was hearing the voice of The Shadow.

“Arrest Dobey Blitz,” came the sibilant command. “Move at once.” A pause; then: “The charge — murder. The evidence will soon be in your hands.”

Receiver clattered. Cardona thumped the telephone upon the desk. He realized the significance of this call. From some unknown source, The Shadow was supplying proof against Dobey Blitz. If Cardona lingered, the big shot might learn that the law was after him. The trick was to grab Dobey now, before the evidence came in.

“Go up to Hildreth’s, Markham,” ordered Cardona, coming suddenly from his reverie. “Leave some one in charge here. I’ve got work of my own.”

With that, the ace swung from the room, leaving Markham puzzled. The detective sergeant summoned another detective; then went his way. Clyde Burke was about to saunter out when the telephone rang again. The new detective answered the call. His words came in short, excited sentences.

“That was Terry Flagg, the stoolie!” the detective exclaimed to Clyde. “Say — he’s got the guys we’re after. Jake Packler and Ox Hogart. Here’s your chance for a scoop, newshound. You’re a friend of Cardona’s. It’ll be all right for you to go out with the squad.”

Thus Clyde Burke set forth with a crew of scurrying detectives, heading for the underworld. Markham had been delegated to Hildreth’s; Joe Cardona was on the move toward Dobey Blitz’s. There was another, however, who was also engaged in swift transit. That was The Shadow.

Stanley, the chauffeur, could not see his master in the rear seat of the limousine. Stanley assumed it was because of the darkness of the car. He had heard the voice of Lamont Cranston through the speaking tube. He did not know that his master had become a black-garbed being.

The limousine stopped on a side street above Times Square. Lamont Cranston’s voice ordered Stanley to wait.

A phantom shape glided noiselessly from the big car. It found blackness by a building. Gloved hands lifted a grating. Silently, The Shadow moved through a cellar passage.

The Shadow was at the Antrilla Apartments. After calling Joe Cardona, he had returned to his car and set out to beat the detective to Dobey Blitz’s. For The Shadow saw trouble awaiting Joe Cardona when the sleuth came to make the pinch.

If Cardona came alone, Dobey might see him. There was a chance that Dobey might laughingly submit to arrest. There was also a chance that the big shot might put up a fight. If Cardona came with a squad, Dobey would know something was up. He might well resort to fight.

If Dobey battled Joe, he would have to make a getaway. If he decided to escape the squad, he would follow the same course. In either event, departure would be made by the secret elevator. The Shadow had come to forestall such a course.

THE SHADOW found the switch and button. He pressed them. The car arrived. The Shadow ascended. He had chosen the positive course of trapping Dobey within his private room and holding the big shot there until Cardona appeared. At the top of the shaft, the paneled wall opened silently and automatically. Automatic in hand, The Shadow was ready to cover the lighted room.

Strangely, the room was dark. The Shadow stepped from the elevator. He had not expected to find Dobey Blitz absent. It was seldom that The Shadow’s plans struck such a snag as this. A tiny flashlight began to throw its beam about the room. It stopped. Its glare formed a small oval on the couch. Within that luminous sphere was a man’s head.

The face of Dobey Blitz was squarely in the light. The rays glistened upon glaring eye-balls. The glow showed a fixed expression upon Dobey’s hardened face. Puffed lips were twisted in a distorted leer.

Dobey Blitz was dead!

The Shadow crossed the room and turned on the lights. Like a specter from the unknown, a silent harbinger of death, he studied the body that lay sprawled upon the couch. A gaping hole, with blood surrounding it, showed in the front of Dobey’s white tuxedo shirt. Some one had murdered Dobey Blitz!

A growl outside the door. The Shadow moved toward the barrier and pressed his ear against the paneling. He recognized the voice of Joe Cardona. The sleuth was arguing with Growler Gluck.

“Dobey ain’t in,” The Shadow heard the bodyguard say.

“No?” questioned Cardona. “Well — I’m going to find out about that.”

Thumps at the door. The Shadow made no response. Cardona growled again. Gluck began to put up an argument. Then came Cardona’s emphatic decision. It began with a shout.

“Open that door, Dobey!”

No response. Thumps. The commend was repeated. A pause; then Cardona called his intention.

“I smashed through here before, Dobey!” warned the detective. “I’m coming through again! Are you going to open up?”

No answer.

“All right. Here goes your door.”

A terrific jar shook the barrier. A second blow made the woodwork quiver. Cardona had evidently chosen some object as a battering ram. His previous experience in smashing through this very door had probably enabled him to pick the best object available.

The Shadow moved away from the barrier. He reached the elevator just as a terrific smash jarred loose a hinge. Then came a splintering crash as The Shadow pressed the button within the elevator. The paneled wall closed just as Cardona came through with a titanic plunge.

His last crash sent Cardona sprawling halfway across the room. The panel was shut; there was no trace of the elevator. Yet Cardona, as he rose to his hands and knees, never gave a thought to the side of the room where the paneling was located.

The Shadow had left the lights burning. Cardona, his face agape, was staring toward the couch. Growler Gluck, his own jaw dropped, was looking in the same direction. Both were astounded by the sight of Dobey Blitz’s body. Joe Cardona had come to arrest a killer. He had found his man murdered!

A BIG limousine was pulling up at the Cobalt Club. A man in evening clothes alighted and ordered the chauffeur to park the car and wait until called. The doorman bowed as the tall club-member strolled into the building. The character of The Shadow had vanished for the present. It had been replaced by the guise of Lamont Cranston. Nonchalant and leisurely, the globe-trotting millionaire was arriving to play bridge with Commissioner Wainwright Barth. A smile showed on thin lips as keen eyes noted the clock inside the lobby of the club. The hands showed twenty-eight minutes after eight.

Despite the swift and exciting adventures of The Shadow; despite the call of danger and the beck of death, Lamont Cranston had arrived two minutes before the time appointed.

Welcomers arose as Cranston appeared in the card room. The millionaire was given a seat at the bridge table. The play began. Yet while he studied his cards, Lamont Cranston seemed keenly thoughtful.

Wainwright Barth noted it, as he stared through his pince-nez spectacles. The commissioner wondered what was on the other player’s mind.

The brain of The Shadow was at work. Shrewdly, the master sleuth was adding a new finding to his survey of crime. He was considering the subject of Dobey Blitz’s murder. He was fitting the big shot’s death into the scheme of things.

What bearing did that murder have on events that now were brewing? The Shadow was linking his recollections of last night’s taxi ride with his recent trip by elevator to Dobey’s private room.

A smile showed on thin lips as Lamont Cranston completed the playing of a hand. Wainwright Barth, nodding approvingly, thought that his partner was smiling because he had made a grand slam. He did not know that Cranston was thinking of another game.

Crime, not bridge, was The Shadow’s forte. That was why he was here, guised as Lamont Cranston. For the climax, when it came, would require Wainwright Barth. As companion of the police commissioner, The Shadow would be present.