The Shadow - The Golden Dog Murders Part 11

Smiling as he dressed, Julius Hankey watched the clock on his bureau.

When the minute hand touched the half hour, his gaze swung expectantly toward his room telephone.

The phone bell rang.

The voice on the wire to which Julius Hankey listened with such eager attention was a disguised one. It sounded metallic, unhuman. It was evidently filtered through a mechanical device that robbed it of tone and quality.

"Identify yourself," the voice rasped.

"O.M.," Hankey whispered.

"Very well, O.M. Give your report."

"Sick man safe in hospital," Hankey said. "No trouble. Your pet dog has been given to proper party. Expect delivery of ice tonight."

"Good! That is all. Hang up."

Hankey did not descend to the street in the same elevator in which he had ascended. He walked through the corridor to another wing of the building. He left the hotel by a side entrance, unseen by anyone except a sleepy clerk back of a small cigar counter.

He drove straight to his sw.a.n.ky home, and was surprised to find a very lovely girl waiting for him in the living room, She sat on a sofa, with a pile of luggage at her feet.

"Isabel!" Hankey cried. "This is indeed a pleasant surprise! I - what's the matter?"

Isabel Pyne's face was pale. She threw nervous arms around her uncle. He saw that his pretty niece was frightened. "May I stay with you a few days?" she asked, hurriedly. "I'm terribly worried! I'm afraid of something that - that -"

Julius Hankey laid a quick finger on her lips. He had noticed his butler was watching the girl curiously.

"You're tired, my dear," he told Isabel. "I think you had better lie down and rest. Bascom will show you to your room."

The butler bowed. Isabel followed him up the broad staircase. Hankey smiled as he watched Bascom and his niece go upstairs. When the two had vanished, Hankey's smile spilled into cautious sound.

It became a grimly sardonic chuckle.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FIVE MEN.

THE next morning brought a thrill of horror and fear to every newspaper reader in New York. Again, the police were faced with a gruesome murder that seemed to point to a supernatural power. Another millionaire jewel collector had been found lying in a b.l.o.o.d.y huddle, with his throat hideously torn! The medical examiner reported that death had come from the fangs of a dog!

Andrew Shafter's death was an exact duplicate of Peter Randolph's. In the stark clutch of the dead man's hand was found a blood sapphire. And no trace of the mysterious animal that had slain him!

The morning newspapers were black with the headlines: DOG G.o.dDESS CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM.

Andrew Shafter, Throat Torn, Dies Holding Ill-omened Sapphire.

Police Discount Supernatural Attack; Promise Early Arrest.

The news produced a terrific sensation. People shuddered at their breakfast tables, talked about it in the subways on their way to work.

Newsboys reaped a harvest. Seven million people wanted to read every sc.r.a.p of information concerning this baffling mystery.

But out of those seven million New Yorkers, there were only five men who had special reason to read that account of a mysterious Oriental doom in the heart of a civilized metropolis.

JULIUS HANKEY was the first of the five.

He read every line about the case with grim amus.e.m.e.nt. When he had finished, he rose quietly and made sure that the door of his study was locked.

It was a huge, high-ceilinged room, furnished with exquisite taste. The walls had been soundproofed by a competent architect. Hankey remembered that with a chuckle, as he picked up his telephone.

The phone was a private one, unconnected with the many other phones inside the house. It was impossible for Bascom, the butler, to listen in even if he were suspicious - which Hankey doubted.

The jeweler called Senor Ramon Ortega. His voice was not that of the dapper Julius Hankey when he spoke to Ortega. It was low-pitched, m.u.f.fled, heavily Teutonic. It was, in fact, the voice of Otto Muller.

He pretended to be calling from the uptown delicatessen.

"The ice has arrived O.K.," he reported.

Ortega's distant voice trembled with eagerness. "How many does that make?"

"Eleven. There should be twenty-one. Therefore, ten are still missing." "Can you - find those others?"

"Of course! As soon as things quiet down, I expect to be contacted by people who will be eager to sell. Only, I don't plan to buy. What I need - I will take!"

Ortega gasped.

"Don't do any - any more of that! Listen; I've got to see you. I'll come over to the delicatessen."

"No," Muller said. "I won't be there. I'm leaving right now. Wait until you hear from me. Good-by."

He hung up, grinning as he saw the reflection of his aristocratic face in the mirror over his desk. The role of Otto Muller amused him. He flattered himself that he was an excellent actor.

But it was as Julius Hankey that he left his palatial home. He was so intent on his thoughts that he did not realize he was being followed. Conceit had robbed him of his customary caution.

The person who followed Julius Hankey was a woman. A slim, lovely blonde of striking beauty. It was Isabel Pyne - Hankey's own niece! She trailed him from the other side of the street. There was anger and determination in her blue eyes.

THE second of those five men who were especially interested in the account of Andrew Shafter's strange death, was a tall man with bright, feverish eyes and a face the color of gray clay: David Frick.

Frick had his own ideas on the subject of the Dog G.o.ddess from India.

Like Hankey, he was grimly amused. And, like Hankey, his amus.e.m.e.nt vented itself in immediate action. But he didn't call anyone on the telephone. He merely opened a safe, using a long and intricate combination that took nearly five minutes to release the steel bolts of his strong box.

He took a small chamois bag from the safe and spilled its contents on the table before him. The smooth table seemed suddenly to glow with blue flame.

Sapphires! Ten of them! Each with a spot of crimson, tucked away like a spill of blood in the heart of the stone.

Had Joe Cardona stared at those flashing gems, he would have been unable to tell whether they were the ones that had been stolen from the chemist, Rodney Mason, or whether they were actually blood sapphires from the sacred Necklace of Purity, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the throat of a golden image in a temple of India.

But David Frick knew the truth. He knew that these ten stones were genuine. They were the ten for which Otto Muller and his gang of killers were still searching. Not scattered, as Muller thought, but concentrated in the gray-skinned hands of a shrewd and ruthless scoundrel.

Frick was wise to the purpose of the unknown chief who headed Muller's mob. Frick wasn't frightened. He was out for big stakes. It would take more than a ghostly, golden statue with a dog's head to scare David Frick!

He placed the glittering sapphires back in his safe and locked it securely. He was awaiting a visitor. The doorbell rang presently, and he admitted a breathless man.

His caller was Ramon Ortega.

ORTEGA was twitching with repressed excitement. His low-toned voice was urgent. He told Frick that he had just had a telephone call from Otto Muller.

The gang had recovered the eleventh sapphire from the unfortunate Andrew Shafter. They had promised to find the other ten without much further delay.

What was Frick's advice? "You're a detective," Ortega whispered, huskily. "Don't you think it's time to notify the police that -"

"I think you had better leave the case to me," Frick cut in, smoothly.

"As you say, I'm a private detective. I'm used to dangerous matters of this kind.

You remember what I promised you?"

"You told me you could outwit Muller's mob and recover the entire twenty-one sapphires without publicity or scandal."

"Correct. And I also promised you that the price for the returned necklace would be not the two million that Muller asks - but exactly half that. One million dollars! In other words, you save a million, and I earn the same amount.

"But -"

"You can take my word," Frick said grimly, "that I have a pretty accurate idea where those last ten sapphires are hidden. I've uncovered a lead that will wind up this case with a speed that may surprise you. Forget about Otto Muller and Sam Baron and the rest of those fools!"

"I'm afraid of Muller's unknown chief," Ortega admitted, uneasily. "No

one.

knows who he is - not even Muller. Who is he?"

"I'll tell you that, too, before long," Frick chuckled. "I must ask you to excuse me now. I have an important lead to investigate."

When Ortega was gone, Frick forced his thin lips into a smile.

"Private detective," he murmured. "That's a laugh! Before I finish with that dumb rajah from dear old India, he'll pay me a h.e.l.l of a lot more than a million bucks for his twenty-one blood sapphires!"

His smile faded. He began to wonder grimly about the ident.i.ty of the unknown leader who was behind Baron and Muller. What guy could be smart enough to play up that superst.i.tious hocus-pocus about a golden statue that could rip out people's throats with the fangs of a dog?

David Frick found himself suddenly shuddering. He cursed at himself for his weakness. It was hard to fight down the presentiment of evil that chilled his blood.

"O.K., Dog G.o.ddess!" he spat through twisted lips. "Let's see you pull your stuff on me!"

He put on his hat and walked out.

SAM BARON reached lazily downward and scratched one of his bare toes. He was the third man who was interested in the black headlines of the newspaper.

He was sitting in peppermint-striped pajamas in a comfortable bedroom armchair.

Sunlight came in through the discreet slant of Venetian blinds. It was late afternoon. Sam had been out most of the preceding night. He had retired shortly after dawn.

He glanced across toward the bed where his wife sat lazily smiling at him.

Flo had a late job herself. She danced in the floor show at the Club Fandango.

Sam had wanted her to quit dancing, after he had married her. But Flo was the kind of blonde who loved the bright lights, marriage or no marriage.

Sam saw the frown on Flo's lovely forehead and knew that, for once, the kid was worried. He was certain of it when his wife stretched, and coquettishly allowed the coverlet to slip away from her shoulders. She was going to try to vamp Sam into telling her where he'd been last night. The murder headlines in the newspaper had frightened Flo.

"Where were you, Sam? Out with a beautiful brunette, I'll bet." She said it jokingly. Her arms, stretching lazily, were smoothly rounded and white as milk. The only garment she wore was an exquisite black net nightgown.

"I think you're mean, Sam," she pouted. "Why don't you tell your sweet little wife where you've been?" She padded across the rug and slid into her husband's lap. Her lashes lowered demurely. "I don't keep secrets from you."

For an instant, Baron caressed her. His arms tightened. Then he scowled.

"Marry a cute wife, and tell her nothing!" was Sam's motto.

He gave her a playful slap and stood her on her feet.

"Don't bother me," he growled. "I gotta get shaved and get out of this dump!"

He walked to his bureau and picked up his shaving kit. After a while, his wife could hear the spurt of hot water in the bathroom, the sc.r.a.pe of a razor over her husband's stubbled cheeks. She followed him and stood in the doorway.

"Sam!"

"Whatcha want?"

His lathered face watched Flo coldly in the mirror. His eyes were stubborn.

"I'm worried about that outfit you're working for," Flo said, faintly.

"Forget it!"

"You don't even know who the real boss is. How do you know he's not using you for a sap? How do you know he won't double-cross you and toss you to the cops?"

"I know plenty, baby!" Baron told his wife with a grim chuckle. "I could do a little squealing about Otto Muller. I don't have to know who the boss is.