The Key

CHAPTER VII NEW DEATH ARRIVES

DEATH aboard the Steamship Southern Star. This news, flashed by radio, created an immense sensation. Within a few hours after the fight on the liner, New York newspapers were running scare-heads based upon the meager reports from the northward bound vessel.

First announcements were followed by new details. The reported death of Edwin Berlett was blared forth by the journals. Radiograms dispatched to the Southern Star brought back terse replies. The ship was heading into Barbados. More details would be dispatched when it arrived in port.

Like an avalanche increasing in size and fury, the story of the fight on the Southern Star was magnified. To cap it came a new sensation. This was the burial, at sea, of a corpse that had been aboard the ship since Rio — the body of Torrence Dilgin.

The New York newspapers had not made much of Dilgin’s death. The passing of an old, retired oil magnate, living south for his health, had not been considered important enough for heavy space in newspaper columns. But the reported death of Edwin Berlett had brought out the fact that the lawyer was bringing Dilgin’s body back to New York. The captain of the Southern Star, like journalists in America, had taken an interest in the body that was stored aboard his ship.

Investigating, the captain had made the discovery that Torrence Dilgin’s body had not been embalmed. He had taken an ice-packed corpse aboard the ship. This was entirely contrary to orders. The captain had exerted his authority as dictator of law aboard a ship at sea.

Funeral rites had been read above the coffin of Torrence Dilgin. The casket, with the remains of the millionaire, had been consigned to the ocean. The captain, firm in the belief that the disposal of this corpse was essential to the welfare of the passengers, had unwittingly disposed of the last evidence that could have pointed to Torrence Dilgin’s murder.

But the burial itself was newspaper copy. The mystery of Dilgin’s body; its hasty shipment from Rio; the fact that Edwin Berlett had been bringing it north without embalming — all were built into newspaper stories.

New York journals had their readers expectant. Each day was bringing new reports. Lester Dorrington, lawyer in charge of Torrence Dilgin’s estate, was deluged by a flow of reporters. Testily, Dorrington refused interviews. He had no statement.

LATE one afternoon, a few days after the first reports had been received from the Southern Star, an old man was seated in a small, dilapidated office, scanning the early edition of an evening newspaper. The letterhead on a sheet of stationery that lay upon the man’s desk announced his name and his profession:

Verbeck’s eyes were staring through the heavy lenses of rimmed spectacles. The old chap’s hands were trembling with nervousness as they clutched the newspaper. Verbeck was devouring the gruesome details that concerned affairs aboard the Southern Star.

Some clever journalist had speculated upon Torrence Dilgin’s death. Basing his column on the burial at sea, the writer had suggested that the millionaire’s demise in Rio might be worthy of investigating. Reading this discussion, Verbeck rested his forefinger upon the name of Torrence Dilgin. He stared through his glasses at a photograph of the millionaire.

With a shake of his head, Verbeck laid the newspaper aside. He went to a safe in the corner of his old office. He opened the door, found a metal box and raised the lid. From the box he took the key to a safe deposit vault; also a folded paper of identification.

Verbeck left his office. He descended to the street and hailed a taxicab. He directed the driver to take him to the Paragon Trust Company. Arrived at the bank, Verbeck entered, showed his paper and was conducted to the safe deposit vaults.

The old lawyer used the key to unlock a box. He peered into space and saw a metal container that half filled the safe deposit box. Drawing the container forth, the old lawyer undid its clasps. He raised the lid. He stared in bewilderment.

The metal coffer was empty! Where Hugo Verbeck had definitely expected to find something of importance, he had discovered nothing.

A full minute passed while Verbeck blinked in owlish fashion. Then, with slow, methodical movement, the old attorney replaced the coffer and closed the door of the safe deposit box.

Verbeck was muttering as he left the bank. His lips were still moving as he called a cab and rode back to his building. When he reached his office, the old lawyer’s face was a study in worry and perplexity.

Pacing back and forth across his little room, Hugo Verbeck was in a quandary. He mumbled incoherent words. He mopped his brow. He stopped at the desk and picked up the newspaper. Dusk had settled; it was too dark to read in the gloomy office, so Verbeck turned on the light, by pressing a switch at the door.

BLINKING in the light, Verbeck went back to the desk. He picked up the newspaper with apparent determination. He placed his forefinger upon another name mentioned on the front page. That was the name of Lester Dorrington.

Doubt registered itself on Verbeck’s pinched features. Plainly, the old lawyer was perturbed about something that concerned Torrence Dilgin. From the reticence of his actions, it was apparent that he would have kept the matter to himself under ordinary circumstances.

Speculation on Dilgin’s death and its aftermath had produced a different effect. Hugo Verbeck was beating down his own resistance. Whatever his secret — and plainly he had one — it was troubling him to the extreme.

Verbeck mumbled. He nodded. With sudden determination, he pounced upon a telephone book and hurriedly opened the pages until he found the name of Lester Dorrington. Verbeck’s mind was made up, he was determined to call the attorney who was handling Dilgin’s estate.

Verbeck gripped the telephone. He was facing the corner where the safe was located. He had not noticed that the door of the office had opened to the extent of two inches. Receiver in hand, Verbeck began to dial. It was then that a hair-streaked hand crept through the opening of the door and pressed the light switch.

As the office was plunged in darkness, Hugo Verbeck uttered a startled cry. He swung toward the door, which was opening to its full extent. The lawyer’s body was silhouetted against the dull light of the window.

A revolver roared. Three shots came in quick succession, accompanied by bursts of flame that seemed like darts projected toward Verbeck’s form. His cry ending in a rattled gurgle, Hugo Verbeck collapsed. His body fell across the desk; his convulsive fingers gripped the telephone book and dragged it with him. Hugo Verbeck sprawled upon the floor.

The door of the office slammed. A strange hush followed; it seemed to pervade the building as well as this single office. Then came calls; feet pounded in the hallways. Late stayers had heard the shots. Voices neared Verbeck’s office.

Some one opened the door and turned on the light. Two men in shirt sleeves gasped as they observed the sprawled form of Hugo Verbeck. One man moved inward, mechanically. The other stopped him.

“Call — call the police from my office,” the man stammered. “Don’t — don’t touch anything in here. It’s — it’s — there’s been a murder. A murder!”

HALF an hour later, the police were in charge of Hugo Verbeck’s office. A police surgeon was talking to a swarthy, stocky man who had just arrived. This fellow had an air of authority. It was natural, for he was taking charge of the case. He was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force, at present serving in capacity of acting inspector.

Bluecoats watched while Joe Cardona stalked about the room. There was challenge in the dark eyes of the detective; there was determination in the firmness of his swarthy visage. To Joe Cardona, the solution of crime was a grim game.

One look at the body. Joe Cardona nodded. He turned toward the door and measured the distance. He strode to that spot and turned to face the desk.

“The killer knew how to handle a gun,” declared Cardona, firmly. “Three bullets, doctor, every one a real hit. The man we want will turn out to be a professional with the rod.”

Some one was approaching in the hall. Cardona turned to face a wiry, friendly-faced chap. He recognized Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic. Cardona scowled; then laughed.

“On the job already, eh?” questioned the detective. “I suppose you heard what I said? Well — you can put it in your sheet. The killer didn’t try to cover up what he was. We’d be dumb if we didn’t pick him as a regular thug.”

That was all. Joe Cardona walked to the desk. His keen eyes spied the newspaper that Hugo Verbeck had been reading. They wandered to the telephone book that had spread out when it reached the floor.

“All right,” announced Cardona, suddenly. “That’s all. We’ll look for the killer.”

Clyde Burke had watched Cardona’s eyes. The reporter saw Cardona’s glance at the newspaper; then at the telephone book. Clyde realized that the detective had gained a hunch. Clyde, himself, had caught an inkling of it.

Joe Cardona was wondering if a connection existed between the latest news sensation and the murder of Hugo Verbeck. Clyde Burke, a keen journalist, had naturally asked himself the same question. Clyde had caught the train of Cardona’s thoughts.

“I’m going down to headquarters,” announced the detective. “There’s nothing else, Burke. You’ll have to see me later. Tomorrow—”

“All right, Joe.”

Cardona lingered in the office, to gather routine data. Clyde Burke departed. When he reached the street, the reporter was smiling. He stopped in a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

Clyde Burke began to talk. He was an agent of The Shadow. He was reciting facts concerning crimes to The Shadow’s contact man.

“Report received,” came Burbank’s quiet announcement, when Clyde had finished his remarks. “Instructions: keep close to Joe Cardona. Report all new developments promptly.”

Clyde Burke left the telephone booth. He was confident that The Shadow would have a real beginning in the game of tracking crime. Clyde was sure that his report was already being forwarded by Burbank. Perhaps it had already reached The Shadow.

For Clyde Burke had no inkling that The Shadow was not in New York. He did not know that Burbank was temporarily in charge of the active agents. Only Burbank knew the truth concerning The Shadow’s whereabouts.

The contact man, stationed at a hidden post where Clyde and other active agents could report, was the only person who had the facts. Burbank alone knew that The Shadow was far away — a passenger aboard the Southern Star which tonight was steaming into Bridgetown, the principal harbor of Barbados!