The Shadow - The Key Part 7

Joe Cardona was satisfied that prompt observation would prevent the murders that Kelwood Markin believed were due to come. In person, the acting inspector was going out to Long Island to keep a watch on Lester Dorrington's secluded mansion.

Cardona, thinking over Markin's statements, had become convinced that Lester Dorrington was the man to watch. With that belief in mind, Cardona had a hunch that Dorrington's Long Island home would be the spot from which crime orders would be issued. He believed that his vigilance would prevent new murder.

Little did Joe Cardona realize that new crime was due to-night. His trip to Long Island was to prove a useless journey. Murder-planned ahead-was scheduled for Manhattan. Joe Cardona was traveling from- not toward-the spot of its beginning!

CHAPTER X. SWIFT DEATH.

FLOODLIGHTS were brilliant at the Newark airport. Watching eyes were turned toward the sullen sky.

A plane from the south was long overdue. The ship had lost its course, but was reported safe. It was bringing pa.s.sengers from South America.

Among the watchers at the airport was a stalwart man whose face was marked by ruggedness. He was standing by the side of a coupe, at the limit of the field. This was Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow.

The thrum of motors came above the fainter murmur of automobiles that were pa.s.sing on the Lincoln highway. High lights picked out the shape of a huge trimotor plane. It was the ship from the south.

Watchers saw it pa.s.s above the field. It circled; then made a perfect landing.

The ship came almost to a stop. Circling on the ground, it taxied toward the hangars and finally came to a standstill. Spectators followed the attendants who raced up to the big plane. Cliff Marsland left his coupeand followed the small throng.

Among the pa.s.sengers who stepped from the ship was a heavy man of medium height. On the ground, this arrival studied the people whom he saw. His eyes peered from beneath bushy brows. Bags were on the ground; he stepped over to identify his luggage and spoke to a waiting attendant.

"This is my bag," he declared. "The name is on the tag. Edmund Talbot. I want to go by cab to the Hotel Goliath, in New York city."

"Yes, sir," replied the attendant.

Cliff Marsland turned and strolled back to his coupe. He was un.o.bserved by the man who had landed.

Cliff's face wore a grim, satisfied smile. He had discovered the man whom he had come to seek. He knew the destination which the fellow had chosen.

Cliff Marsland knew that the name of Edmund Talbot was a false one. He had been informed by Burbank that the stranger would not give his true ident.i.ty. The man whom Cliff had sighted from the crowd was Edwin Berlett, arrived directly from Pernambuco.

When people had left the field, Cliff went into the waiting room and found a telephone booth. He put in a call for the special number that he knew. Burbank's quiet voice responded. Cliff gave his report.

"Arrived," he stated tersely. "Identified. a.s.sumed name, Edmund Talbot. Hotel Goliath."

"Report received," returned Burbank. "Instructions: go to the Goliath; learn the room number and register on the same floor, close by."

"Instructions received'" acknowledged Cliff.

CLIFF'S coupe made good time Manhattanward. The Shadow's agent sped along, a mile or more behind Berlett's cab. Cliff was not attempting to overtake the taxi. He did not sight a cab even from the heights of the huge spans across the Pa.s.saic and the Hackensack rivers; but he did see one entering the tube as he neared the Holland Tunnel.

Pa.s.sing under the Hudson River, Cliff reached Manhattan and took a swift course uptown. He reached the street where the Hotel Goliath was located and grabbed a bag from the floor beside him. He entered the hotel just as a cab was drawing up to the door.

It was Berlett's taxi. Strolling toward the desk, Cliff allowed the lawyer to pa.s.s him. He saw the man register under the name of Edmund Talbot. He heard the clerk give the room number: 2036. Berlett followed the bell hop who took his bag.

"How about something around the twentieth?" questioned Cliff, casually, as he registered.

"I'll give you a nice room," a.s.sured the clerk. "Front, boy!" He pounded a bell. "Show Mr. Marsland to 2012.".

The rooms were not as close as Cliff had hoped. The twentieth, nevertheless, was Berlett's floor. Cliff decided that he would look the place over before calling back to Burbank.

Room 2012 was near the elevators. That was a point. The night was sultry; a partly opened door might well be intended for a breeze. Seating himself by the window of his darkened room, Cliff found that he could watch the elevators with ease. That was a decided advantage, even though Berlett's room was on the opposite side of the hotel. In Room 2036, Edwin Berlett was standing in his shirt sleeves. His bag was opened on the floor beside the bed. The supposedly dead lawyer was staring from the window. He seemed to be contrasting the pinnacled skyline of New York with the crescented stretch of illumination that he had observed in Rio de Janeiro.

A ring at the telephone. Berlett stepped back from the window. He picked up the receiver and spoke. A smile appeared upon his face.

"Yes..." Berlett paused. "Yes... This is Mr. Talbot... Yes, I arrived later than I expected. Ship delayed...

All is arranged? Good... I'll be here. Staying close to the hotel... Yes... Tired after the trip. Of course...

Of course.

"You'll call me to-morrow... Good... Everything is working out as planned... Yes, of course... I understand... Yes, I'm marking down the number..." Berlett's hand began to inscribe figures on a pad beside the telephone... "I'll call you if I need quick service..."

Berlett hung up the receiver. He folded the slip of paper on which he had written and tucked it in his watch pocket. A crafty, satisfied smile appeared upon his face as Berlett turned out the light. A few minutes later, the creaking of the bed announced that the lawyer had retired.

CLIFF MARSLAND, not long after, pa.s.sed through the corridor outside of Room 2036. The Shadow's agent saw darkness at the transom above Berlett's door. Returning quietly, Cliff entered his own room and called Burbank. He reported Berlett's arrival and the fact that the man had evidently turned in for the night. Burbank's instructions were to remain at the Goliath until Harry Vincent came as relief.

Logically, Edwin Berlett would have supposed that no one knew of his presence in New York, other than the man who had called him on the telephone. The caller, addressing Berlett as Talbot, was evidently a partic.i.p.ant in a prearranged plan.

But The Shadow, knowing that Berlett would not tarry in Pernambuco, had radioed through Rutledge Mann to have an agent on the lookout for the lawyer. From now on, an agent of The Shadow-either Cliff or Harry-would be stationed close-at-hand to Berlett's room. Chance visitors, should they appear upon this floor, would be followed by The Shadow's men.

One man whom old Kelwood Markin had picked as a person murdered by Lester Dorrington's design was still alive, namely Edwin Berlett. The other-Hugo Verbeck-was most certainly dead. The newspapers had suggested no connection between the two lawyers; but Kelwood Markin had done so, naming Dorrington as the link between. Markin had declared himself a dupe, along with Verbeck. He had suggested that there might be others of the same sort. It was a correct belief.

A DREARY-FACED man was seated in the smoking room of the Tarpon Club on Forty-sixth Street.

Chewing at the end of a half-smoked cigar, he was reading the latest reports in the final newspapers. The subject that interested him was the death of Hugo Verbeck.

In a parallel column, this solemn man had spied the name of Lester Dorrington, mentioned in connection with the death of Torrence Dilgin. The newspaper stated that Dorrington was still withholding statements regarding the millionaire whose estate he was handling.

The dreary man came to life. He cast the newspaper aside. He walked out into the small lobby of the club and entered a telephone booth. There was a purpose in his action; in a sense, it resembled the futile phone call that Hugo Verbeck had tried to make.

The dreary man, however, did not put in a call for Lester Dorrington. Instead, he called detectiveheadquarters. When a gruff voice responded, the caller spoke in a worried tone: "h.e.l.lo... This is Clark Durton speaking... Clark Durton, attorney... I am calling from the Tarpon Club, on Forty-sixth Street...

"No, no. There's no trouble here... I want to speak to one of your inspectors... Not just any one-a particular man-an acting inspector..."

Durton paused to recall a name that he had read of in connection with the death of Hugo Verbeck.

Before he could speak again, the gruff voice suggested Joe Cardona.

"That's the man," responded Durton. "Cardona... Yes... Is he there?"

Again an expectant pause. Then, in a disappointed tone, Durton resumed: "I see... You expect him in shortly... No, don't have him call me... I'm coming down to headquarters. I'll see him in person."

Durton hung up the receiver. He went through the lobby, gained a gray overcoat and hat of the same color and continued to the street. He stood on the gloomy sidewalk and looked for a pa.s.sing cab.

There was something conspicuous about Clark Durton. He was holding a cane that he had obtained with his hat and coat. He was swinging the walking stick with his right hand, tapping it against his left palm.

This was a habitual action of Durton's.

A low-slung touring car was parked across the street, a trifle to the west. As Durton stared in hope of hailing a cab, the touring car moved forward. As the driver shifted into high, he swerved directly toward the curb where Durton was standing.

THE lawyer leaped back; fearing that the automobile was about to mount the curb. Against the stone front of the Tarpon Club, his gray-clad figure stood like a living target. An order hissed within the touring car.

Then came the rattle of a machine gun. Bullets spattered the wall; other slugs raked Durton's standing form. The lawyer collapsed without a murmur. His cane clattered across the sidewalk and rolled toward the spot where the touring car had been.

But the automobile had not lingered. Gathering speed, it was whirling down the street, making for the green light that showed by the nearest avenue. The speeding car had pa.s.sed the crossing before shouts arose in Forty-sixth Street as bystanders sped to the spot where Clark Durton lay.

Kelwood Markin had spoken true. He had told of approaching death. He had expressed the fear that other men held keys to empty safe deposit boxes. He had warned that a wholesale slaughter was impending.

Clark Durton, attorney-at-law, had gone the same voyage as another member of his profession: Hugo Verbeck. The owlish old lawyer had been riddled by bullets from a killer's gun; this dreary-faced victim had taken a dozen slugs from the muzzle of a machine gun.

Swift death had struck. It had come from gangster minions of the insidious plotter who had chosen murder as his course. The perpetrator of gigantic swindles was wiping out all lawyers who might remain to end their testimony in the exposure of his evil scheme for wealth!

CHAPTER XI. THE CONFERENCE

THE next afternoon had ended. Acting Inspector Joe Cardona was at his desk in headquarters. A frown on his swarthy face, the star sleuth was reading new accounts of death. The murder of Clark Durton outside the Tarpon Club had been welcome fodder for the presses.

"Guy outside to see you, inspector." The announcement came from a detective who had opened Cardona's door. "It's that fellow Burke-the newshound from the Cla.s.sic."

"h.e.l.lo, Joe." Clyde Burke, shouldering his way past the detective at the door, was prompt with a wave of greeting. "What's the idea of keeping us out? Getting snooty on this inspector's job?"

There was banter in Clyde's tone. Cardona smiled sourly and waved the detective from the door.

"It's all right," ordered Joe. "I said keep the reporters out. That doesn't include this bird. He's no reporter."

"You're right, Joe," laughed Clyde, as the door closed. "I've graduated. I'm a journalist!"

"You're a pest!" growled Cardona. "Listen, Burke. There's no use of coming in here until I send for you.

I've given you breaks before; I'm not going to let you down. But you hit it when you spoke about this inspector's job. There's no time to chew the rag here at headquarters. I've got two dozen men out on the street. There's no telling what may turn up-"

Cardona broke off as the telephone rang beside him. Lifting the receiver, the sleuth growled a h.e.l.lo. Then his tone changed.

"Yes, commissioner..." Cardona's voice was easing. "I understand... Yes, I can drop up there again... In an hour? Very..."

"I guess Weston's worried," remarked Clyde as Cardona hung up the receiver. "How's he acting, Joe?

Tough?"

"Yeah," returned Cardona. "That's his way. I saw him last night. Nothing important. Just put me on the fire because I hadn't grabbed the gorilla that b.u.mped off Verbeck. Suppose I'll get the same dose on this Durton case."

"Got the dragnet working?"

"On its way. But the birds we're after are pretty foxy. We're not grabbing a lot of small-time crooks wholesale just yet. They haven't had time to wise up to who's done the jobs. Scram now, Burke-I've got to check up on a batch of reports before I leave."

Clyde strolled from the office. He reached the street. Arriving at a cigar store he entered and put in a call to Burbank. Definitely, Clyde a.s.sured the contact man that Joe Cardona was making a trip uptown, evidently to the same destination that he had chosen on the previous night.

IN his secluded switchboard room, Burbank sat patiently after receiving Clyde Burke's call. To-night, the contact man had no instructions for Harry Vincent. Apparently, Burbank was not planning to put a trailer on the job. Ten minutes pa.s.sed. A light glowed on the switchboard. Burbank plugged in and gave his statement: "Burbank speaking."

A quiet voice responded. It was a tone that Burbank recognized at once. It was the a.s.sumed voice of Lamont Cranston.

The Shadow had arrived from Barbados. Burbank had expected this call. He had checked with a call to the Newark airport. He had learned that the plane from the south was due on time to-night.

Burbank's response was brief. The contact man knew that time was pressing. He told The Shadow the location of Kelwood Markin's house in the Nineties. He stated that Joe Cardona would be there within the hour. When his report was ended Burbank gathered papers and thrust them in an envelope. Rising, he extinguished the light above his head, donned hat and coat and departed from the darkened room. He was on his way to Twenty-third Street to drop acc.u.mulated data through the mail slit in the office that bore the name B. Jonas.

FIVE minutes before Joe Cardona was due to arrive at Markin's, a cab stopped at the nearest corner to the old house. The driver turned to speak to the pa.s.senger. A ten-dollar bill floated through the window and landed in his hand. Staring into the back of the cab, the driver saw that his pa.s.senger was gone.

Chuckling, the cabby drove away. He had gained full fare and a large tip for his rapid trip in from the Newark airport. The jehu gave no further thought to the startling disappearance of his pa.s.senger.

A cloaked shape was gliding along the street where Cardona's men were watching. The Shadow seemed to sense the presence of observers. He stopped at a deserted house a few doors from Markin's. He spied a loose grating in the bas.e.m.e.nt window.

With swift precision, The Shadow removed the yielding bars. He slid downward, invisible in the blackness. Finding a stairway, he ascended. The path was clear to the top floor. There The Shadow, using a flashlight, spied the outlet that he sought-a trapdoor in the ceiling.

A gloved hand opened a door; then a second one close by. The two barriers came well together. They made an excellent support. The Shadow raised his lithe form atop the doors. With a jimmy, he pried the trapdoor loose. Rising through the opening, he reached the roof.

With rapid strides along the housetops, The Shadow arrived on Markin's roof. He worked with the jimmy and pried a trapdoor upward. He dropped through to the deserted upper floor; then headed for a stairway distinguishable by a light below.

As The Shadow began his descent, there was a ring at the front door. A stocky man appeared, on his way to answer the summons. As his figure disappeared in the vestibule, The Shadow gained the ground floor. On his left he saw an open door-the entrance to Markin's living room.

The Shadow saw that the chamber was empty. Gliding into the partly lighted room, he spied a pair of hanging draperies at the front. He slipped between the curtains and gained a vantage spot upon the broad sill. He was not a moment too soon. The stocky man, returning, came through the living room and rapped at a closed door.

"What is it, Howland?" came a querulous voice.

"Two visitors, sir," responded the secretary. "Commissioner Weston and Inspector Cardona. They have come in with me, sir."

Weston and Cardona were entering the room as Howland spoke through the closed door. They had arrived outside almost at the same time. As they stared toward the door of Markin's temporary bedroom, the barrier opened. The old lawyer, his face drawn, stepped into view.

"You can go, Howland," said Markin. "Remain in the study." "Yes, sir."

MARKIN sat down with his visitors. The lawyer chose the spot behind the table. His face, though it showed tenseness, also carried an expression that indicated justification of his fears.

"I am glad that you have come," declared Markin, in a steady tone. "New misfortune has proven my theory. I think that you will agree that my qualms were not merely the meanderings of an old man's mind."

"Quite right, Mr. Markin," a.s.serted Weston. "I learned that you had called my office. I arranged to come here and I ordered Acting Inspector Cardona to join us. I thought, perhaps that you might have gained new information."