The Shadow - The Whispering Eyes Part 9

"You must have had a vision of lost Atlantis," decided Lang, "the city under the sea. Those shadows were caused by pa.s.sing fish that disturbed the water and distorted the scene."

"That could be it!" exclaimed Gregg. "But how did you gain so prompt a clue?"

"From what you told me between sessions," replied Lang, with a smile. "You saw islands rocked and swept by tidal waves. I told you to relax, that your preliminary vision would lead to a finer one. I was right; your later trance superseded the first."

Clyde Burke had stepped forward, fascinated by the great crystal. His eyes were fixed in a tense stare and his lips began a mutter. Noting this, Lang tried to draw Clyde away, but could scarcely budge him.

"His mind is troubled," Lang undertoned to Cranston. "It would be better for him not to try this." "I would like to see what happens," returned Cranston. "Burke hasn't seemed right all evening. It might help if we learned the cause of his disturbance."

"You may be right," nodded Lang, "but it would be preferable to test him privately, rather than break the conversation of the group. In his case, a smaller crystal would prove more effective."

Cranston helped Lang turn Clyde away. Together they walked him to a small room at the back of the penthouse. The room was evidently Lang's study, for it had a desk piled high with papers, books, and sheaves of reference notes. It had one window, a barred affair, that overlooked the roof of an office building just below. Here, in the lower Thirties, there were plenty of old buildings far short of modern heights. Since Lang was putting Clyde in the only chair that wasn't occupied by books and papers, Cranston sat on the window sill; the window was open so he leaned back against the outside bars. From there, Cranston watched Lang bring a six-inch crystal, to set it in front of Clyde.

"I am only a student of the occult," stated Lang. "I make jest of superst.i.tion so that people who come here will have untrammeled minds. This man"- Lang's head gave a worried shake-"is groping in some mental darkness. His thoughts seem blank -"

Clyde's voice interrupted.

"I see them-the eyes!" Clyde's tone was strained, hoa.r.s.e. "I hear them- whispering eyes! Telling me-telling me -"

"Try to remember," suggested Lang, as Clyde leaned closer to the crystal. "Remember the eyes."

"But I can't remember," gasped Clyde. "They're telling me to forget."

"Then forget the eyes," supplied Cranston, coming forward. "Remember only their whisper."

"I hear it," Clyde panted. "They are saying to forget the hat. I see the hat, but there is no one with it.

Now, the lights -"

Clyde recoiled, throwing his arm across his eyes. Lang reached for the crystal, but Cranston halted him.

"They are gone, those lights," Cranston told Clyde. "Look in the crystal again. Concentrate on the hat.

You see it -"

"Yes, I see it," spoke Clyde. "There is someone holding it."

"And his name -"

"It's on the card. I can read it, W. Chester Hudson. Now I see him again, looking for a number on a door. Only there isn't any door that could have that number."

"Because it would be No. zero."

"That's it." Clyde picked up Cranston's words again, "No. zero. Round, like a zero, it's the muzzle of a gun!"

As Clyde started to recoil, Cranston gripped him and Lang hurriedly removed the crystal ball, to relieve Clyde's horror. But Clyde needed no crystal now. He was staring straight ahead, as though viewing a face in mid-air.

"Maresca Lepavnu," spoke Clyde. "She's asking me for the money- She's showing me the Bucharest statuettes-she wants five-ten- fifty thousand dollars and now -" With a shriek, Clyde was on his feet, struggling with Cranston, flaying with his arms, as Lang sprang in to help suppress him. In the melee, Lang lost his gla.s.ses and began groping about, squinting helplessly.

"He's choking her!" shouted Clyde. "Killing her. I have to stop him - stop him -"

Spinning about, Clyde blundered into Lang, who caught him in an arm-lock, reeled with him across the room, Cranston following after them. At the wall, Clyde suddenly went rigid.

"The eyes," gasped Clyde. "I see them-the eyes -"

Exhausted, Clyde was sagging when Cranston caught him. Lang, half-crawling around the room, found his gla.s.ses, put them on, and came over to study Clyde with a solemn, sympathetic gaze.

"A terrible experience," said Lang. "It sounded like an exaggerated interpretation of some actual recollection. I was fearful of this, Cranston. I never believe in letting anyone seek terror in the crystal."

"He didn't seek terror," returned Cranston. "Terror sought him. Don't worry about Burke; he's coming around now. But I probably should have followed your advice, Lang. In the future, I shall recommend less impressionable people to view your crystals."

Lang bowed a profound acknowledgment as he conducted the visitors from the study and out through the penthouse. Clyde Burke was more himself again, but still rather vague, as he said "good night" to Lang. As he rode down in the elevator with Cranston, Clyde felt tired and said so.

"Don't worry about tonight, Burke," said Cranston in parting. "Get a good rest and you'll have a clearer idea about everything when I talk to you tomorrow."

Lamont Cranston could have added that he had cleared up a few points on his own, thanks to Hanneford Lang and the extremely helpful crystal.

CHAPTER XIII. CRIME UNRAVELS.

THE next day, Lamont Cranston staged a timely arrival in Weston's office while the commissioner was holding a teletyped correspondence with the FBI, in reference to Maresca Lepavnu. Looking over the paper that was streaming from the ticker, Cranston learned that Madame Lepavnu was a once-celebrated European actress who had maneuvered her way through the intrigues and tumult of a war-torn continent, escaping prison camps and catastrophes, but not without her share of danger and adventure.

Summed up, Maresca's record had been a good one, otherwise she wouldn't have been admitted to the United States. Where she'd been involved with n.a.z.is and their satellites, it was always in places where they were established. Never had Maresca been party to operations of the quisling type. On the contrary, she'd helped to hamper such doings, even aiding members of threatened governments to escape their native lands before the invaders.

It couldn't be said, though, that Maresca had done this without price or reward. She'd been living in New York on the remains of what might be termed a heterogeneous fortune consisting of everything from foreign bonds to tulip bulbs. She'd lived on a pay-as-you-go basis, with other people paying, but she had claimed-and with some justification-that her gains had just about balanced her own losses.

The FBI had merely pretended to blink at that. They'd been waiting for Madame Lepavnu to attempt a final kill, where profits were concerned. Apparently, someone else had had the same idea. Maresca's career had ended with a final kill, but of a literal sort, in which she was on the receiving end. There were no further facts. Maresca's story had all the elements of a sealed book. That wasn't Cranston's opinion, however. Casually, almost as a pa.s.sing suggestion, he said to Weston: "Ask the FBI what Madame Lepavnu did with the twelve Bucharest statuettes."

Indulgently, Weston sent the query over the teletype. The effect was electric in more ways than one. The wires really began to burn. Wordage came pouring from the ticker.

"What's this you've started, Cranston?" exclaimed Weston. "Tell me all you know, all you can even guess! Why, those golden statuettes were entrusted to the Rumanian Iron Guard and were last seen in Bucharest just before the Communists took over. Like the Royal Burmese rubies, they are priceless!"

"Hardly," returned Cranston, calmly, "since Madame Lepavnu was offering them at five thousand dollars each, or sixty thousand in all."

"Where did you learn that?"

"From Burke. He came out of his daze last night, at least partly."

"Have him keep it out of the Cla.s.sic!" stormed Weston. "Or I'll hold him as an accessory to the fact."

Dictating the news across the teletype, Weston sat down and mopped his brow.

"That clinches it, Cranston. The same murderer, the same motive, with both Kelthorn and Maresca. The killer knew that each owned something of great value that could not be offered for open sale. In each instance, he negotiated privately and when the goods were produced, he murdered the owner instead of buying the treasures. He simply took the rubies and the statuettes along with him, but that wasn't all. He went through all Kelthorn's papers and Maresca's, too. I'm positive he weeded out any letters that would have incriminated him."

Cranston nodded agreement. Then: "You didn't find any other papers at Kelthorn's home?"

"None that counted," answered Weston. "He evidently confined all his shady business to his office."

"But what about the papers in Maresca's trick table?" asked Cranston. "The ones that Washington Mews found for you?"

Weston stared at Cranston as though his friend were giving double talk.

"How could Washington Mews find anything for us?" demanded Weston. "We were hunting for things around Washington Mews."

"So you were," said Cranston, with a smile. He was recalling how the commissioner had tooth-combed Maresca's premises while the white cat sat and watched. "Odd that I should have said that. I must have been thinking of something else."

"You were asking about the hidden papers," picked up Weston. "They gave us more of a line on Madame Lepavnu, that was all. Nothing on the murderer. He must have walked away with any letters that he ever wrote to Kelthorn or Maresca."

At that, Cranston pondered. Then: "I doubt that he ever wrote them anything," declared Cranston. "They wouldn't have corresponded onsuch ticklish subjects as the rubies or the statuettes."

"You may be right," decided Weston, "but in that case, I can't figure what the murderer was after. There wasn't much correspondence in either case. Mostly form letters, charity appeals, oil-stock propositions, real estate opportunities and the like. Kelthorn and Madame Lepavnu must have posed as big-hearted folk with something of the sucker urge, to cover up their real operations."

"There's your next step," announced Cranston as he rose. "Check the mailing lists. Find everyone who sent such literature to Kelthorn and Maresca."

"But we already know."

"You don't know all," declared Cranston. "Mailing lists are often sold, leased, or even borrowed. Start from those you already know about and find out with whom they traded. That may produce your final clue."

Having given Commissioner Weston enough to keep him busy, Lamont Cranston left for another appointment. This took place in a snug little restaurant called the Press Box, near the Cla.s.sic office.

There, in a secluded corner Cranston met with Clyde Burke and Joe Cardona, each of whom was somewhat puzzled to find the other present.

"You've both had similar experiences," Cranston told the two. "You, inspector, let Professor Bogardus use you in a post hypnotic test and Burke saw the outcome of it. Now I'm convinced that Burke himself was hypnotized, at least twice, by someone he remembers only in terms of Whispering Eyes. I want him to account for everything before and after those experiences, while you, inspector, check his story as far as you can."

With persons other than an accomplished reporter and an experienced police officer, Cranston might have failed to get results. As it was, Cranston arrived at facts fast. Recalling the night of Kelthorn's death, Clyde remembered leaving the building; from then on, he drew a blank. Cardona filled in the rest, stating just when and where he had picked up Clyde in the police car.

To Cranston, that settled the question of the lights that Clyde connected with the eyes. It proved that Clyde's visions in Lang's crystal ball had been twofold, a brief experience near Kelthorn's; a more grueling one last night, at Maresca's. Both of those visions had involved a hat; now Cardona was supplying the details on that score.

"Don't forget that crazy business outside Bogardus' hall," said Cardona to Clyde. "You and Jenkins, I mean, giving me the business."

"What business, Joe?" asked Clyde, puzzled.

"Saying you couldn't see Hudson's hat," retorted Cardona, "while the guy was smoothing it out, right there in front of you. Then Jenkins topped it by saying he couldn't see Hudson at all. For once, Burke, be serious -"

"He is serious," put in Cranston. "Phone the Cla.s.sic, Burke, and tell them to send over all the press copy they have on Professor Bogardus, particularly photographs."

Clyde made the call and returned. Then: "Whoever the murderer," proceeded Cranston, "his system is simple. When he wants to do a crime, he diverts the opposition, then sends in a strong-arm man to clear the way and also to take the blame if anything should slip. He is also ready to frame anyone who happens to come along or blunder in onthings. The killer is using the most rudimentary forms of criminal operation.

"The unique part is his device. Instead of knock-out drops or blackjacks, he is using hypnotism. So artfully that he should have covered his trail completely, but like all attempts at perfect crimes, these have had their flaws. Let us consider the Kelthorn murder first."

Clyde and Cardona were thoroughly agog as they listened.

"The man with the eyes waylaid Jenkins in the alley," tallied Cranston. "He gave him a negative post-hypnotic impression applying to the man called W. Chester Hudson. The result: When Hudson entered the building, Jenkins took him up in the elevator and later brought him down, yet as far as Jenkins could know, Hudson might have been the original invisible man. It sounds incredible, but that is only because hypnotic phenomena are the exact reversals of normal experience. If you won't take my word, ask Dr. Fontaine."

Cardona perked up at mention of Fontaine. Professor Bogardus had been so openly blatant that Cardona had begun to consider Dr. Fontaine as a secret weapon masquerading in human form. Now, it appeared that Fontaine could be aboveboard, too. But that, in itself, could prove that one was playing the other's game.

"Hudson's mission was to wrench the bars from the hallway window," continued Cranston. "That enabled the murderer to enter, trick Kelthorn into staging his own death, and then depart as he had entered, by way of the back alley. Any chance witnesses out front would only remember Hudson as the man who entered and left the building. You, Burke, must have picked up a slight portion of Hudson's trail, and particularly his hat. The murderer found you with the hat; obliterated the incident from your mind."

Clyde nodded. Though he couldn't remember this story, he believed it. The whole thing fitted with the Whispering Eyes.

"Last night," declared Cranston, "the man with the eyes used Hudson again. He had him break into Maresca's house by way of the skylight and open the back door, by which route Hudson left. Hudson was almost spotted entering; he was noticed after he left. If all had worked as the killer wanted, Hudson would be the only suspect. But you happened to enter the picture, Burke."

Clyde nodded, realizing it, but his face was strained. He was hoping he wouldn't have any more meetings with the Whispering Eyes. Clyde felt he'd be like a swimmer going down for the third time, the last.

"The Whispering Eyes tried to frame you, Burke," added Cranston. "Maresca's shots were what spoiled the game. Now that we have pieced the chain, we must seek its weakest link. It may be here."

Cranston referred to a package that a waiter was handing him, the Bogardus file brought by messenger from the Cla.s.sic. Soon, photographs were spread all over the table, most of them action shots of Bogardus and his subjects in the midst of the professor's hypnotic demonstrations.

"Excellent," declared Cranston. "The professor's flare for publicity is going to help us. See if you can spot our man Hudson."

They spotted him, Clyde and Cardona, at the same time. In one picture, Hudson was staring blankly from among a group. In another, he was towering above Bogardus who was looking up and making pa.s.ses at Hudson's fixed eyes. The third photo was the best. It showed Hudson lying rigid between two chair backs, with Bogardus standing on him, giving Hudson the full weight of the professor's portly form.

Turning the pictures over, Clyde shook his head. "All different dates," he said, "but no names. The one with Hudson lying between the chairs just says: 'Professor Bogardus demonstrating a cataleptic test.' But we do know the fellow's name. It's W. Chester Hudson. I wonder what the W means."

"West," replied Cranston, looking at the photographs. "I'd suggest that you make a note of it."

"But how," queried Cardona, "do you figure it as West?"

"From Westchester," explained Cranston, "the name of a county, and Hudson, the name of a river. This chap probably comes from somewhere around Yonkers, or is acquainted there. It was a good tag to give him, along with those calling cards. Names like that stick with amnesia victims."

Studying the photographs, Cardona nodded.

"You're right," said Joe. "He looks the type. I've seen a lot of these lost memory cases. How they pick new names for themselves, they never know, so I guess somebody generally hangs the names on them.

I'd say this guy wouldn't have any more ability choosing a name for himself than, let's say, a cat."

"Not as much," returned Cranston, smiling slightly as he remembered how Washington Mews had a.s.sisted in picking his own name. "However, inspector, there's your lead. Check other cities and see if any Bureau of Missing Persons has a case answering the description of this man whose name is anything but Hudson."

That was all. Lamont Cranston left the Press Box with the air of an Eagle Scout who had hit a daily double, where good deeds were concerned. He'd furnished Cardona, as well as Weston, with the sort of material that the law liked to sift. Sooner or later, both would bring results.

Meanwhile, Lamont Cranston was making some immediate plans that would be helpful to the crime-hunting career of his other self, The Shadow.

CHAPTER XIV. CRANSTON GETS AROUND.

DR. GERALD FONTAINE had his office on an East Side avenue in the upper Sixties. It was a ground floor office and the entrance was just around the corner, but it bore the avenue address. The sign on the door read "Fontaine Inst.i.tute, Inc." and inside was a small reception room.

When Lamont Cranston arrived, a girl promptly appeared from an inner room and asked his name.