The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 12

"Half past five," he stated. "We started this experiment an hour ago. It should have brought results by this time."

Click-click- Tiles cracked. One minute followed; then another pair of cracks sounded their arrival. Greel stopped the motor.

"That is sufficient," he decided. He unclamped the tiles. "See? One is broken in two places."

"But the other is unbroken," observed The Shadow. "The test is hardly satisfactory."

"I disagree," declared Greel. "Look. I shall show you why."

He found a small slab and a hammer. He drew back his arm and delivered a powerful stroke with the hammer. The drive, though accurate and forcible, did not crack the new tile.

"Now I shall try the one that was under electrical pressure."

Greel picked up the unbroken tile and placed it carefully on the table. He made another terrific smash with the hammer, striking the tile squarely in the middle. The treated slab shattered. Pieces scattered, leaving a heap of powder at the spot where Greel had struck.

"That proves my point," stated Greel. "And now, Mr. Cranston, we can set up these heavier tiles that I finally located in the bas.e.m.e.nt. We shall give them an all-night treatment. Then, tomorrow -"

SOME one was pounding at the outside door of the apartment. Greel showed an annoyed look; then crossed his living room and opened the door. A cab driver was standing in the hall. It was Moe Shrevnitz.

"Sorry," began the cabby. "Guess I got the wrong apartment again. I'm looking for -"

He stopped, pretending that he had suddenly spied the tall form of Lamont Cranston in the doorway.

"Say!" exclaimed Moe. "You're the man I'm looking for! I been sitting out by the avenue with my flag down, waiting for you to come back. The meter's gone past six bucks already -" "That's right," interposed The Shadow, in Cranston's leisurely tone. "I had forgotten about the matter, my man."

He turned to Greel.

"I came in this man's cab from the Cobalt Club," explained The Shadow. "Fearing that you might not be at home, I told the cab to wait. This poor chap had been waiting all afternoon."

"That's all right, governor," put in Moe, apologetically. "Maybe I can make you a special rate for the waiting time."

"Quite unnecessary." The Shadow glanced at his watch. "It is after half past five. I should be going to the club." Then, to Greel: "Of course, you had planned another experiment -"

"That will not matter," broke in the inventor. "My plan, Mr. Cranston, was merely to set up the apparatus so that it could work overnight. It would require only a few minutes to clamp the tiles in place."

"Then you will need me here no longer."

"That is correct."

The Shadow said good-by to the inventor and followed Moe to the street. The cab was waiting outside.

The Shadow stepped aboard. He made his first comment as they started away from the apartment house.

"Report."

"JORN'S in his office," explained Moe, through the front window. "Vincent talked with him. Somebody important is due after six o'clock. Vincent is watching."

The Shadow ordered the taxi driver to stop at a drug store. There, The Shadow entered and put in a call to Burbank. He received a more detailed report, that Harry had sent in from the lunch room across from Jorn's. He also gained news concerning Clyde Burke.

Cardona had given up waiting for Lettigue's return. He and Clyde were coming in from Long Island.

Clyde had managed to make a call, telling that he had seen Jorn at Lettigue's.

The Shadow returned to Moe's cab. Gloomy dusk was settling. Moe turned on his lights as he swung toward an avenue.

"I'll make Jorn's by six -"

Moe mumbled the prediction as he swung a corner. Then, with a sudden grunt, the cab driver jammed his brakes. A large truck, lacking lights, had rolled suddenly across his path. The truck was making a right turn; Moe a left.

The crash came. The cab careened almost to the point of a turn-over, then righted itself and sideswiped a parked car. Moe held to the wheel and brought the cab to a stop. He looked about for his pa.s.senger.

The Shadow had taken a hard jolt, against the door of the cab. He was recovering as Moe helped him to the curb. For a moment, he stood dazedly; then managed a smile, in the fashion of Cranston.

"It's all right, driver. Call another cab for me."

Before Moe could comply, a burly traffic cop intervened. He wanted details, as well as names. The truckdriver was blaming Moe Shrevnitz. The policeman wanted The Shadow's statement.

It was five minutes before The Shadow had extricated himself from the broil. Carrying a briefcase that he had taken from Moe's cab, he entered another vehicle and ordered the driver to take him to an address near Jorn's office. The new driver ran into a traffic jam.

Minutes had been lost, fully a dozen. The Shadow was forced to bank upon the hope that Jorn's visitor, too, might be delayed until after six o'clock; or that the conference would hold the visitor at the investigator's office.

For six, the vital hour, was striking while The Shadow was still en route to his important destination.

CHAPTER XV. DEATH AFTER DEATH.

EIGHT minutes past six. Harry Vincent, staring from the lunch-room window, was doubly dubious.

No one had entered Jorn's building since d.y.k.el's departure. That meant that the murderer had not arrived for conference; it meant also that The Shadow had been delayed.

Harry imagined that Moe Shrevnitz had experienced difficulty in contacting The Shadow. He did not know of the clever ruse that Moe had contemplated and used. It was the accident alone that had held back The Shadow.

Nine after six.

Blackness covered the doorway across the street. Against the angled gloom from the lobby, Harry caught a glimpse of a shrouded figure that momentarily took a human shape, then faded.

It was The Shadow.

Harry's chief had entered. All was well. Harry knew that The Shadow could lurk somewhere to await Jorn's visitor. After that, the game would be The Shadow's.

There was a chance, perhaps, that circ.u.mstances would twist so that Jorn would still keep the appointment with Harry at the Hotel Metrolite. The Shadow's arrival was Harry's cue to depart. The agent knew that the chief had lingered at the doorway as a signal. Harry left the lunch room.

ACROSS the street, The Shadow was still in the lower lobby of the narrow building. He had moved past the stairs. He was studying the obscure door that formed a rear entrance to the building.

That door was important, for it might be useful as an exit. Normally, the door should have been locked.

But when The Shadow tried it, the door yielded. Leaving the barrier in its present condition, The Shadow moved toward the stairs.

When he reached Jorn's office, he noted something odd. There was no steady light from the s.p.a.ce beyond the frosted door that bore the names of Jorn and d.y.k.el. Nothing but a blurred, intermittent crimson that blinked dully through the clouded pane of gla.s.s.

The Shadow tried the door. It opened. He stepped into the outer office. All was dark except for that same intermittent glow. The Shadow discovered the source of the faint crimson light. It came from beyond the window of Jorn's inner office.

An electric sign was blinking from beyond the s.p.a.ce between the rear street buildings. The Shadow could discern the parapet that ran along the front of the low-roofed garage across the street. The office looked as though Jorn had left it. The investigator could have left the building also; for that rear door would serve as a pa.s.sage below. Harry Vincent had slipped in his watchfulness. His station in the lunch room had not given him sufficient view of the building's tiny lobby.

If Jorn had left, he might return. The inner office would make a good waiting spot-if The Shadow could find a place of concealment. With this thought in mind, The Shadow entered the inner room; then stopped short.

The Shadow's keen eyes were toward the floor. They spied a whitish shape extending from the end of the desk. The distant electric sign furnished an increase of crimson glow. The Shadow saw that the white thing was an outspread hand.

A flashlight glimmered, focused against the floor. The Shadow stepped past the desk. His disk of light revealed an upturned face. It was a darkish, blood-streaked countenance. The face of a dead man: Clinton Jorn.

A GRIM laugh in the gloom. The Shadow's form, vaguely outlined by crimson glare, became invisible as the distant sign blinked off. The Shadow knew the cause of Jorn's fate. The murderer had kept his appointment.

Six o'clock had brought a man whom Jorn had expected. A supercrook who had expressed willingness to pay the investigator for silence. Instead of money, the fiend had brought death. He had a.s.sured himself that Clinton Jorn would never speak.

Again the flashlight, closer to Jorn's head. It revealed a huge gash above the dead man's forehead. Once more a smashing blow had brought death-in the same manner as with Lemand, and Moreland.

The telephone was at the edge of the desk. New crimson light from the window showed moisture upon the telephone's base. Again the murderer had left trace of a possible weapon. The moisture was blood.

The telephone could be the object that had been employed as a killer's bludgeon.

Another object showed in the ruddy glow. It was Jorn's appointment book. The Shadow had heard of it through Burbank, when the contact man had relayed Harry's report. The Shadow pulled the cord of a desk lamp. He opened the appointment book.

On the left page, he saw a list of names, none of which were familiar. They represented persons with whom Jorn had kept appointments on the day before. Each name was carefully written.

The right page was blank, with one exception. Jorn had expected no visitors until six o'clock. He had started to write a name in that s.p.a.ce; but had done no more than make a large dot with his pencil at the lower left of the s.p.a.ce itself.

The desk lamp showed opened drawers in the desk. The murderer had lost no time. Arriving at six, he had struck down Jorn. Then he had spent a few minutes s.n.a.t.c.hing away any papers that might have caused trouble, if found.

The appointment book was conspicuous. Had the murderer regarded it as important, he would have taken it along.

Hence, it was obvious that the killer's name would not be found in the book. Nevertheless, The Shadow gave a whispered laugh. That blank page on the right, with its single, penciled dot, conveyed information of its own. To most investigators, it would have been useless. To The Shadow, it held significance.

The Shadow moved toward the chair which Jorn had occupied behind the desk. He had some purpose;from this scene of murder, he intended to make his first important step to overtake the murderer.

As The Shadow stepped between Jorn's body and the window, his tall form was plain against the light of the desk lamp.

It was that fact, itself, that warned The Shadow. Quick to realize his position, he wheeled suddenly, springing straight inward across Jorn's body. The Shadow was not an instant too soon.

A pop sounded from beyond the window. A whistling bullet whizzed past the cloaked figure. Missing The Shadow by a scant inch, the winging slug found the frosted pane of the outer office. Gla.s.s shattered.

The Shadow had caught the cord of the desk lamp. While gla.s.s still tinkled, he yanked out the light. His free hand whipped forth an automatic. The Shadow knew the source of the shot and who had fired it.

Shooter Hoyle was again on the job; the marksman had fired his air gun from behind the parapet of the rear garage.

The window of Jorn's office was wide and low. The Shadow was in darkness, which served as his only cover. Shooter's air gun could no longer serve him. But the sharpshooter was better equipped upon this occasion. Shooter expected to get The Shadow.

Almost with the extinguishing of the desk lamp came a rapid clatter like the rattle of an electric drill.

Bullets sizzed through the left side of the opened window. A figure had risen above the parapet, holding a bulky object within the reflected glare of the distant crimson light.

It was Shooter, with a submachine gun. He was using the "typewriter" to spray a stream of bullets from left to right, across the whole s.p.a.ce of the window. That hail of bullets would surely down any one who might be in its path. The Shadow had no chance to dive for cover.

He was in the center of the room; sure to be dropped within another second. But The Shadow, when he acted, used split-seconds as time s.p.a.ces. He punctuated the rattle of the machine gun with a direct stab of his automatic. The big .45 blasted a message straight for the figure on the parapet.

The machine gun stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The electric sign lost its glow, to hide Shooter's form in silenced darkness. The Shadow's bullet had winged home. That lone shot had found Shooter Hoyle before the machine gunner had reached the halfway mark of the window.

Two seconds followed. Again came redness against the sky. It showed a writhing figure half across the parapet, a clinging form that clutched desperately to the dead machine gun. A gargling, cry was audible as the twisting figure loosened. Shooter Hoyle had lost his balance.

A dying wail sounded as the marksman toppled head foremost from the rail. The cry ended as Shooter vanished downward to the street. A thud against cement; the crash of the jouncing machine gun.

Shooter's part in crime was ended. Mortally wounded by The Shadow's timely shot, Shooter had gained an abbreviated death through his plunge.

There were shouts from below. Pa.s.sers-by had heard the machine gun; they had witnessed Shooter's fall.

Some had seen flame spurt from the window of Jorn's office. They were gathered about Shooter's body; they were pointing upward. The Shadow, however, was back from the window.

He had lifted the receiver of Jorn's telephone. An opened book beside him, he was checking the telephone directory to find the number of the Almeda Hotel. The temporary glow of the electric sign was furnishing the light that The Shadow needed.

The Shadow obtained his number. In a feigned, but important voice, he gave astounding words, thatbrought blurted answers from the clerk on the other end of the line.

"Find Mr. d.y.k.el," ordered The Shadow. "At once! His life is in danger! Tell him to seek police protection!"

HANGING up the receiver, The Shadow whisked out through the front office. He pa.s.sed the door with the shattered panel. He reached the lower lobby just in time to hear police whistles from the front street.

The law had walled in the rear street; police had decided to enter the front door of Jorn's building.

The Shadow took to the back pa.s.sage, through the same door that the murderer must have chosen. He antic.i.p.ated a delay; perhaps serious difficulty, but this time, luck was in his favor. The pa.s.sage did not lead to the rear street. Instead, it opened into a courtyard that furnished access to an adjacent building.

Five minutes later, The Shadow had stepped aboard a taxi that was parked in a gloomy spot one block away. The drowsy driver did not realize that he had obtained a silent, mysterious pa.s.senger. The taxi man merely nodded when a quiet voice from the rear seat gave the destination: "The Almeda Hotel."

The Shadow was following up the call that he had made. He was close upon the trail of a supercrook whose ways were those of murder.

CHAPTER XVI. THE POSTPONED TRAIL.

WHEN The Shadow arrived at the Almeda Hotel, he found the place in uproar. Excitement was apparent as the cab neared the final street; hence it was in the guise of Cranston that The Shadow had alighted.

He knew that murder had been already accomplished; that Jorn's murderer had reached the Almeda before the telephone call. In the lobby, policemen were already on duty. Guests were thronged in obscure corners.