“This guy?” The man behind the counter shook his head as he looked at the printed photo. “Don’t remember him.”
“Sure you do.” The cab driver laughed. “The cranky bird that raised a holler because you dished him up some cold pie. You said he came in here and always raised a squawk.”
“Say” — the counter man remembered — “I know the bloke you mean. He ain’t been around for a couple of weeks. Sore on our joint, maybe.”
“Yeah? Well, this looks like his mug.”
“Don’t think it’s him, though. Don’t care if it is, anyway.”
“Who was he?”
“Some guy that worked for the fellow that lives in the penthouse at the Hotel Delavan. One night, he took up a bottle of coffee for his boss. That’s how I come to know where he worked.”
“I’d swear that mug was his.”
“Naw — you’re wrong.”
Studying the picture, the taxi driver mumbled to himself; then grunted and tossed the newspaper aside. Joe Cardona, watching the man’s face, had a hunch that he was correct in his assumption. The taxi driver looked like a keen observer.
Cardona flung a coin on the table and went from the lunch room. He turned directly toward the Hotel Delavan.
CLYDE BURKE spied him from the opposite side of the street. The Shadow’s agent waited until Cardona was in the hotel. Then he followed and strolled to an obscure corner of the lobby, where he seated himself and perused a newspaper, keeping his face out of Cardona’s sight. Clyde was too far away to hear the detective talking to the clerk at the desk.
“Who lives in the penthouse?” Cardona was questioning.
“A Mr. Tressler,” responded the clerk. “Felix Tressler.”
“Any one up there with him?”
“His secretary, Wilton Byres.”
“Are they up there now?”
“Mr. Tressler is always at home. As for Byres — he goes out on occasion.”
Cardona swung toward the elevators. The clerk called him back.
“You can’t go up to the penthouse,” he remarked. “Mr. Tressler has left orders—”
“Can’t I?” quizzed Joe. He flashed his badge. “I’m going up right now. I want to see Mr. Tressler. That’s all.”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders as Cardona strode to the elevator. The door of the lift was opening. Cardona entered.
“Penthouse,” ordered the detective.
“Sorry, sir,” returned the operator. “I can’t take you there without orders from—”
The operator paused as he caught the clerk’s eye. The man behind the desk gave him a nod. The operator closed the door and started the upward journey with Cardona as his only passenger.
The clerk walked away from the desk. In a hidden alcove, he picked up a telephone and put in a prompt call. Felix Tressler’s voice responded.
“A detective from headquarters,” informed the clerk, in a low voice. “He’s on his way up.”
“Do you know his name?” came Tressler’s question.
“No,” answered the clerk. “He showed his badge. That was all. I couldn’t argue with him.”
“Did any one else see the badge?”
“No.”
“All right. Keep it to yourself.”
Clyde Burke did not observe the clerk while the man was engaged in the telephone conversation. The Shadow’s agent was watching the dial of the elevator. He had a suspicion as to Cardona’s destination. The dial indicated the penthouse. Clyde arose and strolled into a telephone booth.
The hands of the clock above the desk in the Hotel Delavan were almost at the hour of nine when Clyde put in his call to Burbank. The report of The Shadow’s agent was coming through at the time when Channing Rightwood, by appointment with Logan Mungren, was scheduled to enter the circle of death!
CHAPTER XXI
TRESSLER ACTS
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood astonished after he had stepped from the elevator. He scarcely heard the clang of the closing door, so intent was he as he viewed the scene before him.
The patio, with its tinkling fountain, was a sight that Cardona had never expected to find within the limits of Manhattan. A vertical trip up a long shaft had brought the detective into what appeared to be the entrance of a house in old Seville.
Approaching footsteps aroused Cardona from his lethargy. Felix Tressler appeared from the passage that led through the penthouse. He wore a questioning gaze upon his heavy-browed face.
“What do you want here?” he demanded.
“Are you Mr. Tressler?” returned Cardona.
“Yes. Who are you?” inquired the bulky millionaire.
“Detective Cardona,” returned Joe. “From headquarters. I want to see your secretary, Wilton Byres.”
A scowl appeared upon Tressler’s brow. The mention of Byres seemed to anger him. He motioned to Cardona. The sleuth followed as Tressler led him into the passage. The millionaire opened a door on the right and ushered Cardona into an office. Tressler took his seat behind a desk. He waved Cardona to another chair and proffered a box of cigars.
“What has Byres been up to?” demanded Tressler.
The question took Cardona by surprise. The detective had expected to meet the secretary. Tressler’s action had made him believe that his suspicions might be wrong. It was obvious now that Byres was not here, but Tressler’s method of introducing that fact threw Cardona off his guard. Tressler’s mention of Byres was done in a fashion that placed a stigma upon the missing secretary.
“I don’t know,” returned Cardona. “What I want to know is where Byres is.”
“Not here.” Tressler shook his head sadly. “I placed great confidence in that young man. A few days ago, he left this penthouse and did not return.”
CARDONA eyed the millionaire closely. Despite Tressler’s well-feigned concern, Cardona began to gain an inkling that all was not well. Coming directly to the point, he made a brief statement.
“Two nights ago,” affirmed Cardona, “a man was found murdered in a taxicab near Times Square. He was unidentified. We took his photo at the morgue. Have you seen it in the newspapers?”
“No.” Again Tressler shook his heavy head. “Byres used to bring up the newspapers. I am something of a recluse. I have been alone since night before last.”
“That was when Byres went out?”
“Yes.”
Joe Cardona reached for the telephone. Tressler shoved out a big paw to stop him. The millionaire’s face was grave.
“What do you intend to do?” he questioned.
“I’m calling headquarters,” retorted Cardona. “Telling them to bring up photographs. I think I’ve found out who that dead man was. He was your secretary, Wilton Byres.”
“Wait a minute.” Tressler scowled. “Just because that fool went out and got himself killed is no reason why I should be dragged into this.”
“Sorry,” rejoined Cardona, as he stared coldly. “This has got to be told down at headquarters. I’m calling Inspector Klein.”
“This is irregular!” challenged Tressler. “Why didn’t the inspector come here himself? Where is your authority?”
“I’m handling this case,” retaliated Cardona. “I just uncovered this fact about Wilton Byres.”
“You mean that I am the first person to whom you spoke concerning it?”
“Yes. I overheard two men talking in a lunch room on the street. One said the picture of the dead man looked like a chap who worked up in this penthouse.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Tressler. He drew away the telephone as Cardona sought to grip it. “You mean that you are raising a hubbub on the strength of such slender evidence?”
“I mean,” returned Cardona, angrily rising to his feet, “that I’m going to find out who murdered Wilton Byres!”