“GOOD smokes, these,” remarked the dispatcher, tapping his pocket. “Next time that fellow Garsher comes in, I’ll remind him to leave a couple for you.”
“He blows in regular?” queried the cop. “Customers in the building?”
“Yeah. He sells high-class brands at a cut rate. Does a good business here. Usually comes in with a big stack and goes out empty-handed. Well, Terry, how does it look out? Due for rain?”
“No. But it’s chilly, though. And me on the beat with this cold of mine. Well, I’ve stuck it out all week. Guess I can keep going. But I don’t figure it’s a bad idea to step inside once in a while. It don’t hurt on this beat.”
Terry leaned back against the wall. His elbow jostled a telephone from the table. The dispatcher caught the instrument before it fell to the floor. He hung the receiver on the hook and replaced the instrument on the table.
“Don’t knock it again, Terry,” he warned. “We’ve cracked a couple of ‘em on this stone floor. Phone company got sore about it.”
“What does this do? Hook up with the offices? I didn’t know you had a switchboard service in this building.”
“We don’t. This is just the building phone. But we gave out cards with the numbers to all the guys that have offices here. So they can call down if they want service. And we can reach them at night, too. The owner’s kind of particular. Here’s the list. All the phone numbers in the building.”
The dispatcher pulled a small book from a drawer in the table. He handed it to the patrolman. Terry was glancing through the pages when the telephone began to ring. The dispatcher answered it.
“Hello…” There was a curious pause in the dispatcher’s voice. Terry looked up. “Hello… Who? Lentz… You mean… Sure, he’s still here… Yeah. We’ll be right up.”
“What is it?” queried the cop, as the dispatcher hung up the telephone.
“Something’s happened to a guy named Lentz,” was the response. “That was Garsher calling. The bird with the cigars.”
“From Lentz’s office?”
“Yeah. On the third floor.”
Passengers were coming from another elevator. The dispatcher and the policeman hurried into the emptying car. The dispatcher spoke to the operator. The door clanged. They rode to the third floor.
The dispatcher guided Terry along the gloomy hall. A lighted patch greeted them. It came from the door of Lentz’s office. They saw Garsher standing, there, his cigar boxes tumbled on the floor beside him.
“Look — look inside,” panted the stubby man. He was clutching at the door frame. “In the — in the inside office. It’s — it’s Lentz!”
The patrolman shouldered through. He reached the inner door and drew it outward. He stopped short on the threshold, staring at the sight before him while the dispatcher looked over his shoulder.
Halfway between table and door lay Jeremy Lentz, dead. The inventor had apparently slumped forward; then rolled upon his back. There was no doubt as to the cause of Lentz’s death. He had been slain by a gunshot.
A huge, gaping wound showed in Lentz’s bloodstained shirt front. Crimson was still oozing from the spot where a murderous slug had entered. The patrolman had seen such sights before. He knew that Lentz had been shot through the heart.
TURNING about, the officer motioned the dispatcher back into the outer office. White-faced, the fellow leaned against the wall. Garsher, his features pitiful, was looking in from the door.
“Is — is — he dead?” stammered the cigar salesman.
“I’ll say he is!” responded the patrolman. “What did you do? Walk in and find him there?”
“I–I waited here for a few minutes. Here — here in the outer office. Then — then I knocked at the inside door. But there wasn’t any answer.”
“So you opened the door?”
“Yes — after I had knocked. After I had knocked twice. Then — then I almost stepped onto the body. I–I saw the face. I knew it was Mr. Lentz.”
“And you used this phone to call downstairs?” demanded the patrolman, indicating an instrument on the desk.
Garsher nodded.
“Where’d you get the number?”
The cigar salesman pointed to a card that was dangling from the mouthpiece of the telephone. It carried the number of the building telephone.
“Sit down over there,” ordered the cop, indicating a chair. “No — never mind those cigar boxes. Do what I tell you. Stay there while I call headquarters.”
Garsher slumped in the chair and buried his face in his hands. The dispatcher weakly managed himself to another vacant chair. He, too, was shaken.
But Terry the cop was brisk and businesslike. He completed his report; then hung up the receiver of Lentz’s telephone. Garsher’s face bobbed up when Terry had finished talking.
“You — you’re holding me here?” queried the cigar salesman. “Just because — because I found the body and told you about it? Honest, officer, I–I didn’t have anything to do with it!”
“We’ll find out about that later,” returned the patrolman. “You’ll get a chance to tell your story later.”
“You — you’re holding me — for murder?”
“Never mind. Just sit tight and wait. Maybe for murder; maybe as a material witness. It’s not my job to decide which. You’ll find out what’s what when the inspector gets here.”
As Garsher sagged in his chair, the patrolman approached him and began a search of his pockets. He hoisted the cigar salesman in order to complete the search; then, finding no gun, he thrust Garsher back into his chair.
The net result of the frisk consisted of six cigars, which the patrolman placed on the desk beside the telephone. As an afterthought, he added the two perfectos that Garsher had given him in the lobby.
The dispatcher saw the action and solemnly brought out his own cigars, setting them down as if they were poisonous.
George Garsher did not see the action.
His head was buried against his forearm as he sat slumped in the chair. To him waiting was to be an ordeal, as minutes began their slow progress in that room outside the office where a man lay dead.
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW’S CLUES
SHORTLY before six o’clock, two persons arrived at the antiquated office building where Jeremy Lentz had been murdered. A policeman stationed at the street door saluted as he recognized one of the two men as Acting Commissioner Wainwright Barth.
Tall, forward stooped and bald-headed, Wainwright Barth looked like an eagle in search of prey. Upon his nose the acting commissioner wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles. His eyes gleamed through the glasses in eager fashion.
His pace, too, showed that Barth was keen in his desire to look into crime. With brisk stride, he headed for a waiting elevator; reaching that spot, he waved impatiently for his companion to join him.
“Come, Cranston!” exclaimed Barth. “We must not dilly-dally. Detective Cardona is awaiting us. This case demands my prompt supervision.”
Barth’s companion strolled into the elevator. He, like the acting commissioner, was tall; but there the resemblance ended. For Lamont Cranston, erect of carriage, calm of demeanor, showed none of the haste that characterized the commissioner.
Known as a globe-trotting multimillionaire, Lamont Cranston spent much of his leisure time at the exclusive Cobalt Club. There he drifted about in languid fashion, accepting life with absolute ease.
Wainwright Barth was also a member of the Cobalt Club; thus he was a friend of Lamont Cranston. Oddly, the only times that Cranston seemed ready to snap out of his indolence were on those occasions when Barth was called to a scene of crime.