Maxwell Grant
Death Clew
CHAPTER I. UNDER COVER
A GRAY-HAIRED man was seated at a desk in detective headquarters. His face, stern of expression, showed the stolidity that the man had gained through years of service with the New York police.
This man was Inspector Timothy Klein. Grizzled veteran of many battles against crime, Klein, tonight, displayed a determination that showed more than ordinary keenness.
Another man entered the inspector’s office. The arrival was younger than Klein; his face, however, carried the same firmness. Stocky of build, swarthy of expression, this newcomer looked like a man of action. He was such. Detective Joe Cardona was recognized as the ace of the Manhattan force.
“Hello, Joe,” greeted Klein, solemnly.
“Hello, inspector,” returned the detective. “Been talking with the commissioner?”
“Yes,” Klein leaned across the desk and plated his heavy fist upon the woodwork. “He wants us to get Strangler Hunn tonight.”
“A tough order,” remarked Cardona, with a grim smile. “If we were using the dragnet—”
“The commissioner won’t see it,” interposed Klein. “He claims that it would tip off Hunn. He’d know we were after him.”
“Maybe,” agreed Cardona. “Every crook that’s wanted ducks for cover when the net begins to close. Just the same, it’s the only way we could bag Strangler Hunn in a hurry.”
“Yes,” granted Klein. “We’d also take a big chance on losing him. The commissioner is right, Joe, so far as the best method of getting Strangler is concerned. If he stays in New York, we’ll spot him sure. The only trouble is how soon we can get him.”
“And he’s wanted tonight.” Cardona laughed gruffly. “Well, inspector, I’m here to help you. But we’re playing a long, long shot.”
KLEIN nodded as he leaned back in his chair. Reflectively, the inspector began to sum up the facts concerning Strangler Hunn.
“He was a bad egg, Hunn was” remarked Klein. “He could have choked a bull with those big mitts of his. When he lost his right arm in that dock fight, it crimped his style a bit.”
“Yeah?” Again, Cardona laughed. “Well, inspector, if he can’t strangle a bull any more, Strangler can still knock one cold with that left fist of his. What’s more, he can use a .45 with that one hand better than the average gangster can handle a pair of .38s.”
“A murderer,” mused Klein. “One we’ve got to get. Easily recognized by that fake arm that always hangs at his right side. The glove he wears on his phony hand is a good enough give-away.
“Spotted last night. We’ve been looking for him since. Twenty-five plainclothes men out on the street, looking for Strangler Hunn. In this case, Joe, the undercover system is better than the dragnet.”
“It will be,” admitted Cardona, “if anybody is lucky enough to spot the guy. But the longer it takes, the more chance there is for a leak. If the news hounds get wise—”
“No reporter knows about Strangler being in town?” Klein’s question was a worried one. “If any of them know, we’ll have to act quick—”
“It’s safe for the present,” interrupted Cardona. “Only one reporter’s wise. Burke of the Classic. He knows enough, though, not to spoil a good story by blabbing in advance.”
“Burke was in here just before I came back,” remarked Klein. “He talked with Markham. Coming in later. I guess you’re right about him, Joe — he shoots straight. We can count on him keeping quiet.”
“I’ll talk to him when he shows up,” rejoined the detective. “He’s probably somewhere near here right now.”
IN this surmise, Joe Cardona was correct. Two blocks away from headquarters, a young man of wiry build was entering a small corner store. Spying a telephone booth, he entered and put in a call.
“Burbank speaking,” came a voice over the wire.
“Burke,” rejoined the man in the booth. “On my way to headquarters.”
“Remain there,” came a quiet order. “Make immediate report on any new information.”
“Instructions received.”
Clyde Burke strolled from the store. He had the gait and manner of a newspaper reporter; the completed telephone call, however, indicated that he served in some other capacity. Such was the case.
Clyde Burke was a secret agent of the mysterious being known as The Shadow. Through Burbank, a contact man, Burke and other agents reported to their hidden chief.
The Shadow! Being of mystery, a weird personage shrouded in darkness. He, like the police of New York City, waged ceaseless war against crime. When he appeared in the light, The Shadow invariably used some perfected form of disguise — as Lamont Cranston, as Henry Arnaud, as Fritz the janitor, or as any one he chose to be. A master of impersonation, he was a masquerader who might show any of a hundred faces — but never his own.
When he appeared in his own chosen guise, The Shadow arrived in garb of black. With cloak of inky hue, its collar upward toward the slouch hat above, The Shadow kept his own visage entirely from view.
When The Shadow swept from the cover of darkness, his blazing eyes were the only tokens of his hidden countenance. Those were the eyes that guided the gloved hands of The Shadow — hands that wielded massive automatics against men of crime.
Clyde Burke had reported to The Shadow. Clyde Burke was on his way to detective headquarters.
Clyde Burke knew of the undercover search that was being conducted for “Strangler” Hunn. These facts were productive of a single answer. The Shadow, like the police, was anxious to encounter the one-armed murderer who had returned to New York.
Inspector Timothy Klein had more than a score of detectives on the job. Directing from headquarters, Klein held Cardona in readiness. Similarly, The Shadow, in his hidden sanctum, was directing a search for Strangler Hunn. But The Shadow needed no man in readiness. He, The Shadow, was ready to fare forth when action might be required.
TEN minutes after his report to The Shadow, Clyde Burke sauntered into detective headquarters. He appeared in the doorway of Klein’s office. The inspector recognized the reporter and nodded. Then Klein made a sign to Cardona.
“Hello, Burke,” said the detective. “You’re keeping mum on this Strangler Hunn business, aren’t you?”
“Sure thing,” returned Clyde. “Not a line goes in the sheet until you give the word. Got anything new on him, Joe?”
“Nothing yet,” replied the detective. “He was spotted last night. There’s twenty-five men on the street looking for him.”
“You’ll give me a break as soon as some one locates him?”
“Positively. If I go out after him you can come along, Burke. You play the game and—”
Cardona stopped. The telephone bell was ringing. Inspector Klein picked up the instrument from the desk. His face became tense.
“Just now?… Good.” Klein was eager. “Sure he didn’t see you?… Good… Yes… Stay where you are… Outside the Melbrook Arms… Cardona will be there… Yes, a cordon…”
The telephone banged on the desk. Inspector Klein, forgetting his usual calmness, registered intense excitement.
“Farlan has spotted Strangler Hunn,” he exclaimed. “Saw him going into an apartment house — the Melbrook Arms. Here’s the address” — Klein paused to scribble on a sheet of paper — “and Hunn is still in the place. Get Markham, Joe. Get started. I’ll have the cordon form.”
Cardona swung promptly and left the office. Clyde Burke followed on the detective’s heels. Cardona was heading down the corridor to find Markham.
“I’ll hit the subway, Joe,” called Clyde. “I’ll be up there as soon as you are. O.K.?”
“O.K.,” returned the detective.