“Just a moment,” interposed Cardona. “When did you send this letter to Lentz?”
POWLDEN stared at the letter which Cardona suddenly produced. Reaching into a pocket, the inventor brought out a pair of tortoise-shell glasses and donned them. He removed his cheroot from between his lips and used his right hand to set it carefully on an ash tray. Then he reached for the letter. Cardona gave it to him.
“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Powlden, when he had finished reading the letter. “I never sent this message to Lentz. It does not bear my signature.”
“No,” admitted Cardona, “but it was tapped off on a mighty bum typewriter. One with the letter ‘H’ hitting below the line. Here, give me the letter. I want to try something.”
Cardona had spotted an old typewriter in the corner. A stack of white paper lay beside the machine. Taking the letter, Cardona went to the typewriter, inserted a blank sheet and hit off a few lines.
“Take a look, commissioner,” suggested the ace detective, returning. “Matches up, doesn’t it?”
Barth’s eyes gleamed. His head nodded in approval. A hunted expression showed in Powlden’s eyes. The Shadow watched the inventor closely. He saw Powlden pick up his cheroot and begin a nervous puffing. Cardona came over.
“Powlden,” declared the detective, coldly, “I’m going to arrest you for the murder of Jeremy Lentz.”
Powlden’s lips twitched. The inventor shifted toward the door. Cardona brought out a pair of handcuffs. The glitter of the bracelets brought a wild scream from Powlden.
“No, no! You can’t arrest me!” Powlden struggled away from Cardona’s grasp. His cheroot hit the carpet and sprayed ashes from its tip. “I’ve done nothing! I’m innocent!”
Barth intervened as Cardona lost his grip. For reward, the commissioner received a swift punch from Powlden’s left fist; one that sent Barth backward to the floor. The commissioner’s pince-nez spectacles broke as they clicked against a chair.
Cardona leaped upon Powlden. The Shadow stood by, watching, as detective and inventor staggered about the room.
“Do something, Cranston!” blurted Barth. “Aid Cardona! At once! I order you to do so!”
The commissioner was pawing about for his pince-nez. Finding the glasses broken, he sat helpless, blinking as he watched the fray, indignant because of The Shadow’s indifference.
The Shadow was watching Powlden’s left hand, the one that had delivered the chance punch to fell the commissioner. With steady gaze, he was waiting to see what kind of a move the inventor would make should he wrest himself fully free.
The moment arrived. With a twist, Powlden hurled Cardona away. The inventor swung about to a table where a small but bulky clock was standing. He had plenty of opportunity to seize the object! The Shadow watched him grip it with his right hand.
Cardona was up on his feet. Powlden wheeled; with all the force of his right arm, he started to drive the clock for the detective’s skull.
As Barth cried alarm, The Shadow acted. Springing toward Powlden, The Shadow shot his own right with the precision of a trip hammer.
His fist caught the inventor’s upraised wrist and stopped its downward swing. The clock catapulted from Powlden’s grasp, skimmed above Cardona’s head and crashed against the wall beyond.
Powlden turned to fight his new antagonist. The Shadow’s forearm twisted with a prompt jujutsu motion. Powlden sprawled flat on the floor.
Cardona, charging in like a bull, landed on the inventor and handcuffed him. Hoisting the panting man upward, he thrust him in a chair. There, Powlden subsided. His fury gone, his gaze was pitiful.
“RESISTING arrest, eh?” quizzed Cardona. “Well, that settles this business. How about it, commissioner? All right for me to look around?”
“Proceed,” ordered Barth.
Cardona went to the door of a closet and yanked it open. It was a lucky guess for a start. Noticing some boxes piled on a shelf, the detective pushed them aside and spied the tips of a pair of shoes. He brought the objects down; then chuckled.
“Look at these heels, commissioner,” said Joe. “Rubber ones. Apex brand. Look like the right size, too. I’ll bet they’ll fit when we compare them with the marks we’ve got.”
“Those are old shoes that I meant to give away,” blurted Powlden from his chair. “What have they to do with this matter?”
“Plenty,” vouchsafed Cardona. He returned to the closet and rummaged about on the shelf. “Well, there’s nothing else here. Let’s look some other place.”
Cardona turned to an old-fashioned secretary desk. It was closed; a single drawer showed beneath it. Cardona tried the drawer and found it locked.
“Where’s the key?” barked the detective.
“In the desk,” replied Powlden, sullenly. “On a key ring, with my duplicate house key.”
Cardona opened the secretary but found no key ring. He looked sharply at Powlden; then fished about in little pigeon holes. Joe glanced at a paper that he discovered. He passed it to Barth.
“Bill from those optometrists,” announced Joe, laconically. “Dunbar and Dobbs. Their names were on the case that Al Sycher found in the elevator at the Belgaria.”
While Barth was examining the bill, Cardona made another discovery. He brought out a set of picks from the back of a pigeon hole and passed this new evidence to the commissioner.
“Are these yours?” quizzed Barth, glaring at Powlden.
“The bill was sent to me,” admitted the inventor. “But I never saw those instruments before.”
“No keys here,” asserted Cardona. “Bluffing us, are you, Powlden? Don’t want us to open this drawer? Well, here it goes.”
With a yank, the detective ripped the drawer open.
An instant later, Cardona delivered a triumphant exclamation. He pointed; Barth and The Shadow stepped forward. In the drawer they saw an antiquated, large-barreled pistol.
The weapon was of the muzzle-loading type. With it lay a blackened ramrod, a box of small percussion caps, five leaden bullets and scraps of tissue paper that could have served as wadding.
“How about this gun?” demanded Cardona. “I suppose you never saw it either, Powlden?”
“The old pistol is mine,” replied the inventor. “It is an antique that I have had for years.”
“A permit for it — do you have one?”
“No. I owned that gun long before permits were necessary. I regarded it as a curio; not as a weapon.”
“So you kept caps, powder, bullets — everything needed to use it.”
“Only the gun and the ramrod. No bullets—”
“They’re here, though.”
Powlden made no comment. He looked a trifle bewildered. Cardona began to list the evidence. That task completed, he turned to Barth.
“We can quiz Powlden further at headquarters, commissioner,” declared Cardona. “We’ve got the goods on him. Cheroots, heels, spectacle case, gun, slugs—”
“The fingerprints?” inquired Barth.
“We’ll check them at headquarters,” returned Joe. “They’ll match up, just like that typewriting did. How about the news hounds. Can I give them the story now? They’ll be around.”
“That will be all right,” agreed Barth. “After you have checked on the fingerprints. Cardona, you have my congratulations on your efficient work. Just one other detail; there in the closet.”
“What’s that, commissioner?”
“The gray overcoat.”
“That’s right!” Cardona produced a dark gray overcoat from the closet. He laid it on a chair beside the secretary. Barth turned and nodded to The Shadow.
“Let us return to the club, Cranston,” suggested the commissioner. “We can send Detective Markham in when we go out. The case is in your hands, Cardona.”