The Shadow - The Circle of Death Part 11

CHAPTER XX. CARDONA ENTERS.

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was strolling past Times Square. The big advertising clock was chiming fifteen minutes before the hour of nine. Cardona's face showed glumly in the bright illumination of Broadway.

Joe Cardona had reason to be troubled. He was on the trail of murder, and he had gained no results. The finding of a dead body - still unidentified - in a taxicab within a few blocks of Times Square was sufficient proof that foul play had occurred.

In other cases, Cardona had learned the names of victims. Yet there had been no direct proof of murder in those instances. Now, when a definite case of homicide was present, Cardona could not find a starting point.

Joe had been a.s.signed to this case. Inspector Klein expected him to get results. The detective had a definite hunch that the fourth death was connected with the other three. To follow it, he knew that he must at least identify the victim or obtain some potential inkling to the source of the mysterious crime.

An abandoned cab, its license and its owners.h.i.+p faked, bore out Cardona's hunch that a group of murderers was at work. A vigilant patrol of Times Square and its adjoining area seemed the only course of action; yet the quest was proving futile.

Cardona was still on the lookout for the man whom he had seen on Seventh Avenue - the one whose eyes reminded him of The Shadow. But he had seen no further sign nor trace of Henry Arnaud.

Turning a chance corner; Cardona walked along a side street. He decided to cross the thoroughfare and picked an opening in front of a parked coupe. There was a man seated behind the wheel. It was CliffMarsland. The Shadow's agent recognized the detective.

Cardona was headed almost directly for the entrance of the Hotel Delavan. Cliff gave a signal with his hand. Clyde Burke, standing at the door that led into the hotel, moved away as he caught Cliff's gesture.

The signal was one used for emergency; it worked well. Joe Cardona, had he seen Clyde Burke, would have recognized him. The detective might have wondered what the Cla.s.sic reporter was doing in this vicinity.

Joe did not enter the Hotel Delavan. Instead, he picked a small, cheap-looking lunch room a few doors away. He entered there, sat at the counter, and gloomily ordered a cup of coffee.

Two men came along the street. One was a portly fellow, the other, a cadaverous looking individual whose face showed an ugly, gold-toothed grin. The pair entered the Hotel Delavan. Clyde Burke, returning, followed them into the lobby and saw them enter the elevator.

Seated in an armchair, Clyde picked up a newspaper. Looking over the top of it, he saw the dial of the elevator. It swung to the topmost point - the mark that indicated Felix Tressler's penthouse.

This was the first evidence of any entry into the place that Clyde was watching. This word must go to The Shadow. Before sending it, however, Clyde decided to stroll across the street and learn whether or not Cliff Marsland had observed the entrants.

JOE CARDONA, sipping at a cup of coffee, was listening to the conversation between a taxicab driver and the man behind the counter. The cab driver was evidently a frequenter of this lunch room. He happened to notice a newspaper in back of the counter.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Gimme that. There's somethin' I wanted to show you. Look at this."

Cardona, from the corner of his eye, saw the cabby point to a picture in the day-old journal. It was the photograph of the man who had been found murdered in a taxi.

"I was readin' this," informed the cab driver, "because the guy was b.u.mped off in a cab. Looked funny, didn't it? Well, I sort of remembered this bird's mug. I was sure I'd seen it somewhere. Then I remembered. It was in here."

"This guy?" The man behind the counter shook his head as he looked at the printed photo. "Don't remember him."

"Sure you do." The cab driver laughed. "The cranky bird that raised a holler because you dished him up some cold pie. You said he came in here and always raised a squawk."

"Say" - the counter man remembered - "I know the bloke you mean. He ain't been around for a couple of weeks. Sore on our joint, maybe."

"Yeah? Well, this looks like his mug."

"Don't think it's him, though. Don't care if it is, anyway."

"Who was he?"

"Some guy that worked for the fellow that lives in the penthouse at the Hotel Delavan. One night, he took up a bottle of coffee for his boss. That's how I come to know where he worked."

"I'd swear that mug was his." "Naw - you're wrong."

Studying the picture, the taxi driver mumbled to himself; then grunted and tossed the newspaper aside.

Joe Cardona, watching the man's face, had a hunch that he was correct in his a.s.sumption. The taxi driver looked like a keen observer.

Cardona flung a coin on the table and went from the lunch room. He turned directly toward the Hotel Delavan.

CLYDE BURKE spied him from the opposite side of the street. The Shadow's agent waited until Cardona was in the hotel. Then he followed and strolled to an obscure corner of the lobby, where he seated himself and perused a newspaper, keeping his face out of Cardona's sight. Clyde was too far away to hear the detective talking to the clerk at the desk.

"Who lives in the penthouse?" Cardona was questioning.

"A Mr. Tressler," responded the clerk. "Felix Tressler."

"Any one up there with him?"

"His secretary, Wilton Byres."

"Are they up there now?"

"Mr. Tressler is always at home. As for Byres - he goes out on occasion."

Cardona swung toward the elevators. The clerk called him back.

"You can't go up to the penthouse," he remarked. "Mr. Tressler has left orders -"

"Can't I?" quizzed Joe. He flashed his badge. "I'm going up right now. I want to see Mr. Tressler. That's all."

The clerk shrugged his shoulders as Cardona strode to the elevator. The door of the lift was opening.

Cardona entered.

"Penthouse," ordered the detective.

"Sorry, sir," returned the operator. "I can't take you there without orders from -"

The operator paused as he caught the clerk's eye. The man behind the desk gave him a nod. The operator closed the door and started the upward journey with Cardona as his only pa.s.senger.

The clerk walked away from the desk. In a hidden alcove, he picked up a telephone and put in a prompt call. Felix Tressler's voice responded.

"A detective from headquarters," informed the clerk, in a low voice. "He's on his way up."

"Do you know his name?" came Tressler's question.

"No," answered the clerk. "He showed his badge. That was all. I couldn't argue with him."

"Did any one else see the badge?"

"No." "All right. Keep it to yourself."

Clyde Burke did not observe the clerk while the man was engaged in the telephone conversation. The Shadow's agent was watching the dial of the elevator. He had a suspicion as to Cardona's destination.

The dial indicated the penthouse. Clyde arose and strolled into a telephone booth.

The hands of the clock above the desk in the Hotel Delavan were almost at the hour of nine when Clyde put in his call to Burbank. The report of The Shadow's agent was coming through at the time when Channing Rightwood, by appointment with Logan Mungren, was scheduled to enter the circle of death!

CHAPTER XXI. TRESSLER ACTS.

DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood astonished after he had stepped from the elevator. He scarcely heard the clang of the closing door, so intent was he as he viewed the scene before him.

The patio, with its tinkling fountain, was a sight that Cardona had never expected to find within the limits of Manhattan. A vertical trip up a long shaft had brought the detective into what appeared to be the entrance of a house in old Seville.

Approaching footsteps aroused Cardona from his lethargy. Felix Tressler appeared from the pa.s.sage that led through the penthouse. He wore a questioning gaze upon his heavy-browed face.

"What do you want here?" he demanded.

"Are you Mr. Tressler?" returned Cardona.

"Yes. Who are you?" inquired the bulky millionaire.

"Detective Cardona," returned Joe. "From headquarters. I want to see your secretary, Wilton Byres."

A scowl appeared upon Tressler's brow. The mention of Byres seemed to anger him. He motioned to Cardona. The sleuth followed as Tressler led him into the pa.s.sage. The millionaire opened a door on the right and ushered Cardona into an office. Tressler took his seat behind a desk. He waved Cardona to another chair and proffered a box of cigars.

"What has Byres been up to?" demanded Tressler.

The question took Cardona by surprise. The detective had expected to meet the secretary. Tressler's action had made him believe that his suspicions might be wrong. It was obvious now that Byres was not here, but Tressler's method of introducing that fact threw Cardona off his guard. Tressler's mention of Byres was done in a fas.h.i.+on that placed a stigma upon the missing secretary.

"I don't know," returned Cardona. "What I want to know is where Byres is."

"Not here." Tressler shook his head sadly. "I placed great confidence in that young man. A few days ago, he left this penthouse and did not return."

CARDONA eyed the millionaire closely. Despite Tressler's well-feigned concern, Cardona began to gain an inkling that all was not well. Coming directly to the point, he made a brief statement.

"Two nights ago," affirmed Cardona, "a man was found murdered in a taxicab near Times Square. He was unidentified. We took his photo at the morgue. Have you seen it in the newspapers?"

"No." Again Tressler shook his heavy head. "Byres used to bring up the newspapers. I am something of arecluse. I have been alone since night before last."

"That was when Byres went out?"

"Yes."

Joe Cardona reached for the telephone. Tressler shoved out a big paw to stop him. The millionaire's face was grave.

"What do you intend to do?" he questioned.

"I'm calling headquarters," retorted Cardona. "Telling them to bring up photographs. I think I've found out who that dead man was. He was your secretary, Wilton Byres."

"Wait a minute." Tressler scowled. "Just because that fool went out and got himself killed is no reason why I should be dragged into this."

"Sorry," rejoined Cardona, as he stared coldly. "This has got to be told down at headquarters. I'm calling Inspector Klein."

"This is irregular!" challenged Tressler. "Why didn't the inspector come here himself? Where is your authority?"

"I'm handling this case," retaliated Cardona. "I just uncovered this fact about Wilton Byres."

"You mean that I am the first person to whom you spoke concerning it?"

"Yes. I overheard two men talking in a lunch room on the street. One said the picture of the dead man looked like a chap who worked up in this penthouse."

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Tressler. He drew away the telephone as Cardona sought to grip it. "You mean that you are raising a hubbub on the strength of such slender evidence?"

"I mean," returned Cardona, angrily rising to his feet, "that I'm going to find out who murdered Wilton Byres!"

"Ah!" Tressler's tone was tinged with irony. "That is different. Perhaps you would like to find out who killed Dustin Cruett. Also Maurice Bewkel. And also who killed Bigelow Zorman."

Cardona's fists were clenched. The detective stared as Felix Tressler gloated. A light struck Cardona. He realized in one confused moment that he was face to face with a murderer. The mask had lifted. Felix Tressler was glaring like a fiend.

Mechanically, Cardona's hand started toward his pocket. Tressler thundered a warning that made the detective cease his intended action.

"Look out!" Tressler's voice meant business. "Pull that gun and you're a dead man!"

INSTINCTIVELY, Cardona stared. He found himself staring straight into the muzzles of two revolvers.

The detective's hands went above his head. Felix Tressler spoke from behind the desk.

"Two friends of mine," he announced. "The tall gentleman is Perry Harton, the new president of the Electro Oceanic Corporation. His companion is Logan Mungren, promoter of that company's stock issues. "Quite odd, is it not, that men of such high standing should behave as thugs? Well, Detective Cardona, since this will be your last case, I do not mind telling you the situation. These two men, like myself, are also swindlers.

"Mungren promoted the Electro Oceanic Corporation. Harton managed it. I padded it with a fake purchase of fifty thousand dollars worth of stock. There were two first-cla.s.s suckers: Maurice Bewkel and Channing Rightwood. They were the biggest of the fish. They coughed through with fifty thousand each."

Felix Tressler had risen from his chair. Striding heavily past the desk, he stood facing Joe Cardona. He sneered as he again spoke to the detective.

"They were ready to fall again - Bewkel and Rightwood. This time for a hundred and fifty thousand each.

Our plan was to build the sucker list up past a million before we let the company drop.

"I've made millions through swindles. I've spent millions. I needed this one. A wave motor that looked like a beautiful sucker racket, until some fool down at the plant improved it and made it practicable. The word was pa.s.sed to the other workers.

"What was the answer? To kill those options that Bewkel and Rightwood held. To grab the stock for myself. To make millions through a real development. That's the game at stake. Bewkel and Rightwood learned too much; so did Cruett and Zorman. I foresaw that they would. To kill them was the only way out.

"Wilton Byres found out what was going on. I kept him as a secretary because I thought he was too dumb to become wise. But he learned more than was good for him. He is dead with the others. All are dead, except Channing Rightwood."