“I dusted the lower doorknob, the inside one, when I reached the bottom. There I stowed the pistol and the shoe in a flat box that I had beneath my coat. I closed a wrapper about the box; when I left the lower exit and reached the street, I dropped the package in a large mail box. Then I went into the lobby of the Hotel Gilderoy and asked to see Mr. Frieth.”
Caffley gave a reminiscent chuckle.
“That package,” he stated, “was addressed to myself. I received it in the morning mail. I took the evidence to Powlden’s house. I arranged everything to my liking. The gun and its appliances in the locked drawer to which I retained the key; the shoes in the closet — the other details.
“That was when I typed a letter to Lentz, on Powlden’s machine. Using Powlden’s paper, too — one point which you did not trouble to check. I knew it would arrive in the noon mail and start the trail by the time Powlden was home.
“Garsher and Sycher were released, as I had foreseen they would be. I was not even taken into custody. Garsher had alibis at the times of the second and third murders; Sycher had one for the third. Those were enough.”
“And I, who probably would not have needed an alibi at all, was provided with one for the first killing and one for the second. Everything pointed to Powlden. You should have stopped with him.”
Caffley’s fists tightened. His eyes glared; his voice became hoarse, but furious.
“I saw trouble,” uttered the supercrook. “It started the night after Powlden’s arrest. Someone prowling in that house. I had Togo Mallock watching it. I had heard talk of a fool who calls himself The Shadow.
“Mallock framed a fake call and brought that fellow to Ninety-first Street. Mallock and his squad had trouble; but Mallock was killed, and he alone could talk. I was ready to hire someone in his place; but the trouble ended, somehow, until tonight.
“Garsher and Sycher were back at their occupations. They were acting normally, but they were on the lookout. Ready in case The Shadow appeared again, although I had decided that he also must have been eliminated in his fight with Togo Mallock’s band.
“Tonight, two men tried to snatch Sycher from his elevator. He escaped through the basement and came here. His description made the episode appear to be the work of bungling plain-clothes men. I called Garsher and brought him here.”
Caffley glared at Cardona, apparently believing that the struggle at the Belgaria had been the work of men posted there by the detective. Then, with an angry scowl, the supercrook concentrated on Barth.
“I called you, commissioner,” declared Caffley, “to hold you as a hostage. I needed Cardona also. Between you, perhaps you knew too much. Had you weakened at my threats, I would be able to deal with you at present. I could give you a chance to live.
“It was only by threatening to take Lawrence’s life that I persuaded you to call Cardona; even then, only when I promised to talk terms if you managed to bring Cardona here. I even intimated that I might give myself up to justice.”
CAFFLEY paused with a sour laugh, in which Garsher and Sycher joined. The three were alike in fiendishness. Murderers all, who cared nothing about further death.
Barth stared steadily at Caffley.
“Hold me as hostage,” suggested the commissioner, in a persuasive tone. “Deal death to me if necessary. But spare my chauffeur and Cardona.”
Jeering laughs from Sycher and Garsher. Barth blinked angrily. Caffley’s face straightened and took on its mild droop. He motioned downward with his right hand. His companions lowered their guns. Caffley glanced toward Cardona.
“Right behind you,” stated Caffley, “are the curtains to the rear room that opens from this one. I have a third servant posted there; he is covering you at present, so a break on your part will mean death.”
With this admonition, Caffley made a slight upward motion with his left hand, a signal to the hidden henchman to be ready. Going to the table, Caffley produced pen, paper and ink which he placed before Wainwright Barth.
“Write a letter. commissioner,” said Caffley, in a tone that carried a kindly note. “State that you have found it necessary to be absent from New York. I shall keep the letter; then I can release Cardona and Lawrence.
“If they preserve silence, all will be well. I shall have the letter to protect myself. I do not care what happens to Powlden. If Cardona can ease him from the picture, well and good.”
Barth nodded. Cardona clenched his fists. He did not want to compromise with these crooks. But he saw safety for Barth and Lawrence; it seemed the only course.
Barth wrote the letter. He handed it to Caffley, who blew upon the ink to dry it; then read the message and nodded.
“You have complied exactly, commissioner,” declared the murderer. “It must have cost you an effort to do so. I believe you would actually be willing to go through with any proposal that would save Cardona and Lawrence.
“But your efforts are wasted” — Caffley’s face tightened in evil leer; his voice became a sneer — “because I do not choose to keep the terms I just suggested! I wanted you to show yourself for a fool; to come down from your haughty perch and grovel before me!”
“This letter pleases me.” Caffley delivered an insidious chuckle. “I shall remember it and relish it. As for the letter itself, I do not need it.”
VICIOUSLY, Caffley ripped the letter into shreds. While Barth glared indignantly, the murderer threw the torn pieces on the floor and ground them with his heel, deep into a tufted rug.
He swung about and raised his right hand as a signal to Garsher and Sycher. The gesture called for revolver shots, to riddle Barth and Cardona before the doomed prisoners could rise.
A sharp exclamation came from the commissioner’s lips. Cardona stared in amazed silence. Both saw what Caffley saw as he turned.
George Garsher and Al Sycher were standing frozen, staring past Caffley and the seated men, looking toward that curtain at the rear of the room. Neither of the armed men had raised a revolver at Caffley’s beck.
A weird laugh came in sinister whisper. Fierce in its low-toned mockery, it filled that room where men were doomed. No ear could have picked the exact source of that strange mirth; but Caffley knew whence it came. He could tell by the direction in which his fellow murderers were staring.
Caffley wheeled toward the curtain at the rear. Those hangings had parted. At the foot of the draperies lay the unconscious, half-choked figure of a thug-faced servant; Caffley’s hidden henchman.
Above the prone body stood a being clad in black. Blazing eyes burned from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. A cloak collar, upturned, hid all other features of the grim visitor.
From gloved fists projected the muzzles of huge automatics. These were the threats that had forced Caffley’s murder pals into rigidity. One gun was trained on George Garsher; the other on Albert Sycher.
A snarling gasp from Hiram Caffley. Too well the supercriminal recognized the identity of this powerful avenger. The supermind of murder was confronted by The Shadow!
CHAPTER XX
THE FINAL EVIDENCE
CREEPING echoes clung to the book-lined walls of Caffley’s library. Final testimony of The Shadow’s taunt, those eerie reverberations died. An unreal hush lay over all. It was broken only by the faint swish that followed, as The Shadow stepped forward into the room.
Folds of the black cloak spread momentarily to reveal a dark crimson lining beneath the sable-hued surface. Step by step, his advance a steady glide, The Shadow approached the table beside Wainwright Barth.
His lips quivering in voiceless utterance, the commissioner caught his pince-nez spectacles as they were about to drop from his nose. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Barth wiped the lenses in mechanical fashion, not knowing what action he was performing.