“Yes.”
“Could you come to see me at my apartment?”
“I should be glad to visit you.”
“Let me see — you are stopping at the—”
“The Hotel Metrolite.”
Logan Mungren considered reflectively. At last he nodded, as though he had placed the exact location of the hotel.
“My apartment is not far from your hotel,” he observed. “In fact, it is just a short walk. I should advise you not to bother with a taxi. Between one way streets and the theatrical traffic, you can make better time on foot.”
“I agree with you.”
“Start eastward from your hotel,” suggested Mungren. “Four blocks across and a few blocks north will bring you to the Park Avenue apartment house where I live.”
“I could walk up Seventh Avenue and—”
Mungren raised his hands as he heard Rightwood’s suggestion. He laughed shortly.
“Times Square is worse that the Chicago Loop,” the stock promoter declared. “By following my directions, you will get away from the crowded avenue. I am very anxious that you should visit me, Mr. Rightwood. I expect that Mr. Harton will be there.”
“I shall not be open to argument,” protested the visitor. “I have told you that I intend to purchase this new stock.”
“Quite so,” agreed Mungren. “Perry Harton, who is a man of integrity, may be honest enough to tell you not to use your option. But, after all, Harton has something to gain through further investments in Electro Oceanic. He will not be persuasive. I shall inform him of your decision. The topic will be taboo.”
“Under those circumstances” — Rightwood’s voice denoted reassurance — “I shall be glad to visit you this evening and meet Mr. Harton. What time would you suggest that I arrive?”
“Unfortunately,” mused Mungren, “I shall not be at home early in the evening. Harton is coming at nine o’clock. Suppose you arrive about that hour?”
“Very well.” The false Rightwood thrust out his hand to Logan Mungren. He received the promoter’s clasp. “I shall be there not long after nine.”
Mungren saw Rightwood reaching for the telegram. With an easy gesture, the promoter lifted it from the desk.
“Would you mind,” he questioned, “if I took this with me? I should like to show it to Harton — just to get his private opinion before you arrive. It would be to your interest—”
Mungren repressed a smile as he saw Rightwood nod. The stoop-shouldered visitor turned and left the office, leaving the telegram in Logan Mungren’s possession.
The stock promoter followed to the door of his office. When he was satisfied that Rightwood had left the suite, he hurried back and dialed a number. The voice of Felix Tressler came across the wire.
“Rightwood was here…” Mungren’s tone was eager. “Yes. He intends to exercise his option… The telegram?… He had it with him… Yes. I kept it… That’s the only evidence to prove he heard from Zorman…
“He’s coming to my apartment. From his hotel, the Metrolite. Yes. I gave him directions. Coming at nine to see me and Harton…
“No one can know where he was going when they find him. That’s right… Yes, that’s all… I’ll be in to see you at nine o’clock, along with Harton…”
Logan Mungren uttered a malicious chuckle as he hung up the receiver. He was evidently pleased at the result of his interview with Channing Rightwood.
Singularly, the face of Channing Rightwood also wore a smile as its temporary owner was riding westward from the office building where The Shadow, as Rightwood, had visited Logan Mungren.
The reason for the double pleasure was identical. It was caused by the directions which Logan Mungren had given to the visitor whom he had accepted as Channing Rightwood.
The route which Channing Rightwood was supposed to follow when he walked to Logan Mungren’s apartment house would lead directly through the circle of death!
CHAPTER XX
CARDONA ENTERS
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was strolling past Times Square. The big advertising clock was chiming fifteen minutes before the hour of nine. Cardona’s face showed glumly in the bright illumination of Broadway.
Joe Cardona had reason to be troubled. He was on the trail of murder, and he had gained no results. The finding of a dead body — still unidentified — in a taxicab within a few blocks of Times Square was sufficient proof that foul play had occurred.
In other cases, Cardona had learned the names of victims. Yet there had been no direct proof of murder in those instances. Now, when a definite case of homicide was present, Cardona could not find a starting point.
Joe had been assigned to this case. Inspector Klein expected him to get results. The detective had a definite hunch that the fourth death was connected with the other three. To follow it, he knew that he must at least identify the victim or obtain some potential inkling to the source of the mysterious crime.
An abandoned cab, its license and its ownership faked, bore out Cardona’s hunch that a group of murderers was at work. A vigilant patrol of Times Square and its adjoining area seemed the only course of action; yet the quest was proving futile.
Cardona was still on the lookout for the man whom he had seen on Seventh Avenue — the one whose eyes reminded him of The Shadow. But he had seen no further sign nor trace of Henry Arnaud.
Turning a chance corner; Cardona walked along a side street. He decided to cross the thoroughfare and picked an opening in front of a parked coupe. There was a man seated behind the wheel. It was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent recognized the detective.
Cardona was headed almost directly for the entrance of the Hotel Delavan. Cliff gave a signal with his hand. Clyde Burke, standing at the door that led into the hotel, moved away as he caught Cliff’s gesture.
The signal was one used for emergency; it worked well. Joe Cardona, had he seen Clyde Burke, would have recognized him. The detective might have wondered what the Classic reporter was doing in this vicinity.
Joe did not enter the Hotel Delavan. Instead, he picked a small, cheap-looking lunch room a few doors away. He entered there, sat at the counter, and gloomily ordered a cup of coffee.
Two men came along the street. One was a portly fellow, the other, a cadaverous looking individual whose face showed an ugly, gold-toothed grin. The pair entered the Hotel Delavan. Clyde Burke, returning, followed them into the lobby and saw them enter the elevator.
Seated in an armchair, Clyde picked up a newspaper. Looking over the top of it, he saw the dial of the elevator. It swung to the topmost point — the mark that indicated Felix Tressler’s penthouse.
This was the first evidence of any entry into the place that Clyde was watching. This word must go to The Shadow. Before sending it, however, Clyde decided to stroll across the street and learn whether or not Cliff Marsland had observed the entrants.
JOE CARDONA, sipping at a cup of coffee, was listening to the conversation between a taxicab driver and the man behind the counter. The cab driver was evidently a frequenter of this lunch room. He happened to notice a newspaper in back of the counter.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. “Gimme that. There’s somethin’ I wanted to show you. Look at this.”
Cardona, from the corner of his eye, saw the cabby point to a picture in the day-old journal. It was the photograph of the man who had been found murdered in a taxi.
“I was readin’ this,” informed the cab driver, “because the guy was bumped off in a cab. Looked funny, didn’t it? Well, I sort of remembered this bird’s mug. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere. Then I remembered. It was in here.”