The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 8

"A good use for it."

"You are wrong, Mr. Cranston. Remember: this is an electrical device. It operates well in mining until it is below the surface. Then it strikes mineral-bearing rock. When it encounters magnetic ore, the electrical current is disseminated. All is wasted."

"You told that to Brindell?"

"Certainly. But Seton Brindell is guided by a shrewd promoter named Jerry Quimble. In fact, Quimble is the brain of the Industrial Mining Corporation. Quimble is in South America, selling these machines to mine owners."

"And they have complained?"

"Not yet. But they will. Then sales well end. Quimble demonstrates the machine upon ordinary rock. He lets the mine owners find out later that it does not work properly with ore."

Greel paused. Then, with emphasis, he added: "I consider it an outrage! Yet what can I do? I sold the rights; I receive my royalties. My protests are ofno avail. I have urged Brindell to try the machine with building wreckers. He will do nothing while Quimble is still away."

"What about the directors of the corporation?"

"I have never met any of them. Perhaps they do not exist. It is a strange concern, Mr. Cranston.

Sometimes I think that Brindell is acting under orders from some rogue who has an ulterior purpose in controlling my machine. If I could interest persons such as yourself, they might aid me to get to the bottom of this business. I have some money-saved from my old inventions. The amount is not large; but I would be willing to -"

A DOUBLE click interrupted Greel. The sound was thrice repeated, in quick succession. The inventor stopped the motor. He pulled the disk from the slab. The tile was cracked; the edges of the breaks were powdery.

"The process is slower from the exterior," stated Greel. "But it brings rapid results at the finish. Did you notice how the clicks came in such sudden progression."

The Shadow nodded. He examined the cracked tile; then glanced at his watch.

"I have an appointment," he remarked. "Will you be here to-morrow, Mr. Greel?"

"I am always here," chortled the inventor, "except when I go to collect my royalty payments. You are welcome to call at any time, Mr. Cranston."

The Shadow departed. His lips formed a thin smile as he descended in the elevator. He had solved the riddle of two robberies. The Mayan Museum had been cracked by an internal electro-vibrator, installed with the burglary alarm. Clayborne's strong room had been reached by an external device, placed behind the book case in the empty office.

Crooks had figured in the robberies. Possibly Sledge Ringo, for strong-arm tactics would be necessary to complete the clearing of the ruined walls. The sledge hammer, nevertheless, had been left at Clayborne's as a false clue. For The Shadow had formed his own conclusions regarding that broken mallet.

The handle had been snapped by laying the hammer across two objects; then striking it in the center with a much smaller mallet. The indentations and the splinters were proof of that particular process. Crooks wanted the law to think of mallets; not of electrical machines.

Through these conclusions, The Shadow had seen the necessity of the connection between the burglary equipment and the mining supplies. Quimble had covered that connection; but The Shadow had gained the truth.

ON the street, The Shadow stopped by a parked cab. He took out a packed briefcase; then instructed the driver to remain outside the Findlay Apartments, to see that nothing occurred that might concern Sanbrook Greel. The cab driver was Moe Shrevnitz, another of The Shadow's agents.

The Shadow knew that Sanbrook Greel knew too much for his own good. He wanted to keep tabs on the old inventor; to prevent complications that might involve Greel.

It was after nine o'clock when The Shadow entered the building where Clayborne's broken strong room was located. This time, The Shadow was cloaked in black. He easily pa.s.sed a patrolman who was located outside. Entering the empty office beside Clayborne's, The Shadow began an inspection of the wall break. Powdery surfaces were few. Crooks had done a sharper job here than at the museum. Prentiss Petersham, in his brief sc.r.a.ping, had removed nearly all the vestiges of pulverized mortar that edged the broken bricks. The Shadow's flashlight finished its glimmers as the cloaked visitor moved out into the hall.

There was a fire tower dead ahead. Its door was open. The blinks of the flashlight could have been seen from outside. Shielded by darkness, The Shadow moved to the doorway. There he paused, chose an angled position and raised his flashlight half above his head. He pressed the torch's switch.

An odd effect was produced. The position of the light caused The Shadow's figure to throw a silhouette against the opposite wall, by the door of the fire tower. There, like a living shape, rested a hawkish, hatted profile. The Shadow waited two full seconds.

A pop sounded from an alleyway across the street below. A whistle sizzed through darkness. A bullet from an air gun pinged the edge of the flattened silhouette. The light clicked off. The Shadow delivered a mocking laugh from the fire tower, as he whipped forth an automatic.

Footsteps clattered distant in the alleyway. The Shadow replaced the .45 beneath his cloak. Once again, a thrust from the darkness had failed. This time at The Shadow's design. The Shadow had been watching for an outside lurker.

The Shadow's laugh was echoed with a whisper. This aftermath enabled him to calculate new facts.

Again he had gained proof that the underworld was deeply concerned in the past two crimes.

That meant thugs and lesser killers as servers of some supercrook.

An indication that Sledge Ringo could be in the game, even though the broken mallet was a blind. The Shadow planned work for the morrow; new trails to track through the bad lands of Manhattan.

There was work, too, for to-night. Unfortunately, The Shadow had not gained the one clue that he needed to prevent a coming crime.

CHAPTER X. MILLION DOLLAR MURDER.

NEW morning. New crime.

Clyde Burke was standing within the lower vault room of the Channing National Bank. Daylight was streaming through a yawning opening to a narrow alleyway. Joe Cardona was present, making a grim survey.

"Another mallet job," growled Cardona. "The same as the museum. The same as Clayborne's. The alarm system went on the b.u.m. But look what they had to sledge through! Concrete!"

Clyde noted the stone foundation. The edges were clean. Moldy powder had been erased.

"They grabbed the watchman," added Cardona. "He was upstairs and never heard the hammering. We found him, bound and gagged. No murder this time." Joe paused; then added, growling: "Murder wasn't necessary."

"How much swag?"

Cardona hesitated at Clyde's query; then decided to answer.

"A huge haul, Burke. More than a million! This hole touches the rear wall of the vault. They cleaned out currency and securities." Clyde followed Cardona upstairs. Other reporters were there, gathered about the president's office.

Clyde walked through the door with Cardona, while the other news hounds scowled.

Police Commissioner Weston was in conference with bank executives. They had finished questioning the watchman. Another eager informant had gained the floor. Cardona mumbled the man's name to Clyde: "A teller named Tatnall. He thinks he can tell us something."

"Go on, Tatnall," Weston was encouraging. "What was it that Mr. Moreland said to you?"

"He spoke of clicks, sir," stated Tatnall. "They came from the wall of his office. It's right over the lower vault."

"Clicks!" exclaimed Weston. He swung to Cardona. "That's what Lemand heard at the museum."

The commissioner looked about. He demanded: "Where is Mr. Moreland?"

"Not here," rejoined the bank's cashier. "He seldom arrives early, commissioner."

"Where does he live?"

"At the Hotel Runnymede."

Weston ordered Cardona and Tatnall to accompany him to his car. Clyde followed along to the street.

Cardona motioned him aboard the commissioner's limousine. Weston made no objection; for Clyde had previously proven himself useful.

When they reached the Hotel Runnymede, Weston led the troop into the lobby. The hotel was antiquated and quiet; but a stir was in progress when the group arrived. Some one recognized the police commissioner. The manager hurried over with a statement: "We just called headquarters, commissioner -"

"About what?" snapped Weston.

"About Mr. Moreland," explained the manager. "We found him five minutes ago. Dead-his skull crushed."

Clyde saw a grim look flare upon the police commissioner's face.

"We came here to interview Moreland," declared Weston, sadly. "I suppose our present task is to view the body."

THEY found the dead man sprawled upon the floor of his room. Rufus Moreland had died like Lewis Lemand. His head had been bashed by a heavy missile. Beside the body lay a small, but heavy, table lamp. Its wire had been jerked from the socket. The metal base of the lamp was bloodstained.

"That's the weapon," decided Cardona. "The killer used it like the Aztec mallet. We'll go after finger prints, commissioner."

One hour later, the body had been removed. Weston, dejected, was listening to Cardona's summary.

Facts were meager. No finger prints had been found upon the deadly table lamp. All that Cardona could supply was the police surgeon's statement that Moreland had been dead since eight o'clock the nightbefore.

Weston decided to quiz Tatnall. The teller's testimony had been postponed because of pressure. Tatnall began with a repet.i.tion of his former statements. Then came added information.

"The clicks were m.u.f.fled when I heard them," informed Tatnall. "Mr. Moreland was leaving; so was I.

We had both been delayed because we cashed a check for a depositor. He was in Mr. Moreland's office previously; perhaps he also heard the clicks."

"Who was he?" queried Weston.

"One of our regular depositors," returned Tatnall. "Mr. Elvin Lettigue. He -"

"Elvin Lettigue!" barked Weston. "He was the last man to talk with Moreland?"

"The last to talk with him at any length -"

Weston interrupted with a gesture. He ordered Tatnall to return to the bank. Cardona was to accompany him to Long Island. Again, Clyde Burke managed to go along. He gained an interval to fake a call to the Cla.s.sic office. Actually, he reported to Burbank.

IT was a forty minutes' ride to Lettigue's. The millionaire's home was pretentious; but not overlarge. It was situated within a large, hedged area. A portly servant answered the door when the arrivals rang.

Weston gave his name. The servant hesitated.

"Come, man!" argued Weston. "I wish to speak to Mr. Lettigue. I am the police commissioner."

Weston was facing a gloomy hall as he stared through the front door. A voice boomed suddenly from the semidarkness. It was Lettigue's.

"Ah, commissioner!" called the millionaire. "Come in at once! Bring the others with you. To my study, Daniel."

The servant conducted them to an isolated room that formed a one-story addition to the house. Sunlight was bright through large windows. A cheery blaze sparkling from the fireplace.

"New information?" queried Lettigue, cheerily. He placed his huge cane in a corner and removed hat and gloves. "I am glad that I returned from my morning walk. I hope that you have apprehended the rogue who murdered Lewis Lemand."

"We bring other news," rejoined Weston. "There has been new murder, Lettigue."

Lettigue's face clouded. Clyde took the expression for a look of worriment.

"Another friend of yours has died," added the commissioner. "I refer to Rufus Moreland, vice president of the Channing National Bank."

Lettigue stared in stunned fashion. "Rufus Moreland-dead?"

"Yes," affirmed Weston, "and burglars entered the Channing National Bank."

Lettigue did not apparently catch the words.

"What's that?" he questioned. "Murderers entered the Channing National? They found Moreland there?" "Moreland was slain at his hotel," stated Weston, in a louder tone. "Burglars entered the bank. They rifled it as they did the museum."

Lettigue nodded slowly. His heavy tone softened as he spoke.

"Poor Moreland," he declaimed. "He told me that he intended to go back to the bank last night. I saw Moreland, gentlemen, just before he left his office. That was shortly after five o'clock. Just before I came out home."

There was genuineness in Lettigue's tone. Yet Clyde Burke noted a shrewd look on the part of Joe Cardona. The ace was regarding Lettigue's statement as an alibi.

"I intended to remain in the city," mused Lettigue. "Instead, I returned here for dinner. I was tired, after a trip to Albany. I -"

"Tell me something, Mr. Lettigue," interposed Weston. "We are anxious to know about Moreland's actions. Did he mention anything unusual while you were in his office?"

"Not that I recall, commissioner."

"And you are sure that it was only a few minutes after five when you left him? What time did you arrive here?"

CARDONA suppressed a grin. He saw where Weston was leading. Lettigue was about to respond, when his servant entered. The man picked up his master's hat and gloves, then the walking stick. Lettigue swung toward the servant.

"What time did I arrive here yesterday afternoon?" queried Lettigue. "Do you remember, Daniel?"

"It was approximately half past six, sir," returned the servant. "I had not expected you, sir, because of your telephone call. It was half an hour after your arrival until I prepared dinner, sir."

"So I dined at seven -"

"And retired at eight o'clock, sir."

Daniel left the study. Lettigue nodded, as if corroborating the servant's statement. Weston motioned the others from the room. He wanted to confer alone with Lettigue.

Out in the hallway, Cardona grumbled to Clyde.