In his hand, Professor Devine was holding another object that he brought from his bag. It was a cardboard mailing tube, a coil of fish line wrapped about it. The professor thrust this cylinder beneath the radiator. He gripped the cable that was around the radiator pipe, wrenched it free, and attached the end of the fish line. He slapped the end of the cable as a signal.
Some one was pounding at the door of the suite. Unperturbed, the professor watched the cable start outward from the window. Chuckling in satisfaction, he turned and hobbled to answer the door.
Crime had been completed. Fullis Garwald had escaped. The last evidence was making its automatic departure. Professor Langwood Devine, member of Crime Incorporated, had no qualms to annoy him.
CHAPTER XI
THE SHADOW’S FINDING
As Professor Devine neared the outer door, he clicked on the light switch. He fumbled with the door knob; then turned it. Standing with book in one hand, he stood gaping in bewildered fashion as the door swung inward. He was face to face with a swarthy, stocky-built man.
“What — what’s the trouble?” stammered the professor. “Has — has any trouble happened?”
“Yes.” The reply came in a growl. “There’s been a murder in this hotel. Did any one come through here?”
“I–I don’t think so,” protested the professor. “I was dozing over my book, there in the bedroom. I am sure that this door was locked.”
“I’m Detective Cardona from headquarters,” informed the stocky man. “I just arrived here. I’m in charge. We’re searching this entire floor. Come on, men.
Professor Devine hobbled toward his bedroom. Cardona was forced to smile at the bewilderment of the bushy-haired old man. Two policemen followed the ace detective to search the suite.
While Cardona was staring about him, he failed to see a motion beneath the radiator. There, the mailing tube was completing its final revolution. Across the sill of the opened window, a streak of green fish line was marking its final course. Cardona missed that sight also. When the detective strode in the direction of the window, the cord was gone.
Leaning from the window, the sleuth flicked the rays of a flashlight along a narrow cornice. Satisfied that no one could be clinging to the wall, he turned and entered the professor’s bedroom. The old man was pulling on trousers and coat.
“You’d better put on slippers, too,” urged Cardona. “We’re sending every one down a floor, while we complete this search. We’re up against a murderer. It’s not safe here.”
The professor nodded. He donned his slippers and hobbled into the living room. Cardona ordered a bluecoat to accompany him. Reaching the hall, the professor joined a group of other guests who had been aroused on the twenty-fourth floor.
FIFTEEN minutes later, Joe Cardona was standing glumly in the corridor, when an elevator door clanged open and a wiry young man stepped from the car. The arrival grinned as Cardona stared in his direction. The newcomer was Clyde Burke.
“Say!” Cardona’s tone was indignant. “How did you pull in here? I told them downstairs that reporters weren’t to get by until I gave the word.”
Burke drew back his coat. On his vest was a glittering detective badge. The reporter grinned as he watched Cardona’s expression.
“I picked it up in a hock shop, Joe,” laughed Clyde. “It fooled those dumb clucks downstairs. I told them I was coming up here to join you.”
“You’ve got plenty of nerve,” growled Cardona. “You’d better stow that medal, before I put some bracelets on you. If you like tinware, I’ll let you have it.”
“Forget the handcuffs, Joe,” suggested Clyde, plucking the phony badge from his vest. “You’ve got plenty to do without pinching me for impersonating an officer. I’m in — that’s all I wanted — and I won’t make any trouble.”
“All right,” decided Cardona.
Clyde Burke proceeded to make himself inconspicuous while Cardona gave new orders to a squad of detectives who were still engaged in concentrated search of the twenty-fourth floor. When the ace turned to go up the stairs to the penthouse, he motioned Clyde to follow.
At the top of the stairs, they found Inspector Timothy Klein. The red-faced official was talking with the house dick, whose grazed arm was bandaged. Two elevator operators and a policeman were also in evidence. Clyde Burke recognized that the four must have played some part in the murderous affray. He listened while Klein spoke with Cardona.
“I’ve been checking on these statements, Joe,” announced the inspector. “The house detective says that the murderer was a gloomy faced fellow.”
“Looked like an undertaker” informed the house dick.
“I seen him,” added one of the operators. “He was a solemn looking bloke, if you ask me.”
“They are positive,” resumed Klein, “that he could not have gone below the twenty-fourth floor. The house detective covered the stairway. The officer was in the elevator. The killer must be somewhere hereabout.”
“But where?” demanded Joe. “I’ve got men on the roof — others in here — still more on the twenty-fourth. I’ve even had a report from the street, to make sure the guy didn’t jump to his death.”
“How about the guests on the twenty-fourth?”
“They’re down on the twenty-third floor, under guard. The manager is there to identify them.”
“We’ll go down there,” asserted Klein, “as soon as I post men to stay on watch.”
CLYDE BURKE was a member of the group that descended to the twenty-third floor. In a spacious suite, he saw the guests who had been driven from their rooms. There were not more than half a dozen. The hotel manager was with them. He arose protestingly as Klein and Cardona entered.
“Gentlemen,” he announced to the officials, “I can vouch for every one of these guests. It is preposterous to suppose that any could be the culprit for whom you are searching.”
Cardona nodded as he eyed the group. Most of the guests were half clad. They had been aroused by the excitement. None of them answered the descriptions given by those who had seen Garwald.
The ace, however, insisted upon the formality of an identification. He questioned the two operators and the house detective, as well as the policeman. All four were positive that none of these guests could have been the fully-clad murderer who had loosed shots during his mad flight.
The test was convincing. Cardona, himself, saw that these people must be innocent. Of all the half dozen, Professor Langwood Devine impressed him as being the one who was least suspicious. The hobbling old man, with his bushy white hair, could not possibly have been the active murderer in the penthouse. The other guests seemed nearly as innocuous as Devine.
“Here’s what I suggest, inspector,” decided Cardona. “No elevators are running to the twenty-fourth floor. The stairway is blocked. Let these people go to other rooms, below. In the morning, we can have their belongings brought down to them. In the meantime, we’ll make another search. We’ll go through every spot on the two floors above; and we’ll do it so clean that even a rat won’t escape us.”
The inspector nodded his agreement. Cardona strolled from the room with Clyde Burke in his wake. Growling, the detective swung and faced the reporter.
“Listen, you with the tin medal,” asserted the sleuth, “I’ll give you the details of this case. Then you can beat it and write your story. You’re out so far as this search is concerned.”
“But suppose you find the guy—”