The Key

CHAPTER XI THE CONFERENCE

THE next afternoon had ended. Acting Inspector Joe Cardona was at his desk in headquarters. A frown on his swarthy face, the star sleuth was reading new accounts of death. The murder of Clark Durton outside the Tarpon Club had been welcome fodder for the presses.

“Guy outside to see you, inspector.” The announcement came from a detective who had opened Cardona’s door. “It’s that fellow Burke — the newshound from the Classic.”

“Hello, Joe.” Clyde Burke, shouldering his way past the detective at the door, was prompt with a wave of greeting. “What’s the idea of keeping us out? Getting snooty on this inspector’s job?”

There was banter in Clyde’s tone. Cardona smiled sourly and waved the detective from the door.

“It’s all right,” ordered Joe. “I said keep the reporters out. That doesn’t include this bird. He’s no reporter.”

“You’re right, Joe,” laughed Clyde, as the door closed. “I’ve graduated. I’m a journalist!”

“You’re a pest!” growled Cardona. “Listen, Burke. There’s no use of coming in here until I send for you. I’ve given you breaks before; I’m not going to let you down. But you hit it when you spoke about this inspector’s job. There’s no time to chew the rag here at headquarters. I’ve got two dozen men out on the street. There’s no telling what may turn up—”

Cardona broke off as the telephone rang beside him. Lifting the receiver, the sleuth growled a hello. Then his tone changed.

“Yes, commissioner…” Cardona’s voice was easing. “I understand… Yes, I can drop up there again… In an hour? Very…”

“I guess Weston’s worried,” remarked Clyde as Cardona hung up the receiver. “How’s he acting, Joe? Tough?”

“Yeah,” returned Cardona. “That’s his way. I saw him last night. Nothing important. Just put me on the fire because I hadn’t grabbed the gorilla that bumped off Verbeck. Suppose I’ll get the same dose on this Durton case.”

“Got the dragnet working?”

“On its way. But the birds we’re after are pretty foxy. We’re not grabbing a lot of small-time crooks wholesale just yet. They haven’t had time to wise up to who’s done the jobs. Scram now, Burke — I’ve got to check up on a batch of reports before I leave.”

Clyde strolled from the office. He reached the street. Arriving at a cigar store he entered and put in a call to Burbank. Definitely, Clyde assured the contact man that Joe Cardona was making a trip uptown, evidently to the same destination that he had chosen on the previous night.

IN his secluded switchboard room, Burbank sat patiently after receiving Clyde Burke’s call. Tonight, the contact man had no instructions for Harry Vincent. Apparently, Burbank was not planning to put a trailer on the job. Ten minutes passed. A light glowed on the switchboard. Burbank plugged in and gave his statement:

“Burbank speaking.”

A quiet voice responded. It was a tone that Burbank recognized at once.

It was the assumed voice of Lamont Cranston.

The Shadow had arrived from Barbados. Burbank had expected this call. He had checked with a call to the Newark airport. He had learned that the plane from the south was due on time tonight.

Burbank’s response was brief. The contact man knew that time was pressing. He told The Shadow the location of Kelwood Markin’s house in the Nineties. He stated that Joe Cardona would be there within the hour. When his report was ended Burbank gathered papers and thrust them in an envelope. Rising, he extinguished the light above his head, donned hat and coat and departed from the darkened room. He was on his way to Twenty-third Street to drop accumulated data through the mail slit in the office that bore the name B. Jonas.

FIVE minutes before Joe Cardona was due to arrive at Markin’s, a cab stopped at the nearest corner to the old house. The driver turned to speak to the passenger. A ten-dollar bill floated through the window and landed in his hand. Staring into the back of the cab, the driver saw that his passenger was gone.

Chuckling, the cabby drove away. He had gained full fare and a large tip for his rapid trip in from the Newark airport. The jehu gave no further thought to the startling disappearance of his passenger.

A cloaked shape was gliding along the street where Cardona’s men were watching. The Shadow seemed to sense the presence of observers. He stopped at a deserted house a few doors from Markin’s. He spied a loose grating in the basement window.

With swift precision, The Shadow removed the yielding bars. He slid downward, invisible in the blackness. Finding a stairway, he ascended. The path was clear to the top floor. There The Shadow, using a flashlight, spied the outlet that he sought — a trapdoor in the ceiling.

A gloved hand opened a door; then a second one close by. The two barriers came well together. They made an excellent support. The Shadow raised his lithe form atop the doors. With a jimmy, he pried the trapdoor loose. Rising through the opening, he reached the roof.

With rapid strides along the housetops, The Shadow arrived on Markin’s roof. He worked with the jimmy and pried a trapdoor upward. He dropped through to the deserted upper floor; then headed for a stairway distinguishable by a light below.

As The Shadow began his descent, there was a ring at the front door. A stocky man appeared, on his way to answer the summons. As his figure disappeared in the vestibule, The Shadow gained the ground floor. On his left he saw an open door — the entrance to Markin’s living room.

The Shadow saw that the chamber was empty. Gliding into the partly lighted room, he spied a pair of hanging draperies at the front. He slipped between the curtains and gained a vantage spot upon the broad sill. He was not a moment too soon. The stocky man, returning, came through the living room and rapped at a closed door.

“What is it, Howland?” came a querulous voice.

“Two visitors, sir,” responded the secretary. “Commissioner Weston and Inspector Cardona. They have come in with me, sir.”

Weston and Cardona were entering the room as Howland spoke through the closed door. They had arrived outside almost at the same time. As they stared toward the door of Markin’s temporary bedroom, the barrier opened. The old lawyer, his face drawn, stepped into view.

“You can go, Howland,” said Markin. “Remain in the study.”

“Yes, sir.”

MARKIN sat down with his visitors. The lawyer chose the spot behind the table. His face, though it showed tenseness, also carried an expression that indicated justification of his fears.

“I am glad that you have come,” declared Markin, in a steady tone. “New misfortune has proven my theory. I think that you will agree that my qualms were not merely the meanderings of an old man’s mind.”

“Quite right, Mr. Markin,” asserted Weston. “I learned that you had called my office. I arranged to come here and I ordered Acting Inspector Cardona to join us. I thought, perhaps that you might have gained new information.”

“How?” queried Markin, with a spread of his hands. “What else can I say? I told you that other lawyers might be on the death list. I hoped that you might have information.”

“We have,” declared Cardona. “We found the key to a safe deposit box among Durton’s effects. None of his family could identify it.”

“He is one of us,” nodded Markin. “Let us hope that there are none others beside myself.”

“The key is the only piece of evidence,” stated Weston. “It supports your statements, Markin. I believe that Clark Durton received that key from a millionaire. I am sure that he, like yourself and Verbeck, found the safe deposit box empty. But there the trail ceases.”

“It would,” said Markin. “In Verbeck’s case, it seemed certain that he received the key from Torrence Dilgin. I have already stated that I gained mine from Rufus Gilwood. But there is only one man who can tell you who gave the key to Clark Durton. That man is Lester Dorrington.”

“If we knew how many millionaires were swindled,” suggested Cardona, “we could figure how many lawyers are slated for the spot. I’m putting four men on guard here, Mr. Markin. There was only one killer who went after Verbeck, but a bunch bumped Durton.”

“That is something gained,” decided Markin, in a wise tone. “You have learned definitely that the slayers are gangsters. But have you followed my suggestion of checking upon Lester Dorrington?”

“I covered his house last night,” returned Cardona. “I had three men with me on Long Island. Dorrington was there all the while.”

“He would be!” exclaimed Markin, pounding his fist on the table. “If your visit here tonight, gentlemen, is in hope of gaining information, I can give no more than I have already. I told you how I received a key from Gilwood; how his dodge to escape the inheritance tax failed. Dorrington appropriated those funds from Gilwood’s box at the Farley National, just as he took the cash which Verbeck was supposed to find at the Paragon Trust.

“You have the information; what you need is advice. Here it is: remember that Lester Dorrington is crafty. He is too wise to form contact at his home. His plans have undoubtedly been made in advance. There is only one course for you to follow. Look for crooks whose cases he handled in court. They are the ones who will be in this game.”

“That’s right, Cardona,” agreed Weston, turning to the ace sleuth. “That limits your hunt. Get the stool pigeons on the job. Keep away from the dragnet. These killers are men who are working from some hideout.”

“I’ve got the stools working,” insisted Cardona. “I’ve been looking up facts on Dorrington, too. I haven’t used the plan that Mr. Markin here suggests we—”

“Use it then,” interposed Weston, “and pass the word tonight. Others murders may be in the making. Two have come in two nights. One may be on its way even now.”

Rising, the commissioner extended his hand to Kelwood Markin. The retired lawyer received the shake. As Weston and Cardona turned toward the hall, he uttered words of thanks, particularly because four men were now on duty outside his house.

“There is no use in trying to deceive Dorrington,” declared the old lawyer. “He has watched others; he will be watching me. He must certainly know by now that you are guarding this house. He knows that I have spoken.

“That, in a sense, is unfortunate. It may mean that Dorrington is all the more anxious to kill off other persons who may testify against him. I am still fearful, gentlemen. You can appreciate my qualms. By gaining your protection, I have unquestionably made Dorrington all the more desirous of killing me.”

Weston nodded from the door. This angle of the case was serious. Yet the commissioner expressed the assurance that four men outside the house, with Howland inside, should be sufficient for Markin’s safety.

The visitors departed. Markin summoned Howland. He gave the secretary brief orders for the morning. The old man entered the bedroom and locked the door behind him. Howland turned out the lights in the living room, but did not lock the door.

Curtains stirred. The Shadow emerged from his hiding place. Crossing the living room he reached the hall and gained the stairs. He went up through the trapdoor and across the roof; when he descended through the deserted house, he found a side door that opened into a narrow alleyway. He used this as his exit.

LATER, the blue light shone in The Shadow’s sanctum. A soft laugh sounded as the master sleuth studied the gathered clippings and reports. By his trip to Markin’s, The Shadow had, since his arrival, gained the real facts in the secret that lay behind a chain of deaths.

Facts, undisclosed while The Shadow was in Rio, were pointing the way to the measures which must be taken to aid the law. By his actions aboard the Southern Star, The Shadow had sought to end the run of crime. Yet murder had followed in New York and The Shadow had learned why.

Piecing the remarks which Markin, Weston and Cardona had made concerning their previous conversation, The Shadow had gained a practical knowledge of Markin’s revelations. The hidden listener at the conference tonight was the one who had profited through the discussion.

New murder might be on its way. Another lawyer — as yet unknown — might be the next victim set for murder. When crime struck, The Shadow would be there to meet it. He had gained the ground that he required to overtake new bursts of violence.

Earphones clicked. A light glowed upon the wall. Burbank’s voice came across the wire. The Shadow responded, in his whispered tones.

“Instructions to Marsland,” were his words. “Go to the Pink Rat. Await written orders that he will receive there.”

“Instructions received.”

Earphones clattered; hands disappeared from the light. When they returned, they were carrying folders that were identified by names. The Shadow began to study reports on crooks — definite data which he had produced from his exclusive files.

Half an hour passed while The Shadow engaged in research. Then came a click of the light. A laugh crept through the darkened sanctum. The Shadow was departing. He was on his way to the underworld.

There he would form contact with Cliff Marsland. The Shadow and his agent, independently, would seek the information that was needed. The Shadow had taken the same advice that Joe Cardona had received from Kelwood Markin.

On this, the first night of his arrival in New York, he was seeking first-hand information concerning the whereabouts of crooks who had been legal clients of Lester Dorrington.