“We believe that he is still in New York. Not in Washington, as he said he would be. That sounds like an attempt at an alibi. He had an eleven o’clock appointment for to-morrow morning. He changed it to one-thirty, stating that he would not be back until then. One-thirty to-morrow afternoon.”
“I can use all this?” questioned Clyde.
“All except the fact that we are watching the depots,” returned Weston. “You may state that the police have begun an intensive search for Adolph Murson.”
“That Murson is still here in New York—”
“Yes, and that we have acted with a promptness that will prevent his departure from the city.”
“That indicates that railroad stations, bridges, and the Holland Tunnel will be watched, commissioner.”
“Perhaps so. But I am depending upon you to minimize the fact; and to have other reporters do the same.”
“All right, commissioner, I think we can soft-pedal it. Particularly if we get Murson’s picture.”
“You will have it.”
TWENTY minutes later, Clyde Burke and other reporters left the Swithin Apartments carrying photographs of Adolph Murson, brought by the broker’s secretary. The other news hawks headed for their offices. But Clyde made a stop-over on his trip.
With plenty of time to make the edition, The Shadow’s agent had a preliminary duty to perform. He stopped at a drug store and made a telephone call to Burbank. He gave the contact man full details, with a verbatim report of Barry’s dying words.
Clyde considered the case as he rode by subway to the Classic office. In his opinion, it looked bad for Adolph Murson. Yet Clyde, knowing of The Shadow’s search for Beak Latzo, could see cross purposes beneath the surface of crime.
Of one thing, Clyde felt sure. The Shadow, like the police, would look for the missing stock broker. And Clyde was willing to bet his bottom nickel that his mysterious chief would precede the law in its intensive search.
CHAPTER X. NEXT NOON
AT twelve o’clock the next noon, Jack Targon was seated at a desk in the office of the New Century Advertising Agency. The ex-convict was busy rewriting advertising copy — a task that had been assigned him in order that he might gain experience.
A friendly hand dropped on Jack’s shoulder. Jack looked up to recognize the austere face of Galen Flix, his new employer. Flix returned Jack’s frank smile.
“You’re going out to lunch with me, Targon,” informed the advertising man. “We have an appointment with a friend of mine. Joseph Daykin.”
“The importer?” questioned Jack, as he arose to get hat and coat. “The chap who hired Steve Zurk?”
“The same,” said Flix with a nod. “And Zurk will be there also. Let us drop the subject until we meet for lunch.”
Flix and Jack went from the office. They descended to the street and entered a hotel half a block away.
In a quiet corner of the grillroom they found Daykin, a portly, tired-faced man, waiting with Steve.
Handshakes were exchanged. The four men ordered from the menu. Then, as they began their leisurely meal, Galen Flix looked from Jack Targon to Steve Zurk. Solemnly, the ad man came to the subject that had brought this meeting.
“I presume,” he stated, “that both of you have read to-day’s newspapers?”
Nods from Jack and Steve.
“Then,” added Flix, “you have read of the murders that took place in the Swithin Apartment. The killing of Theobald Luftus and his servant, Barry.”
New nods.
“Luftus was a retired manufacturer,” explained Flix. “His company places all its advertising through my agency. Moreover, it imports certain raw materials through the Daykin Importing Company.
“Therefore, Mr. Daykin and I are greatly concerned over the death of Theobald Luftus. We are anxious to see his murderer brought to justice. It occurred to us that you two men” — he looked from Jack to Steve — “might have opinions regarding that terrible crime. If so, we should be glad to hear them.”
Jack Targon smiled slightly. Steve Zurk maintained a poker-faced countenance. It was Jack who spoke.
“I THINK the police are all wet,” he declared. “They haven’t got anything on this broker, Murson. It looks to me like a bunch of crude workers decided to bust in on Luftus, figuring the old gentleman had dough.
“The coppers muffed it. To cover up their dumbness, they’re following this Murson steer. There’s my opinion, Mr. Flix. But it’s not much of a one.”
“Why not?” questioned Flix.
“Well,” replied Jack, soberly, “I’m trying to forget my past; but I’ll talk about it for the time being. My specialty, when I was crooked, was confidence work. Swindles mostly; sometimes forgery. I stayed away from thugs.
“They’re crude, those fellows are. I always figured that if they were really smart, they’d be in some other racket. But I don’t know as much about them as I might. Steve here is the chap who can give you the expert opinion on that sort of crime.”
Flix looked toward Steve. The dark-faced man gave a slow, reminiscent nod.
“What about it, Zurk?” questioned Flix, in an urging tone.
“Jack is part right about it,” replied Steve. “And he’s part wrong. That’s my opinion, Mr. Flix.”
“Can you specify?” questioned the ad man.
“Yes,” nodded Steve. “It’s a case of even chances. Maybe those killers just blundered into Luftus’s place. Maybe they were wise to go there.”
“Assuming that they had a planned purpose,” urged Flix, “do you think that Murson was behind it?”
“Yes,” declared Steve. “And I’ll tell you why. If there was real swag in that box at Luftus’s, Murson would have known it.”
“That’s the theory held by the police.”
“Yes. And it may be right. Wrong, you understand, if the raid was just hit or miss. Right, though, if there was any brains behind it.”
“Do you think that Murson was with the killers?”
“It looks that way.”
Jack Targon shook his head as Steve paused. The opinion did not agree with his.
“Murson would have stayed out of it,” he assured. “You’re getting into my field of experience, Steve. Murson, if he hired killers, would have acted smooth—”
“You never bought up a crew of gorillas, did you?” quizzed Steve.
“No,” admitted Jack. “I wouldn’t have been fool enough to deal with murderers.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was smooth enough to handle my own jobs—”
“That’s enough. You’ve hit it.” Steve turned to Flix. “You hear what Jack says? He was smooth enough to lay off of mobs. He didn’t need them.”
“But you think that Murson—”
“Wasn’t smooth enough. That’s the answer, Mr. Flix. Here. Let me reason it out for you. I’ve seen enough dirty business to know how it works.”
Toying with a spoon and a saltcellar. Steve began to unfold his idea. He used the articles to indicate persons concerned.
“HERE’S Murson,” explained Steve, setting down the saltcellar with a thump. “A business man. A broker. He sees a chance to grab a lot of swag. He’s scary though. Needs somebody to do his dirty work for him. So he finds some bum mobsters.”
Steve set the spoon away from the saltcellar, to indicate the crooks approached by Murson. He lifted a half-filled glass of water and placed it at a new spot.
“Take Luftus,” he decided, looking steadily at the glass of water. “He’s the guy that has the stuff they want. A cinch for these gorillas, any time time want to go after it” — he was pushing the spoon toward the glass — “but Murson over here” — he tapped the saltcellar — “is on pins and needles.”
“Why?” questioned Flix.