The Killer

CHAPTER IX THE SECOND LETTER

HARLAND MULLRICK, attired in dressing gown, was seated at the open window of his living room. It was the next afternoon; the weather was mild outside. Pascual, an apprehensive look in his dark eyes, was watching his master. Mullrick caught the servant’s gaze.

“What is the matter, Pascual?” he questioned in Spanish. “You seem to be afraid of something.”

“The day grows late, senor,” replied the servant in a sober tone. “It is not wise to sit beside the open window. Especially, senor, after dark.”

“Porque?” questioned Mullrick, with a laugh.

“I have seen,” replied Pascual. “I have looked from that window, senor, at night. I have seen.”

“What have you seen?”

“Vampiros!” whispered Pascual. “A great bat, with large wings—”

The servant paused to illustrate by spreading his arms apart. His serious expression made Mullrick wonder. At last, Mullrick laughed.

“Nonsense,” he said. “If you should tell me, Pascual that you had seen human enemies, that would be different.”

“On the wall, senor,” insisted Pascual. “Outside of the window.”

“A vampire!” laughed Mullrick. “Well, it would take something like a huge bat to hang on to those bricks. Forget it, Pascual. You make me nervous. Open the door.”

As Pascual obeyed, responding to a knock that Mullrick had heard, Mullrick himself closed the window. He turned about to face Jerry Herston.

“Hello, Jerry,” said Mullrick quietly. “Sit down. I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”

HERSTON nodded solemnly. He took a chair and waited for Mullrick to resume the conversation. Mullrick picked up a newspaper from the table and handed it to his visitor.

“Jerry,” he said, “as my confidant — investigator — or what have you, tell me your opinion of this Selbrig killing.”

Jerry Herston looked at the newspaper. He had already read the account which was evidenced by glaring front-page headlines. He perused it again, however; then looked squarely at his employer.

“I’d buy a new hat, if I were you,” he stated frankly.

Mullrick laughed.

“Don’t be foolish, Jerry,” he said. “Take a look when you go downtown. You’ll see more gray hats than any other color. That clew means nothing. Look at your own hat. It’s gray, too.”

“A gray fedora is unusual”

“Any soft hat is a fedora, Jerry. The doorman at the Commander Apartments is high-mannered. That’s all. He called the hat a fedora, and the news hounds picked it up because it sounded unusual. That’s all. No, Jerry, I like my own hat.

“Suppose” — Mullrick’s tone was speculative “that I asked you, Jerry, to find the man who wore the gray fedora at the Commander Apartments. Assuming that you were working blind — as this Detective Cardona is — where would you begin?”

“That’s a tough question, Mullrick. I’ve got something more important to talk about. Those chorines we met at quarter past ten were all mixed up about the time. They’ll say we met them at ten minutes of nine just as quickly as I will—”

“Forget your own opinions, Jerry,” interposed Mullrick. “Take it for granted that I was late in meeting you last night purely because I thought I was being watched when I left this apartment house. When a man’s watched, he dodges, which takes time.”

“That’s O.K.,” responded Herston. “I get your point. I’m to be a detective tonight — forget the alibi business. Well, if I happened to be in Cardona’s boots, I’d take a shot at finding Slugs Raffney. He’s the guy that was running that gang, sure enough.”

“What do you know about Raffney?”

“He’s a wise bimbo. Husky as a bull. Used to be a bouncer in a speak. He can use a gat, too. He’s a good man — for those who need his services.”

“Do you think Cardona will find him?”

“No. Not unless he bobs up again. That would be a big mistake. Slugs ought to keep under cover.”

“What do they say about him in the underworld?”

“They knew he had dug out somewhere. He knows plenty of men who have dough. Working around the speaks, you know. That gave him the acquaintances. The boys in the bad lands all figured that Slugs had gone in for some gilt-edged work — nice dough and a chance to lay low. Say—”

“What is it?” questioned Mullrick anxiously.

“If Cardona had found out anything about that Luis Santo business, he’d see a hook-up quick enough. Slugs would have been just the guy to hide out on a boat for a while. With some of his outfit, too. Those birds that must have chucked Santo overboard—”

“Confine yourself to known facts,” suggested Mullrick suavely. “Keep to this affair of last night. What chance does Cardona have of finding Slugs Raffney?”

“None,” decided Jerry. “Slugs has taken to cover. His mob is wiped out — if there’s any of them left, they were under cover all the while, and Slugs is probably with them now.”

“All right,” said Mullrick. “Well, if he can’t get Slugs, what will Cardona do?”

“He’ll look for the guy in the gray fedora,” asserted Jerry Herston, in an emphatic tone.

“Why?” asked Mullrick.

“Because,” said Herston, “he’s got a good theory. The guy with the hat hasn’t shown up, has he?” Herston pointed to the columns in the late newspaper. “All right; that’s given Cardona the hunch that the whole lay was a set-up. Selbrig groggy in the taxi. The other guy gets out; as soon as he’s in the apartment house, up comes the mob and gives Selbrig the works. Made to look like a mob killing.

“It would have been O.K. if the cops hadn’t butted in. When they found that Slugs Raffney was in on the game, the job looked different.”

“I guess you’re right, Jerry,” mused Mullrick.

“It was a pretty neat job at that,” asserted Herston, in an approving tone. “Things went wrong — that’s all. Just the same, it looked better than this finesse stuff you were talking about. A bunch of gats work better than tricks.”

“At times,” agreed Mullrick. “In Mexico, however, I have seen some murders that were intriguing, to say the least.”

A pause. Finally, Mullrick arose. He went to the clothes closet, put on his coat, and took out his gray soft hat. He smiled as he adjusted it jauntily on his head.

“Don’t mind being seen with me, do you, Jerry?” he questioned, with a laugh.

“Me?” Jerry snorted. “I’ve got a gray hat, too. Besides that, I’m the best alibi maker in New York. Don’t forget that.”

As the two neared the door, Mullrick noted that Pascual had come into the living room. He drew an envelope from his pocket. He handed it to the servant.

“Be sure and mail this, Pascual,” he said. “Put a stamp on it; send it later. Senor Herston and I are going out. We shall have dinner together. Back by midnight.”

The words were a jargon of English mixed with Spanish terms. Pascual nodded to show that he understood. When the two men had gone, the servant affixed a stamp to the letter and laid the envelope on the telephone table.

SOME minutes afterward, the door of the apartment opened softly. The tall form of The Shadow entered the room. Pascual was absent.

Peering from the entry, The Shadow spied the letter. With swift, stealthy stride, he covered the space between entry and table. He picked up the envelop.

The Shadow stared. The letter was addressed to Harland Mullrick, at this address! Suspecting trickery, The Shadow deftly opened the flap, which was insecurely sealed. A folded sheet of paper came forth. It was blank!

Without delay, The Shadow resealed the envelope. He replaced it on the table. He glided from the living room.

Pascual entered. He stared about suspiciously; he failed to see The Shadow’s form. The secret visitant had stepped behind the projecting side of the archway. Pascual went over to the letter. Momentarily, his view of the entry was obscured. The outer door opened, and The Shadow glided forth.

The next token of The Shadow’s presence came when a light clicked in his sanctum. The Shadow’s hands appeared beneath the light. The girasol sparkled as the hands spread clippings that had come from Rutledge Mann.

Then came stenographic reports of Burbank’s. These included all that had been said in Mullrick’s apartment. The Shadow considered the brief talk between Mullrick and Pascual. He viewed the detailed conversation that Mullrick had held with Herston.

Through Mullrick’s conversation, The Shadow was reading the man’s thoughts. He traced the fact that Mullrick, unquestionably a diplomat, frequently veiled the ideas that passed through his brain. He could see how Mullrick had sounded Herston out.

The Shadow also gave close attention to the words of Pascual and Mullrick’s reception of them. A laugh crept through the sanctum. Upon a sheet of paper, The Shadow traced these conclusions:

A pause. The Shadow’s hand lingered long above the paper. The words that were written began to disappear. They vanished, one by one, as though wiped out by an unseen hand. When only blankness remained, The Shadow wrote this statement:

This was the final conclusion. It was written slowly in even script. The words were watched by unseen eyes. When they began to fade, the drying ink disappeared with the same precision as the making of the inscription itself. Letter by letter, The Shadow’s statement passed into oblivion — save in the mind of the master investigator.

The light clicked off. The Shadow’s laugh reverberated through the thick darkness. Another test was coming. It would arrive when Harland Mullrick heard from the recipient of the second letter.

Roy Selbrig had died. What would be the fate of the next man? The hidden knowledge of The Shadow would be needed in the approaching crisis. If the second man of four arrived to keep a rendezvous, it would behoove The Shadow to be there.

Danger loomed; The Shadow knew it. He was one who relished danger, this phantom who fought with crime. The Shadow’s laugh, as it died grotesquely, seemed to show his scorn for the plotter whose plans confronted him.

The death of Roy Selbrig was but the stimulus for new efforts on The Shadow’s part. The fading laugh in the sanctum dwindled to a final mockery. The Shadow was gone.