The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 6

"Not while you insist upon your present policy. I have told you again and again that my electro-vibrator is not suited to drilling mine shafts."

"Mines are buying it."

"So you have told me. So the royalties prove. But you have limited the sales to foreign countries -"

"Because the domestic market is not profitable at present."

"And all the while, you are ignoring the real use for which I intended my invention. Building contractors could use the machine to demolish antiquated structures -"

"Come, come, Sanbrook! That market would pay us nothing. You are an inventor. We are the persons who understand sales."

Conversation was m.u.f.fled by the sc.r.a.ping of chairs. The door opened. Clyde saw Greel and Brindell upon the threshold. The inventor looked somewhat mollified, as he thrust a check into his coat pocket.

Then, suddenly, he began an outburst.

"You understand nothing!" he clucked, facing Brindell. "Sales? Bah! What do you have to do with them?

You are not the man who has made this business!"

"What does that matter?" demanded Brindell. "We are getting orders -"

"So you admit you are incompetent," snorted Greel. He chuckled. "You admit it. I am glad to hear it.

You are a know-nothing, Brindell! A mere go-between, who handles the clerical work of this organization! The real brain of your organization is -"

"Never mind!"

"I'll tell you who he is! Quimble, your sales promoter! Jerry Quimble! I'll talk to him! I'll tell him your mistakes; that you would not listen to advice."

"Quimble is in the Argentine." "I'll talk to him when he comes back from South America. He will learn how you have allowed him to defeat our own interests!"

WITH a snort, old Greel turned about and stalked through the outer office, mumbling to himself. Brindell, fuming at the doorway, stepped back into his room and slammed the door. Greel's closing of the outer door came like an echo.

A stenographer spoke to Clyde.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Brindell will not want to see you. It is late; he is in a bad mood."

"I'll come back to-morrow."

With this statement, Clyde made his departure. He had hoped to overtake Greel; but he was too late.

The old inventor had already descended before Clyde reached the elevators. Yet The Shadow's agent was exultant.

He had linked the trails. There was a connection between the Century Burglary Alarm Co. and the Industrial Mining Corporation. Both dealt in electrical equipment only. Each had a dummy manager at its head. More than that, both concerns had actually been directed by a man whose name Clyde had heard twice mentioned.

Jerry Quimble.

As technician of the burglary alarm company; as traveling representative of the mining equipment concern, Quimble was obviously the real worker in both organizations. Clyde had gained facts that would be useful to The Shadow.

The agent was thinking of his chief, as he headed through the Grand Central concourse, toward the telephone. So preoccupied was Clyde that he paid no attention to a throng of persons who pa.s.sed him as they came from a train gate. Hence Clyde failed to gain another lead, a lucky one that he might have followed.

Among the pa.s.sengers whom Clyde did not see, but one whom he would have recognized, was a bulky, bluff-faced man with a black mustache. It was Elvin Lettigue. The millionaire had just arrived back in New York from some point north.

Clyde found a telephone booth. Entering it, he lost his last chance to spy Lettigue as the heavy man stalked from the concourse. With that departure went an opportunity that would have served The Shadow.

New crime was due, despite The Shadow's progress. Had Clyde trailed Lettigue and learned the millionaire's destination, coming evil could have been thwarted.

Events were destined to prove that very fact.

CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER ENTRANT.

ELVIN LETTIGUE'S course led southward from the Grand Central Terminal. After a few blocks, the millionaire entered the side door of a large bank building. This was the Channing National, an inst.i.tution that stayed open until five o'clock to receive deposits only.

Few persons were about when Lettigue entered. He had beaten the dead line by only a few minutes and most of the depositors had left. One man, squatty and square-shouldered, looked up to observe themillionaire. This fellow was standing at a desk, making out a deposit slip. He must have recognized Lettigue, for dark eyes showed a gleam, while pasty lips formed a wry grin.

Lettigue, apparently, did not notice the belated depositor. The millionaire went through an open doorway and nodded to a dignified man who was seated at a mahogany desk. The man arose to shake hands.

This was Rufus Moreland, vice president of the Channing National. His greeting to Elvin Lettigue was natural. The millionaire was one of the princ.i.p.al depositors in this bank.

"Just back in town?" queried Moreland. "Where were you this trip, Mr. Lettigue?"

"To Albany," rumbled the mustached millionaire. "I went there this morning. I took a look at a factory site; but it was not satisfactory."

"But you spent some money there," remarked Moreland, with a pleasant smile. "That appears to be a habit of yours."

"I did," acknowledged Lettigue. "I always do. You can always count on my arriving after hours to cash a check."

He extended a check as he spoke. It was Lettigue's own check, made out for five hundred dollars.

Moreland received it and arose.

"I shall have one of the tellers cash it," said the vice president. "Wait here, Mr. Lettigue. I shall be gone only a few moments."

As Moreland ceased speaking, a sound came from the tiled wall of the office. It was m.u.f.fled and repeated; an odd double click that was plainly audible.

"Did you hear that?" queried Moreland, turning about. "That noise has been annoying me all afternoon.

Listen -"

He held up his hand as he paused. Two seconds pa.s.sed; then, again, the sound: Click-click- Lettigue did not appear to notice the noise. The millionaire was holding his big-headed cane. He was placing it against the desk as Moreland mentioned the noise.

"I can't locate those clicks," began Moreland, in annoyed tone. "Sometimes they seem to come from one spot. Sometimes from another -"

"May I use your telephone?" rumbled Lettigue in interruption. "I want to call my home. To tell them I shall be there for dinner."

"Quite all right," a.s.sured Moreland. "Go right ahead, Mr. Lettigue."

MORELAND went from the office. Lettigue picked up the telephone. As he began his call, the dark-eyed depositor shifted toward the outer door. His course carried him near Moreland's office.

There, the man paused to light a cigarette. He could hear Lettigue talking on the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo, Daniel." Lettigue was speaking loudly, apparently to a servant. "This is Mr. Lettigue... Yes, in New York... For dinner, yes... What's that?... Ah, I had forgotten that the cook will be out tonight...

"No, no. Do not prepare dinner. I shall stay in the city to-night... Were there any telephone calls?... FromPrentiss Petersham? Humph... Will call again, eh?...

"No. Do not tell him that I am in the city. He might try to look me up at the club, even though I shall not be there. Tell him that I have retired early... Yes, that I am home but indisposed...

"You know where I shall be, Daniel... Yes, where I always stop...Call me if -"

Lettigue broke off. Moreland was returning with the money. The bank official had pa.s.sed the pausing depositor who was outside the door; but he was counting the money and did not notice the man.

Moreland did chance to catch Lettigue's final words.

"Staying in town after all?" he inquired, pleasantly. "Well, I can scarcely blame you, Mr. Lettigue. The night may be drizzly. Perhaps I shall stay at my hotel this evening."

"I thought that was your usual procedure," remarked Lettigue.

"It is," rejoined Moreland. "However, there is work that I should do here to-night. I shall put it off only if it rains. That is also part of my usual procedure. I am susceptible to colds -"

He broke off. The clicks had repeated, more noticeably than before. They even reached the ears of the depositor who still stood outside the door. The man's cigarette had gone out; he was fumbling for another match.

"My word!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Moreland. "That noise is more bothersome than ever! I shall speak to the night watchman this evening and tell him to trace its source."

LETTIGUE was rising. He had grasped his cane with his right hand, while he pocketed the money with his left. Moreland was still listening for new clicks. When he saw Lettigue start from the office, he followed.

The dark-eyed depositor was gone. The outer door was swinging as indication of his departure.

Moreland locked the door of his office. He was preparing to leave for his hotel; but he remarked that he had a few details to complete before departure.

Lettigue went through the outer door. It was gla.s.s paneled and the light from the bank penetrated to the sidewalk, to form a widened glow. A lurker had stepped out of sight. He was prompt to take up the millionaire's trail. He was the squatty, dark-eyed man; he had watched through the gla.s.s door to see both Lettigue and Moreland leave the office.

Hardly had the pair moved along before Clyde Burke came strolling past the Channing National Bank.

The reporter had completed his call to the contact man. Curiously, he had come the same direction as Lettigue. But Clyde was just too late to spy the man who carried the huge cane. Nor did he see the squatty spy who had taken up Lettigue's trail.

BACK in the bank, Rufus Moreland had finished his final details. With hat and overcoat donned, he was starting past his own office, when he noticed one of the tellers coming in his direction. Moreland hesitated; then produced a key and unlocked the officer door.

"Come here, Tatnall," he said to the teller. "I want you to listen to the noise that I have heard."

They paused by the opened door. No clicks sounded from the darkened office. Moreland shrugged his shoulders, then closed the door. Just as he was locking it, the clicks came.

"There!" exclaimed Moreland. "The clicks! Did you hear them, Tatnall?" "Barely," expressed Tatnall. "Shall we listen further, sir?"

"Never mind. I shall speak to the watchman to-night. That noise is bothersome. It must be traced. I mentioned it to Mr. Lettigue while he was here."

"What was his opinion?"

"He scarcely noticed it. However, he is a trifle deaf."

Moreland went from the bank, followed by Tatnall. They separated. The teller was going home for the night.

SOME blocks away, the squatty man who had followed Lettigue was standing by a lighted corner.

Chagrin showed on the fellow's face. He had lost his trail. That was not surprising, for Lettigue was a brisk walker and his cane seemed to add to his speed. He had pa.s.sed from the follower's view in the midst of a crowd of homeward-bound workers.

The squatty man shrugged his thick shoulders; then walked toward a hotel. He entered the lobby and found the telephone. He put in a call; but was cautious when he heard a voice across the wire.

"Mr. Petersham?"

The response must have been affirmative, for the squatty man proceeded at once.

"This is Clinton Jorn," he confided... "No, I am not at my office. I am going there soon; to join d.y.k.el. I've been up at the Channing National."

A query across the wire. Jorn spoke ruefully.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I spotted Lettigue. Like we expected. Just before five o'clock. He cashed a check for five hundred smackers; then he called up his home.

"Looks like he's not going there... Where? He's stopping here in town somewhere... Yeah, I tried to tail him, but he gave me the slip... Sure, call his house if you want. The flunky will tell you that he's gone to bed early...

"All right, Mr. Petersham, I'll call you to-morrow, like you told me to do when I gave you that ring this afternoon..."

A receiver clicked abruptly at the other end of the wire. Jorn scowled; then came out of the telephone booth. He strode from the hotel, walked a few blocks and came to a side street. There, he entered a small, narrow building that had a narrow lobby with a heavy door at the far end. Jorn ascended stairs to the second floor.

Here he stopped at a lighted office that bore the name: JORN AND d.y.k.eL.

Investigators JORN entered, and nodded to a tall, long-faced man who was slouched in an easy-chair. This was his partner, d.y.k.el. The tall man arose and followed Jorn into an inner office. Jorn seated himself at an old desk, near an opened window. Across the rear street was the low roof of a dingy garage, wedged between two taller buildings. Dark was settling; the glow of the city threw a light through the s.p.a.ce across the street. "I tailed Lettigue," announced Jorn, in a growl. "Lost him."

"You told Petersham?" queried d.y.k.el.

"Yeah," grunted Jorn. "He sounded sore. I don't blame him."

"What's coming next?"

"Nothing, for a while. Unless I drop in on Joe Cardona. Just to kid him along, without mentioning too much."

"That might make trouble, Jorn. You don't want to spring the gag too soon. Remember, you're working for -"

"I know who I'm working for!" Jorn's outburst was an angry one. Then, his gruff tone smoothed: "Don't worry about me, d.y.k.el. I can handle this game well enough. It's been easy money so far, hasn't it?

Without any trouble."

"Sure. Just taking orders from -"