The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 5

"They must have been in haste. They were burdened, also, with their spoils. They had no further use for a broken sledge hammer."

Petersham spoke with decided emphasis, as though convinced upon every point. His statement completed, he adroitly changed the subject. "We expect to appoint a new curator for the Mayan Museum," declared the lawyer. "In fact, I may receive a visit from the directors this afternoon.

"Suppose, Mr. Cranston, that I communicate with you within the next week. By that time, our affairs will be so arranged that we can discuss new donations to the museum's exhibits."

Petersham's tone, though gruff, was level; as near a suave form of conversation as the lawyer's capability allowed. Petersham was trying to divert his visitor from points which he did not care to discuss. The Shadow, already well informed, caught the whole gist of the game.

Petersham had pretended to accept the police view of the robberies. Actually, Petersham had ideas of his own. He had carefully avoided mention of them. He had not spoken the name of Elvin Lettigue; nor had he described his inspection of the crumbled wall at Clayborne's. He was keeping to himself all that he had kept from the police.

He was anxious, also, to be rid of his present visitor. On entering, Petersham had told the stenographer that he expected no visitors. Forgetful, he had just told The Shadow that museum directors might be here this afternoon. It was obvious that Petersham did not intend to spend the afternoon on matters that concerned the Mayan Museum.

The Shadow knew that Petersham's full interest circled about the recent robberies. He knew also that Petersham might receive a telephone call; that if one came, it would probably pertain to the subject of crime. Therefore, The Shadow's cue was to stall.

THAT process did not prove difficult. Calmly, The Shadow began to outline plans for a new expedition to Aztec territory. Petersham, though itching to dismiss his visitor, was forced to listen. It was his only way to back up his previous bluff.

Twenty minutes pa.s.sed, including intervals when The Shadow started to make his departure, then changed his mind. Suddenly, the telephone buzzed upon Petersham's desk. The lawyer scowled, darted a look toward The Shadow. He saw his visitor reaching for a cigarette.

Petersham picked up the telephone receiver. He gruffed a h.e.l.lo, then suppressed a look of pleasure.

Confident that Lamont Cranston was not watching him, Petersham decided to hold brief conversation in spite of the visitor's presence.

"Yes..." Petersham paused. Then: "Go ahead... Yes, with the details... Good...I see. Suppose I call you in about half an hour... An hour, then...

"Well, since you may not be there, we can leave it until to-morrow... Yes. Of course you can call me in the meantime, if necessary... What's that?... All right. Give me the number... Yes, I have paper and pencil..."

With his right hand bent so it partly shielded his writing, Petersham inscribed a telephone number upon a pad. The Shadow's eyes were half closed; but his keen gaze was watching. He noted a zigzag of Petersham's fingers. He knew that the lawyer was writing the letter W.

Then a curving motion. The Shadow knew the second letter for either A or O. A repet.i.tion of the motion.

The Shadow could guess the name of the exchange. It was "Woolcott," the only Manhattan exchange that began with a W. Then came two vowels.

Petersham shot a glance toward his visitor. The Shadow had become suddenly disinterested. He was gazing toward the door. Petersham's hand yielded cover as he wrote a figure-5-that went with thename of the exchange. The Shadow had, no need to watch, for he knew that figure was coming.

But he was rising, turning toward the desk when Petersham added the rest of the number. Keenly, he spotted the figures as they appeared, aided by the motion of Petersham's pencil. The number was Woolcott 5- 8362.

Petersham swept paper and pencil into a desk drawer as though the notation was of little consequence.

Strolling forward, The Shadow extended a hand. The lawyer rose to bid good-by to his visitor. He followed to the door of the private office.

A wide smile appeared upon Prentiss Petersham's lips when the tall figure of Lamont Cranston had disappeared from view. The gruff-voiced attorney felt that he had easily disposed of this visitor.

PETERSHAM would have been less pleased, had he followed The Shadow. The tall stroller's first stop was a drug store across the street from the building which housed Petersham's office. There, The Shadow put in a call to Burbank. In quiet tones, he repeated the number Woolcott 5- 8362.

Burbank had not gone off duty, as Clyde Burke had supposed. The Shadow had decided to keep him on the job, following Clyde's important report. Burbank served capably at present. The Shadow waited while the contact man looked up the number in a special telephone book which was listed according to numbers; not by names.

"Woolcott 5-8362," announced Burbank, in his methodical tone. "The Industrial Mining Corporation.

Not listed in the regular telephone book."

Burbank followed with the address of the Industrial Mining Corporation, gaining it from his special, reversed telephone book. The Shadow completed the call, with instructions.

"Reach Burke," was The Shadow's order. "Tell him to call at the office of the Industrial Mining Corporation."

Strolling to the street, The Shadow hailed a taxi. The address that he gave was the exclusive Cobalt Club. There, he obtained a flat briefcase from the cloakroom. Outside, he waited while a sleek-looking limousine pulled up to the door.

This was Lamont Cranston's car. The chauffeur, Stanley, accepted The Shadow as his master. Boarding the limousine, The Shadow ordered Stanley to take him to an address near police headquarters.

It was well after four o'clock when The Shadow entered headquarters, following a two-block walk from the parked limousine. He was still in the guise of Lamont Cranston; but he chose a time to enter when the way was clear. Despite his leisurely stroll, he was inconspicuous.

Following a deserted corridor, the tall visitor came to an obscure locker room. There he paused, opened a locker, and arranged a broken mirror so that it caught the trickling light of a grimy ceiling bulb. He placed his bag in the locker; from the bag, he took a compact make-up kit.

Removing coat and vest, collar and necktie, The Shadow began a transformation. His features changed shape like putty under his molding fingers. Dabs of white make-up altered his complexion. Instead of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had become a pasty-faced individual whose look was dull.

Hands drew overalls from the locker. The Shadow donned the garments. He closed the locker, turned about and armed himself with mop and bucket. With shambling gait, his shoulders stooped, The Shadow moved out into the corridor. A pa.s.sing detective saw him and gave greeting: "H'lo, Fritz!"

The Shadow grunted a response in one word: "Yah."

The detective continued out to the street. The Shadow shuffled along the corridor. He had become a figure known to every one at headquarters.

He was, to all appearances, a janitor named Fritz.

The Shadow had gleaned facts through his visit to Prentiss Petersham. He intended next to hear Joe Cardona's comments concerning crimes that had befallen.

As Fritz, the janitor, The Shadow would await Cardona's arrival at headquarters.

CHAPTER VII. TRAILS LINK.

AT the time of The Shadow's arrival at headquarters, Clyde Burke was entering the Greystone Building near the Grand Central Terminal. Clyde had called at nearly all of the places on his list. Another was situated in the Greystone Building. The name board listed it as the "Century Burglary Alarm Co., Room 3018.".

Clyde reached the designated office. He found it to be a two-room suite, with a pair of stenographers in the outer office. Clyde noted an inner door that bore the name: PHINEAS LOWRING.

Executive Vice President Clyde introduced himself and inquired for Mr. Lowring. He stated also that he was from the New York Cla.s.sic. Two minutes later, he was seated across the desk from a portly, droopy-faced man who eyed him with a puzzled stare. This was Phineas Lowring.

"Sorry to trouble you," remarked Clyde, in an easy tone, "but the Cla.s.sic insisted on an interview. They want your opinion on the robbery at the Mayan Museum."

Phineas Lowring stroked his chin.

"Since it was your company's equipment at the museum," continued Clyde, glibly, "an interview seemed important. What do you think about it, Mr. Lowring?"

Clyde was working in the dark. He had used this same line of talk with every previous interview. Officials of other burglary alarm concerns had fumed angry denials when the reporter had charged them with the installation of the museum's faulty equipment.

Phineas Lowring did the same. He began to splutter that he knew nothing of the matter. His manner differed from the others. Clyde guessed that Lowring was covering facts. The reporter had a prompt way to handle it.

"I stopped at the Progress Alarm Co.," remarked Clyde. "They sent me here. Said that they knew your concern had handled the museum contract."

The bluff worked. Lowring ceased his splutter. His face reddened as he hemmed and hawed.

"Progress said that, Mr. Burke?" queried Lowring. "Perhaps-well, possibly they are right. Did you say the Mayan Museum?" "That was it."

"Stupid of me." Lowring tapped his desk with pudgy fingers. "I thought that you referred to the Manhattan Museum. Well, ah-I am not sure that we did install the equipment at the Mayan Museum.

Let me see -"

He paused, stared toward the ceiling; then shifted tack.

"I can give no interview," he declared. "None at all, Mr. Burke. Nothing for publication. The board-that is, the directors-ah, that is, they might not like it."

"Suppose I hold back the interview," suggested Clyde. "Make it nothing but a technical discussion of burglary alarms. Without quoting you."

Lowring considered. He pursed his pudgy lips; then nodded. He pressed a buzzer on his desk.

"I shall introduce you to our technician," he decided. "Perhaps he can explain-ah, that is, prove-that even the best of equipment is sometimes faulty. Yes, we did handle the Mayan Museum. Come to think of it, we did. But that is not for publication, Mr. Burke."

A SHARP-FACED young man arrived from the outer office. Lowring introduced him as Mr. Algar.

Clyde shook hands with the technician. They left Lowring's office, crossed the hall and entered a small office that had no name on the door.

"Temporary quarters," remarked Algar, motioning Clyde to a chair. Then, briskly: "So you're a reporter, eh? Here to find out what went sour with that wiring at the Mayan Museum?"

Clyde nodded. He liked Algar's directness.

"Sorry I can't tell you," declared the technician, frankly. "It was put in before I came here. Just between the two of us, it wasn't the first bad job installed by the Century outfit.

"I've gone to a dozen places already, where they had outside wiring. Following up complaints. Some were all right; others weren't. The last man who had my job didn't know his stuff."

"Who was he?" queried Clyde.

"A bird named Jerry Quimble," replied Agar. "I wasn't told that here. I learned it from one of the places where I repaired a bad alarm system. As near as I can figure it, Quimble left plenty of lemons on his route."

Algar had seated himself upon the desk. He was lighting a pipe, chuckling at the time.

"This Century outfit is screwy," a.s.serted Algar. "To begin with, Phineas Lowring is a stuffed shirt. He doesn't know what the business is all about. He landed his job through Quimble."

"The technician?" queried Clyde, in surprise.

"So I heard, somewhere," nodded Algar. "Lowring was a sort of straw man who served on dummy boards of directors. He was called in here to act as executive vice president. All he does is put his O. K.

on orders that salesmen bring in."

"Who is the president?"

"There isn't any. As for directors, I've never seen any. Lowring is honest; he has charge of somefunds-but he's simply following a routine. He's just a glorified office boy, running the works.

"That's the lowdown, but I want you to keep it quiet. For a time, anyway, until I've chucked this b.u.m job.

It's all grief. No new orders coming in; and too much service on the bad work that Quimble installed. I'm getting out next week.

"Come in later in the week. Don't see Lowring; drop into this office. Maybe I'll have something more to tell you."

CLYDE had struck an excellent informant. He decided not to overplay the game. He strolled toward the office door; then paused, to put one more question: "What other places have systems like the one at the Mayan Museum? Other wall installations?"

"That are likely to go sour?" laughed Algar. "You've stumped me on that one. Century installed a whole lot of them. Only Lowring could give you the list. Those are the kind that don't give us a complaint.

Because they're out of sight and n.o.body knows when they've gone wrong."

Clyde nodded as he left the office. He decided to try Lowring again, but when he crossed the hall, he found out that the executive vice president had already left for the day. Lowring had probably foreseen a return interview.

One of the stenographers remarked that the Cla.s.sic office had called while Clyde was with Algar. They had requested a return call.

Clyde knew what that meant. Burbank was seeking contact. It was a system that Burbank used regularly.

Clyde thought that Burbank had gone off duty; the fact that he was still on the job signified that important moves might be in progress.

Clyde called from a telephone booth in the lobby of the Greystone Building. Burbank received his brief report; then ordered him to visit the offices of the Industrial Mining Corporation, only a dozen doors away. Clyde was to fake an interview with the man in charge; then report on the company itself.

It struck Clyde as odd that the quest should have shifted from burglary alarms to mines. But when he reached the offices of the Industrial Mining Corporation, he was startled at the similarity between it and the office that he had so recently left.

There was a little anteroom, where two girls were at work. Beyond was a door that bore the legend: SETON BRINDELL.

Managing Director The door was half open. Behind a desk, Clyde saw a pudgy man who was staring out the window.

Leaning back in his chair, with hands folded, Seton Brindell looked as much a fossil as Phineas Lowring.

Clyde spoke to one of the stenographers.

"I'm from the New York Cla.s.sic," he began. "I would like to see -" The outer door was opening as Clyde spoke. Into the office stepped a withered-faced man who wore a senile grin. The newcomer's eyes were sharp; they alone seemed youthful, for his hair was pure white above his parchment forehead.

"Good afternoon," clucked the old man, pleasantly. "May I see Mr. Brindell?"

"Certainly, Mr. Greel," replied the girl. "Step right into his office." Then, as Greel stepped spryly toward the inner office, the stenographer told Clyde: "You will have to wait, sir. Mr. Brindell already has an appointment."

CLYDE was glad to wait. Greel had entered the inner office. Clyde could see him shaking hands with Brindell; and he heard the latter address Greel as "Sanbrook," which was evidently Greel's first name.

The door swung shut, but Clyde could still hear conversation. The part.i.tion between the offices was thin, and it did not extend to the ceiling.

The stenographers began to thump their typewriters, which were of the noiseless variety. Clyde, listening, could hear every word that pa.s.sed in the adjoining office. Brindell's voice was wheezy; Greel's tone was a crackle.

"More royalties, Sanbrook," came Brindell's puffy statement. "We are doing well with our foreign sales."

"But I am not satisfied," was Greel's protest. "It is not money, Brindell. It is the future of my invention that disturbs me."

"It has an excellent future. Excellent!"