“We’ll go down the other way,” declared Cardona.
They started along the hall. They stopped at the end, and Cardona tried a locked door.
“Glendenning has a niece,” explained Cardona. “This is her room — when she’s home. The secretary said she went away. The old man doesn’t know she’s gone.”
He tried a few keys, and finally opened the door. The room was plain, but neatly furnished. Cardona strode across to look at something lying on the table. In another minute, he was reading a note, aloud:
“UNCLE CLINTON:
“I have left. I can bear it here no longer. I have been deceived. I know now what has become of the one I loved. I can never forget him. Do not fear that I shall ever tell what I have learned about you. Simply know that I am out of your life forever.
“MARGARET.”
THE detective passed the note to the inspector, who studied it close to the window.
“The girl was wise,” declared Cardona. “She must have found out the old man’s game. Maybe we can trace her.”
There was a call from downstairs. Cardona hastened in that direction. Clyde Burke followed. What a scoop this all would be for the Classic!
But even more this thought was Clyde’s most important one — it would make a report of high value to The Shadow!
“How about this door?” a plainclothes man was questioning Cardona, in the hall at the back of the stairs. “Looks like it leads down to the cellar.”
Cardona was busy with the keys. The door opened. The detective’s flashlight showed a wall switch. Cardona pressed it, but there was no illumination.
With his electric lantern, the ace detective started down the steps. He reached the cellar with Burke, and the other man behind him.
A nailed-up coal bin caught Cardona’s eye. The detective moved forward to investigate. His assistant wrested with the boards, and Clyde Burke lent a hand. An opening was made, and all stepped through.
In the corner of the compartment was a heavy box, fastened with a padlock. None of the keys answered. The man who had called Cardona disappeared. He returned with a hammer.
The lock resisted his first blows; then a well-directed stroke shattered it. Cardona raised the lid of the box and let his flashlight glare into the interior.
The lid of the box dropped. Cardona turned to the other men, who were at the entrance of the bin. Cardona’s arm was lowered; the flashlight glared upward, and the detective’s solemn face showed strangely as the rays revealed it.
“What is it?” exclaimed Clyde, startled at the sudden change that had swept over Cardona.
“A body,” replied the detective slowly. “A body. The dead body of a man — murdered! Another victim — murdered by the fiend that we have captured!”
CHAPTER XII
DONEGAN PREPARES
IT was Friday evening. Flash Donegan was glum as he sat in his dim apartment. He stared at the wall of the room, and swore feelingly. For Flash Donegan was not pleased with the way matters had been going.
Some one tapped at the door. Flash recognized the sound. He called out, “Come in!”
The door opened, and Dip Riker entered. Flash greeted his underling with a snarl.
“It’s time you showed up!” he growled. “Fine egg you are! Don’t stand there gawking. Get in here and sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Dip obeyed. Despite the fact that he felt himself the equal of Flash Donegan, the wolfish gangster knew that he was at fault. Something had gone wrong last night.
Dip had not yet learned what it was. He sat down and tried to meet Donegan’s glare, but failed. Dip shifted uneasily In his chair.
“You caused plenty of trouble,” said Flash accusingly. “If you’d stuck to your job, we’d be all right now. Why didn’t you trail that guy Vincent?”
“I did trail him, Flash,” protested Dip. “But you know I’ve got to be careful. It would have been all off if he’d spotted me. I couldn’t stick too close to him.”
“You weren’t doing any good by being in a speakeasy,” retorted Flash. “You should have been sticking close to the hotel. Last night was the big night and you — asleep!”
“It was an accident, Flash,” responded Dip. “Honest. I thought a guy was goin’ to slug me, an’ I started to pull my gat. Then a whole mob lit on me. I was in a bad jam, Flash.
“There was a guy there helped me out. Say, Flash” — Dip was seeking to arouse enthusiasm — “there’s a bird we can use, any time you need him. Cliff Marsland. He’s an ace. He’s a friend of Pete’s—”
“Don’t talk about that now,” broke in Flash. “I’m not figuring on who I’m going to get with me. I’m wondering how I can get rid of mugs like you. Think that over!”
Dip Riker did think it over. He sat silently, watching Flash from the corner of his eyes. Rebukes were not to Dip’s liking; but he could furnish no retort.
At times, he was on the verge of speaking, but invariably thought better of it. Flash did not reopen the conversation.
Twenty minutes passed, and Dip began to wonder why Flash Donegan had summoned him here tonight. Certainly they were gaining nothing by silence.
Dip wanted to talk, but every time he opened his mouth, the sight of Flash stopped him. The smooth-mannered racketeer was in an evil humor. Dip had no desire to further arouse his ire.
There was another rap at the door. Flash growled in response. In came Lance Bolero. Flash motioned the tawny gunman to a chair.
Bolero looked at Dip Riker. He sensed the situation. Like Dip, Lance was not anxious to talk.
But Flash Donegan was demanding now. He acted as though he had two miserable offenders before him. He was ready to denounce the pair. He chose Lance Bolero as his victim.
“So you botched it last night, eh?” he quizzed. “Marty’s on the shelf, eh? Serves him right for not doing what I told him. You’re to blame, too. Why did you let that guy get away? You’re yellow!”
Bolero’s eyes blazed; but he managed to control himself. A crafty look appeared upon his face. He knew what Flash expected. Excuses. Bolero began on another tack.
“You’re talkin’ about last night, are you?” he demanded. “Well, that’s what I came to see you about. Last night.
“You gave me an’ Marty a bum steer. That’s all. There’s only one way a guy can figure it. You were givin’ us the double cross!”
FLASH DONEGAN was on his feet, threatening. His fists were close to Bolero’s face. Lance did not quail. He was willing to meet Flash any time.
“You’ll take that back,” growled Flash.
“Maybe you’ll take back what you said,” retorted Lance.
“You called me a double-crosser!”
“Well, you said I was yellow!”
Dip broke in with a raucous laugh. The scene appeared to be amusing him.
“Quit actin’ like a couple of punks,” he said. “There’s no use in callin’ each other names. What’s the matter with you tonight, Flash? You don’t give a guy a chance to say nothin’. Be yourself!”
Flash Donegan turned away, disgruntled. He realized that there was common sense in what Dip said; at the same time, he could not forget the bungling that had destroyed his plans.
One reflection, however, persuaded him that he should not be too hasty. It was not Lance Bolero who had done the greatest bungling. Marty Jennings had been the principal offender.
Swinging, Flash looked at the men before him, turning his gaze from one to the other. He finally centered on Bolero.
“All right, Lance,” he said quietly. “Let’s forget the argument. Maybe I’m wrong. Give me the low-down on why the job flopped last night.”
“It was that phone call, first of all,” said Lance, feeling easy now that Flash was mollified. “We were on the job all right. The guy an’ the moll went by — they gave the signal — leastwise the guy did.