The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER VI. IN THE EVENING

DARKNESS had settled over Manhattan. Newsboys were shouting out the last editions of the evening journals when a tall, stoop-shouldered man hobbled into the lobby of an uptown apartment house.

This arrival was an elderly man; except for his limp, he still had a strong physique. The tight clutch that he retained about the head of a heavy cane was proof of his latent strength.

The stoop-shouldered man stopped by the window of a little office. His glance was nervous as he eyed the clerk who was seated there, reading a newspaper. The stooped man coughed; the clerk bobbed about and came to his feet.

“Good evening, Mr. Shurrick,” he said with a nod. Then, glancing to a row of pigeonholes beyond the desk: “No messages for you, sir.”

Shurrick nodded and used his cane to hobble to the elevator. The clerk returned to the desk and picked up the newspaper. He resumed his reading of the details that concerned double murder. A police hunt had been on all day. So far, it had brought no new traces of Dave Callard.

The elevator arrived back at the ground floor. The operator strolled over to the window and looked toward the clerk. The man at the desk turned about and tapped the newspaper.

“This is a hot case, Jerry,” he told the operator. “They can’t locate this young Callard. Funny, ain’t it? A guy gets back from China; bumps off two blokes and dives out of sight. You’d think he’d have trouble getting a hideout, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” growled the operator. “It does sound sort of goofy. There’s a stack of dough mixed up in it, ain’t there, Bill?”

“That’s what the police think. They say that anybody who knew anything about old Milton Callard would have known that there must be some gravy somewhere.”

THE clerk flourished the newspaper and began to mark different passages with his forefinger. The elevator man leaned over the window counter to listen.

“The police have got the layout pretty straight,” explained Bill. “Old Milton Callard was a wealthy gazebo who kept his business affairs to himself. He had a lot of friends; but they were all big money men like himself. They didn’t know each other even.

“Any one of those blokes would have guessed that Milton Callard’s estate was a couple of million short. Any one of them — like this fellow Luther Ralgood — who got bumped. But it ain’t likely that any of them worried about old Callard’s dough. It was the nephew who wanted the money. He came after it.”

Jerry chuckled; then nudged his thumb over his shoulder, toward the elevator.

“Maybe old James Shurrick was one of Milton Callard’s friends,” he observed. “Funny old duck, ain’t he? Crabbier than usual tonight.”

“He might be one of them,” nodded Bill. “He’s an old bird and he’s well fixed for mazuma.”

“I wouldn’t be him on a bet.”

“Why not?”

“Because of where he’s living. That penthouse is on the thirteenth floor of this building.”

Bill planked the newspaper on the desk and leaned back to chuckle at Jerry’s display of superstition.

“How’s anything going to happen to a guy up there?” questioned the clerk. “Shurrick don’t ride to the thirteenth. Only to the twelfth. He walks up the stairs to the penthouse. How’s anybody going to get up there to bother him, anyway?”

“By the fire tower. It runs clear up from the alley in back of here.”

“It stops at the twelfth floor. It would be a bum route for a getaway.”

“Not if a guy was lucky. Well, Bill, there goes the elevator buzzer. See you later.”

JUST after Jerry left the office window, another man arrived from the street. He was a tall man who walked with shoulders well back. Though well advanced in years, he looked younger than James Shurrick. The clerk looked about and recognized the man’s dignified face.

The arrival was Courtney Dolver, an apartment occupant. Bill looked in a box marked 12 B and pulled out a small stack of letters; also a key.

“Here you are, Mr. Dolver,” he announced. “By the way, when do you want your mail to be forwarded?”

“Not for another week,” replied Dolver. “They’ve been very, very slow refurnishing my Long Island residence. Only the servants’ quarters are fit for occupancy.”

“Another week before they’ll have the place fixed?”

“Longer than that. A month at least. I shall not go to Long Island at all. I am taking a vacation at the end of next week. I intend to go directly to my lodge in the Catskills.”

Passengers were coming from the elevator, which had returned to the ground floor. Dolver entered and the elevator went upward. It returned a few minutes later; Jerry came to the office to resume his chat with Bill.

“There’s a guy that ain’t crabby,” he declared. “You’d think that Dolver was a kid. Walks into the elevator brisklike, sets his bag down and says, ‘Hello.’ Dignified gent, too.”

“He’s taking a vacation,” informed the clerk.

“A manufacturer, ain’t he?”

“Used to be. He’s doing importing mostly, nowadays. Guess he found it brought in the dough just as easy, without the overhead. Smart fellow, Dolver.”

A light glimmered on the switch board. Bill plugged in; the call came from a square marked 12 G. Jerry started back toward the elevator; then stopped short as he heard the clerk’s excited cry.

He swung about to see Bill leaping from the desk. The clerk cleared the counter with one bound and landed on the floor beside the startled elevator man.

“That fellow Lattan in 12 G!” exclaimed Bill. “He heard shots from the penthouse! He’s watching the hall and wants cops quick! Hold it, Jerry, while I holler to Jake at the door!”

The clerk dived out toward the front. The elevator man stood stupefied. Ten seconds later, he heard the pound of footsteps.

Bill came rushing back, followed by a uniformed policeman. The clerk pointed to the elevator; Jerry dashed aboard and slammed the door as soon as the pair had joined him.

“This officer was right outside,” explained Bill to Jerry, as the car sped upward. “Jake’s putting in the alarm; then he’ll beat it around to watch the fire tower.”

“Is that the only way out?” growled the policeman, who had drawn a revolver.

Bill nodded.

“That and this elevator,” he affirmed. “The regular stairway’s locked at the bottom. I’ve got the only key. So strangers won’t go up; but the fire laws won’t let us lock the tower.”

“Well, that doorman’s a husky,” decided the policeman. “He’ll help out below; and there’ll be a patrol car along any minute.”

THE elevator had reached the twelfth floor. Jerry banged open the door. A pale-faced man in shirt sleeves uttered a welcoming cry from a doorway down the corridor. It was Lattan.

“Nobody’s come down the stairs,” he informed excitedly. “But there’s been no more shots!”

The policeman headed to the stairway that he saw on the other side of the hall. Clerk and operator followed him. They passed a turn in the stairs; then arrived at a blocking door. The officer tried to open it; he found it locked; then pounded against the barrier.

“Open in the name of the law”

There was no response from within. The policeman drove a bulky shoulder against the door. Bill and Jerry aided him, hammering furiously from the little landing.

The door was not a formidable one; it began to weaken at the hinges. The policeman landed with all his weight; the door crashed inward.

Staggering into the penthouse, the uniformed invader caught himself and swung his revolver back and forth within a lighted living room. No enemy was in sight. Breeze-blown curtains at an opened window indicated a path for the getaway. The officer looked toward the floor.

There, he and his companions saw two men. One was James Shurrick, tenant of this penthouse. The stoop-shouldered man was lying face upward, his arms sprawled wide. His eyes were sightless as they bulged toward the ceiling.

Shurrick’s shirt front was stained with blood. Gaping wounds showed that he had been riddled with revolver bullets from close range.

Near Shurrick lay another man, whose presence here brought a gasp of surprise from the apartment clerk. This was Courtney Dolver, bound and gagged.

Dolver was lying face downward; his body arched backward like that of a contortionist. His arms were pinioned tightly behind his back; the ropes that held them also trussed his legs up against his body.

Vainly, Dolver raised his head and tried to speak through the muffled folds of a handkerchief that was tight between his teeth. He failed; his form became weak after the effort.

Jerry produced a knife and cut the ropes. Released, Dolver’s body flattened limply. The elevator man cut the tightly knotted bandanna. Dolver lay panting, unable to speak.

THE policeman ordered the operator down to the elevator. He told the clerk to remain in charge.

Swinging from the window, the officer saw a ledge beneath.

He dropped to it; in the darkness, he stumbled on a revolver, wedged against the parapet. The policeman picked up the weapon and pocketed it.

Continuing along the ledge, the bluecoat found an open doorway. He stepped through it and reached the entrance of the fire tower. Footsteps were clattering from far below; the cop stood ready until he heard them coming closer. He knew then that other emissaries of the law were arriving.

Shouts from below; the policeman answered. A minute later, two new officers appeared, puffing from their hasty climb. The man who had entered. the penthouse questioned them. Their answer was given with headshakes. They had found no one on the fire tower.

The three policemen marched through the hall; as they reached the elevator, the door opened and two more bluecoats stepped out. Bill had brought these officers up from the lobby. They announced that police and detectives were converging upon the apartment house.

Yet the law, despite its promptness, had arrived too late. It was murder, like that of the night before. A slaying that matched the killing of Ralgood and Basslett. New death despite the campaign of the law; new death despite the vigilance of The Shadow!