The Key

CHAPTER IV FROM THE DARK

TWENTY-FOUR hours had elapsed since the death of Torrence Dilgin. The piazza of the splendid Hotel Nacional was thronged with evening visitors. The glittering lobby buzzed with gaiety. A death in an obscure suite high above was no disturbance in the life of this huge hotel.

A tall stranger entered the lobby. American in appearance, he was evidently an arriving guest. Stopping at the desk, he received a registration card and signed his name as Lamont Cranston. The clerk affixed a room number and asked if any special service was required.

“Yes,” came the statement, in a quiet tone. “I believe that I may have friends stopping here. Do you have a list of Americans registered at this hotel?”

“Certainly, Senhor.” The clerk turned and obtained a card that bore a list of names. “We have occasional inquiries like yours. We keep this list in readiness.”

The clerk watched the new guest as he studied the list. The man behind the desk at the Hotel Nacional had observed many unusual travelers, but never one who had impressed him more distinctly. Lamont Cranston’s countenance might well have been hewn from living rock. Molded with the firmness of a statue, it was almost masklike.

Though Cranston’s head was slightly inclined, the clerk could catch the flash of burning eyes. Involuntarily, the man behind the desk followed the direction of Cranston’s gaze — toward the list that the new guest was studying.

Beside one name was a check mark in red ink. Cranston’s eyes were focused upon that name. Almost involuntarily, the clerk found himself leaning forward to deliver a low-toned explanation.

“The red mark sir,” said the clerk. “It is most unfortunate. Senhor Torrence Dilgin died last night. He was a very old man. He had been ill—”

“I understand.” Cranston’s quiet interruption came as the guest returned the list to the clerk. “I suppose you naturally keep such matters quiet. I see no persons whom I know upon this list. Thank you.”

The blaze of Cranston’s eyes had faded when the guest faced the clerk. Stepping from the desk, the firm-faced arrival followed the waiting attendant to the elevators. He was conducted to his room.

LAMONT CRANSTON’S lodging was at the front of the hotel, a floor below the suite in which Torrence Dilgin had died. As soon as the bell boy had gone, Cranston extinguished the light and walked through darkness to the window.

Across the outer balcony, he commanded the brilliant view of the Parque da Acclamacao and the crescent of lights that indicated the shore line of Rio’s bay. These lights, however, were not the ones that had attracted him.

Leaning from the window, Cranston gazed upward, at an angle. He located two lights on the floor above; they were situated in adjoining windows. One was bright; the other dull. These marked the rooms of Torrence Dilgin’s suite.

A soft laugh came from Cranston’s lips. That tone was a weird echo of The Shadow’s sinister mirth. Death at the Hotel Nacional was in itself significant. On the list, however, Lamont Cranston had noted a name directly below that of Torrence Dilgin. It was the name of the man whom The Shadow sought: Warren Sigler.

The list was not alphabetical. Guests had been marked according to the date of their arrival. The fact that Sigler’s name was with Dilgin’s, coupled with the location of Sigler’s room — on the same floor, near Dilgin’s — was proof sufficient of a connection between the two.

Dead man and living! This new guest who used the name of Lamont Cranston was determined to gain an insight into their affairs. Motion occurred within the darkened room. A bag clicked open. The folds of a dark cloak swished in the blackness. Shortly afterward, a figure emerged upon the balcony.

Each window, on every floor, had its own railed projection. These had been designed for appearance rather than occupancy. No persons were visible along the front of the dull-surfaced hotel. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. His form, garbed in black, was no more than a moving splotch of darkness as it rose upon the rail.

A swinging spring carried The Shadow to the adjoining balcony. He repeated his maneuver and gained the next projection in the line. Continuing, he came directly beneath the balcony outside of Dilgin’s living room. Grasping the projection above, The Shadow swung himself clear of the wall. A few moments later, his form swung over the upper rail.

THE night was mild; the window was open. Yet The Shadow’s arrival, accomplished with the utmost stealth, was unnoticed by those within the room. Three men were engaged in conversation. They were Warren Sigler, Edwin Berlett and Senhor Dario. Tonight, Berlett was seated in an armchair. He was not near the window.

“We have arranged everything, Senhor,” Berlett was saying to Dario. “The Southern Star sails tomorrow; Sigler and I have engaged passage. We shall have the body transported aboard the ship.”

“Very well, Senhor Berlett,” returned Dario, with a bow. “I shall aid you by making the proper reports to the authorities. The death certificate has been prepared.”

“You saw the physician?”

“One hour ago. He will be here shortly.”

Berlett paced across the room. The Shadow, watching from the balcony, eyed him closely. He had noted Berlett’s name upon the clerk’s list. It had been at the bottom, signifying that Berlett was the most recent arrival at the Hotel Nacional.

“Here are the affidavits, Senhor.” Berlett ceased pacing as Dario spoke. The lawyer was drawing folded papers from his pocket. “One is mine. The other is Doctor Antone’s. They correspond exactly with yours.”

Berlett nodded as he received the affidavits. Sigler arose and approached the lawyer. He put forth a natural question regarding the papers.

“Shall I file these, sir?”

“Certainly,” decided Berlett, handing the affidavits to the secretary. “Keep them with my own statement. I can repeat mine verbatim — from your notes — when we arrive in New York.”

“Very singular, Senhor,” mused Dario. “We all heard the same — a key — a million dollars — then a name which none of us could catch. I have been thinking about it, Senhor. I have wondered—”

“Wondered what?”

“If Senhor Dilgin tried to say a name. Perhaps, Senhor, he thought that you would know the person who had the key. Could that be? You have known Senhor Dilgin for many years.”

Edwin Berlett stood stock-still. He rubbed his chin and furrowed his heavy brows. Sigler, placing the papers in the drawer of a trunk, paused, listening. His face was away from the other men. The Shadow, however, could spy the secretary’s profile.

“No.” Berlett shook his head. “I can think of no one. Lester Dorrington — the attorney who will handle Dilgin’s estate — said nothing about a key when we had our last conference. I know of none.”

“Another lawyer? A friend, perhaps?”

“I do not know of any. Frankly, Senhor Dario, I believe that Torrence Dilgin was delirious when he died. I am preserving his death statement purely as a matter of procedure.”

A smile showed on Warren Sigler’s face. Again, The Shadow detected the secretary’s expression. Edwin Berlett had turned. He was moving toward the window. The Shadow crouched into the darkness below the level of the sill. His action was unnecessary. Berlett turned as some one knocked at the door. Sigler answered the rap.

It was the physician. The man bowed politely; then spoke to Dario in Portuguese. The Brazilian attorney nodded. He turned to Berlett, who had swung back to the center of the room.

“We must observe a formality,” explained Dario, “to comply with the law. As Senhor Dilgin’s legal representative in Rio de Janeiro, I have made out papers turning the body over to you. Doctor Antone has prepared the death certificate.

“You and I must identify the body in his presence. Suppose we step into the other room and go through the procedure. No other witness is necessary. You have the papers, doctor? Good. We can sign them in there.”

THE three men stepped into the inner room. Doctor Antone closed the door behind them. Immediately, Warren Sigler sidled over to the barrier to listen.

The Shadow saw the action; but he did not linger. Moving to the edge of the balcony, he mounted the rail and swung headforemost to the adjoining projection. Like a trapeze artist, he caught the further rail with silent skill. He brought his tall form up to the next balcony.

Peering through the opened window of the dimly lighted room, The Shadow saw the three men — Berlett and the two Brazilians — gathered at the foot of Dilgin’s bed. The withered form of the dead millionaire was lying in full view while the trio spoke in whispers that one might have expected in a death room.

But The Shadow’s keen ears detected a different reason for their soft tones. Senhor Dario was explaining to Edwin Berlett that this formal view of Dilgin’s body was unnecessary. The old Brazilian attorney had a different purpose. He wanted to speak to Berlett, without the presence of Warren Sigler.

“Doctor Antone,” Dario was saying, “has made a very serious discovery. He believes that arsenic was administered to Senhor Dilgin; that the poison caused the old man’s death.”

Berlett’s raised brows demanded further explanation. It came.

“The doses,” interposed Antone, “could have been given in the medicine that Senhor Dilgin took before I came on the case. They would account for the sudden illness.”

“But after that?”

“A few heavy doses, given with my prescriptions, would have finished the work.”

“You are sure of this poisoning?”

“No, Senhor; but I suspect it.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

Doctor Antone pointed toward the door, to indicate the man beyond — Warren Sigler. Senhor Dario nodded his belief. Edwin Berlett, however, shook his head.

“Warren Sigler was with Torrence Dilgin for many years,” declared Berlett. “I cannot believe him guilty of such crime. Never — with mere suspicion as the only basis.”

“That is the reason we have brought you here,” whispered Dario, gripping Berlett’s arm. “There is only one way to gain the proof. An autopsy.”

“Which would mean?”

“That the body would have to be turned over to the local authorities. It would be a matter for the Brazilian courts. You, Senhor, would be detained for weeks.”

“Impossible! I must go back to New York.”

“Exactly,” whispered Dario. “That is what I told Doctor Antone. That is why we wished to speak to you. If you wish, Doctor Antone will not mention his suspicions to any one.”

“Good. Very good.”

“But when you reach New York, you can have an autopsy performed upon the body. Then you will learn the truth. However, Senhor, you must protect Doctor Antone.”

“In what way?”

“By stating that the suspicions were your own; that you wondered about Senhor Dilgin’s death after you were on the high seas. You, yourself, must cast suspicion upon Warren Sigler. It must never be known that Doctor Antone and I permitted the body to leave Rio de Janeiro suspecting that the dead man had been poisoned.”

“I understand.” Edwin Berlett nodded. “I promise you, gentlemen, that the autopsy — if there is one — will be privately conducted. But I doubt very much that I shall have one at all.”

“That is your own choice, Senhor,” declared Dario, in a relieved tone. “We are your friends. We could not let you leave Rio de Janeiro without this information. It was also necessary, however, that we protect our own positions. If we can all three forget this entire discussion, all will be well.”

“It is forgotten, gentlemen,” affirmed Edwin Berlett. “Forgotten entirely. And now, Doctor Antone” — Berlett’s voice was rising as he strolled to the door — “you have your papers. Since Senhor Dario and I” — he was opening the door — “have identified the body and signed the documents, the last formality has been completed. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Standing in the doorway where Sigler could observe, Berlett extended his hand to Dario. Antone made a presence of fumbling with papers in his inside pocket. Then he, too, shook hands with Berlett.

The American lawyer conducted them to the outer door of the suite. As soon as the Brazilians had left, he turned to Sigler.

“I’m going down to the lobby,” Berlett announced. “After that, to my room. Call me there if you have anything important.”

“Yes, sir,” responded the secretary.

“And in the meantime,” added Berlett, “clear up here. There will be no more visitors, until the body is removed. Have everything ready for the removal.”

“Yes, sir.”

WHEN Berlett had gone, Sigler locked the door. Smiling, he strolled to the inner room, where The Shadow was still watching from behind the window. Stooping beside the bed which held the body of Torrence Dilgin, the secretary shoved his hand beneath the mattress and brought out two small bottles.

Sigler grinned shrewdly as he pocketed these objects. He pulled the key to his own room from his pocket and left the death room. The outer door of the suite closed behind him.

Darkness edged in from the window.

The form of The Shadow became visible. Like a tall specter of death, the eerie visitor advanced and viewed the corpse of Torrence Dilgin. A soft, mirthless laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips.

The tall shape stalked across the room, passed through the outer portion of the suite and faded in the corridor. When Warren Sigler returned a few minutes later, he found no traces of The Shadow’s brief visit.

ONE hour later, The Shadow was standing by the window of his room. He was again in the character of Lamont Cranston. A single desk lamp cast sufficient illumination to reveal his chiseled countenance.

There was a hawklike expression to that visage. Burning eyes, staring out toward Rio’s splendor, were both thoughtful and predictive. Again, a laugh came from The Shadow. Motionless, the lips of Lamont Cranston delivered the whispered sound. This time, the laugh was tinged with mockery.

The Shadow had seen the justification of the suspicions held by Senhor Dario and Doctor Antone. He had watched Warren Sigler enter to remove the hidden arsenic bottles which he had not had opportunity to take away before tonight.

Sigler was a murderer; that was obvious. Dario and Antone were reputable Brazilians; their conversation had proven that fact. But Edwin Berlett, New York attorney who had come to talk with Torrence Dilgin, was a character of doubtful species.

Berlett’s belittlement of Dilgin’s dying statement; his crafty behavior in his conversation with Dario and Antone; his subsequent statements to Sigler — all were evidences of a cunning game.

Plans lay behind the lawyer’s poker face. The Shadow, as yet, could not divine them; but he knew that Berlett was scheming for the future. The Shadow, though he needed more facts, was trying to ferret out the part that Berlett was playing in a game that had involved death.

Another laugh from steady lips. It was one of keen understanding. The Shadow had found his answer. He had formed a theory which enabled him to place Berlett. More than that, The Shadow had formed a plan of his own.

Edwin Berlett could wait, along with Warren Sigler. When the time for action had arrived, The Shadow would be capable of handling the clever lawyer as well as the stupid murderer.