“Look beside the body,” suggested Joe.
Barth complied. He spotted a disk-like bit of copper upon the floor.
“A percussion cap!” ejaculated the commissioner.
“Like they use on the muzzle-loaders,” reminded Cardona. “And look a little closer to the body, commissioner. See that singed paper by the dead man’s elbow?”
“The wadding!”
“That’s right. They load those old cannons by pouring in the powder; then they jam in a wad and ram the bullet home. The whole works comes out when they fire.”
“But why would a murderer rely upon such an obsolete weapon?”
“Maybe you can give us a pointer on that, doc.”
Cardona turned to the police surgeon as he spoke. The solemn-faced man addressed the commissioner.
“When we probe and remove the bullet,” announced the surgeon, “we will certainly find it to be a large, soft-nosed slug. The shot was discharged at close range. The bullet showed dumdum characteristics, flattening as it penetrated, causing a most horrible wound.”
“A better bet than a modern revolver,” specified Cardona. “It would have been no good at long range, commissioner. But close up, that slug out of a smooth-bore could rip like nobody’s business. The killer wasn’t taking chances when he counted on one shot doing the job.”
“Most amazing!” exclaimed Barth. “You have certainly gathered evidence, Cardona. All you might need—”
“Would be fingerprints,” interposed Joe, “and it looks like we’ve got them right here.”
CARDONA opened an envelope, produced a pair of tweezers and brought out a small, torn piece of paper, He held this into the light. Barth noted a thumb impression on one side; Cardona turned over the paper to show a fingerprint on the other.
“This was lying under Lentz’s shoulder,” explained the detective. “It looks as though he and the killer had some wrangle about a letter. The killer got it; but Lentz managed to hold a fragment of it.”
“Then these impressions,” observed Barth, doubtfully, “may be Lentz’s.”
“Nope. I took impressions from the body. Here they are, commissioner” — Cardona produced another envelope — “and here are samples of Garsher’s fingerprints. I took them before I sent him down to headquarters.”
“Neither matches those on the paper!”
“Way different. There’s only one fellow those impressions could belong to. The tall guy who barged in here and plugged Lentz.”
Cardona pocketed his envelopes. He made final reference to the notebook; then spoke cannily.
“I’m holding George Garsher,” declared the detective. “His story sounds right; the fact he called the elevator dispatcher is in his favor. What’s more, he came in here openly, on business. No sneak to it.
“He’s kind of nervous and woozy, though. That’s to be expected. It won’t hurt to question him more and to keep him jittery. But after all, he hadn’t any gun on him and no cheroots.”
“Could he have been in league with the murderer?”
“I thought about that. But I don’t see how or why. The tall guy must have beat it while the last rush was on. What percentage would there be in Garsher coming up here so soon after?
“But just the same, he was on the ground — with no alibi. There’s been cases where smart killers have made out they’ve discovered the body. We’ll hold Garsher, right enough, until we get some real trail from these clues we’ve started with.”
“Tell me, Cardona, where was Garsher when the patrolman arrived with the dispatcher?”
“Waiting at the door of the outer office. He was done up when they arrived.”
BARTH walked into the outer office. Cardona followed; the surgeon did likewise. The Shadow was alone in the room with the murdered body. In a twinkling, his indolent pose ended. Though he wore the guise of Cranston, he acted with the speed of The Shadow.
Approaching the near side of the desk, The Shadow stood by a half-turned chair that was opposite Lentz’s. This would have been the seat that a visitor would have taken for conference with the inventor.
Turning to his left, The Shadow noticed flicks of ashes near the corner of the table. Looking downward, he spied similar shades of gray upon the floor. Leaning across the table, he peered into the ash tray that Cardona had replaced at the right of Lentz’s chair.
Once again, gray ashes. Typical of Crown cigarettes; but not the blackened wisps that would have come from the burned cheroot. Eying the cigarette stumps themselves, The Shadow spied something that he had noticed before. This closer inspection brought a soft, whispered laugh from his immobile lips.
One cigarette stump differed from the others. Where Lentz had let his own supply burn down to the corks, this one cigarette had been carefully pressed against the metal of the tray. The indication was plain.
A visitor had seated himself opposite Lentz. He had accepted one of the inventor’s cigarettes; had flicked some of the ashes to the floor, because the tray was too far away. At the finish of his smoke, however, he had leaned across the table and extinguished the cigarette with considerable care.
Where Cardona had picked out a visitor who had smoked his own cheroot, The Shadow had found traces of a man who had taken one of Lentz’s cigarettes. This, however, did not indicate two visitors. To The Shadow, it meant only one; but it showed planted evidence of a different person.
The police surgeon was returning. Back in his role of Cranston, The Shadow strolled toward the door and met the physician. Keeping on, The Shadow found the anteroom empty. He strolled into the hall.
Barth and Cardona were standing by the window at the end of the corridor. The window was partly opened.
The telephone bell began to ring from Lentz’s office. Cardona completed a statement to Barth.
“We won’t find any further clues,” affirmed the detective, “but I’m going to check up on all Lentz’s friends. Wait a minute, commissioner. That must be headquarters calling.”
Barth glanced at his watch. It showed ten minutes after six. The commissioner walked back toward the office, which Cardona had just entered.
The Shadow stood by the open window. He peered downward, into the darkened alleyway below. He placed his hands upon the window sash; then paused abruptly as he heard a startled exclamation in the tone of Wainwright Barth.
Stepping toward the office, The Shadow encountered the commissioner coming out. Barth’s manner showed wild excitement; his eyes were glittering through his spectacles. Joe Cardona was close behind him. The detective’s face was grim.
“We must leave at once, Cranston!” cried Barth. “We have just received word of another murder. One that occurred ten minutes ago, at the Belgaria Apartments!”
“And from what headquarters says,” added Cardona, “it’s the duplicate of this one. The killer is loose, commissioner. He’s started a trail of victims!”
Barth was hurrying toward the elevators, with Cardona behind him. The Shadow followed last; and for once, his disguised countenance showed definite expression.
A faint smile no longer showed on the lips of Lamont Cranston. The Shadow’s feigned face was grim.
CHAPTER IV
MURDER AT SIX
THE Belgaria Apartments were located on a side street just west of Broadway, not far north of Times Square. The apartment building was an old-fashioned one, eight stories in height; and it looked like a well-preserved establishment when Wainwright Barth and his companions gained their first view of its small lobby.
To the right of an ornamental pillar was a desk with switchboard. A detective was in charge there; two other headquarters men were standing by. One of these dicks recognized the commissioner and hurried to ring the bell of the single elevator.