It was Joe Cardona, acting inspector, ace sleuth of the New York police force. Cover-up man for the cop who had crashed the door, Joe was ready with his gun, anxious to bead any crook who might use the officer for a target. As he concluded a wide sweep with his gun arm, Joe Cardona came to a sudden stop.
While a policeman and a detective sergeant crowded in behind him, Joe stared at the prone form of Roke Rowden. The others copied his example. The big cop who had smashed the door picked himself up and joined in the gaze. Joe looked toward the door of the inner room.
Advancing with leveled gun, the ace reached the inner door. He pulled a flashlight and clicked it as he entered. His sweeping glare showed that the room was empty. Joe moved to the window. He raised the sash and spread the glimmer through the lower courtyard. Turning back, Joe clicked out his light and faced the detective sergeant who had followed him.
“If anyone went that way, Markham,” said Cardona, “he’s made his getaway. There’s nobody at the bottom of that fire escape. Come on back. Let’s take a look at the dead guy in the other room.”
CHAPTER IV
THE MAN FROM DES MOINES
JOE CARDONA had missed his guess about the lower courtyard. His powerful torch had thrown a broad glare into that silent space; but its rays had failed in their effectiveness. Joe had missed the inner corner by the bottom of the fire escape.
Thus he had failed to see the one spot where a figure lurked. The fringe of the flashlight’s circle had stopped at the very feet of a shrouded form that had stood absolutely motionless. It was not until Joe had given up the search that the blackened figure moved.
Swiftly, silently, The Shadow traveled through the passage to the street. A taxicab was standing thirty feet from the opening. For a moment, a darkened shape showed as it passed a street lamp. Then the fleeting form reached the cab. The Shadow stepped aboard.
“Cobalt Club.”
The order came in a quiet voice. The driver nodded. He had not heard the passenger enter; but he had expected this arrival. Moe Shrevnitz, the driver of that cab, was in agent of The Shadow. He had posted himself at this appointed spot in response to an order previously received.
EIGHT minutes later, the cab wheeled up in front of the exclusive Cobalt Club. This time the door opened visibly. A tall, stoop-shouldered man alighted. He was wearing neither hat nor coat; his gray hair formed an untidy shock beneath the light of the marquee.
Moe Shrevnitz closed the door and drove along the street. He had a delivery to make. A bag was to go to the Metrolite Hotel, to be left there for Mr. Lucaster. Moe had brought the bag in his cab, empty. Delivered, it would contain garments of black — hat, cloak and gloves — which the owner would later regain.
The stooped man with gray hair had entered the Cobalt Club. An attendant stopped him. Excitedly, the man spoke in a crackly voice:
“The police commissioner! I must see him! Tell him so, at once.”
The attendant paused, doubtfully.
“It is urgent,” came the plea. “Urgent!”
“Your name, sir?”
“Lucaster. Mr. Northrup Lucaster. From Des Moines. I must see Commissioner Barth. Tell him I shall explain.”
The attendant went to a card room. He returned and nodded to the gray-haired man. Lucaster started forward. He encountered a tall, baldheaded individual who was coming from the card room.
“Are you the police commissioner, sir?” questioned Lucaster.
The baldheaded man paused to study the questioner through a pair of pince-nez spectacles. He thrust his head forward with the manner of an eagle. In a pompous tone, he declared:
“I am Wainwright Barth — the police commissioner. You are the gentleman who asked to see me?”
“Yes.” The response was eager. “I am Northrup Lucaster. Here is my card, commissioner. I am from Des Moines, Iowa. A recently retired manufacturer—”
“Ah, yes. And your purpose here?”
“Look, commissioner.” Lucaster drew a large envelope from his pocket. “I have twenty-five thousand dollars here. Fresh from the bank this very afternoon. Men are seeking it—”
“Then why do you carry it with you? Are holdup men on your trail?”
“No, no. Swindlers! They want me to bring the money to them.”
“Have you informed detective headquarters?”
“This afternoon, commissioner. Let me explain what has happened. I had an appointment this evening with a man named Roke Rowden. I was to bring this money to his apartment. I suspected a swindle. I called headquarters and talked to an inspector. His name was Cardona—”
“Yes. Go on.”
“He said that he would go in my place. That he would trap the swindler. I suppose that he has done so already. But I have not heard from him. I think that I should go there at once, to the apartment where Rowden lives.”
“Why so?”
“To identify Rowden after he is arrested. The man is crafty, commissioner. But I made a mistake. I drew my money before I notified headquarters. I do not like to go to Rowden’s. Commissioner, the man is a most persuasive talker. It was intuition only that made me believe him a swindler. I can not leave this money at my hotel. Yet I am afraid to carry it. I learned that you might be here, at this club—”
“One moment, Mr. Lucaster,” interrupted Barth. The commissioner’s eyes were agleam with interest. “Where does this man Rowden reside.”
“At the Mallison Apartments. Less than ten blocks from here.”
“And Cardona is already there?”
“He should be.”
“Very well,” decided Barth. “I shall accompany you there, Mr. Lucaster. My car is outside. Let us start at once. Your description of this swindler intrigues me.”
A slight smile showed on the cracked lips of Northrup Lucaster. A singular shadow swept across the floor as the gray-haired stranger stalked by the commissioner’s side. The Shadow knew Wainwright Barth’s penchant for viewing crime in person. He had decided to bring the commissioner into this case.
TWELVE minutes later, Detective Sergeant Markham burst into Rowden’s living room, where Joe Cardona was watching a police surgeon make his examination of the body. Markham was excited.
“Lucaster’s here,” he told Joe, “and the commissioner is with him! They’re coming up.”
“Lucaster — with the commissioner?” Joe evidenced surprise.
“Both of them,” replied Markham. “That’s why we couldn’t get Lucaster at his hotel. He got all excited and went to see the commissioner. They’re coming now, Joe.”
Markham stepped away from the door. Ten seconds later, Wainwright Barth stepped into view, his face gleaming with interest. Behind him was the gray-haired figure of Northrup Lucaster.
“I learn that it is a case of homicide,” exclaimed Barth to Cardona. “I am glad that Mr. Lucaster came to see me. Let us hope that he can identify the body. Ah, Mr. Lucaster, is this the man?”
Cardona watched Northrup Lucaster move falteringly toward the form. He appeared greatly distressed at the sight of death. His head nodded slowly; and his expression showed pity.
“That is Roke Rowden,” he stated. “Poor chap. I am sorry for him. I–I hope you did not have to kill him — on my account.”
“He was dead when we crashed the door,” announced Cardona. “It looks a lot like suicide. See that glass, broken on the floor, commissioner?”
“What has that to do with it, Cardona?”
“I’ve seen other cases like it, commissioner. Fellow deciding to take poison. Pills in this case, it would be. They get so shaky they drop bottle, glass, or whatever they’re holding.”
“And then?”