Morath and Frieth. Such proving to be
the case, I shall take measures to end
the work of your crooked combine. Let
this be a warning. Moreover, it will be
my last. Donald Powlden.
“Who is Powlden?” inquired Barth of Cardona. “Did you ever hear of him before?”
“I found some carbon copies at Lentz’s office,” replied the detective. “Copies of letters that Lentz had sent to Powlden.”
“None from Powlden to Lentz?”
“None. And Lentz’s letters were sketchy. Simply notes saying that he was busy and would arrange to see Powlden later. I’d passed them up as unimportant, until this came in.”
“You learned nothing about Powlden?”
“I learned enough, commissioner. The man is an inventor, like Lentz was. The stenographer told me that. Lentz and Powlden used to work together. They separated after a row.”
“Pertaining to an invention?”
“Yes. A synthetic gasoline that Morath patented and Frieth sold to some big oil company. Lentz claimed that it was his invention; that he perfected it. But apparently Powlden had the same claim. Anyway, it was Lentz who got the credit for it.”
“The stenographer told you all this?”
“Yeah. She remembered odd details as she went along. I found out where Powlden lives. An old house on Eighty-eighth Street. I sent Markham up there. Powlden isn’t home.”
“Did you try to enter the house?”
“Not yet, commissioner. I wanted to give you the news first. Markham’s watching there—”
A telephone began to ring in the corner of the reception room. Commissioner Barth answered it. His expression became excited.
“Yes, Markham… Yes.”
Barth’s voice was querulous. “Cardona is here… Yes, he has told me about Powlden… Ah! The man has returned? Good… Yes, keep your station until we arrive… What’s that?… Tall? Stooped? With gray overcoat?… Excellent, Markham!”
Barth hung up triumphantly. No further explanation was necessary. Both of his companions had caught his words. They knew that Donald Powlden answered the rough description of the man whom the law was seeking.
Beckoning, Barth started from the reception room, with Cardona close behind him. His gesture indicated that he wanted Cranston also. The Shadow followed at a strolling gait.
In his guise of Cranston, The Shadow allowed a faint smile to show upon his chiseled lips. This was a result that he had anticipated; a lead that would bring the law to a spot where a suspect could be found.
The Shadow held keen interest for the immediate future. He seemed to divine the circumstances of this sequel that had followed crime.
CHAPTER VII
THE EVIDENCE LINKS
“THERE’S Markham. Slow up.”
Cardona passed this word to Barth’s chauffeur. The driver of the commissioner’s car swung to the right curb of Eighty-eighth Street. Cardona alighted from the front seat; Barth and The Shadow stepped from the rear.
Markham moved out from the doorway of a house. He pointed cater-cornered across the street, indicating a dilapidated building with a crumbling brownstone front.
“That’s the house,” declared the detective sergeant. “Powlden’s in there, commissioner. I’ve got Logan out on the back street to see that he don’t do a sneak.”
“Come,” decided Barth. “We shall knock for admittance. You remain outside, Markham. Ready at our call.”
The commissioner led the way to Powlden’s house. Ascending the brownstone steps, he rang the bell. Cardona quickly clutched the commissioner’s arm and pointed to the doorsill.
“Look!” whispered the ace detective. “A cheroot! Powlden must have dropped it here, while he was unlocking the door.”
“An excellent beginning, Cardona,” decided Barth. “This cheroot resembles the others closely—”
“Except for the ashes,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “Notice them, commissioner. They sprinkled about when the cheroot struck the stone.”
“Ashes again!” snorted Barth. “What have ashes to do with it, Cranston?”
Before The Shadow could reply, Cardona whispered for silence. Someone was unbolting the heavy door from inside. The barrier opened. A long face appeared; suspicious eyes viewed the visitors.
Cardona hit the door with his shoulder, sending the man backward. With his companions following, the detective entered a hallway, growling in response to the protests of the house-owner.
“Your name Donald Powlden?” demanded Cardona.
“Yes,” replied the long-faced man. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Cardona eyed the inventor. Powlden was tall and stoop-shouldered. He was wearing old clothes: slippers, baggy trousers and frayed smoking jacket.
“I’m Detective Cardona, from headquarters,” announced Joe, stolidly. “This is Commissioner Barth, and his friend, Mr. Cranston. We want to have a chat with you, Powlden.”
The inventor blinked. His face looked pale in the daylight from a hall window. His lips, like his features, were pallid. But the man showed inquisitiveness more than fear. The grayish color of his face might well have been his natural complexion.
Turning about, Powlden led the way to a living room that seemed quite spacious for a house of narrow dimensions. He waved his visitors to chairs; then fumbled in his pocket and brought out a white cardboard box and a cigar lighter.
“THIS visit rather startles me,” explained the inventor, his tone carrying what seemed to be a natural quaver. “I have just returned home from my cabin in New Jersey. An isolated shack where I stay for continued periods when I am conducting chemical experiments.”
“You were alone out there?” inquired Cardona.
“Yes,” nodded Powlden. “I prefer seclusion, and some of my experiments are dangerous. So I become a hermit every now and then.”
The inventor was opening the box while he spoke. From it he extracted a black cheroot and placed the rough-surfaced roll between his lips. Cardona watched him light it with the cigar lighter; then the detective looked about the room.
“You didn’t clean up before you went away,” remarked Cardona. “That your usual system, Mr. Powlden?” The inventor laughed slightly. He saw Cardona looking at ash trays — three of them — that contained the stumps of smoked cheroots.
“I’m very untidy,” admitted Powlden. “I let the place get worse and worse, maybe for a month or more. Then I call in help and have it thoroughly cleaned. After that, I begin again. But tell me, gentlemen” — Powlden looked about — “just what is the purpose of this visit? Why should the law be interested in my affairs?”
“I’ll tell you why,” returned Cardona, bluntly. Barth was leaving the quiz to the acting inspector. “We’re here on account of Jeremy Lentz.”
“Indeed!” Powlden’s lips formed a scornful sneer. “Well, I should have suspected it. Jeremy Lentz was due to get into trouble, with all his shady tactics. What charge is there against him?”
“None against Lentz,” retorted Cardona. “All we’re doing is looking for the man who murdered him.”
“What! Lentz has been murdered?”
“Don’t you read the newspapers?”
“Seldom. When did the crime occur?”
“Yesterday afternoon at five o’clock.” Cardona spoke slowly as he watched Powlden’s expression. “Lentz died at five o’clock. Morath was slain at six; Frieth at seven—”
“What! Howard Morath? Newell Frieth?”
“Yeah. Don’t you read the morning newspapers, Mr. Powlden?”
“Seldom,” replied the inventor, in a rather dazed tone. “I did not read them this morning. You see, I was late arriving in town; and besides, I had forgotten my reading glasses. I had another pair here, of course, so when I reached the house—”