The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER III. CLUES TO DEATH

WHEN Commissioner Weston and his companions reached Sigby Rund’s office, they found a swarthy, stocky man in charge. This was Detective Joe Cardona, to whom Weston had assigned the capture of Sigby Rund.

The meeting took place in the outer office. Cardona pointed to the door of the inner room when Weston requested details of Rund’s death.

“Rund jumped from a window of his private office,” explained the detective. “Looked limp as a caterpillar when they found him. Envelopes in his pockets, telling who he was. Markham got the report at headquarters and sent word up to me.”

“At the apartment house?” queried Weston.

“Yeah,” returned Cardona. “I headed here, commissioner. Called you the minute I arrived. The traffic men that identified Rund’s body didn’t know anything about him, except that he had an office in this building. The letters told them that.

“That’s why I wanted to get here in a hurry. So nothing would be disturbed. Well, I was in time all right. Take a look in here, commissioner. Everything is just as it was when Rund took the dive.”

Weston and the others followed Cardona into the private office. The commissioner walked with the detective toward the desk, while Cranston and Corlaza paused just within the door. Weston beckoned them closer.

“Lights on, to begin with,” declared Cardona. “Next, Rund sitting in this chair, at the desk, his back to the window. He must have been brooding here, commissioner, after reading that newspaper there on the desk. Getting ready to write a note or something — then he changed his mind.”

Cardona paused and pointed past the desk. On the floor was Rund’s fountain pen, lying in two sections.

Its fall had caused the cap to break clear of the barrel. Pointing further, the detective indicated the chair, pushed fully three feet from the desk and skewed at an angle to the right.

“Shoved back his chair,” decided Cardona, “tossed the pen for the desk and headed for the window. The impulse must have got him and he took it in a hurry. He made a big jump, because he had something to clear.”

The detective had edged toward the window. Weston was beside him. Pointing downward, Cardona indicated the projecting cornice. The commissioner nodded.

“That needed a healthy jump,” commented Weston. “Well, I guess Rund had the inspiration for it. I thought those newspaper headlines would worry him; but I guess I overplayed my hand. I didn’t think he would try suicide though — not this early in the game.”

“There’s more than the newspaper to show it, commissioner,” affirmed Cardona, turning back toward the desk. “Look here — in this corner of the blotter — first thing I found when I came in.”

“A lawyer’s card!” exclaimed Weston. “Tyson Curwood. I wonder if that’s his home phone scrawled underneath his name.”

“Phone number of Curwood’s apartment house,” informed Cardona. “I called up. When I found it was an apartment house, I sent Markham there. He called back. He and Curwood are on their way here.”

“Commendable, Cardona!” exclaimed Weston. “Good work and prompt. If Rund talked to Curwood, we may learn something worth while.”

LAMONT CRANSTON had strolled to the window while the commissioner was talking. He was staring downward. His keen eyes noted the cornice a few floors below. His thin lips were forming the trace of a strange, mysterious smile.

“A cigarette?”

The question was purred at Cranston’s side. Marinez Corlaza had approached; he, too, was gazing from the window, but he seemed more interested in the distant lights of Manhattan’s skyline. In his hand, Corlaza was proffering a cigarette case.

“Thank you,” rejoined Cranston, turning in from the window. He extracted a cigarette from the case.

“Glance down there, senor. A rather terrifying avenue to death — but a certain one.”

“That is so.” Corlaza nodded as he took a cigarette for himself and snapped the case. “Well, senor, to some persons, death is welcome. This man Rund needed death. He took the easiest course.”

Both speakers turned at a sound from the outer office. Weston and Cardona had moved in that direction.

A brusque man had arrived. It was Detective Sergeant Markham. With the headquarters man was a mild, middle-aged man who proved to be Tyson Curwood. The lawyer shook hands with the police commissioner.

“You were Sigby Rund’s attorney?” questioned Weston.

“No,” responded Curwood, in a half-doubtful tone. “I do not believe he had an attorney. But Rund was planning to retain me when I talked with him this afternoon.”

“How late this afternoon?”

“Shortly before six o’clock.”

“Where?”

“In this office.”

“Ah!” Weston uttered the exclamation in sudden satisfaction. “Then you were the last person who saw Sigby Rund alive?

“Possibly,” agreed Curwood. “I and his stenographer, Miss Saylor. He walked to the elevator with us. He said that he was returning to his office.”

“Nobody else here when you left?” put in Cardona.

“No one,” replied Curwood.

“Sigby Rund leaped from this window,” stated Weston, simply. “Since you saw him so shortly before his death, Mr. Curwood, we would like to know the details of your interview with him. How did Rund act? What was his behavior?”

“He was worried,” declared Curwood, slowly. “I came here at his request. He was out when I arrived, so I waited his return. When he came in, he exhibited immediate nervousness.”

“On what account?”

“Because of the newspaper reports.” Curwood paused; then spoke with frank emphasis. “Rund was not my client, although he indicated that he intended to retain me very soon. Hence, commissioner, I am at liberty to speak without the slightest reservation. Sigby Rund admitted to me that he went to Garauca six months ago and conducted negotiations with President Birafel.”

“In reference to the bond issue?”

“Yes. Rund represented American financial interests. They employed him later to sell the bonds to big buyers. But Rund did not tell me the names of those who employed him; nor did he divulge the names of those to whom he made the sales.”

“Then why did he call you in?”

“Because, commissioner, he feared that you intended to quiz him. He wanted to know if you could make him talk. I said that you could not — unless you held actual proof against him. I advised him to sit tight.”

“And what was Rund’s reaction?”

“He seemed a bit reassured; but he was nervous again when I left. He said he intended to remain here and think things over. I gave him the card with the phone number of my apartment house.”

Weston pondered. Curwood watched him pace back and forth across the room. The commissioner was convinced by the simplicity of the lawyer’s statements. He was disappointed, however, that Curwood had learned no more concerning Rund’s affairs. After a short while, Weston put another question.

“Do you think, Mr. Curwood,” he questioned, “that Rund’s uneasiness was sufficient to have warranted his act of suicide?”

“I do,” nodded Curwood. “While he was talking from that chair, he suddenly got up and went to the window. It made me squeamish to see him standing there, looking down toward the street. I began to ask him questions. That brought him back.”

“The window was open?”

“Yes. I had been standing there myself, before Rund came in.”

Weston walked over to the desk and drew up the chair. He reached for the pad of paper, tore off a sheet and laid it on the blotter before him. Then, in methodical fashion, he drew a fountain pen from his pocket, and removed the cap.

“Suicide,” remarked Weston, emphatically, as he wrote upon the paper. “That, of course, is obvious. Cardona, I am giving you the address of an expert who can open this safe of Rund’s. Attend to it promptly and hold all the contents for my examination. Right now, I shall see what these desk drawers contain.”

As Weston handed the paper to Cardona, an interruption came in the quiet voice of Lamont Cranston.

The calm-faced traveler had walked over to the safe and was stooping there.

“Wait a few minutes, commissioner,” was Cranston’s suggestion. “Perhaps you will not need the expert. Let me try it for a while.”

“You think you can open it?” questioned Weston, in astonishment.

“Possibly” — Cranston paused as he fingered the dial — “because I know the model. I had a safe of this type. It gave me so much trouble that I experimented with it and could sometimes locate a combination that some one else had arranged.”

Weston and the others watched while Cranston manipulated. When first efforts failed, Weston decided to look through the desk. He brought out a few packets of letters; none of them proved to be of consequence. The commissioner arose from the desk.

“No luck, eh, Cranston?” he questioned. “Well, Cardona, you had better get the expert—”

A smile was showing upon Cranston’s thin lips. No one saw the smile, for the globe-trotter’s face was toward the safe. Those supple fingers had long since found the combination to Rund’s antiquated safe; but Cranston had stalled to make his task look like a difficult one. Deftly, he twisted the knob. The door swung open, as if by luck, just as Cardona was about to leave the office.

“He’s got it!” exclaimed Weston, bounding forward. “George! I didn’t think you could do it, Cranston! Come — let us see what this box contains.”

Parcels of securities, correspondence and documents came into view. Aided by Markham and Cardona, Weston began to sort them on the desk. The commissioner growled in disappointed fashion as the search revealed no signs of Garaucan bonds.

Lamont Cranston had strolled into the outer office to wash his hands at a wash-stand. Marinez Corlaza, following, found the globe-trotter standing with a towel near the outer door of the suite.

“My compliments,” purred Corlaza. “You are quite versatile, Senor Cranston. Perhaps you would make an excellent detective.”

“Why not a criminal?” returned Cranston, with a thin smile. “They are the ones who open safes.”

“You jest, senor. It would not be a compliment to suggest that you would be a criminal. Say, rather, a detective. If you could find clues to crime as easily as you have found combinations to safes—”

“Clues to crime?” interposed Cranston. “They are here, too, senor. For instance, the death of Sigby Rund. They call it suicide” — pausing, Cranston placed the towel upon the rack and turned to face the South American — “but I call it murder.”

“Murder!” Corlaza’s eyebrows narrowed as his lips gasped the word. “Murder! A man leaping from a window?”

“Look, senor” — Cranston pointed to the brass plate of the electric light switch, by the door of the outer office — “do you see how smudged this metal is?”

“Yes.”

“The switch plate in the inner office is polished.”

“But how does that mean murder?”

“Here is another switch plate — also smudged — which supports my theory. You ask why the clean one, in the inner office, means murder? I shall tell you.

“Some one entered that inner office and turned out the light. Sigby Rund was attacked and overpowered in the darkness. Later, the light was turned on again. Then, the assassins were careful to wipe the light switch.”

Marinez Corlaza stared shrewdly at the masklike countenance of Lamont Cranston. Calmly, the globe-trotter resumed his statements.

“No smudges on the knob of the safe,” declared Cranston. “The killers either found it open or opened it. In either event, they closed it, turned the knob and wiped it clean. Look at this door knob, senor; the murderers turned to enter and to leave.”

“It is smudged, though,” put in Corlaza, almost triumphantly.

“Only in parts,” corrected Cranston. “The man who handled it wore a glove. That destroyed some of the old smudges on the knob.”

CRANSTON was opening the door as he spoke. He showed the brass knob on the outside as well as the one on the inside. His statements were correct. Corlaza stared.

“Rund was seated at his desk,” pictured Cranston, in an easy, meditative tone. “He had torn off a sheet of paper from his pad. Pen in hand, he was writing. The murderers entered; put out the light; and sprang upon him before—”

“How do you know this, senor!” interrupted Corlaza, with sudden challenge.

“Did you see Commissioner Weston write at the desk?” questioned Cranston, quietly.

“Yes,” responded Corlaza.

“What were his actions?” inquired Cranston.

“He tore a piece of paper from the pad,” declared Corlaza, “then took his pen from his pocket—”

“Exactly,” interposed Cranston. “Any one would have done the same. With paper available, one takes it first; then draws a pen from the pocket. Sigby Rund would have done the same. His pen was on the floor. Where was the paper upon which he had written, or had planned to write?”

Corlaza was silent. He had no suggestion to offer.

“The paper,” continued Cranston, “was taken away after Rund’s death. It was certainly not found upon his body, or Detective Cardona would have known that fact. Very well. There we have it. Paper on desk, pen in hand — Rund saw the lights go out.

“He sprang back. The distance of the chair from the table — more than three feet — shows that he performed such an action. He was overpowered; his pen fell to the floor at the time. Then he was thrown from the window. No leap, senor, would have enabled him to clear that cornice. It projects too far.”

Corlaza remained dumfounded. Only his eyes were expressive. They sought to glance into Cranston’s, but failed. Cranston’s gaze was in another direction — toward the inner office, where Weston and the others were concluding their fruitless examination of Rund’s documents.

“The murderers,” observed Cranston, “should have pushed that chair back closer to the desk. They should have placed a blank sheet of paper on Rund’s big blotter. They would have done well to have picked up the pen and dropped it on the desk They should have polished all the light switches — not just the one in Rund’s private office.”

“What of the cornice, senor,” There was a tinge of sarcasm in Corlaza’s tone. “Should they have tried to cut it loose?”

“The cornice could pass suspicion,” returned Cranston, “with the other clues destroyed. Detective Cardona did overlook it; it is also possible that a body could have struck there and rolled off. But I am dealing in probabilities, Senor Corlaza. None of these clues are complete in themselves. Combined, they give a finished picture.”

“So, Senor Cranston,” purred Corlaza, “I suppose that you intend to tell all this to Senor Weston, eh?”

“Not at all,” rejoined Cranston. “I intend to say nothing. On your account, Senor Corlaza.”

“On my account!” came Corlaza’s challenge. “What do you mean?”

The South American’s eyes were showing sudden fury as they at last found Cranston’s gaze.

“On your account,” repeated Cranston. “You are anxious to leave promptly for Garauca, are you not?”

“Yes.” Corlaza’s response was a suppressed hiss.

“Very well,” decided Cranston. “Why should I detain you by starting Commissioner Weston on a hunt for the slayers of Sigby Rund? If Weston thinks that Rund is a suicide, he will not tarry in New York. But murder would make him stay.”

“Ah!” Corlaza’s tense expression eased. “Gracias, Senor Cranston. I understand. That is most kind of you.”

“After you have gone,” said Cranston, “I shall give my theory to the police. Weston will be with you; it will evolve upon the new commissioner to seek the murderers of Sigby Rund.”

“Again my thanks, senor,” purred Corlaza. “It is wise that Senor Weston and I should depart for Garauca. I know you are my friend.”

The South American extended his hand. Cranston received it; then turned to the outer door.

“Tell the commissioner I had to leave,” he remarked. “I shall see him when he sails. Buenos noctos, senor.”

When Marinez Corlaza walked back into the private office, his lips were forming a curiously twisted smile. The expression was one of satisfaction; yet it held a shrewdness that indicated cunning thoughts within Corlaza’s brain.

Commissioner Weston had completed his examination of Sigby Rund’s documents. Nothing concerning the Garaucan bonds had been discovered. Weston was dismissing Tyson Curwood. He was ready to leave; and Corlaza quietly awaited him. The South American dropped the smile as he pressed a cigarette between his sallow lips.

ON the street in front of the Halbar Building, Lamont Cranston was stepping into a parked taxi. The driver started as he heard the quiet order from the passenger whom he had not seen enter.

“Drive me to the Cobalt Club,” was Cranston’s order.

“Yes, sir,” responded the driver.

As the cab rolled along a side street, a soft laugh sounded within the darkness of the rear seat. Confined to a weird whisper, that mirth was sinister in tone. It was a touch of ghostly mockery.

Clues to death! The Shadow had found those traces of murder where the law had failed to grasp a single thread. The Shadow could see the evil purpose behind the sudden demise of Sigby Rund. The man who could have told the truth concerning the Garaucan bond swindle was no longer alive to speak.

But The Shadow could see further. He was looking into the tangles of intrigue that had brought about Rund’s death. He could see that it was the beginning of further crime that must be thwarted.

The Shadow had shown purpose in his comments to Marinez Corlaza. His first remarks; then his sudden change; both had served to catch the South American off guard, then restore him to serenity.

For in Marinez Corlaza, The Shadow saw a man who knew more than he pretended. His plans concerning Corlaza were made. They would soon be completed. After that would come the further task.

The Shadow would delve deeper into the realm of crime.