“We have very little,” stated Weston. “Cardona has noted that both Neville and Engliss had phone numbers that contained the number thirteen. He has obtained a list” — Weston raised a sheaf of papers from his lap — “of all such numbers in Manhattan. Our theory is that other murders are coming; that in this list we have the names of men who are threatened.”
“And the list contains how many names?” quizzed Cranston.
“Ten thousand,” replied Weston, glumly.
There was a pause. Roscoe Wimbledon shook his head. His attitude showed disappointment.
“Too bad,” he remarked, “that Crane did not manage to communicate with me. Too bad that Drayson cannot be brought to justice. This list of names seems too hopeless.”
“Ten thousand names.” Cranston was speaking quietly. “Number thirteen. Can you tell me this, commissioner: why did the number thirteen appear so significant?”
“Because it was in both telephone numbers,” broke in Joe Cardona.
“So I understand,” rejoined Cranston. “But from the importance that you attach to it, I can see that there is something behind it all. Some clew — some document — perhaps an incomplete notation — bearing the number thirteen.”
Commissioner Weston stared at the speaker. Then he swung to Joe Cardona.
“Cranston has hit the bull’s-eye,” declared the commissioner. “If he can do that, he might have something better to tell us if he saw the clew itself. Show him that paper, Cardona.”
The detective produced the folded envelope. He removed the paper fragment. He carried it to Cranston.
The visitor studied it with interest. The Shadow had viewed that torn, bit while guised as Fritz, the janitor.
Seeing it now, in the guise of Cranston, he acted as though he had never observed it before.
“That paper,” announced Weston, “was found in MacAvoy Crane’s apartment. The scrawl — letters and figures wide apart — indicate that it was done by Strangler Hunn.”
“The remains, I suppose, of a paper that Hunn destroyed?”
“Probably.”
“And something, I assume, that Hunn copied from Crane’s papers?”
“That is our assumption.”
“Thirteen,” mused Cranston. “Part of a telephone number. What do these letters mean above? M — E—N
“Something about men,” stated Cardona. “Maybe a message like kill men with number thirteen telephones, or something to that effect.”
“Write down the names of the two men who were murdered,” suggested Cranston. “Put the proper telephone number beneath each name.”
Cardona took a sheet of paper from Wimbledon’s desk. The aircraft magnate and the police commissioner leaned forward in new interest as Cardona followed Cranston’s order. The detective passed the notations to the millionaire. A thin smile came to Cranston’s lips.
RISING, Cranston handed the torn bit of paper to Weston. Pointing to it, Cranston said:
“Those letters: M—E—N. Crudely formed and poorly spaced, they might be part of one word. On the contrary, a separation might be intended between them. M, for instance, or E, might end a word. The next letter might begin one.”
“Yes,” agreed Weston. “At the same time, they could all belong to one word — like ‘men’—”
“I am not disputing that,” interposed Cranston. “I merely wanted to call your attention to the fact that you have a more complete clew than the mere number thirteen. Look at these names.”
He passed Weston the paper that Cardona had just written, with the names and telephone numbers:
Jerome Neville
Quadrangle 2-4138
Hiram Engliss
Midtown 9-1362
“The name Jerome,” remarked Cranston, casually, “ends with the letters M and E. The name Neville begins with the letter N. There you have it.
M—E—N.
“Now look below. Hiram ends with M. Engliss begins with E; its next letter is N. Again the same rotation.
“That’s it!” cried Weston, excitedly. “Look here, Cardona! The torn paper is explained! Strangler Hunn wrote a name — below it the telephone number!”
“Let me have your list, commissioner.” Cranston took the sheaf of papers from Weston. “Yes, it would be a great task to kill off all people in New York who have a thirteen in their telephone numbers.
“But I should judge that we will find very few who have the M—E—N combination in their names. This is a double clew — based on your paper slip, Cardona. One man is wanted by the killers. So they have decided to eliminate all. Evidently they are taking no chances.”
Cardona grabbed a copy of the list that was lying on Wimbledon’s table. He began to run down the columns— something that Lamont Cranston was already doing.
“We can cut this list down to almost nothing!” exclaimed the detective. “We’ve got all the names with thirteen. I’m looking for names with M—E—N in—”
“Here’s one,” remarked Cranston. “Under letter A. Dudley Arment; telephone is Carmody 5-9213.”
Writing the name and number on a sheet of paper, Cranston handed the data to Cardona. The detective stared at the information; then jumped to the telephone.
“I’m going to talk to this man Arment,” he asserted, as he dialed the number. “I’ll be foxy — he won’t suspect anything. If he’s at his place, I can go over there and find him—”
Cardona paused. A voice was clicking over the wire. Cardona parried with his conversation.
“Hello…” Cardona was planning to fake that he had the wrong number. “Is that you, George? What’s that?… No… I think I’ve got the wrong number… Yes… You say George is there… I mean George Jennings… He’s there?”
Cardona lowered the phone and held the mouthpiece against his chest. He spoke in a low tone to Weston.
“I don’t get this,” admitted the detective. “I fake the name George — they say they’ll let me talk to him. So I fake George Jennings — they say that’s the guy that’s there—”
CARDONA broke off. The receiver was clicking. Weston and Wimbledon seemed puzzled. Cranston, making notations on sheets of paper, was unobserved as he enjoyed a quiet smile.
“George Jennings?” Cardona was inquiring. “My name?… Terry Drake… Yes… Where am I calling from?
Say… Cardona’s scowl suddenly changed. “Say… Is that you, Inspector Klein? Yes… This is Joe Cardona. I had a tip that there was going to be trouble where you are… Yes… Yes… Right. I’ll call back.”
Cardona hung up. With a grim face, he turned to Weston. The commissioner was staring anxiously, awaiting the news.
“I was stalling” declared Cardona, “and so was Inspector Klein. It looks bad, commissioner. Man shot — thrown out the window eighteen stories into the courtyard. They think it’s Dudley Arment. They’re trying to identify the body.”
“Another murder!” blazed Weston, rising. “The same clew. You’re right, Cranston! They’re killing innocent men to get the one they want. Neville, Engliss — now Arment—”
“Dudley Arment,” interposed Cranston, “is the one the killers wanted. They did not need to murder Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss.”
“Why not?” queried Weston.
Cranston passed him three sheets of paper. On each one, the millionaire had printed a name and a telephone number, using capital letters. The papers read:
JEROME NEVILLE
QUADRANGLE 2-4138
HIRAM ENGLISS
MIDTOWN 9-1362
DUDLEY ARMENT
CARMODY 5-9213
“The name on one line,” remarked Cranston. “The telephone number beneath. Probably the address below— that part was destroyed. Even allowing for Strangler Hunn’s unique scrawl, it is obvious that Dudley Arment is the man.