“But he’s the one you need,” said Klein, glumly.
“Sure,” resumed Cardona, “but if we get anybody now, we’ll have a suspect. By rights — according to this register book — there should only be one man left in the whole Zenith Building. That’s Howard Norwyn.”
“I get it,” nodded Klein. “There might be somebody else here; somebody that sneaked in.”
“Yes.” Cardona turned suddenly as the elevator door clanged open and men appeared. A disappointed frown showed on the detective’s face. The final squad of searchers had arrived, without another man with them.
Reports were checked. The lobby teemed with foiled searchers. The manhunt had started promptly after the police had discovered George Hobston’s body. Outfitted with pass keys, detectives and officers had gone through the skyscraper from top to bottom.
Even the basement was to be searched, according to Klein’s new decision. The watchman was positive that Norwyn could not have gone there, but the inspector was determined to make this last effort to trace the one man who had registered and who had not reappeared.
CONFERRING with Cardona, Klein decided not to hold the other occupants of the building. None of them had been found in the vicinity of the thirty-third floor. All had legitimate business that had brought them to the building. Cardona quizzed each man closely and checked with the officers who had taken them into custody. That formality ended, the lobby cleared. Inspector Klein and Joe Cardona waited for the small squad of searchers to return from the basement.
While the detective was making another check-up with the watchman, a policeman entered and advanced to Joe Cardona. This officer was one of two who had been stationed outside the building.
“Some news hounds out there,” began the bluecoat. “I told em they couldn’t come in. Said you’d see them later.”
“That’s right,” growled Cardona. “Let them wait. The weather’s good for them.”
“But there’s one guy that raised a squawk. Says you’ll want to see him. His name’s Burke — he works for the Classic.”
“Burke, eh?” Cardona laughed. “Tell him to come in. I’ll talk to him.”
The officer left. Cardona swung to Klein and spoke a few words of explanation.
“You know Burke,” said Joe. “He’s all right. We’ve got to let the newspapers have this story. If Burke acts as spokesman, he’ll give them the right slant. He’ll hand us the credit that’s our due. None of this stuff about a futile search by the police.”
As Cardona finished speaking, a young man appeared from the outer door. He grinned as he removed his felt hat and splashed water from the brim. Clyde Burke was a typical newspaper man. His manner was keen; his expression genial. He was wiry but not husky. His eyes began a prompt survey of the lobby.
“Hello, Joe,” was his greeting. “Say, have a heart, won’t you? Let the boys in out of the rain. They’re sticking around to get the story and they’re pretty sore because their police cards won’t get them through.”
“I’ll let them in pretty soon,” returned Cardona. “They’ll cool off when they get the story. But I want to talk to you first, Burke.
“Get this straight. In less than ten minutes after the watchman here heard a shot over the telephone, there were three detectives in room 3318, where the shooting took place. There were five men more down here in the lobby.
“The murderer had no chance to get out. So far as we know, he’s still in the building. We’re completing the search. We haven’t found him; but it’s not because of any slip-up on our part.”
“What about those men who filed out of here?” questioned Clyde. “Some of the boys were going to duck along after them. I held the fellows though, by promising to get them in to see you.”
“Those men,” explained Cardona, “were business men who were in their offices. We checked them on the register and released them. We have accounted for every one except the one man we want.
“You give that to the other newspaper men. See that they get off to the right start on the story. Then bring them in and I’ll answer questions.”
“Leave it to me, Joe.”
CLYDE BURKE hurried back to the door. Joe Cardona smiled as he turned to Timothy Klein. The searchers were returning with the news that the basement was unoccupied except for the employees in the engine room. Cardona had expected that report. His elation was due to the way in which he had handled Clyde Burke.
“A real fellow, that reporter,” declared Joe. “I’m glad he got this assignment. More brains than any other news hound I ever met. Why he sticks to the Classic job is more than I can figure.”
There was logic in Joe Cardona’s statement. There was also an answer to his speculation regarding Clyde Burke. It came half an hour later, after the reporters had entered, gained the details of the murder and search, and left for their respective offices.
Clyde Burke, nearing the Classic building, stepped into a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He called a number and heard a quiet voice respond:
“Burbank speaking.”
For the next few minutes Clyde Burke delivered terse details of the police findings at the Zenith Building. These facts were not for the New York Classic.
Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. Through Burbank, The Shadow’s contact man, he was reporting all that he had learned. His statements would be forwarded as soon as his call was finished.
Thus The Shadow, who had played so important a part after the murder of George Hobston, was to learn the vital news that no killer had been found in the Zenith Building.
The fact that Howard Norwyn was suspected and missing was one that The Shadow expected to hear. But The Shadow was to learn another fact that he would find important: namely, that no unregistered prowler had been found at large.
That fact was to play a part in The Shadow’s coming plans. It was to give him the inkling that the murder of George Hobston had been well planned beforehand. It was to place The Shadow face to face with the truth; that craft had been used in murder.
The planting of crime on Howard Norwyn had been the first evidence of cunning preparation. The disappearance of the actual murderer was even more remarkable. Already, word was on the way that would make The Shadow prepare for new and unseen crime!
CHAPTER V
MURDERERS TALK
IT was nine o’clock the next morning. The Zenith Building’s business day had begun. The massive skyscraper, glistening like a marble pinnacle in the sun, was thronged with hordes of workers.
Morning newspapers had blared the story of George Hobston’s murder. To the workers in the Zenith Building, the killing in 3318 was a subject of intense discussion. Few of them had ever heard of George Hobston. The dead man’s name was but one of hundreds on the big boards in the lobby. Yet the fact that he had been murdered in the Zenith Building was real news to the working inhabitants of that particular skyscraper.
A portly, gray-haired gentleman heard the talk of Hobston’s death as he rode up to the thirtieth floor. Alighting from the elevator, this man approached an office that bore the name:
CULBERT JOQUILL
ATTORNEY AT LAW
Entering, he nodded pleasantly to the office force, which consisted of two stenographers and a young man who looked like a recent graduate of law school. He continued through a door marked “Private.”
This man was Culbert Joquill. He was in his own office. Massive bookcases lined the walls; from floor to ceiling they were filled with buckram-bound volumes that pertained to the law. Joquill seated himself behind a mahogany desk and stared in beaming fashion from the window.
A stenographer entered with the mail. Joquill opened letters, read them, and dictated replies in the stentorian tone that he might have saved for addressing a jury. This finished, he arose and walked to the door as the stenographer went back into the larger office.