The sign had told two stories. It had given the location where Dustin Cruett had fallen. Now it told that death had struck. It was a token to all watching eyes that the task was ended.
The red lights faded. White replaced them. The sign was in its original state. Up in a room at the Hotel Zenith, the sallow-faced man who had exchanged Cruett’s match pack laughed as he saw the final result.
He was but one of many, that sallow-visaged villain. Dustin Cruett had followed a trail where danger lurked at every corner and at spots between. Yet other hands had waited, to see if the first man’s trap would succeed.
It had. Before Dustin Cruett had reached the limit of a strange circle, he had dropped, dying, to the sidewalk. Insidious crime had struck down a helpless victim.
Here, in the most densely thronged portion of Manhattan, agents of a superfiend were at work. Camouflaged as persons of innocuous appearance, they were ready to follow the signal which all could view!
Death had struck within their midst. Not one of them had shown his hand in it. Uptown Manhattan left no ripple of the murder which had occurred upon its lighted streets and avenues.
The circle of death had taken its first toll!
CHAPTER III
THE EVIDENCE
“FUNNY, the way that fellow Cruett dropped.”
The speaker was Detective Joe Cardona. Stocky, swarthy-faced and square-jawed, Cardona was recognized as the ace of Manhattan sleuths. He was talking to Inspector Timothy Klein, at headquarters.
“No signs of foul play?”
The question came from Klein. A gray-haired veteran of the force, the inspector had come to recognize Cardona as the most able detective with whom he had ever dealt.
“None.” Cardona was emphatic in the statement. “I’ve got a hunch — that’s all.”
Klein nodded. He had great faith in Cardona’s hunches.
“There’s the stuff from his pockets,” resumed the detective. “Look it over, inspector. You won’t find anything in the lot. A Pullman stub from Washington. Cards of identification. A pack of cigarettes. Matches. Nothing else of consequence.
“We’ve gotten in touch with Cruett’s relatives, since he dropped dead last night. From all they tell us, he was out of a job. Had money in the bank, though, several thousand dollars. Probably down in Washington, looking for a job.”
“His line?” queried Klein.
“Sort of a jack of all trades,” returned Cardona. “Been a promoter in his time — traveled a lot — connected with oil-well deals down in Texas. Had a lot of acquaintances, but very few close friends.”
Klein looked up suddenly. He had heard a footfall at the door. Cardona turned. He joined the inspector in a grin.
A tall, stoop-shouldered man had entered the office. He was wearing overalls and he carried pail and mop.
“Hello, Fritz,” greeted Klein. “On the job again, eh? You like to clean up early, don’t you?”
“Yah.” The janitor stared dully as he spoke.
“They come and go,” commented Cardona, “but Fritz is always here. Say, Fritz, why don’t you work on regular schedule. It would work out better, wouldn’t it?”
“Yah.”
It was plain that the janitor did not understand the question. Cardona and Klein laughed.
“Fritz is all right, Joe,” remarked the inspector. “Some nights he shows up early — some nights late. That’s what puts variety into his work.”
“I guess you’re right, inspector.” Cardona surveyed the janitor closely. “He looks different at times, too, Fritz does. Sometimes he seems paler and thinner. Looks like he changes day by day.”
“Maybe,” admitted Klein. “But there’s one thing sure. Fritz will be here until the place falls down. He’ll be here when they’ve forgotten us, Joe.”
THE inspector arose. He picked up the objects from the desk and piled them in a little box.
“Well, Joe,” he decided, “if these don’t give you any clew on Cruett’s death, you’ll have to work on a hunch. That’s all. Meanwhile, the report stands. Death from natural causes.”
“I’d accept it, inspector,” agreed Cardona, “if it wasn’t for that toxic condition. The doctors said it could be natural — a sort of poisoning that crept into the man’s system. Cruett was registered at the Hotel Zenith. He left there in good shape. Then this hit him. That’s what bothers me. A slow condition like that shouldn’t hit with a bang.”
“A man has to succumb some time, Joe. Poor physical condition often means quick death. According to your report” — Klein was pointing to a paper on the desk — “Cruett smoked as many as five packs of cigarettes a day. That’s a pretty big load for one man’s system.”
“I got that from his relatives,” nodded Cardona. “They all said Cruett was a nervous sort. Well, I guess natural death goes, inspector. Just the same, I’ve got a funny hunch.”
Klein had put the little box in a desk drawer, along with Cardona’s report sheet. Fritz, his tall form bent almost double, was swabbing up the floor near a corner. The two men paid no further attention to him as they left.
Alone in the office, Fritz kept on mopping. He went about his work in a slow, methodical fashion. His tall form threw a grotesque shadow across the floor. It formed a blackened splotch upon Klein’s desk as the janitor stepped in that direction.
Five minutes had elapsed since Klein had departed with Cardona. Straightening, Fritz deposited his mop in the bucket and let the handle rest against the wall. With a sudden stride that showed unusual swiftness, he approached the desk.
Klein had locked the drawer. Fritz produced a bundle of keys. With them was a thin, skeleton-shaped piece of metal. The janitor inserted it into the keyhole of the drawer. Long fingers twisted in expert fashion. The lock gave; the drawer came open.
THE dullness was gone from Fritz’s eyes. The janitor studied the articles in the box. Keenly, he read Cardona’s report sheet. Then, with definite intent, he plucked the half-used pack of paper matches from the desk drawer.
The packet was a type seen commonly in Manhattan. It advertised a show about to open at a Forty-second Street theater. This was the very reason why Fritz, suddenly turned sleuth, had picked it from the other articles.
The janitor had suspected something which had passed Joe Cardona. Dustin Cruett, according to Cardona’s report, had come in from Washington. He had gone directly to the Hotel Zenith by taxicab. The Pullman stub substantiated this fact.
Unless Cruett had purchased cigarettes at a stand in the Pennsylvania station, he would not have obtained a packet of paper matches. The cigarette pack was almost empty. It did not bear the customary label on packs sold at station stands.
Where, then, had Cruett obtained this pack of matches — a paper folder which bore an advertisement seen only in Manhattan? Certainly not on the train. It was probable that this pack of matches had entered Cruett’s pocket after his arrival in New York.
Fritz’s study of the packet indicated this train of thought. It also showed that the mind of someone more capable than a dull-faced janitor was at work.
With deft fingers, Fritz pried up the bit of wire that held the matches in their place. He removed the matches from the pack. From his overalls, he produced another pack of matches; he removed its matches in the same fashion and inserted them instead of those he had taken.
Fritz added to this procedure by plucking away several matches so that the pack appeared exactly the same as it had been. The drawer slid shut. Fritz locked it with the pick. Gathering mop and bucket, the janitor shambled from the office. He turned out the light and closed the door so it locked automatically behind him.