“So I arranged,” remarked Cranston, “to have my limousine available. It is outside. I should be glad to ride with you to the Bronx if you feel that our dinner might best be postponed.”
“Excellent,” declared Weston warmly. “I shall accept your invitation. Let us go at once.”
Lamont Cranston called for hat and coat. With Commissioner Weston, the millionaire strode from the Cobalt Club. A limousine drew up to the curb. They stepped in.
Commissioner Weston was elated at this turn of events. A showman by nature, a man who regarded his office as a unique position, Weston was pleased at the opportunity to take along so unusual a companion as Lamont Cranston.
The millionaire, in turn, wore a placid smile that Weston did not detect. The police commissioner had no inkling whatever to Lamont Cranston’s real purpose in extending this invitation. He did not know that the supposed telephone message from Inspector Klein was a mere pretext.
Weston thought that Lamont Cranston was serving him. The contrary was the case. Weston was serving Lamont Cranston. In his guise of an influential millionaire, The Shadow was traveling to find the message which Schuyler Harlew had left for him.
The Shadow’s passport on this unusual mission was the police commissioner of New York City!
CHAPTER III
THE INVESTIGATION
“HERE’S the body, inspector.”
Joe Cardona grunted his response to the policeman who spoke the words. The officer had just swung open the door of the third-floor room. Cardona was staring at the form of Schuyler Harlew, spread upon the floor.
“We haven’t touched anything,” declared the policeman. “There’s the letter on the table.”
“All right,” growled Cardona. “Captain Mowry told me all about it. He’ll be up here in a minute.”
A heavy man in the uniform of a police captain came up the stairs a few moments after Cardona had spoken. He stopped at the door beside the detective, and stood silently while Cardona studied the body. This was Captain Mowry, in charge of the precinct where the murder had taken place.
Cardona entered the room. He noted the light still burning in the green-shaded lamp. He saw the little desk clock. He observed the note that lay on the desk. He began to read it.
He was reaching forward to pick up the paper when he heard the sound of new footsteps on the stairs. He swung inquiringly toward the captain.
“I left word no one was to come up,” announced the police officer. “Go ahead; I’ll see who it is.”
As the captain looked down the hall, Cardona stepped to the door. He saw the captain salute and step back a pace.
Peering from the room, Cardona saw the reason. The star detective repressed a scowl as he recognized Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
“Hello, Cardona,” was the commissioner’s greeting. “Just heard from Inspector Klein that you were up here. You have met Mr. Cranston?”
Cardona nodded. He had met the prominent millionaire, and knew Cranston as a friend of Weston’s. Cardona submitted to the commissioner’s intervention with good grace. It paid to be friendly with Weston, as Cardona had learned, and now that the commissioner was here, there was nothing to do but accept the fact.
“Go right ahead, Cardona,” ordered Weston. “Don’t let us disturb you. Mr. Cranston and I are here purely as interested spectators.”
CARDONA resumed his study of the body. He received a sheet of notes from the captain. He referred to them as he crossed the room, and peered through the narrow space of the window. Carefully noting the exact position of the hinged sash, he opened it farther and thrust his head through. He peered down a sheer wall three stories to the street. Withdrawing his head, he closed the sash part way to its original position.
He went to the desk, read the page of notes that he held, then picked up the yellow sheet upon which Schuyler Harlew had written. Turning to Commissioner Weston, Cardona made his statement.
“This man was living here under an assumed name,” he said. “He called himself David Gurgler. His real name, according to this statement that he left, is Schuyler Harlew.”
“When was he murdered?” inquired Weston.
“He had been staying here for three days,” announced Cardona. “He was paid up for a week in advance. He called down the stairs for his meals; they were brought up to him. To-day, the landlady supposed that he had gone out for lunch. When dinner time arrived, she knocked at the door. It was locked. Harlew did not answer.
“The landlady — Mrs. Parsons — called for the police. The door was opened with a pass-key. Harlew was presumably slain last night. If this note is reliable, we can set the time at midnight.”
Cardona handed the note to Weston. The commissioner, holding the paper so that Cranston could see it, began to read. He stopped upon the second line. As Cardona had expected, an angry look appeared upon Weston’s face.
“Is this a hoax?” demanded the commissioner.
“I don’t know, sir,” responded Cardona. “I was informed at headquarters that the note was here on the desk. I was just reading it when you arrived.”
“Hm-m-m,” commented Weston. “The Shadow. Any document that refers to an imaginary being is worthless. If this man” — he pointed to Harlew’s body — “wrote the note, he was probably in a frenzied, irrational condition. If some one else wrote it, and placed it here, we can regard the message as a hoax.”
The commissioner continued to study the yellow paper, reading it over and over with an angry glare. Lamont Cranston, standing at Weston’s elbow, had carefully perused every word. The millionaire was studying Cardona, as the detective moved about the room.
Cardona looked at the key upon the floor, near the door. He consulted the notes which had been given him. He knelt beside the body, and carefully examined the handle of the knife. Wrapping a handkerchief about it, he slowly withdrew the weapon from Harlew’s body, and placed it upon a sheet of paper.
THE knife was like a stiletto. It had a symmetry that was immediately apparent. The blade was rounded; it came to a long, tapering point. The handle was cylindrical.
Detective Cardona arose from beside the body.
“The window,” he said, as he turned to Weston, “is inaccessible. No one could come up that wall without being seen. There are lights below, on the sidewalk. This key, however” — Cardona pointed to the floor — “gives us an answer to how the murderer entered. There is no evidence whatever that the door was locked.”
“You mean before the murder?” asked Weston.
“Yes,” returned Cardona. “Harlew was probably seated in that chair. The murderer entered. Harlew jumped up and saw him. As they grappled, the murderer stabbed him in the back.
“Before he left the room, the killer may have opened the window — or left it open. He took the key, closed the door behind him, and locked it from the outside. He shoved the key under the door, so it would look as though Harlew was trying to unlock the door when he died.”
“Very good,” agreed Weston. “You feel rather certain in that conclusion?”
“It looks logical, commissioner.”
“Then” — Weston’s tone was triumphant — “there is no doubt about this note. It is a hoax. A trick to deceive us.”
Cardona looked up quickly. He saw the point of the commissioner’s argument. He nodded promptly, and voiced his agreement, although his words held a tinge of doubt.
“Yes,” he said, “the murderer would have seen the note and destroyed it. But by planting the note, the murderer could put us off the track. There’s only one way to figure it different.”