“Seems to me there was one fellow did,” recalled Wilkert, scratching his head. “Yeah, there was a guy just before I went off duty. Tall fellow, wearin’ a gray overcoat. I thought he was an elevator inspector, maybe.
“Why so?”
“Because he was lookin’ at the card hangin’ in the elevator. All the way up to the eighth. I let him off there. That was the last I seen of him.”
“He did not go out again?”
“I don’t know. It was right after that — right after I came down — that I seen Tukel wasn’t at the switchboard. So I sneaked out to have a smoke.”
“One cigarette?”
“A couple of ‘em. Three, maybe. When I come back, it was pretty close to quarter of six. Tukel had just come on at the switchboard again. So maybe that guy in the gray overcoat figured he’d walk downstairs. Yeah, I guess that’s what he did, maybe, because the arrow inside the elevator was pointin’ to Number 8. I knocked it off.”
Wilkert glanced warily at Tukel, as though fearing that this confession would cost him his job. Tukel glared indignantly; then spoke to Barth.
“Wilkert must have been out fully fifteen minutes,” declared Tukel, “I was absent nearly that length of time. I was not at the desk when this man with the gray overcoat entered.”
“Could he have walked down the stairs?” inquired Barth. “Could he have left while both you and Wilkert were absent?”
“Yes,” returned Tukel, “he could have.”
“Suppose the man stayed up there until after six, commissioner,” put in Cardona, suddenly. “He could have come down the stairs after that. He could have been the murderer.”
“He could not have come down afterward,” remarked Tukel. “Both Riggs and I were there, at the foot of the stairway. We remained while the officer went up to the eighth floor. Then more policemen arrived.”
“And the lobby has been guarded since,” asserted Klein. “But you have forgotten Mrs. Ditting, commissioner. She is an important witness—”
“Ah, yes.” Barth turned and bowed to the nervous woman. “We should like to hear your testimony, Mrs. Ditting.”
“I was in my apartment,” declared the woman, her voice surprisingly steady, “and first I heard angry voices in the hall. That was followed by the slam of a door.”
“At what time?” quizzed Barth.
“About half past five or a little later,” recalled the woman. “I knew that Mr. Morath must be one of the speakers, because he is the only other person who has an apartment on this floor.”
“Proceed, please.”
“Then, at about six o’clock, I heard an odd sound that seemed quite muffled. I was terrified when I thought that it might have been a pistol shot. I don’t know what prompted me to do so, but I opened the door of my apartment.
“Just as I reached the hallway, I heard the elevator door slam shut. That must have been a full minute after the gunshot, because I hesitated before going out. On the floor by the elevator, I saw the body.
“I ran back into my apartment. I closed the door and bolted it. Then I went to the telephone and called Mr. Tukel at the desk. I waited in my apartment until after the officers arrived.”
Barth paced the room while all present watched him. Apparently the commissioner was deep in thought. But conclusions were barren; for Barth finally turned to Cardona and asked:
“What do you think about it, Cardona?”
JOE suppressed a grin. Passing the buck was an old trick of Barth’s. Joe knew that his superior was pretending that he had formed some theory. Actually, Barth had thought of nothing; and Cardona knew it.
“Well, commissioner,” decided Joe, “somebody murdered Morath. What’s more, the killer made a get-away. He couldn’t have gone down the stairs. How else could he have left?”
“By the fire tower!” exclaimed Tukel. “It leads down to a courtyard beside the building. It would have been a sure method of escape.”
“Where does it go from there?” quizzed Cardona.
“The courtyard,” returned Tukel. “It has a passage to the front street.”
“Not to the back street?”
“No. The only way that the man could have reached the rear street would be through the basement. It connects with an apartment building behind this one. But he could not have reached the basement.”
“Why not?”
“Because the door to it leads off from the lobby. What is more, the door is locked. Riggs has the key; and Riggs was with me in the lobby.”
Cardona looked at Riggs. The janitor nodded and produced a ring of keys, indicating the one that fitted the basement door.
“Suppose we look at the fire tower,” suggested Cardona, turning to Barth.
The commissioner nodded his approval. Cardona and Klein started out; Barth beckoned to Cranston, who followed with him. When they reached the tower, they found Cardona and Klein blinking flashlights on the steps. The four descended.
One floor down, Cardona stopped abruptly. He focused his flashlight on a step and pointed. The others looked into the circle of light. They saw a short, blackened stump.
“A cheroot!” exclaimed Barth.
“Looks like a thin cigar,” observed Klein.
“It’s a cheroot, Tim,” explained Cardona. “Kind of a stogy clipped off at both ends. What’s more” — Joe picked up the stump triumphantly — “it matches the one we found at Lentz’s. We’re on the right trail, commissioner. Let’s keep going.”
They reached the bottom of the fire tower. There Cardona made another discovery. Stacked near the lowest step were several cans of paint. Fluid had dripped from one to form a splotch beside the step.
Squarely in the undried paint was the mark of a rubber heel. It bore the diamond-shaped imprints. Cardona leaned down to examine it closely.
“The same as at Lentz’s!” exclaimed Joe. “The trail again, commissioner! Say — if that spectacle case upstairs—”
“We shall examine it, Cardona. Possibly the murderer dropped it.” Barth paused musingly. “A tall man, in a gray overcoat. Come, Cardona! Look about along the passage to the street.”
CARDONA moved along with Klein, and Barth followed. As soon as they had moved out from the fire tower, a flashlight blinked where they had been. Barth would have been surprised had he returned at that moment; for he would have found his friend, Lamont Cranston, showing unusual zeal.
Stooped above the paint splotch, The Shadow was examining the heel print by the glow of a tiny flashlight that cast a beam no larger than a silver dollar.
A whispered laugh sounded in the darkness above the glow. Again, The Shadow had detected a fact that Cardona had failed to note. The position of the splotch; the careful insertion of the heel — both were indications that the paint had been purposely spilled and the print implanted within it.
The light blinked out. The soft laugh faded. Strolling from the fire tower, The Shadow was joining the others. He had resumed the leisurely role of Lamont Cranston.
Once again, however, The Shadow had gained a definite clue. The second cheroot; the second heel print — these did not surprise him, for he was expecting a planted trail.
But the sequel to The Shadow’s finding was one that even he had not anticipated. It came shortly after he had joined Barth, Cardona and Klein. The three had continued a futile search. Barth, glancing at his watch, was remarking that it was after seven o’clock, when hurried footsteps came pounding down the fire tower.
Cardona blinked his flashlight in that direction. Into the glare came Logan, the dick who had manned the elevator. Logan’s face showed excitement as he blurted news to Commissioner Barth.
“Another murder sir!” exclaimed the detective. “Just heard about it from headquarters. Over at the Hotel Gilderoy, near Lexington Avenue. A man named Newell Frieth — shot through the heart—”