SHORTLY afterward, Detective Joe Cardona entered the lobby of the Imperator. Clyde Burke accompanied the sleuth. Cardona strode to the desk and asked for Doctor Johan Arberg. He showed his badge as he spoke. The clerk stared.
“Doctor Arberg is in his room,” he stated. “He has been there since” — the clerk turned to check a record — “since ten minutes after ten.”
“That’s about two hours ago,” remarked Cardona. “Well, we’re going up to see him.”
“Here is the house detective,” informed the clerk, as a stocky man came up to join the group. “Our new man.”
“Detective Cardona, from headquarters,” said Joe, introducing himself. “There was some shooting in an apartment over on the East Side. A dying man said that it was a game to grab some dough from Doctor Johan Arberg.
“I want to find out what the doctor knows. Apparently, he was to be a victim. The crook was delirious when he croaked. I couldn’t tell whether or not Arberg had been over to his place when—”
“What time was the shooting?” questioned the clerk.
“Shortly before nine,” replied Cardona.
“Doctor Arberg was here then,” stated the clerk, looking at his record. “He received a telephone call just before nine; one a few minutes afterward. He went out at nine twenty, and returned at ten ten.”
“Hm-m-m,” grunted Cardona. “Well, that means he wasn’t over at the apartment. I’d been thinking that, anyway. He couldn’t have gotten away from that place very well. I want to talk to him, though. Here’s the way we’ll work it.
“We’ll go upstairs, the three of us” — Cardona indicated himself, Clyde Burke, and the house detective — “before you call the room from the desk. When Arberg answers, tell him a visitor has gone up. We’ll rap on the door right after that.”
“All right,” agreed the clerk.
The trio ascended. They reached the twenty-second floor. They waited outside of Doctor Arberg’s room. The telephone began to ring. No one answered it. The ringing continued.
“Sounds like he isn’t in,” declared Cardona, in a low tone. “That noise ought to have wakened him up by now.”
“The lights are on,” declared the hotel detective, peering at the bottom of the door from the opposite side of the corridor.
“Let’s have the pass key,” ordered Cardona.
To his surprise, the detective found the door unlocked. He opened the barrier and stood upon the threshold of the room. There, Cardona stared at the crumpled form of Doctor Johan Arberg.
“Dead!” exclaimed Cardona, advancing into the room. “Stand back, men. Don’t disturb a thing! This is murder!”
THE ace sleuth did not even approach the telephone. He stationed Clyde Burke beside the door. He ordered the hotel detective to unlock another room and call the desk. When this had been done, Cardona hastened to the telephone in the other room, and called headquarters. He returned to find Clyde and the house man standing exactly where he had left them.
“The police surgeon is on the way,” announced Cardona. “Inspector Timothy Klein is coming up. You’re sure that dead man is Doctor Arberg?”
“Positively,” responded the house detective.
Clyde Burke strolled toward the corridor. Cardona stopped him.
“Where are you going, Burke?” he questioned.
“Out,” responded Clyde weakly. “This sort of hit me, Joe, seeing a dead man all of a sudden. I’ve looked at plenty of them in the morgue — but unexpectedly, like this—”
“You’re not calling the newspaper?” questioned Cardona.
“Not a bit of it, Joe,” assured Clyde. “There’s no story yet. They’d only tell me to get more details.”
“O.K.,” agreed Cardona. “After the inspector gets here, with the surgeon, you can shoot the works.”
“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” assured Clyde. “I just want to steady up a bit — that’s all.”
Clyde walked toward the elevator. The hotel detective snorted.
“Kind of weak around the gills,” he remarked. “Funny, for a police reporter to get that way.”
“Not at all,” returned Cardona. “It’s liable to hit anybody at times.”
CLYDE BURKE, when he reached the lobby, showed complete recovery from the faintness which had struck him. He hurried to an outside telephone and dialed a number. A quiet response came over the wire.
“Burbank speaking,” said the voice.
“Report from Burke,” declared Clyde. “Doctor Johan Arberg murdered in his room at the Hotel Imperator.”
“Await reply,” returned Burbank.
Clyde gave the number of the pay telephone and waited in the booth. Burbank, the man whom he had just called, was the contact agent of The Shadow. A call to Burbank meant that word would be relayed to The Shadow himself.
Clyde Burke, like other active agents of The Shadow, knew virtually nothing concerning the whereabouts of the mysterious chief. Through Burbank, however, they could always reach The Shadow in an emergency.
The telephone rang. Clyde lifted the receiver. He again heard Burbank’s quiet tones. The message was terse.
“Report forwarded,” assured the contact man. “Cover the murder as a regular story for the Classic.”
Clyde Burke reflected as he strode back toward the Hotel Imperator. Burbank’s message meant exactly one thing: that The Shadow, himself, intended to investigate the murder of Doctor Johan Arberg.
Clyde Burke complimented himself upon the speed with which he had sent word to The Shadow. He was sure that the master of darkness, when he arrived, would be able to trace the murderer of the Danish specialist.
Sparkles Lorskin had been a link to Doctor Johan Arberg. The dead Dane would, in turn, point the way to some other person, once The Shadow arrived upon the scene. Perhaps, by that time, Clyde might be able to learn something from Joe Cardona’s study of the case.
Clyde Burke would have been amazed had he known the insidious truth that lay behind the death of Doctor Johan Arberg. His thoughts were speculations on the possible identity of an unknown murderer — not on other deeds of crime.
A problem for The Shadow — the tracking of a fiend. Such were Clyde’s Burke’s thoughts. Yet even while the reporter speculated; even while The Shadow was heading for the scene of crime, new and more insidious murder was reaching its completion elsewhere!
CHAPTER VIII
DESIGNED DEATH
MARTIN HAMPRELL had visited two definite places on his missions of crime. One — Doctor Arberg’s room in the Hotel Imperator — was now occupied by the police. The other, Cyril Wycliff’s bedroom, still preserved its quiet atmosphere.
The full-faced patient was resting quietly in bed. Doctor Barton Keyes, who had just administered the midnight hypodermic, was saying a good night.
The physician turned out the light and left the door slightly ajar. He went downstairs. He passed Vorber, the solemn servant, in the lower hall. He reached the library, where young Howard Wycliff was still in conference with Garrett Slader and Paul Marchelle.
“I still insist,” Slader was saying in his querulous tones, “that Cyril Wycliff should make a definite statement of his estate. It is ridiculous for him to keep his affairs so closely to himself. What is your opinion, Paul?”
“Perhaps,” returned Marchelle thoughtfully, “he is only pretending that he has assets other than those of which we know. He has never discussed these supposed belongings in any specific fashion.”
“That is possible,” admitted Slader, “but I have known Cyril for many years. He has frequently brought out securities and titles from under cover. I suspect that he has some such assets at present.”
“Gentlemen,” interposed Doctor Keyes. “I have heard snatches of this discussion, which seems to be sponsored by Mr. Slader. You, Mr. Slader, are Cyril Wycliff’s attorney. I must remind you that I am his physician. These persistent visits to Cyril Wycliff’s bedside are not at all good for my patient. Will you kindly clarify the situation and its reasons? I believe it should be my privilege to know the facts in detail.”