The Python

CHAPTER XVII DEATH UNCOVERED

THOSE blue lights of The Python’s secret tower were visible in many portions of Manhattan. Yet the luminous quiver passed, unnoticed even by persons who would have reason to investigate the mysterious flickers.

The lights were visible, for instance, to the two occupants of a small police car, speeding northward. Neither man, however, chanced to glance in the direction of the tremulous glare.

Perhaps this pair could not be blamed for their lack of observation. They were concerned with their own business; and it promised odd developments. For one occupant of the red roadster was a police sergeant named Markham; while the other was Clyde Burke. Markham was grunting in noncommittal fashion while the reporter quizzed him.

“Why all the mystery, Markham?” questioned Clyde, as the car lost its view of the unnoticed blue light. “Frankly, I don’t get it. You flag me when I’m coming out of the Classic office and tell me to hop aboard. Then you start driving places, without telling me where or why.”

“Joe Cardona will talk to you,” returned Markham, gruffly. “He’s acting inspector in charge of this case.”

“That’s something to know, Markham,” commented Clyde. “So I’m going to have the inside track on a story Joe dug up for me. That’s good for a starter.”

“Maybe not so good,” remarked Markham, cryptically. “Maybe you’ll be due to do some talking of your own, Burke. Wait and see.”

The car swung left. It rolled along a secluded street, made another series of turns and finally pulled up in front of a large building. For the first time, Clyde recognized the exact neighborhood.

“Get out,” ordered Markham. “This is where Cardona is waiting.”

“It — it’s the Hotel Bragelonne,” stammered Clyde. “Say, Markham — I know a fellow who lives here. I–I came up here this evening—”

“We know all that, Burke. Come along with me; we’re going in.”

Uniformed officers were in the lobby, a policeman was in the elevator. Clyde wondered as he saw these changes. He entered the lift with Markham; the car stopped at the sixth floor. Even then, Clyde was still bewildered.

Markham urged him to the open door of Suite 602. They entered Jurrice’s living room. Joe Cardona, stocky, swarthy detective, was waiting to receive them. Ace of New York sleuths, Cardona had been appointed as acting inspector.

“Hello, Burke,” greeted Cardona. “Come on in the next room. Something there I want you to see.”

THEY entered the bedroom. Clyde stopped short. Across the room, near the opened door of a closet, lay an outstretched body. Beside the corpse stood a police surgeon. Clyde, however, was scarcely conscious of the physician’s presence. His eyes were focused on the body; and as he gazed, Clyde gasped.

“Jurrice!” was the reporter’s ejaculation. “Craig Jurrice! Murdered! Who — who did it, Joe?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” retorted the ace, “and you’re here to help us, Burke. As far as we know, you were the last person to talk with him. Is that right?”

Clyde nodded.

“I met Jurrice shortly before seven o’clock,” stated the reporter. “We went out together and took a cab. He was coming with me to the Classic office; but he must have changed his mind. He left the cab to make a telephone call and did not return.”

“Where did he leave the cab?”

“At a drug store three or four blocks from here.”

“What did you do then?”

“I came back here, thinking that Jurrice might have returned. I called his room from the lobby. He did not answer.”

Clyde’s answers were direct; they impressed Cardona. After a short pause, the ace detective put another question.

“Where did you first meet Jurrice, Burke? Tonight, I mean. Was it in the lobby, or up here?”

“Up here, Joe. In the corridor, outside this suite.”

“Jurrice was in the corridor when you arrived?”

“No. I had to ring the bell for him. He came out and locked the door behind him. He had his hat and coat on when I introduced myself.”

“Just why did you come to see Jurrice?”

“Because he had a friend who was reported missing from the steamship Tropical. I learned of Jurrice’s anxiety, when I was at the steamship office this afternoon. I wanted Jurrice to come with me to the Classic office, to tell the city editor about his missing friend. Revoort was the name of the missing man.”

“What was the idea? A scoop for the Classic?”

“Yes. I had a hunch there might be a mystery in Revoort’s disappearance. If I could coax a story from Jurrice, it might have been a big one.”

“Why didn’t you interview him here?”

“I wanted witnesses, in case he gave a yarn that he would later deny. It looked hot, Joe; I couldn’t take chances.”

Cardona stalked over toward Jurrice’s body; Clyde followed him and stood beside the ace detective.

“Strangled,” was Cardona’s verdict. “Look at those bulging eyes, Burke. Choked to death by some killer who never gave him a chance. The murderer was probably hiding in the closet, to snag Jurrice when he came there. We found the body in the closet.”

“How did you learn of the murder?” inquired Clyde.

“The valet was working late,” replied Cardona. “He came up with a suit for Jurrice. When he found the door locked, he had the elevator man admit him with a pass-key. The valet went to hang the suit in the closet. The body tumbled out when he opened the door.

“I’ve quizzed the night clerks, Burke; and the elevator men, too. They remember Jurrice going out with you; and you coming back alone. None of them are sure just when Jurrice came in himself. He seldom stopped at the desk; the elevator man had so many people going up and down that he couldn’t tell just who was in or out.”

“Why did you send Markham for me?”

“Because I didn’t want the story to leak out until I’d heard your statement. You’re a witness, not a reporter, in this case. You’re the last man who can swear that he saw Jurrice alive.”

“You mean that he was murdered hours ago?”

Cardona nodded toward the police surgeon, who spoke, in turn, to Clyde.

“CRAIG JURRICE died at approximately seven o’clock,” informed the physician. “His death was due to strangulation. My examination proves that he has been dead for at least five hours. It is now after midnight.”

“It was pretty close to seven when Jurrice and I went out together,” mused Clyde. “If he came back here in a hurry, he would have arrived by five minutes past seven — maybe earlier. But he didn’t answer when we rang for him.”

“That doesn’t help,” grunted Cardona. “Maybe he didn’t come in until right after you left. On the contrary, he might already have been dead — or being murdered at the very time you called.”

“When I was first in the lobby,” recalled Clyde, “Jurrice didn’t answer when I rang him. That’s why I came up here. What’s more, he was slow in answering my ring at the door. Maybe he was in this bedroom, getting dressed; but it seems odd that he didn’t—”

The telephone bell interrupted. Joe Cardona answered; then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“It’s headquarters, Burke,” Cardona told Clyde. “Some call from the Classic. They must have seen you meet up with Markham and figured you’d gone there. Shall I tell them you’ll call the office?”

Clyde nodded. Joe gave the information. He hung up and handed the telephone to Clyde, who put in a call to the Classic. Clyde’s talk was brief.

“I’ll be in later,” he stated. “What’s that? No… Nothing important… Well — have him call me here… Hotel Bragelonne, Room 602… Just here with some friends. I can’t get away from here for a while…”

Hanging up, Clyde turned to Cardona with a grin. He knew that the ace would be pleased by the bluff.

“I’m working with you, Joe,” informed Clyde. “You heard what I told them. Nothing important.”

“But you told them where you were located—”

“I had to. The fellow who answered said the Old Man wanted to talk to me. That’s why I said for him to call me here. He probably won’t, because he’ll think I’m coming back to the office. But if he does, Joe, I’ll bluff him, too.”

Clyde was pulling another bluff as he spoke. The speaker from the Classic office had said nothing whatever about a talk with the city editor. He had told Clyde that a friend had called and was quite anxious to speak to him. Clyde had paved the way for prompt communication, once the friend had made a repeat call to the Classic to learn Clyde’s whereabouts.

“We can’t learn anything about this fellow Jurrice,” began Cardona. “You’ve brought us the only dope, Burke. We have no line on any friends; but this fellow Revoort may turn out to be somebody of importance.

“But you say Revoort was missing from the Tropical. That hits me odd, because practically all of the passengers were saved. I haven’t seen the final list of those aboard the Tropical; but I’ll check up on it mighty quick.

“One man missing from the steamship. Another found strangled in his apartment. It doesn’t sound healthy to me. Particularly since there’s been talk of sabotage aboard the Tropical. Some torch may have started that blaze.”

CARDONA paused to ponder; then added:

“There may have been murder on the steamship, too. The port authorities are ready to investigate the death of the purser, which occurred the night the fire started. If they find out—”

Cardona broke off. The telephone had again sounded its interruption. Clyde reached for the instrument and answered. He gave a nod to Cardona and whispered:

“It’s the Old Man. I’ll stall him.”

Actually, Clyde had recognized the voice of Burbank. Quiet, steady-toned, the contact man was relaying word from The Shadow, received through Harry Vincent. Clyde’s responses were terse and cagy.

“Yes… I see… Certainly. I’ll tell the police… Best for me to do it… Sure, I know right where Joe Cardona can be reached… Yes. Louis Revoort… Legrand Hotel… Whoever is there… I get it. Yes. It is important… Count on me to have it handled…”

Clyde was thinking quickly as he hung up. He had not been able to tell Burbank of Jurrice’s death. He had merely been able to receive the order which insisted that the law be stirred to immediate action against an unknown foe. But Clyde had realized instantly that Jurrice’s death could be used as a wedge to rouse Cardona into drastic action.

Clyde knew that he must keep up the bluff by pretending that the call came from the Classic office. He also saw that he could use his own imagination to weave a plausible story that would impress the acting inspector. Finished with the telephone, Clyde wheeled to Cardona and began an excited fabrication.

“They’ve located Louis Revoort!” exclaimed the reporter. “The fellow who is supposed to be missing from the Tropical! He’s at the Legrand Hotel, registered under his own name. But they didn’t want to chance calling him. This looks like a police case, Joe.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Revoort hasn’t reported to anybody. That’s bad business, isn’t it? Maybe he didn’t come in on the Tropical. Maybe—”

“Maybe he was the fellow who got Jurrice!” exclaimed Cardona. “I get it now, Burke. Revoort could have told Jurrice that he was on the steamship. That would have given him a chance to alibi himself.”

“THERE’S another possibility, Joe,” put in Clyde, wisely. “From the way Jurrice talked, I’d have sworn that he and Revoort were real friends. Revoort being under cover doesn’t mean that he’s a crook. The fact that he registered under his own name is something in his favor. What if Jurrice and Revoort were both in the same mess?”

“That is a hunch,” acknowledged Cardona. “A good one, Burke. The two of them may have had an enemy. When Jurrice heard that Revoort was missing, he may have thought his friend had met with foul play.”

“And Jurrice was pretty nearly ready to do some talking, Joe. That would account for him being bumped. Tell me — what’s going to happen now that Revoort’s still alive? When he finds out that Jurrice has been murdered?”

“If Revoort is on the level, he will talk.”

“Yes. If he has a chance, Joe. Suppose the murderer learns that Revoort is safe and finds him at the Legrand Hotel—”

The suggestion brought a quick interruption. It was all that Cardona had needed for prompt action. The ace was calling to Markham and to other members of his investigating squad.

“We’re going to the Legrand Hotel,” Cardona told Clyde. “If we find Revoort there, we’ll get him to talk. We’ll learn how much he knows about Jurrice and that trouble on the Tropical.”

“Suppose, Joe, that you don’t find Revoort. Suppose that someone else is there instead of him.”

“Then we’ll act different. We’ll grab whoever is there; and hold him as a suspect. Some stranger, eh? If that’s who we find, we’ll grab him as the murderer of Craig Jurrice!”

Clyde Burke was elated as he followed Cardona and the squad. Bound for the Legrand Hotel, the law was going in the service of The Shadow. Harry — Burbank — Clyde — all had done their part. The Shadow had ordered a trap for some unsuspecting foe. The law, represented by Joe Cardona, would be there to spring the snare!