The Unseen Killer

CHAPTER VIII. AT WARLOCK’S

LATE the next afternoon, a large limousine swung westward on a street well north of Times Square. It came to a stop in front of a brownstone house that was old yet imposing in appearance. A chauffeur alighted and opened the door. Lamont Cranston emerged; then Police Commissioner Barth.

“Wait here, Stanley,” said Cranston, to the chauffeur. “We shall not be long.”

The chauffeur saluted. Cranston and Barth ascended the steps and rang the bell. While they waited, the commissioner made comment.

“Glad you happened in, Cranston,” he said. “I didn’t care to make this visit appear too much in the nature of my official capacity. Since you came with me, I can express my arrival in the light of a friendly call.

“I think it best to be diplomatic with Findlay Warlock. He is actually apart from these strange events that ended in Melrose Lessep’s death. Yet it so happens that he is the one man who actually knew the professor—”

Barth cut his sentence short as the door opened. A tall, withered-faced flunky gazed inquiringly at the visitors. Barth glanced at Cranston. The latter spoke.

“We have come to see Mr. Warlock,” he said quietly. “Mr. Cranston and Commissioner Barth.”

The flunky nodded. He ushered the visitors into a gloomy living room, where fading embers were glowing in a stone fireplace.

Barth looked about at dull oak-paneled walls. He shrugged his shoulders after the servant had left.

“Moldy old place, isn’t it?” questioned the commissioner. “I wonder how Warlock happened to choose this house as a residence. I should think he would prefer to live at a hotel.”

A nod from Cranston; but no reply. Footsteps were already coming from the stairs. Findlay Warlock appeared. He bowed in welcome to his guests; then invited them toward the hall.

“It’s more cheerful in my study,” he observed. “On the second floor. Shall we go up? Good. An odd old house” — Warlock talked steadily as he led the way — “and I suppose you asked yourselves the usual question: Why I chose it. The answer is simple.” Warlock chuckled. “It was thrust upon me.”

He paused in the upper hallway to open the door of the study. They stepped into a well-furnished apartment that was directly above the living room. Here was contrast. Paneled walls, but lighter in color.

A cheery fire in the hearth. Everything spoke of comfort.

“Better than the living room, isn’t it?” questioned Warlock, with a benign smile. “This study explains why I live here. A most comfortable sort of a room. This house, I understand, had been vacant for several years. A new purchaser took it over a few months ago and had it refinished; then decided to get rid of it.

“A real estate agent offered it to me at a surprisingly low price. So low that it would have been folly not to take it. I moved in here with Cluett, the servant who admitted you. I have found the house very satisfactory. It has a third floor, also. All refinished—”

“Quite interesting, Mr. Warlock,” observed Barth, finding opportunity for an interruption. “But now that you have told us about the house, let us turn to the matter of Professor Melrose Lessep. My investigation of his death has brought no tangible results. I am particularly disappointed because his files show no record whatever of his devisualization apparatus.

“I have come here in hope to learn more regarding his invention. You were financially interested in the device. Surely you must have some papers pertaining to it. I do not suppose that you would have ventured money in the enterprise without first learning something about it.”

“I have some of the professor’s data,” replied Warlock. “But— unfortunately — I do not think that it will shed much light on the matter. The most I can show you is the prospectus which Lessep originally gave me. It is here, in the wall safe, along with the file that concerns his turbines.”

WARLOCK turned and went to the wall at the rear of the room. There, he opened a small safe that was set in the paneling. He drew out a portfolio, laid it aside; then rummaged about among loose papers.

“Very convenient, this wall safe,” remarked Warlock. “It was installed by the previous owner. It makes an excellent strong box. I changed the combination to suit myself and it saved me the trouble of having one of the small safes shipped up from the office.”

“Could I see the papers?” inquired Barth.

“Certainly,” replied Warlock. He brought over the portfolio and opened it. “Most of these deal with the turbines. Here are a few papers, though, that relate to the devisualization apparatus.”

The commissioner examined the documents. He shrugged his shoulders and passed the papers to Cranston. Barth was obviously disappointed.

“Nothing but sketchy claims,” he declared. “Not even worthy to be called a prospectus. I am amazed, Warlock, that a man of your judgment should have advanced money on so doubtful a proposition.”

“I had faith in Lessep,” explained Warlock. “I felt that the failure of his turbines had been a misfortune. He wanted to preserve secrecy about his new invention. That was why he gave me so little information concerning it. But he came here, several times, to tell me how his devisualization experiments were progressing.”

“He came here?”

“Yes. With Miles Crofton.”

“Ah! This is interesting. Why did he bring Crofton?”

“Because he had the greatest confidence in his assistant.”

“Tell me,” urged Barth. “Just what did you learn from either Lessep or Crofton?”

“Only that the experiment was succeeding,” replied Warlock. “The professor said that he had partially devisualized small objects. He said that greater success was sure. Naturally, I discounted his statements. I felt that he might be over-enthusiastic, as he was with the turbines.

“But Crofton supported the professor’s claims. Moreover, Crofton impressed me as a man of sound judgment. I told Lessep, of course, that I could advance no more money. That was because of the financial difficulties that I had experienced with Centralized Power.”

“What was the reaction?”

“Lessep wanted no money. He said that other investors would respond as soon as his invention demonstrated its worth. That the cash that I had advanced would be increased a hundredfold.”

“And Crofton?”

“He agreed with the professor. They were both convinced of success That was why I was not surprised when the devisualization experiment succeeded the other night.”

Barth nodded thoughtfully. Then he stared, eaglelike, through his pince-nez. He spoke seriously.

“WE found no plans of Lessep’s apparatus,” declared the commissioner. “The photographs seem insufficient. We can not replace that missing lever. Experts have examined Lessep’s machine. They can not fathom its working.

“That is why I want to learn more about Lessep as an individual. I want to know all I can concerning his associates. But I have failed to uncover anything of importance. The same applies to Crofton.

“He — Crofton — seems to glory in his role of unseen killer. His past shows him to be an adventurer. The only stigma of crime lies in his association with Rouser Tukin. Yet even there, Detective Cardona has learned no more than he first gained.

“Underworld talk has it that Crofton knew Rouser. The two had been seen together. We have reason to suppose that Crofton aided Rouser in crime. But that is all. Until Cardona locates the stool pigeon who gave the original tip-off, we can hope for no more definite information.”

“The stool pigeon is missing?” inquired Warlock, in apparent surprise. “I thought he intended to report to Cardona again.”

“He has not done so,” replied the commissioner.

“Who is he?” asked Warlock.

“Cardona wanted to keep his name a secret,” observed Barth. “But I see no reason why I should not mention it here. The stool pigeon is an occasional informant named Lagran. ‘Crazy’ Lagran, they call him. One of the sordid characters who prowls the underworld.

“Crazy Lagran works from under cover. That is why Cardona did not press him. But since his tip-off, Lagran has kept completely out of sight, not even communicating with Cardona. This, I believe, may be attributed to the fact that the newspapers have dubbed Miles Crofton the ‘Unseen Killer.’ Cardona thinks that Lagran is afraid of Crofton.”

“A logical supposition,” decided Warlock.

A momentary gleam had appeared in the eyes of Lamont Cranston. The matter of the missing stoolie had not previously been mentioned by Commissioner Barth.

There was a rap at the door. It proved to be Cluett, the servant. The flunky announced that Mr. Darring had arrived and was waiting in the living room below.

“Tell him to come up at once,” ordered Warlock. Then, to Barth and Cranston, he added: “I hope that Darring is bringing good news regarding Centralized Power. A receivership seems imminent. Our one hope is to salvage what we can from the wreck.

“I wanted to proceed with further operations; but I realize now that I was wrong. We are threatened by a lawsuit. Hildon, Amboy and Norgan — leeches, the three of them — intend to sue for unpaid claims. Their lawyer made a statement to the newspapers.”

“I did not see it,” remarked Barth.

“Here it is.” Warlock scowled as he picked up an evening newspaper. “Pushed to the second page, probably because the Lessep case took up so much front page space. Read it, commissioner.”

As Barth took the newspaper, the door opened and Darring entered. The black-haired man was surprised to see Barth and Cranston. He shook hands; then noted the newspaper that Barth had opened.

“The news hawks made a great furor over Lessep’s death,” remarked Darring. “Have you given them new statements, commissioner, regarding the Unseen Killer?”

“No,” replied Barth. “I was just about to read the story that concerns Centralized Power. Mr. Warlock called my attention to it.”

“You can tell us more, Darring,” put in Warlock. “Have you seen the attorneys whom these three rogues have hired to sue us?”

“Yes,” replied Darring. “I have come from their offices.”

“Any luck?” questioned Warlock.

“On the matter of contracts, yes,” returned Darring. “I convinced them that we would not have to go through with further construction work. By stopping that labor when I first took charge, I have saved Centralized Power Corporation a few hundred thousand dollars.”

“Excellent!” cried Warlock. “But the options?”

“They can not be canceled,” answered Darring. “It looks as though the corporation will have to sacrifice at least a half million.”

The effect of this statement was surprising. Warlock’s pleasantness turned to anger. Clenching his fists, the gray-haired corporation president paced across the room. Turning, he delivered imprecations.

“They are thieves!” he cried, furiously. “The three of them! Rascals who masquerade as honest men. All of a kind; Hildon — Amboy— Norgan. I denounce them! They have bled us for millions!”

“Which they deny,” reminded Darring.

“They lie!” stormed Warlock. “They are rogues without scruples—”

“Which can not be proven.”

Warlock stopped short. His fists unclenched; but his expression remained fierce. Finally, he relaxed entirely.

“You are right, Darring,” he admitted. “They have us beaten. We are helpless, because we are honest. But mark my words: the fruits of evil can seldom be retained.

“They have been bold, those three. They have brazenly flaunted their crookedness into the eyes of the world. They glory in the fact that they have gained wealth which the law can not take away. Of course they deny that they have profited; but their denial is a mere gesture.

“They mock honest men, those three. They have made their gain. But there are others in this world — others as grasping as those knaves. Others who may defy the law as well as circumvent it. Some time, some one may step forth to deprive them of their ill-gotten wealth.”

Warlock became calm. His moment of rage had ended.

Darring produced a stack of papers; documents that he had brought from the lawyers. He remarked that they would have to be examined and approved by Warlock. Commissioner Barth spoke.

“We must be leaving, Cranston,” he remarked to his friend. “Good afternoon, gentlemen” — Barth had turned to Warlock and Darring. “I hope that you will find some solution to the affairs of Centralized Power Corporation.”

“Suppose I go along with you,” suggested Darring. “I am due at my hotel. Mr. Warlock can study the reports without my assistance.”

TWENTY minutes later, Marryat Darring alighted from Lamont Cranston’s limousine at the entrance of a hotel near Times Square. The car continued on to the Cobalt Club. There, Commissioner Barth stepped forth. The limousine pulled away. Lamont Cranston, presumably, was going to his New Jersey home.

An order through the speaking tube changed that plan. Stanley veered left. He traveled east; then north.

He parked on a secluded street not far from the deserted home of Professor Melrose Lessep. The rear door of the car opened. A blackened shape glided into darkness.

Garbed in hat and cloak, produced from a bag in the limousine, Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. His course was untraceable. The next manifestation of The Shadow’s presence came when the rear door of Lessep’s laboratory opened under the action of a probing, picklike instrument.

A tiny flashlight glimmered. The motor with the missing part was absent. Also the glass cabinet. These had been removed for tests. But the second motor — the one that had played no part in the devisualization of Miles Crofton — was still standing by the wall. The experts had left it here.

The flashlight glimmered on a cord with special, long-pronged plugs that The Shadow produced from beneath his cloak. Then the light went out. With a soft laugh, The Shadow approached the motor. The light glimmered while he made a wall connection. Then the flashlight went out to stay.

LATER, Stanley, drowsing behind the wheel of the limousine, heard the voice of Lamont Cranston through the speaking tube. His master had returned to the car. The limousine pulled out and rolled to a new destination. Again, The Shadow emerged.

Soon afterward, a light glimmered in The Shadow’s sanctum. Gloved hands reached for the earphones.

New orders went across the wire to Burbank. After that, blackness; then the departing laugh of The Shadow.

The quest for Miles Crofton was still on. To it The Shadow had added another task for his searching agents. There was another to be sought within the underworld. “Crazy” Lagran, the missing stool pigeon.