“What’re the details, Tilden?” questioned Cardona. “As you’ve got them?”
“The dead guy’s name is Howard Morath,” replied the dick whom Joe had addressed by name. “A lawyer, living in Apartment B on the eighth floor. Inspector Klein is up there now, with the doctor.”
“Headquarters told me it was death by gunshot.”
“That’s right. Somebody plugged Morath in the hallway outside of his apartment. Here’s the elevator. Logan is running it.”
The door of the elevator opened to show a detective who had taken over the operator’s duty. Barth and Cardona stepped aboard; when the commissioner looked around, he saw Lamont Cranston strolling leisurely aboard.
The car rose to the eighth floor. Logan opened the door. The arrivals found themselves staring squarely at a body that lay a dozen feet away. The form was that of a middle-aged man, whose thin hair showed a conspicuous bald spot atop his side-tilted head.
Like Jeremy Lentz, Howard Morath had been shot through the heart; but he had slumped sidewise to the floor. His light gray vest was tinged with blood from a gaping wound. He, too, had been shot at close range.
A GRIZZLED police officer was standing near the body. This was Inspector Timothy Klein. Beside him was a police surgeon, who had completed an examination of the body. Klein looked about as the arrivals stepped from the elevator. He came forward to speak to Barth.
“An odd case, commissioner,” informed the inspector. “The surgeon here agrees with me that it wasn’t an ordinary bullet that killed this man. More like a slug; and I’ve got something here to prove it.”
Extending his hand, Klein showed a tiny copper cap and a fragment of burned paper wadding. Barth eyed the objects; then looked toward Cardona and nodded wisely.
“Must have been an old-time muzzle-loading pistol,” went on Klein. “The kind they load with a ramrod. Those guns are mighty dangerous at close range.”
“I understand that,” stated Barth. “What other clues have you gained, Klein?”
“Nothing else yet, commissioner. But I’ve got some witnesses in Apartment B; elevator operators, clerk at the desk—”
“Have you cross-examined them?”
“Not yet.”
“Let us talk to them.”
Klein led the way to the apartment. Entering a well-furnished living room, the arrivals found three solemn-looking men seated on a long divan. A man in overalls was slouched in the corner. A middle-aged woman was seated in a large chair beside a table, fidgeting nervously with her fingers. A policeman stood on guard.
“All right, Sycher.” Klein addressed a pale, long-faced fellow who was one of the trio on the couch. “We’ll hear your story first. This fellow, commissioner, was the operator on duty in the elevator.”
Barth nodded. He and the others watched Sycher as the man came to his feet. Sycher was wearing street clothes; evidently the Belgaria employees were not required to don uniforms.
“I came on duty about a quarter of six,” began Sycher, in a hoarse tone. “Wilkert here” — he indicated a dull-faced occupant of the couch — “was due to go off and I got in early. Mr. Tukel here” — Sycher pointed to the other man on the divan — “was at the desk. I was talking to him.”
“How long?” asked Klein.
“Up until six o’clock,” returned Sycher. “Nobody coming in; nobody going out. But it was while I was standing around that I saw the spectacle case that somebody had dropped on the elevator floor.”
“He refers to this, commissioner.”
Klein produced a worn case of imitation leather and snapped it open to show it empty. “Has the name of ‘Dunbar and Dobbs, Optometrists.’ Sycher found it and turned it over to Tukel.”
“Go on with your statement,” ordered Barth, eying Sycher as he spoke.
“Well, commissioner” — the operator was steadying as he spoke — “it’s six o’clock, see? And the signal buzzes in the elevator. Bzzz — bzzz — bzzz — impatient like. I says to Tukel that I’ll bet it’s Morath calling. Always went out to eat at six sharp, Morath did; and he was always in a hurry.
“So the buzz starts again and when I gets in the elevator, it shows the eighth floor. I shoves the door shut and starts up. Quick buzzes again; then they quit. Kind of puzzled me, that did. Morath always kept ringing until the elevator showed up.
“When I’m at the eighth floor, I open the door. That’s when I see Morath, laying there like he is now. Dead like a doorknob. I stood shaking like this” — Sycher quivered as he spoke — “and I kept staring at the body. Then I got scared. I slammed the door and dropped down to the ground floor in a hurry. So’s I could tell Tukel.
“I find he’s just got a call from Mrs. Ditting in Apartment D on the eighth. The janitor’s there in the lobby just by luck — come into the lobby from outside — so Tukel hangs on to him and chases me out for a copper.”
Sycher stopped abruptly. He looked about nervously; then sat down on the couch, indicating that his testimony was ended. Klein turned to Barth.
“FULL name is Albert Sycher,” stated the inspector. “He has been working here for seven weeks. He found Officer Steele at the corner of Broadway and brought him here. Steele reported the murder.”
“Let us hear Tukel’s testimony,” suggested Barth.
The clerk arose without prompting. He was a dapper, sleek-haired man, who looked nervous but spoke steadily. He began by giving information about himself.
“Lane Tukel is my name,” he stated. “I have been clerk at the Belgaria Apartments for nearly two years. I came on duty this afternoon at four o’clock; but I was not at the desk constantly. Other duties caused me to leave the switchboard for short intervals.
“I was present at quarter of six when Sycher relieved Wilkert. I found it necessary to reprimand Wilkert because he had left the elevator at times during the afternoon. I warned Sycher, also, that I would not tolerate poor service on his part. That, however, was merely a detail.”
Tukel was displaying an air of self-importance. His expression changed when he noted that Barth was becoming impatient. Tukel spoke quickly as he came to the important testimony.
“Sycher made remarks about Mr. Morath, when he heard those buzzes at six o’clock. He went into the elevator and I remained behind the desk. I saw a light on the switchboard about two minutes later. I answered the call; it was Mrs. Ditting, in Apartment 8 D.
“Mrs. Ditting spoke very excitedly. She said that someone had been murdered. She thought it was Mr. Morath. She wanted aid at once. I promised prompt response, and was about to call the police, when the janitor — Riggs — came in from the front door.
“I told him what had happened; and I was about to send him for an officer when the elevator arrived from the eighth floor. Sycher came out, very white, and blurted what he had seen. I sent him for the policeman. Riggs and I waited here until he returned.”
Tukel looked about as though expecting questions. Klein was about to ask one when Barth waved an interruption. The commissioner called for the janitor’s testimony. The man in overalls slouched from the corner.
Riggs said simply that he had been out front replacing a broken window pane. The job completed, he had walked into the lobby just as the excitement started.
Barth waved the janitor back and called on Wilkert.
“THERE ain’t nothin’ I can tell you,” asserted the dull-faced operator. “I was off duty at quarter to six. Eatin’ down at the lunch room at the corner when a cop comes in an’ asks for me. Tells me I’m wanted here.”
“Perhaps you can tell us exactly what we wish to know,” remonstrated Barth. “Did any strangers come into the elevator while you were on duty? Did anyone ride to the eighth floor?”