Shakes Niefan lost no time. He yanked open the bureau drawers. They contained no papers. Turning, Shakes dashed down the stairs. He passed the living room, hurried through the front door and crossed the court.
Shouts came from other windows. Shakes turned and delivered a shot that shattered a pane. Heads bobbed from view. Shakes reached the street. He saw a taxicab stopping at the opposite curb.
“Scram!” shouted the murderer.
Cab driver and passenger jumped to the sidewalk. Shakes grabbed the wheel and shot the car full speed ahead. A patrolman appeared as the cab reached the corner. Shakes opened fire. The officer ducked for the cover of a doorway. He responded with futile shots as the cab swung around the corner.
Once again, Shakes Niefan had delivered death. The murderer was still ahead of The Shadow’s pursuit.
The police had shown their inability to cope with his swift ways of killing.
The taxi swung into an obscure block. It came to a leisurely stop as a patrol car sped past. The police were on the way to the scene of death; but the murderer had gone.
Shakes Niefan again wore his evil smile as he alighted from the cab and strolled along the street. Safely away, a new hideout chosen for tonight, he was ready to make his telephoned report concerning the death of Hiram Engliss.
CHAPTER XIII. THE COMMISSIONER SPEAKS
IT was midnight. Inspector Timothy Klein and Detective Joe Cardona were at the scene of crime.
Standing in the room where Hiram Engliss had died, they were discussing the facts that they had learned.
The telephone bell began to ring. Inspector Klein picked up the instrument from the table beside the bed.
The call was from police headquarters. Cardona judged that from Klein’s conversation.
“We’ve fixed one point,” declared the inspector, grimly, as he laid the telephone aside. “They’ve compared the bullets. The same gun was used to kill both Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss.”
“Which means the same murderer,” asserted Cardona. “I saw that right away, inspector. Those ashes in the living room grate—”
Cardona paused as a man entered the upstairs room. It was Clyde Burke. The detective stared at the reporter.
“No alibi for being late tonight,” announced Clyde. “It doesn’t matter, though. Looks like I’ve walked in on something interesting.”
“You have,” admitted Cardona. “Here’s the link you want. You can tell the public that we’re after one murderer. The same man killed both Neville and Engliss.”
Clyde nodded as he scrawled the item on a sheet of folded copy paper. He was about to put a question when the telephone bell jingled. Again, Klein answered.
“Hello,” greeted the inspector. “Yes. This is Midtown nine-one-three-six-two… Final report, eh? Only one call out of here tonight? Yes…We know about that one… It was a call to the police…”
“Engliss heard the murderer break in,” explained Cardona, to Clyde. “He put in a call for help. The killer must have got him right after that.”
“Fingerprints?” inquired Clyde, briskly.
“None,” responded Cardona.
“No link-up with the Crane case?” asked Clyde.
“None at all.” Cardona was almost savage in his retort. “That’s out, Burke. Do you understand? We’ve got enough trouble without you—”
“All right, Joe.” Clyde’s easy tone mollified the detective. “Don’t worry. I’m not mentioning it. This is enough. How did the murderer get away tonight?”
“In a taxicab,” stated Cardona. “Chased the driver and the passenger to the sidewalk. We picked up the empty cab a dozen blocks away. It’s the same story. Nobody got a good look at the killer. Of all the dumb clucks—”
KLEIN and Burke turned toward the door as they saw Cardona pause. Like the detective, they recognized the stalwart form of the new arrival. It was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
“Have you completed your report, Cardona?” questioned Commissioner Weston, brusquely.
“Yes, sir,” replied the detective. “Inspector Klein just received word from headquarters. They say that the bullets—”
“I’ve heard about the bullets,” interrupted Weston. “You take charge here, Inspector Klein. I want Detective Cardona to come along with me. Are you ready, Cardona?”
The detective nodded. Weston turned and started down stairs. Cardona followed. Inspector Klein spoke warningly to Clyde Burke.
“Go easy in your story,” said Klein. “Don’t play it up about the commissioner being here. I think he’s on the war path. He doesn’t like it when we give out too much.”
“All right, inspector,” agreed Clyde. “Give me a few more facts and I’ll call it a night. I’m due at the office anyway.”
Staring from the front window, Clyde saw Weston and Cardona passing through the archway to the street. The Shadow’s agent wondered what urgency had brought the police commissioner here. Clyde watched the pair enter the commissioner’s car. The vehicle pulled away.
CLYDE BURKE would have given much to have heard the conversation that began between Weston and Cardona. The police commissioner was prompt with the reasons that had made him seek the sleuth.
“Inspector Klein informed me of this Engliss murder,” announced Weston. “I linked it right away with the death of Neville. Two killings in two nights. This is more than mere coincidence.
“You will recall, Cardona, that when we discussed the death of MacAvoy Crane, we foresaw a possibility of further killings. That is why we began our search for Lester Drayson.
“Are these deaths — Engliss and Neville’s — an aftermath of Crane’s? That is the question which now besets us. We have linked Engliss and Neville to the same killer. Can we go further back?”
“I don’t know, commissioner;” admitted Cardona, frankly. “We studied Jerome Neville’s case. The man was a refrigerator salesman. He had no enemies. Now comes Hiram Engliss. I’ve been busy calling his friends; the old man was a retired architect with an innocent past.
“On the face of it, you can’t link these killings with the Crane case. Strangler Hunn bumped MacAvoy Crane. Strangler is dead; Crane was a man investigating crime. But here’s a new killer — and two victims who don’t seem logical persons to be murdered. At the same time—”
“Well?” inquired Weston, as Cardona paused.
“I’ve got a hunch, that’s all,” returned Cardona. “I’m still thinking about that slip of paper. Thirteen men—”
“Men thirteen,” objected Weston.
“It’s the same thing,” commented Cardona. “Crane was the first; then Neville; now Engliss—”
Further confab ended. The car had swung a corner past an uptown hotel — the Morrisette. The driver was pulling to the opposite curb. Cardona, for the first time, realized the destination. Commissioner Weston was taking him to the home of Roscoe Wimbledon.
THE servant who admitted the commissioner and the detective was prompt to usher them into Wimbledon’s library. There they found the aviation magnate awaiting them. Ross Harlton was with Roscoe Wimbledon. It was evident that the police commissioner had made a telephone call here.
Weston came to business promptly. Taking a chair, the dynamic police commissioner opened his conversation.
“I am here, Mr. Wimbledon,” asserted Weston, “to confer with you regarding consequences which may have been the outgrowth of the murder which we previously discussed. When you told me that MacAvoy Crane had served as your private investigator, I advanced the theory that other murders might be forthcoming.”
“That is right,” nodded Wimbledon. “As I recall it, commissioner, you accepted my belief that Lester Drayson may have had friends in New York.”