Cardona stared dully as Caffley paused. He realized now that force had been the means of persuasion through which friends of Lamont Cranston had endeavored to take Sycher. The crooked elevator operator had mistaken Cranston’s friends for detectives.
“Since you recognize me as a man of crime,” resumed Caffley in a tone that showed elation, “I think it best to clarify matters which must still perplex you. Apparently you are wondering who else was in the game of murder. There was no one else. Myself, Garsher and Sycher were the only ones required.”
Cardona looked at Barth. The acting commissioner showed perplexity that Joe was forced to share. A chiding laugh came from Caffley.
“Those murdered men were fools,” declared the millionaire. “Fools to think that I would spend two million dollars for an alloy that I would not need. Their logical customer was Philo Dreblin. He could have used Duro Metal in place of his present product, calthite, to compete with my ferroluminum.
“They negotiated with Dreblin as they did with me. But the main thought of Lentz, Morath and Frieth was that of two million dollars. A sum which they knew I could produce with ease; but which Dreblin could not.
“Dreblin was trying to raise it. The deadline was approaching. I decided to turn it into a death line. I had arranged my plan more than two months before. Garsher and Sycher were ready to cooperate. We waited only until Donald Powlden had left town; so that we could use him as a foil.”
Caffley paused. He looked from man to man, expecting a response. Barth gave one.
“Proceed,” said the commissioner, sourly.
Cardona felt a sinking feeling. He knew that complete revelations would lead to but one result: Death for those who listened. But it was too late to avoid that issue.
“GARSHER entered Powlden’s,” explained Caffley. “He found the duplicate keys, and thus had constant access through the front door. I went there with him and Sycher. I arranged the details of Powlden’s trail. We took the fellow’s gun and other objects — the shoes — a fingerprinted paper — cheroots — a spectacle case.”
The story was already lining up with facts that Cardona had heard tonight from the steady lips of Lamont Cranston. Cardona wished that Cranston’s theories had been stated further.
“Swift, successive murders were my plan,” resumed Caffley. “One man could have performed them; but that would have left a possible trail. So we shared the tasks among us. Three murders suggested three murderers. You see them before you.”
“How much easier it was! How much more satisfactory! To send the weapon and the clues along from man to man, relieving each from duty after he had made his kill. There was no need for flight by any one.
“Garsher began it. He carried a large stack of cigar boxes when he visited Jeremy Lentz. One box was oversize; just large enough to hold the pistol, which fitted cattycornered, and the small-sized shoes of Powlden’s. Tell us, Garsher, how you accomplished your deed of death.”
“Easy enough,” grunted the fake cigar salesman. “I knocked on the inner door; then opened it. Lentz was on his way to answer my knock. I let him have it from two feet.
“I planted that heel print in a hurry. Used a handkerchief to pull the torn paper out of my pocket and lay it at the side of Lentz. He was just about gone. Kind of rolled over on the paper when I let it drop.
“I put the butt of a cheroot in his ash tray. Then I stuck the gun back in the cigar box and wedged the shoe on top of it. Hopped out into the hall and pulled up the window at the end. Let the cigar box drop out. Right into the old roadster that Al Sycher had parked below, in the alley.
“Fingerprints didn’t worry me, except on the window. I used the handkerchief there. But I didn’t need it when I telephoned the news down to the lobby. What did it matter if my fingerprints were on the telephone? I used it, didn’t I?”
“You see,” put in Caffley, with a chuckle, “it was part of Garsher’s task to be a prompt informant. He wanted to have an alibi for the second murder. His worry period was ended when the next news came in at six o’clock. You were holding him, Cardona. The next murder — ostensibly by the same killer — cleared Garsher completely in your eyes.
“Go on with the narrative, Sycher. From where you picked it up.”
“I BEAT it in the roadster,” laughed Sycher. “I was half a mile away by the time people were talking about the murder in Lentz’s office. I went on duty at the Belgaria. I’d gotten that job, and was all set for business.”
Sycher paused. His pale face was lighting. He dropped into his accustomed habit of using the present tense. It made his next description graphic.
“I’m wise that Howard Morath always goes out to eat after six o’clock, see?” Sycher nodded at Cardona and Barth. “I come in by the fire tower along about five-thirty and plant the cheroot butt and the heel print. All I’ve got on me is the rod, ready for business. Under my coat.
“The spec case — well, I handed that to Tukel, off-hand like, as if I’d found it in the elevator. Then I’m set. It’s either Morath or old lady Ditting who rings from the eighth. Morath, likely. I go up. Yank the door open, being sure it’s him. It’s Morath, all right. He sees the rod and starts to back away, I let him have it.
“I’m taking a look to make sure he’s done for. I plugged him neat. He’s through. So I slam the elevator door and ride down to the basement. Here’s my pal waiting for me” — he indicated Caffley — “and I slips him the gun. He knows the way out through the basement. That’s the way he came in. He’s gone by the time I’m back up to the ground floor, coming out of the elevator to tell Tukel what I saw on the eighth.”
“An excellent account, Sycher,” approved Caffley. “You bore up well, in face of a complication produced by Mrs. Ditting. Her call reached the desk before you brought the car up to the lobby. That fact, however, passed unnoticed during the investigation.”
Barth was fuming wordlessly. Cardona was realizing again how this tabbed with The Shadow’s statement. The detective had gained a profound admiration for the deductive methods that he thought were Lamont Cranston’s.
“I had left Judge Channing,” declared Caffley, taking up the story for himself. “I delayed my parting until nearly six o’clock. I was just about in time to receive the death gun when Sycher passed it to me.
“So I went to the Hotel Gilderoy. There I entered the court and waited until Newell Frieth was kind enough to admit me. That surprises you, doesn’t it?” Caffley was shaking his head in enjoyment. “Well, it was just part of a plan that I had arranged with Frieth.
“He and I were keeping our negotiations secret. He knew that it would not be wise for me to enter the lobby of the Gilderoy while visiting him to talk terms. So he himself had suggested the inside stairway, and I had visited him three times by that route.
“Shortly before seven, Frieth admitted me. I had spent a few minutes placing a cheroot in the grime and pressing it there with the heel of one of Powlden’s shoes. I also scratched the lock with a pick, to make it look as though someone had worked there.
“Frieth and I went upstairs together. A canny fellow, Frieth. Wanted a look at the contract and the certified check while we were outside the lower fire exit. I let him glimpse them and he was glad to have me come upstairs.
“He entered first from the stairway. He was going through the bedroom to the living room, when I spoke in a threatening tone. He turned about; I had the loaded pistol ready and shot him through the heart.
“I DEPARTED at once by the inner stairway. But after I had closed the door — using a handkerchief on the knob, to wipe away Frieth’s imprints as well as my own — I scratched the lock of that upper door.