“To Mr. Clussig?”
“Yes. I am sure that he did not go out. There was a stranger who came down the stairs just after Mr. Clussig went up. A terrible-looking man — his face was ghastly. I wondered what he was doing here.”
“Did Mr. Clussig seem apprehensive when he went upstairs?”
“Yes,” decided the operator, nodding. “He seemed quite worried. He is not answering my ring. Do you think—”
Clyde Burke was prompt. He saw a sure way of reaching Merle Clussig. He responded with a wise nod of his head, and turned the operator’s thought into a definite suggestion.
“It would be best,” he declared, “to learn if Mr. Clussig is in his apartment.”
THE operator left the booth and went to the office. She returned with a man in shabby uniform, evidently an attendant who served as both janitor and elevator man. She was explaining the situation. The janitor beckoned to Clyde Burke. He conducted the reporter to the elevator. They ascended to the third floor.
The janitor rapped on the door of Clussig’s apartment. When no response was received, he unlocked the door with a pass-key.
They found Clussig’s living room deserted. The janitor knocked heavily at the inner door. There was no response. The door refused to budge when the janitor tried it.
“He’s in there,” asserted the janitor. “It’s bolted from the other side. Say — this guy Clussig is a queer duck. Maybe something’s the matter with him. I don’t want to call a copper, but I guess I’ll have to.”
“How about a detective?” questioned Clyde.
“That’s better,” decided the janitor. “Come on.”
He led the way across the hall to a deserted apartment. He called the operator and told her to get detective headquarters. The janitor then handed the telephone to Clyde Burke.
The reporter heard a voice from the other end. He recognized the tones of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York force.
“Hello, Joe,” volunteered Clyde. “This is Burke, of the Classic. Up at the Starleigh Apartments to interview an inventor named Clussig. He’s locked in his room, and won’t reply. Something may be wrong!”
Clyde hung up the receiver and turned to the janitor. The reporter nodded.
“Detective Cardona will be here right away,” he said. “In the meantime, let’s bang again. Maybe we can get some answer.”
It was not long before Joe Cardona arrived. The detective was not alone. There were two men with him — one, another detective, the other a police surgeon. This was proof of Joe Cardona’s confidence in Clyde Burke’s judgment. The detective knew that when the Classic reporter scented trouble, it was likely to exist.
“In that room?” queried Cardona, pointing to the locked door.
“Yes,” returned Clyde. “Bolted from the other side.”
Cardona looked carefully about him, to study the situation before he proceeded. He drew a blackjack from his pocket, and dealt a vicious blow against the panel of the door, just above the knob. He repeated the action. The panel cracked; then broke. Cardona thrust his hand through the opening, drew the bolt, and swung the door inward. He held out a restraining hand as the others crowded forward.
MERLE CLUSSIG’S body was in full view. The inventor’s face was turned toward the door. It had a blackened appearance. There was no question: Clussig was dead.
After a short pause, Cardona strode into the room and went directly to the window. He raised the shade; then, noting that the sash was locked, he smashed the glass to admit a current of fresh air without disturbing the condition of the window frame itself.
The police surgeon approached the body. He did not stoop over it until he was assured that the air in the room had cleared. Then he began an examination.
He turned to Detective Joe Cardona.
“Carbon-monoxide poisoning,” he declared.
“You mean from the door and window being closed?” asked the detective. “The air supply giving out?”
“No,” returned the surgeon. “This is not a case of death by suffocation, produced simply by the exhaustion of oxygen in the air. Carbon monoxide gas has been admitted to this room.”
“I’ve handled garage suicides,” returned Cardona, “but they have always been due to the exhaust from the engine. What is there around here that could do it?”
“I do not know,” admitted the surgeon. “This room is just about air-tight. The carbon monoxide must have risen from the floor, until it overcame this victim.”
“If it’s been piped in here,” declared Cardona grimly, “we’ll find out how.”
Leaving his assistant in charge, Cardona went down to the lobby. Clyde Burke accompanied him. There, the detective called headquarters for more men. Clyde went to call the Classic office. Instead, he telephoned Burbank. He reported what had happened.
It was when Clyde was returning across the lobby that he saw something which made him stop short.
The stairway beside the elevator was dimly lighted. Projecting from its edge was a streak of blackness that lay along the floor. Although that patch was motionless, Clyde knew its meaning. It indicated the presence of an unseen being.
The Shadow had arrived!
“Burke!”
Cardona was calling from beside the switchboard booth. Clyde moved in answer to the detective’s bidding. He found Joe talking to the operator.
“This girl,” announced Cardona, “states that a man came down the stairs and went out after Clussig had gone up. She describes him as short and stocky — about my build — and says that he had a big, heavy jaw that looked scarred. You came in a few minutes afterward. Did you see any man who answered the description she has given?”
“I did,” returned Clyde. “I saw the man outside here. I thought I recognized him.”
“Who?” queried Cardona.
“Do you remember Spud Jagron?” asked Clyde. “The small-fry racketeer who got out of a couple of jams, and thought he was a big shot?”
Clyde paused. Cardona, smiling sourly, was shaking his head. Evidently he doubted Clyde’s recognition.
“Guess again, Burke,” said the detective. “Spud Jagron took the bump. I got it straight from three different stool pigeons. Some real big shot sent him for a ride. He never came back.”
“Maybe I was wrong, Joe. I thought I recognized Jagron, though.”
“I don’t blame you, Burke. The girl’s description sounds a lot like Jagron. But Jagron got his a good while ago. No doubt about it.
“We’ve got a good tip, though. There’s lots of boys on the force who know Jagron’s mug, and if they’re out to find a guy that looks like him, they’ll have a good start.”
Cardona strode toward the elevator. Clyde followed. The reporter’s eye swung toward the stairway.
Clyde saw the streak of blackness fading as it drew away. He knew that The Shadow had heard.
THE wheezy elevator was slow in its ascent. There was trouble opening the door. When Cardona and Clyde stepped out on the third floor, the reporter knew that there had been ample time for any one to come up by foot.
Instinctively, Clyde looked toward the opening to the stairway. Again, be saw a projecting blotch of black.
The Shadow was here!
When Cardona reached the room where Clussig’s body lay, he began a careful study of the place. He closed the door to the little room, and noted that the barrier came against a raised strip on the door sill.
No one could possibly have inserted any device beneath that door.
Cardona examined the window. The lock was strong. Through the broken pane, the detective tested the bars. They did not yield.
Cardona strode from the inner room and examined the outer door of the apartment. Its lock was in good order. As the detective returned to the center of the living room, Clyde looked beyond him to the hall.