FIFTEEN minutes later, the commissioner’s car stopped in front of the Cobalt Club. The Shadow had remembered an appointment. As he stepped to the curb, he spoke to the doorman, who beckoned to a waiting limousine — Lamont Cranston’s car. The limousine pulled up.
“Well, Cranston,” stated Barth, in parting, “those black ashes did not mean so much, after all. Perhaps you have some new item that you deem worthy of our consideration.”
“The gray overcoat might be one,” remarked The Shadow. “It was rather dark, commissioner.”
Barth stroked his chin. He recalled that Shaw, the Gilderoy clerk, had described the overcoat as light. Then the commissioner shook his head.
“I must admit that you have scored a point,” declared Barth, imperiously. “But it is a minor detail, Cranston. After all, shades are not distinguishable in varied lights.
“Lentz’s stenographer might not have noticed a dark gray in the gloom outside his office.”
“Perhaps not. Yet she saw the man open Lentz’s door. The light from the anteroom would have answered.”
“There you go again, Cranston. In the face of real evidence, you chatter about something trivial.
“Incidentally, why did you not spring to Cardona’s aid while he struggled with Powlden? You stood there like a buffoon and did not intervene until the last possible moment. That was bad business, Cranston.”
“Just a slight whim, commissioner. I wanted to see Powlden pick up the clock.”
“So he could have an opportunity to strike Cardona with it? Preposterous, Cranston!”
“Powlden failed when he swung the clock,” reminded The Shadow, in a calm tone. “It happened, however, that it gave him his first real opportunity to prepare for a deliberate stroke. That was what I wanted to see; the manner in which he acted.”
“What do you mean by the manner?”
“Whether he chose to use his right hand or his left. He chose his right, commissioner.”
Barth rubbed the bridge of his nose, fidgeting for his pince-nez. Realizing again that his spectacles had been broken, he blinked his eyes and spoke in an irritable tone.
“We have the man we sought,” affirmed Barth. “The man who was at Lentz’s office; at Morath’s apartment; in Frieth’s suite. That much is settled, Cranston.”
“And yet” — The Shadow’s calm tone was dry — “Powlden raised the clock with his right hand. Too bad, commissioner, that he did not use his left. If he had, I might be inclined to share your opinions.”
With that, The Shadow turned and stepped into the limousine, leaving Barth blinking on the curb. Cranston’s chiseled countenance was hazy to the commissioner, who was staring without his glasses. But Barth saw the door close and watched the limousine drive away.
Then, to the commissioner’s ears came the faint ripple of a whispered mirth. It was curious, that quickly fading tone of mockery. Barth shrugged his shoulders and attributed the sound to his imagination.
“Bah!” commented the commissioner, speaking aloud as he turned to enter the Cobalt Club. “Cranston seeks to spoof me with his folderol. What does it matter whether Powlden is right handed or left handed? Balderdash!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE POST MORTEM
AT seven o’clock that evening, Philo Dreblin was seated behind his massive desk, finishing dictation to Hastings. Leaning back, the calthite manufacturer watched his secretary arise. Hastings spoke, almost apologetically.
“Do you wish me to bring in the letters after I have typed them?” he asked. “Or shall I leave them, sir, for your new secretary?”
“Neither,” returned Dreblin, dryly. “Give them to Alfred and have him bring them into me. Then you can leave. Good-by, Hastings. Good luck on the new job.”
Dreblin arose to extend his hand. Hastings accepted the clasp and made his departure.
As soon as the secretary was gone, Dreblin went to the bookcase and pressed the signal for Nethro. The special investigator arrived a few moments after Dreblin had returned to his desk.
“Well, Nethro,” began Dreblin, gruffly, “why were you not here last night?”
“I had nothing to report,” returned Nethro. “There was work to do at the Acme Agency, so I remained there.”
“But you decided to favor me with a visit tonight,” rumbled Dreblin. “Thoughtful of you, Nethro. Well, it’s good you came around, after all this” — the calthite magnate nudged a stack of newspapers on his desk — “for I was just about ready to notify the police of your absence.”
“The police?” echoed Nethro.
“Certainly,” replied Dreblin. “I was astounded this morning, Nethro, when I read of the deaths of those three men. Lentz — Morath — Frieth — all of them dead. Murdered!”
“So you connected me with the killings?”
“Certainly. When I did not hear from you, I supposed that you had turned to crime in order to gain the two hundred thousand dollars that I offered you.”
“And yet you waited before telling the police about me. Waited one whole day. How do you explain that, Mr. Dreblin?”
Sarcasm governed Nethro’s tone. Dreblin met it with a fierce glare of challenge. Then the heavy-browed magnate calmed. He spoke in a steady tone.
“I waited until afternoon,” declared Dreblin. “Then I chanced to read of the arrest of Donald Powlden. The police, apparently, consider him to be the murderer. On that account, I waited to see if you came here this evening.”
“And if I had not come?” queried Nethro.
“I would have told the police that I thought they had the wrong man,” responded Dreblin. “That the evidence against Powlden could well have been planted.”
“Since I am here, what do you intend to do?”
“I want a full accounting of your actions.”
Nethro smiled. He tossed his light gray coat upon a chair and placed his hat upon it. With his left hand, he helped himself to one of Dreblin’s cigarettes and lighted it. Puffing, he sat down and met the magnate’s glower.
“JUST before five o’clock, yesterday afternoon,” stated Nethro, “I called on Jeremy Lentz at his office. I told him my business; that I represented a syndicate that was in the market for Duro Metal.”
“Did Lentz listen?”
“Yes. I smoked a cigarette with him while we chatted. He told me that he had no control over the sale of Duro Metal. He advised me to see Morath and Frieth.”
“So you went to see Morath?”
“Yes. At about quarter of six. Banged at the door of his apartment and when he opened it, I began the same stall that I had used with Lentz. but it didn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Morath said the Duro Metal was not for sale to any syndicate. I asked for details. He wouldn’t give them. He slammed the door in my face.”
“What did you do then?”
“Rang for the elevator. It didn’t come up. So I walked down the eight flights of stairs and found nobody in the lobby. I went out.”
“At what time was this? Quarter of six, you say?”
“It may have been a little earlier than that. Say five-thirty. I’m not quite sure.”
“And then?”
“I had a bite to eat. After that, I went to the Hotel Gilderoy, where Frieth lived. The clerk told me he was out. I sat around and waited in the lobby. Smoked a cigarette; then I decided there was no use sticking there. I left the lobby of the Gilderoy along about twenty-five of seven. I went up to the Acme Agency.”
“Hm-m-m. You ran pretty close to the time of the murders, didn’t you? You’d find it pretty difficult to produce an alibi, wouldn’t you?”
“Not at all. The Acme Agency is only half a block from the Gilderoy. They saw me come in there—”
“At what time?”
Dreblin’s interruption was a sharp one. The glare from beneath the heavy brows was almost ferocious. Nethro rubbed his chin and considered.