The Unseen Killer

CHAPTER XX. FROM THE SHADOW

“FROM The Shadow?”

Barth’s tone was angered as well as skeptical. To the police commissioner, talk of The Shadow was absurd. Yet even as he gave indication of his wrath, Barth paused. He realized that The Shadow could be no more an incredibility than the Unseen Killer.

“Very well.” Barth mollified his tone. “I shall read this message.”

He adjusted his pince-nez. He looked at the paper. Then a scoffing smile appeared upon his lips. He handed the sheet back to Joe with a comment:

“You have a good imagination, Cardona.”

The detective looked at the paper and blinked. It was blank. Joe gazed up to see Barth frowning.

Angrily, the detective spoke.

“There was writing on this paper when I opened it,” he said. “A message, signed by The Shadow — and I read it. Even if the writing is gone — well, that doesn’t mean—”

“What was the message’” inquired Barth, testily.

“It said a box was coming,” replied Joe. “To be delivered here. Its contents to aid us in solving crime. A box from The Shadow—”

Another detective entered. He spoke to Joe, meantime nudging his thumb over his shoulder toward the open front door.

“Two guys out there with a truck,” informed the dick. “Got a box they want to deliver to Detective Cardona.”

“Bring it in,” ordered Barth. Then, noting Norgan’s body, he added: “Take it upstairs to the study. Bring the men also. Markham” — he turned to the detective sergeant, who was standing by — “you take charge here while we go up.”

The box went past the door. It was a large box, with a padlocked lid. It was more than four feet square and the delivery men staggered with their burden. Barth noted holes in the side of the box. His curiosity was aroused.

He ordered Cardona to bring Warlock and Darring upstairs. Motioning to Cranston, the commissioner invited his friend to join him. They reached the study, to find the delivery men standing beside their lowered burden, watched by two detectives.

“Where did you get this box?” demanded Barth.

“Found it on our truck,” replied one of the delivery men. “Two fellows had put it there. They gave us ten bucks apiece to bring it around here. Said they were hiring another guy to go ahead with a note.

“Seeing as how it was going to a detective, we didn’t see no reason not to bring the box. The guys looked all right. Talked like they were regulars. Couldn’t see their faces close, though. It was dark where we had the truck.”

“Hold these men,” said Barth to the detectives. “Take them downstairs to the kitchen and wait there until we call for you.”

“Say,” protested the second truckman. “We haven’t done nothing—”

“Don’t worry,” assured Barth. “We may need your testimony. That’s all.”

“O.K. Say — here’s the key to the padlock. Them fellows gave it to us.”

Dicks and delivery men departed. Barth eyed the box suspiciously; then ordered Cardona to stand ready with a revolver. Gingerly, the commissioner unlocked the box and raised the cover. He leaned forward; then stood staring.

Others approached. They, too, showed surprise. Inside the box, trussed and packed inside padded walls, was the huddled figure of a man. The fellow was gagged as well as bound.

Cardona put away his gun. He stooped beside the box. Lamont Cranston did the same on the other side.

Together, they hoisted the huddled form out to the floor. As the man stared at them, Cardona pulled away the gag that half obscured his face.

“My word!” ejaculated Wainwright Barth, mopping his bald head. “It’s Miles Crofton!”

“The Unseen Killer?” demanded Cardona.

“The same.” Barth’s surprised tone had changed to a note of accusation.

THE commissioner glared like a fierce eagle as he surveyed the captive. “Well, Crofton, we’ve got you. This means the chair for you.”

“Cut these ropes,” pleaded Crofton, anxiously. “I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything. But — listen, commissioner — I’m not a killer—”

“Keep him covered, Cardona,” interrupted Barth. “Have your bracelets ready while we release him from these bonds.”

Three minutes later, Miles Crofton was leaning wearily in a chair, his wrists handcuffed behind him.

Commissioner Barth was eyeing him with a perplexed gaze. He could not understand how Crofton, supposedly invisible, had come back to view.

Crofton saw the commissioner’s puzzlement. He understood. Weakly, he delivered a grin. Then, with a sigh of relief, he shook his head.

“I’ll tell you the whole story,” he agreed. “Straight from the beginning. That is, all I know of it. I was double-crossed; that’s all. I’ve been in a crooked game, commissioner, but murder wasn’t my part.”

“Proceed,” ordered Barth.

“The whole thing started like a fake,” declared Crofton. “It looked like a good game, though. I’d been a pal of Rouser Tukin’s, but I wasn’t in with his mob. That’s something no one can ever hang on me. But I was pretty well worried when Rouser and his outfit ran into that mess. The time when Rouser was killed by the police.

“I went to see a fellow named Trip Burgan. Used to be a big-shot gambler. Trip seemed like a good guy. Loaned me some dough and advised me just to lay low. Said this Rouser business looked bad, but if I watched myself, I could keep out of trouble.

“I believed him. I know it was a stall, now, but I didn’t think that then. Trip knew how he could use me. That was all. First thing I knew, he sent for me. Said he had a chance for me to keep out of sight and make some easy dough. Both at once.”

Crofton paused to look about. Expectant eyes were watching him. His listeners seemed to be impressed with his story. Crofton leaned back in his chair and resumed.

“It looked like a good racket,” he declared. “Working for Professor Melrose Lessep. Here was the story: Lessep had a cock-eyed invention that wouldn’t work. Trip had found out about it somehow. He gave Lessep some dough and said that they could fake it and sell more stock in the idea.

“I was to work with Lessep. Trip had the idea; Lessep and I doped out the rest of it. A fake clear through. The trick lay partly in the cabinet and partly in that second motor. Then there was special wiring in the laboratory walls.”

A thin smile had appeared upon the lips of Lamont Cranston. His keen eyes showed that he had learned all that Crofton was about to say.

“When the prof frosted up the walls,” explained Crofton, “I revolved the back panel of the cabinet. I stepped through, to the back of the platform. That was a cinch. Nobody could see through the panels while I was doing it. They were all misty.

“When he used the second motor, the prof shoved in cords that had long, pointed plugs. One made a special contact with the cabinet; the other made a special contact in a dummy floor plug.

“The prof pressed one button on the motor. That made the door of the cabinet open, like I was responsible. Then he did a lot of hokum— all the while I was standing on the back ledge. Finally he shouted out to watch the door.

“That’s when he pressed another gimmick. A special wire through the wall and into the door. It made the bolt move back automatically. Another push. The door opened. Then the prof touched the right button. It worked the light switch. Another pull made the front door shut.”

“Amazing!” exclaimed Barth.

“WAIT a minute,” objected Warlock. “You were still in back of the cabinet, Crofton.”

“I’m coming to that,” declared the prisoner. “In the dark, the prof pushed another one of his trick switches. It operated the bolt on the door into the back hall. That’s how I made my get-away. When I closed the door, the prof swung the switch the other way. It shot the bolt again.

“Take me down to the lab. I’ll prove all I’ve said. I worked plenty hard figuring out some of that trick stuff. The prof was stumped with a lot of it. But it worked fine the night we pulled it. The toughest part was finding enough time for the get-away.”

“How did the professor know when you had made your escape?” questioned Barth.

“He could hear the door close,” replied Crofton. “He was listening for it.”

A pause. Barth was stroking his bald head, utterly confounded by Crofton’s story. It sounded true, particularly the offer to make tests in Lessep’s abandoned laboratory.

“Now comes the double cross,” asserted Crofton, suddenly. “Trip Burgan had a hideout fixed for me over on Ninth Avenue. The idea was I’d have to keep out of sight or people might find out about the fake.

“Well, I hopped over there. A swell place — apartment with three rooms — guys to bring me everything I wanted. Only thing was, I couldn’t let them see me. I was supposed to be invisible. Trip swore I’d have to play the game all the way.

“I look at the papers. They were brought up to my room. It kind of socked me when I found I was called the Unseen Killer. I sent a note to Trip. He sent back word to lay low. Somebody had squealed that I knew Rouser Tukin.

“Then I got a paper that told about Lessep being killed. Trip sent a note saying that he thought the prof had committed suicide. It looked worse than ever for me, and I knew murder was the game when I saw papers telling about Hildon and Amboy.

“But I couldn’t make a move. Those gorillas — Trip had a crew of them under the place I was living — they would have bumped me if I tried to make a get-away. They were to rub out any guy that they found in the place. They’d never seen me. Since I was supposed to be invisible, they’d have plugged me for an intruder.”

Crofton’s voice showed strain. Thoughts of his recent ordeal were troubling him. It was with an effort that the man managed to conclude his story.

“To-night, Trip came to the joint,” he said. “He and Chuck Galla. To take me away. I had to go. I was suspicious. I figured they were on the home stretch of their game and that they were going to rub me out, not needing me as a goat any longer.

“The dragnet was working. And they were scared of The Shadow. Well, just as we were going out, The Shadow showed up. Battled with Trip and Chuck. They had a car outside, with gorillas in it. I made for the car, figuring I’d rather bluff with the gorillas, even though they might be set to take me for a ride.

“Some fellows crowned those gorillas. Made off with the car, with me in it, two of them pinning me on the floor. One of them handed me a haymaker. I went out. When I woke up I was in that box and The Shadow was looking in on me.”

“You’re sure it was The Shadow?” challenged Barth.

“You bet it was,” returned Crofton, in a positive tone. “Black cloak — slouch hat — all I could see was eyes. He talked to me and I listened. He knew everything, that guy. Said he was sending me to Joe Cardona. Told me if I talked, I’d come out all right. He’d do the rest in a pinch. Well, here I am.”

Finished with his amazing tale, Miles Crofton closed his eyes and settled back wearily upon the cushions of the chair.