Without a warning, the room was plunged in darkness. Every light, not only in the Blue Room, but throughout the entire hotel, was blotted into blackness. With that unfathomable gloom, shouts and laughter seemed to die away. A black hush lay over all!
CHAPTER II. MURDER STRIKES
WHILE the Mohawks had been enjoying themselves so loudly in the Blue Room, a quiet dinner was in progress at the other side of the Olympia Hotel. Within the Red Room, some thirty men were listening to a presiding officer at the head table.
This gentleman was Richard Reardon, a prominent member of the Association of Electrical Engineers, the organization which was assembled here tonight.
On this occasion, he was introducing a young man who sat beside him. In quiet, convincing terms, Reardon was telling the assemblage that in Roland Furness, the association possessed a member whose ability would soon be widely recognized.
While Roland Furness, red-faced and uncomfortable because of Reardon’s praise, was glancing toward the tablecloth, the darkness came to the Red Room. As promptly as if someone had pulled a hidden switch, blackness replaced light. The change caught Richard Reardon in the middle of sentence.
After a momentary pause, the president resumed his discourse, in a voice that sounded strangely modulated in the midst of that impenetrable darkness.
“We shall wait,” he announced, “until the light is restored. Then we shall be ready to hear from our associate, Roland Furness.”
A sharp exclamation came from the man beside the president. Roland Furness had risen to his feet in the darkness. Something in the hushing power of the new atmosphere had evidently alarmed him.
He spoke excitedly — almost gasping — amid the thickened gloom as he turned in the direction where Richard Reardon had been sitting.
“Something is wrong,” he said, in a low, muffled tone. “Something that I never believed could happen — something that may mean serious danger to—”
Only Reardon caught the worried words. The president groped blindly and found his companion’s arm.
He could feel Furness trembling.
A sudden gleam of light was sweeping through the room. The brilliant rays of a powerful lantern were focused upon the men at the head table. The diners could see Reardon and Furness, both raising their arms in surprise as they were caught within the circle of that terrific glare.
The light was coming from the door of the room. Held by an unseen person, it was a veritable spotlight that had picked out the two principal men in this assemblage. Furness, open-mouthed, was partly in front of Reardon’s form.
The bark of a revolver sounded from the darkness. Although its flash appeared behind the light, the shot had a sound that was almost muffled. The firing was repeated — again — again — again.
Roland Furness staggered. He collapsed upon the table, his falling form clearly revealed in the circle of illumination.
A second later, Richard Reardon dropped. Two men, living but a few moments ago, were sprawled lifeless before the horrified witnesses!
The powerful glare went out. Stygian darkness was all that remained.
Not a man in the room possessed the immediate resourcefulness to cope with this unexpected situation.
Tragedy had happened before their startled eyes; tragedy that was hidden by an amazing blackout!
APPALLING gloom! The same black hush lay within the Blue Room at the other side of the hotel.
There, Joe Cardona, grim amid the darkness, still stood beside the door, expecting to hear the sound of shots before him.
But the man who expected did not hear. Those muffled reports from the other side of the hotel had not reached his ears.
Joe Cardona waited. A click sounded from his left hand. He had drawn his flashlight, and had pressed the button. The instrument, however, did not work!
Cardona growled. He could not understand this. He jockeyed grimly with the button while his right hand clutched a revolver. Seconds were ticking into minutes, still the torch was useless. The detective cursed his negligence; he hoped only that he could fight without the aid of light.
Then came unexpected relief. The Blue Room was suddenly flooded with brilliance. The lights had come on. For a moment, the detective saw a sea of whitened faces. Then a buzz started as the Mohawks resumed their interrupted noise-making.
Cardona saw Goldy Tancred. The man was serious and worried in expression; then, slowly, he showed his teeth in a sickly but glittering grin. Bowser Riggins, gaining courage from his chief, smiled feebly.
A false alarm?
That was Cardona’s momentary thought. Then, seeing that all was well here, the detective swung from the door and entered the corridor. There, as in the Blue Room, light had been restored. No person was lurking in the corridor, but Cardona’s ears caught the sound of wild, terrified shouts.
Responding, the detective dashed along the corridor to the other side of the hotel. He arrived at the open door of the Red Room. He dropped his flashlight into his coat pocket and displayed his badge as he encountered a group of frightened, struggling men, who were pushing toward the corridor.
The sight of badge and revolver stayed the near stampede. Men dropped into their chairs. They looked at Cardona for help. Pointing fingers and excited words directed the sleuth’s attention to the sight that had caused this commotion.
SLUMPED across the head table were the bodies of Richard Reardon and Roland Furness. Cardona needed no testimony to tell him what had happened. His practiced eye knew that the middle-aged association president and the young electrical engineer had been slain in cold blood!
Cardona calmly closed the door of the room and locked it. He ordered one man to telephone for assistance. He motioned all who were standing, to chairs. Grim-faced, he took command; then, after studying the persons present, he walked up beside the bodies.
It was not long before police arrived. Cardona unlocked the door to admit the officers.
The detective had done the best thing possible under the circumstances. Coming through the corridor, he had seen no one who might have figured in this double murder. He felt sure that the killer had probably escaped; nevertheless, it had been essential to hold all who were present. Cardona had done this effectively.
With policemen to do his bidding, Cardona began a quiz.
He learned immediately that the shots had been fired from the door; that the victims had been spotted by a powerful light. No one present — and most were close friends of Reardon and Furness — could suggest a motive for the killings.
Important details in the handling of this case required time. Inspector Timothy Klein arrived; more men came on the job. At last, with testimony taken and witnesses examined, Joe Cardona found himself alone in an emptied room. He went out into the corridor and walked slowly to the other side of the hotel. He looked into the Blue Room.
The Mohawk meeting was still on. Politicians, highly convivial, were still at their merrymaking. They had not heard the news of murder. Cardona saw Goldy Tancred and Bowser Riggins enjoying themselves at the head table.
THE detective went back toward the Red Room. He met Inspector Klein. His superior noted the serious expression upon Cardona’s face.
“What is it, Joe?” inquired Klein.
“There’s a meeting in the Blue Room.” responded the detective slowly. “That’s on the other side of the hotel. The Mohawk Club.”
“What about it?”
“It used to be held in the Red Room.”
“You think that has something to do with this—”
Cardona nodded.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “it probably has lot to do with it. A gang killing, inspector — one that didn’t click.”