“Ah!” Tressler’s tone was tinged with irony. “That is different. Perhaps you would like to find out who killed Dustin Cruett. Also Maurice Bewkel. And also who killed Bigelow Zorman.”
Cardona’s fists were clenched. The detective stared as Felix Tressler gloated. A light struck Cardona. He realized in one confused moment that he was face to face with a murderer. The mask had lifted. Felix Tressler was glaring like a fiend.
Mechanically, Cardona’s hand started toward his pocket. Tressler thundered a warning that made the detective cease his intended action.
“Look out!” Tressler’s voice meant business. “Pull that gun and you’re a dead man!”
INSTINCTIVELY, Cardona stared. He found himself staring straight into the muzzles of two revolvers. The detective’s hands went above his head. Felix Tressler spoke from behind the desk.
“Two friends of mine,” he announced. “The tall gentleman is Perry Harton, the new president of the Electro Oceanic Corporation. His companion is Logan Mungren, promoter of that company’s stock issues.
“Quite odd, is it not, that men of such high standing should behave as thugs? Well, Detective Cardona, since this will be your last case, I do not mind telling you the situation. These two men, like myself, are also swindlers.
“Mungren promoted the Electro Oceanic Corporation. Harton managed it. I padded it with a fake purchase of fifty thousand dollars worth of stock. There were two first-class suckers: Maurice Bewkel and Channing Rightwood. They were the biggest of the fish. They coughed through with fifty thousand each.”
Felix Tressler had risen from his chair. Striding heavily past the desk, he stood facing Joe Cardona. He sneered as he again spoke to the detective.
“They were ready to fall again — Bewkel and Rightwood. This time for a hundred and fifty thousand each. Our plan was to build the sucker list up past a million before we let the company drop.
“I’ve made millions through swindles. I’ve spent millions. I needed this one. A wave motor that looked like a beautiful sucker racket, until some fool down at the plant improved it and made it practicable. The word was passed to the other workers.
“What was the answer? To kill those options that Bewkel and Rightwood held. To grab the stock for myself. To make millions through a real development. That’s the game at stake. Bewkel and Rightwood learned too much; so did Cruett and Zorman. I foresaw that they would. To kill them was the only way out.
“Wilton Byres found out what was going on. I kept him as a secretary because I thought he was too dumb to become wise. But he learned more than was good for him. He is dead with the others. All are dead, except Channing Rightwood.”
The mention of that name brought sudden haste to Felix Tressler. With a motion to Harton and Mungren, Tressler ordered the pair of villains to conduct Joe Cardona from the room. With gun muzzles against his back, Cardona marched down the hallway of the penthouse. He was forced in through an open doorway, where he stared in amazement at the big map which took up the entire wall.
FELIX TRESSLER arrived, bringing pieces of stout rope from the office. He seized Cardona’s upheld arms and brought them down behind the detective’s back. He bound Cardona’s wrists; then tumbled the helpless detective to the floor and tied his ankles. All the while, Tressler was talking in a sarcastic tone:
“Murder. Your business is to detect it. You failed. Why? Because murderers go to find the men they want — as a rule. My plan was different. I waited for my victims to come my way.
“All had business in New York. I knew that when they came here, there was a portion of Manhattan — with this penthouse as a center — through which they would surely pass.
“I am wealthy. I hold interests and leases throughout this section. Mungren is a crook whom the police have never flagged. With his aid, I arranged the most perfect death trap in all the world — a zone which looks innocent because it teems with passing thousands — the last spot where any one could suspect or discover lurking death.”
Raising Cardona, Tressler lifted the detective bodily and propped him against the wall opposite the huge map of central Manhattan. Standing erect, the glowering millionaire pointed to the chart with its lights and its red circle.
“All have died.” Tressler’s tone was fiendish. “All, I should say, but one. His turn has come. Watch with us, Detective Cardona, and enjoy yourself. You will never return to headquarters to report this case.
“Channing Rightwood is due within that circle. When he arrives there, he is marked for death. No power on earth can save him. Millions will be mine, and these companions in crime will share. Yet after that, the circle will still remain. I shall keep the agents — the thugs hired by Mungren — that I may still wield power in the future.”
With this last statement, Felix Tressler wheeled. Disregarding the captured detective he stood watching the huge map. The hour of nine had passed. Any moment would mark the beginning of the game which Felix Tressler relished.
Channing Rightwood, the last victim, was due within the circle of death!
CHAPTER XXII
THE SHADOW MOVES
A FIGURE was standing by the window of Room 2016, in the Hotel Metrolite. The face of Channing Rightwood was staring out toward the blazing skyline of Manhattan. The eyes that watched were not the eyes of Channing Rightwood. They were the eyes of The Shadow.
Nor was the utterance that came from the lips beneath the false mustache a sound that Rightwood could have uttered. That burst of whispered mirth was the laugh of The Shadow!
The clock upon the Paramount Building was past the hour of nine. A huge electric sign with white corners and white borders seemed a glowing challenge. The circle of death was expectant, The Shadow would not keep it waiting longer.
The stoop-shouldered figure moved. The false Channing Rightwood stalked from the room and closed the door behind him. His footsteps faded as they headed toward the elevators.
Two minutes after The Shadow had left, the telephone began to ring. It remained unanswered. Burbank, relaying a report from Clyde Burke, was just too late to reach The Shadow with news of visitors at Felix Tressler’s. Perhaps The Shadow had anticipated that Logan Mungren and Perry Harton would be in the penthouse. He had certainly not gained an inkling that Joe Cardona would be with them.
The false Channing Rightwood passed through the glittering lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. He reached the street and followed a course very close to the one that Logan Mungren had advised. He made a conspicuous figure — one that could be easily recognized by any persons who had been given a description of the real Channing Rightwood.
ONE thousand miles away, the Midnight Limited was pulling into Chicago. The real Channing Rightwood was rising from his seat. He could see lights through the window of the Pullman. He was rousing himself from a lethargy which had persisted ever since he left New York.
“My bags — ” Rightwood was speaking to the porter.
“You have no bags, sah!”
“No bags? Who took them? Here we are, coming into New York—”
“Dis is Chicago, sah!”
“Chicago! I left there last night!”
“No, sah! You left New York.”
The real Channing Rightwood slumped, bewildered. All recollection of his arrival in New York, his meeting with The Shadow and his strange departure had faded like a forgotten dream. His confused mind could find nothing but a scattered medley of incidents.
The drugged liquid which he had quaffed at The Shadow’s bidding had left no ill effects. It had simply put Channing Rightwood into a state of clouded bewilderment that would continue while he tried to recall the events of his meeting with The Shadow.