One hand alone! The mate to that fierce talon was missing. One-handed, Strangler Hunn was ready to attempt murder. Crane knew it. With a quick jolt backward toward the wall, the special investigator thrust his right hand to his pocket to snatch forth a revolver.
That was the instant which Strangler Hunn chose for his lunge. The murderer’s left arm came up with a vicious sweep. With wide spreading fingers, Hunn made a quick grip for Crane’s throat. His hand reached its mark.
Crane writhed as the talon clutched his neck. His left hand rose; he dug his fingernails into Strangler’s massive wrist. Out came Crane’s right, with a stub-nose revolver. The action was too late.
Clutching the investigator’s throat as one might snatch a helpless puppy, Strangler used his single arm to yank the investigator toward him. Then, with a piston-like jerk, he slammed Crane back against the wall.
The powerful blow found full force against the back of the investigator’s head. Crane’s arms dropped as Strangler yanked him forward and propelled him on a second journey.
This time, the investigator’s head bashed the wall with even greater force. Stunned, Crane began to slump. Strangler Hunn still held him upright. All the while, those vicious claws did not once relax their pressure.
A long minute passed, while inarticulate gurgles came from the stunned man’s throat. The noise ceased.
Only then did Strangler relax his grasp. Crane’s body crumpled behind the desk. The light, showed livid welts upon his throat.
Strangler Hunn, his face a study in ferocity, stood in admiration of his handiwork. MacAvoy Crane was dead, another victim of the murderer’s terrible strength.
With a snarling laugh, Strangler picked up the papers that Crane had brought to the apartment. The killer looked at each one, then tossed the packet into a metal wastebasket that lay beside the desk. Only one paper remained upon the desk; that was the one which Crane had signed — the report.
THE killer pulled a match from his pocket. He struck it on the mahogany desk top. He set fire to the papers in the wastebasket.
Augmented by a crumpled newspaper that lay beneath, the flames rose rapidly. Strangler shoved the basket away from the desk. He looked at the report sheet.
Running his forefinger along the typewritten lines, the killer stopped at a certain point. His bloated lips formed a triumphant smile. Tearing a sheet of paper from a small pad on the desk, Strangler took Crane’s fountain pen and began to make an inscription.
It was evident that the killer could not write well with his left hand. Instead of script, he printed letters in crude and clumsy fashion. The small sheet of paper slipped occasionally as he formed the words; Strangler managed to hold it by pressure of his hand.
This job complete, Strangler dropped the fountain pen and uttered a contemptuous laugh. He tossed Crane’s report sheet into the wastebasket, where the paper was still burning briskly.
Then, with vicious action, Strangler kicked Crane’s dead body to one side. The murderer began to yank open desk drawers. In one he found a stack of papers that he tossed into the wastebasket without examination. In another, he found several dollars in bills. Strangler pocketed the money.
The room formed a strange tableau. The flames from the wastebasket threw a lurid glow upon the huge, ill-faced murderer who stood before the desk. Reflected light from the wall showed the pale face of MacAvoy Crane, murdered investigator.
All the while, the piece of paper on which Strangler had penned his printed words lay in plain view near the side of the desk. The murderer had not forgotten it. His evil eyes fell upon it; his big hand reached to pluck it from the desk.
Word had reached headquarters too late to save the life of MacAvoy Crane. Strangler Hunn had performed his deed of murder. But while the fiend still gloated, avengers were on their way to find him at this spot.
Before he left this apartment where he had delivered death; before he could make use of the information which he had copied upon a sheet of paper, Strangler Hunn would have other persons to encounter.
Joe Cardona — stalwart detectives — a cordon of police. These were the foemen who would arrive to trap the slayer. But more formidable than all was the hidden warrior who had also set forth to deal with Strangler Hunn.
The Shadow, he who feared no living man, would play his part in the strife that was to come!
CHAPTER III. DEATH TO THE KILLER
“LOOK there, Joe!”
The speaker was Farlan, the detective who stood by the parking space across the street from the Melbrook Arms. Farlan was pointing upward to the third floor of the apartment house.
Cardona nodded. The police car had driven into the parking space; Joe had alighted; he had found Farlan promptly. Now he was staring at the window which Farlan had indicated. The flickering light of flames was reflected from the inner wall.
“Maybe that’s where he is—”
“You stay here.” Cardona interrupted Farlan. “I’m going in with Markham. The cordon is forming; send in a crew of men as soon as they close in. I’m going up to get Strangler.”
With this, Cardona headed across the street, Markham at his heels. Farlan, stepping forward, wigwagged to a pair of bluecoats at the corner. As the officers approached, a young man swung up and headed toward the door of the Melbrook Arms.
“Hold it,” growled Farlan. “Where are you going?”
“I’m Burke of the Classic,” replied the arrival. “Cardona told me I could tag along. I’m going in.”
“Stick here.” Farlan drew Burke back toward the parking lot. “See that window? That’s where Cardona’s gone. We think Strangler Hunn is in the apartment. You might get plugged if you went up there.”
Clyde Burke shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing to do but wait. Like Farlan, he stared up toward the flickering light that showed in the third story window. The policemen were at the entrance to the apartment house. Two detectives had arrived; Farlan now was pointing them into the building.
A trim coupe purred into the parking lot. Keen eyes spied Clyde Burke. They also noted the spot toward which the reporter was gazing. A soft whisper — almost inaudible — sounded from within the car.
The Shadow had encountered a longer journey than had Joe Cardona. He had arrived in time to avoid any trouble with the police cordon; but too late to precede Cardona into the apartment house. His quick brain summed the whole situation in a moment.
Policemen were closing into the parking lot. They did not see the figure that was emerging from the coupe. They did not glimpse the black-cloaked form that moved among the darkened cars toward the wall at the inner side of the lot. Nor did they see The Shadow as he merged with the darkness behind the tall tiers of signboards.
The Shadow was moving upward. He knew that police would be at the rear of the apartment house. He knew that Cardona must now be at the third floor. His one opportunity to gain even a partial glimpse into that spotted room lay in taking a vantage post from across the parking lot.
UP in the apartment, Strangler Hunn had completed his brief process of rifling MacAvoy Crane’s desk.
The killer paid no attention to the burning papers in the wastebasket. He thought that the flame was too far away from the window to be visible from outside. This assumption was partially correct. Farlan would not have noticed the reflection of the flames had he not been watching the apartment house.
Strangler, himself, was in the alcove where Crane’s desk was located. The killer was completely out of range of the window. He was picking up the paper that he had worded. He was folding it clumsily with his single hand; making ready to thrust it in his pocket, when a thump at the door brought him to a standstill.