A DREARY-FACED man was seated in the smoking room of the Tarpon Club on Forty-sixth Street. Chewing at the end of a half-smoked cigar, he was reading the latest reports in the final newspapers. The subject that interested him was the death of Hugo Verbeck.
In a parallel column, this solemn man had spied the name of Lester Dorrington, mentioned in connection with the death of Torrence Dilgin. The newspaper stated that Dorrington was still withholding statements regarding the millionaire whose estate he was handling.
The dreary man came to life. He cast the newspaper aside. He walked out into the small lobby of the club and entered a telephone booth. There was a purpose in his action; in a sense, it resembled the futile phone call that Hugo Verbeck had tried to make.
The dreary man, however, did not put in a call for Lester Dorrington. Instead, he called detective headquarters. When a gruff voice responded, the caller spoke in a worried tone:
“Hello… This is Clark Durton speaking… Clark Durton, attorney… I am calling from the Tarpon Club, on Forty-sixth Street…
“No, no. There’s no trouble here… I want to speak to one of your inspectors… Not just any one — a particular man — an acting inspector…”
Durton paused to recall a name that he had read of in connection with the death of Hugo Verbeck. Before he could speak again, the gruff voice suggested Joe Cardona.
“That’s the man,” responded Durton. “Cardona… Yes… Is he there?”
Again an expectant pause. Then, in a disappointed tone, Durton resumed:
“I see… You expect him in shortly… No, don’t have him call me… I’m coming down to headquarters. I’ll see him in person.”
Durton hung up the receiver. He went through the lobby, gained a gray overcoat and hat of the same color and continued to the street. He stood on the gloomy sidewalk and looked for a passing cab.
There was something conspicuous about Clark Durton. He was holding a cane that he had obtained with his hat and coat. He was swinging the walking stick with his right hand, tapping it against his left palm. This was a habitual action of Durton’s.
A low-slung touring car was parked across the street, a trifle to the west. As Durton stared in hope of hailing a cab, the touring car moved forward. As the driver shifted into high, he swerved directly toward the curb where Durton was standing.
THE lawyer leaped back; fearing that the automobile was about to mount the curb. Against the stone front of the Tarpon Club, his gray-clad figure stood like a living target. An order hissed within the touring car.
Then came the rattle of a machine gun. Bullets spattered the wall; other slugs raked Durton’s standing form. The lawyer collapsed without a murmur. His cane clattered across the sidewalk and rolled toward the spot where the touring car had been.
But the automobile had not lingered. Gathering speed, it was whirling down the street, making for the green light that showed by the nearest avenue. The speeding car had passed the crossing before shouts arose in Forty-sixth Street as bystanders sped to the spot where Clark Durton lay.
Kelwood Markin had spoken true. He had told of approaching death. He had expressed the fear that other men held keys to empty safe deposit boxes. He had warned that a wholesale slaughter was impending.
Clark Durton, attorney-at-law, had gone the same voyage as another member of his profession: Hugo Verbeck. The owlish old lawyer had been riddled by bullets from a killer’s gun; this dreary-faced victim had taken a dozen slugs from the muzzle of a machine gun.
Swift death had struck. It had come from gangster minions of the insidious plotter who had chosen murder as his course. The perpetrator of gigantic swindles was wiping out all lawyers who might remain to end their testimony in the exposure of his evil scheme for wealth!
CHAPTER XI
THE CONFERENCE
THE next afternoon had ended. Acting Inspector Joe Cardona was at his desk in headquarters. A frown on his swarthy face, the star sleuth was reading new accounts of death. The murder of Clark Durton outside the Tarpon Club had been welcome fodder for the presses.
“Guy outside to see you, inspector.” The announcement came from a detective who had opened Cardona’s door. “It’s that fellow Burke — the newshound from the Classic.”
“Hello, Joe.” Clyde Burke, shouldering his way past the detective at the door, was prompt with a wave of greeting. “What’s the idea of keeping us out? Getting snooty on this inspector’s job?”
There was banter in Clyde’s tone. Cardona smiled sourly and waved the detective from the door.
“It’s all right,” ordered Joe. “I said keep the reporters out. That doesn’t include this bird. He’s no reporter.”
“You’re right, Joe,” laughed Clyde, as the door closed. “I’ve graduated. I’m a journalist!”
“You’re a pest!” growled Cardona. “Listen, Burke. There’s no use of coming in here until I send for you. I’ve given you breaks before; I’m not going to let you down. But you hit it when you spoke about this inspector’s job. There’s no time to chew the rag here at headquarters. I’ve got two dozen men out on the street. There’s no telling what may turn up—”
Cardona broke off as the telephone rang beside him. Lifting the receiver, the sleuth growled a hello. Then his tone changed.
“Yes, commissioner…” Cardona’s voice was easing. “I understand… Yes, I can drop up there again… In an hour? Very…”
“I guess Weston’s worried,” remarked Clyde as Cardona hung up the receiver. “How’s he acting, Joe? Tough?”
“Yeah,” returned Cardona. “That’s his way. I saw him last night. Nothing important. Just put me on the fire because I hadn’t grabbed the gorilla that bumped off Verbeck. Suppose I’ll get the same dose on this Durton case.”
“Got the dragnet working?”
“On its way. But the birds we’re after are pretty foxy. We’re not grabbing a lot of small-time crooks wholesale just yet. They haven’t had time to wise up to who’s done the jobs. Scram now, Burke — I’ve got to check up on a batch of reports before I leave.”
Clyde strolled from the office. He reached the street. Arriving at a cigar store he entered and put in a call to Burbank. Definitely, Clyde assured the contact man that Joe Cardona was making a trip uptown, evidently to the same destination that he had chosen on the previous night.
IN his secluded switchboard room, Burbank sat patiently after receiving Clyde Burke’s call. Tonight, the contact man had no instructions for Harry Vincent. Apparently, Burbank was not planning to put a trailer on the job. Ten minutes passed. A light glowed on the switchboard. Burbank plugged in and gave his statement:
“Burbank speaking.”
A quiet voice responded. It was a tone that Burbank recognized at once.
It was the assumed voice of Lamont Cranston.
The Shadow had arrived from Barbados. Burbank had expected this call. He had checked with a call to the Newark airport. He had learned that the plane from the south was due on time tonight.
Burbank’s response was brief. The contact man knew that time was pressing. He told The Shadow the location of Kelwood Markin’s house in the Nineties. He stated that Joe Cardona would be there within the hour. When his report was ended Burbank gathered papers and thrust them in an envelope. Rising, he extinguished the light above his head, donned hat and coat and departed from the darkened room. He was on his way to Twenty-third Street to drop accumulated data through the mail slit in the office that bore the name B. Jonas.