There was only one answer. He had left the clock on the floor for the express purpose of deceiving investigators. The murderer had considered that factor of more importance than the purloining of objects of value. He had taken cash and belongings to establish robbery as the motive; he had left the clock to establish a wrong time for the deed. In so doing, he had deceived the police, but not The Shadow!
As though measuring time in terms of space, The Shadow rested his thumb and forefinger upon the schedule so that it included the tabulations from 10:10 to 12:20. According to Joe Cardona, the murder must have been committed within that span of time.
The Shadow’s fingers moved. Cardona’s theory was finally rejected. One fact remained obvious. The murderer’s advantage would not be materially aided by leaving the clock to indicate any time between twenty-five after ten and the hour of midnight. Any robber would have considered the clock itself of greater value.
The Shadow’s fingers moved higher up the schedule. They indicated the time between nine o’clock and ten minutes after ten. They narrowed to show those twenty minutes between nine and the time when Doctor Arberg had been seen leaving the hotel lobby. The Shadow laughed softly.
Here was the answer. If murder had been done within that space of time, the slayer would have every reason to leave the clock upon the floor, after setting its hands ahead — not back!
THE SHADOW knew the truth. Doctor Arberg had been killed shortly after nine o’clock. The man who had been seen leaving the hotel lobby; the man who had returned at ten minutes after ten; was not Doctor Johan Arberg. He was none other than the murderer himself, disguised as the Danish specialist!
Perhaps The Shadow’s own activities — the ease with which he, himself, had earlier played the part of Doctor Arberg — accounted for his prompt conclusions. The result, however, was definite. The Shadow knew that he was dealing with a master murderer — not an ordinary criminal. He knew also that the man had held some hidden purposes in his crime.
It was the murderer who had called up at five minutes after ten, to make sure that his deed had not been discovered. He had then returned to make his final appearance as Doctor Arberg. A span of fifty minutes had been all that he required.
Why?
That was the question which The Shadow faced. But in this situation, The Shadow was equipped to follow a true clew while Joe Cardona still continued along a blind trail. The Shadow knew that the morrow would, perhaps, bring word of Doctor Arberg’s supposed whereabouts between twenty minutes past nine and ten after ten.
Cardona would think nothing of that matter. The Shadow, however, would follow the new clew. For in finding the place where Doctor Arberg had been seen during those important fifty minutes, The Shadow would be tracing the actions of the murderer himself!
The light clicked. The room was plunged in darkness. Amid the Stygian atmosphere of this unknown black-walled room, The Shadow’s laugh resounded with sinister tone. Eerie echoes responded with a sobbing shudder. When the last ghoulish reverberations had died away, the room was empty.
The Shadow had departed from his sanctum, that hidden abode where he made research into the ways of crime. His plans for his next step were in the making. The clew of the clock had served The Shadow well!
CHAPTER X
MURDERERS GLOAT
A NEW evening had descended upon Manhattan. In the living room of a sumptuous hotel suite, two men were reading the latest editions of the afternoon newspapers. One man chuckled as he looked up from his reading. The action revealed the evil, smiling features of Martin Hamprell.
The man who had slain Doctor Johan Arberg seemed pleased with the newspaper reports. He looked at his companion, a big, bluff-faced, domineering fellow. Martin Hamprell spoke.
“All’s well,” he remarked. “Plenty of talk about Doctor Johan Arberg.”
“And none about Martin Hamprell,” chuckled the bluff-faced man.
“Nor Ward Fetzler,” added Hamprell, staring straight at his companion.
A worried look appeared upon the big man’s haughty face. Meeting Hamprell’s steady gaze, the man offered a definite objection.
“Leave my name out of it, Hamprell,” he ordered.
“Your name is out of it, Fetzler,” declared Hamprell. “So is mine. We’re in the same boat, you and I — and it’s a good ship.”
“You did the murder.”
“You offered me the job.”
Fetzler scowled. Hamprell smiled. He tossed his newspaper aside, rose from his chair, advanced, and clapped the big man on the shoulder.
“Why worry?” he questioned. “So long as I stay here, as your companion, we’re both safe. We might as well be pals. You’ve hired me; I’ve done the job. I’m satisfied. You may need me later.”
“It looks that way,” agreed Fetzler, in a sour tone. “Things are still tied up a bit.”
“Look here, Fetzler,” argued Hamprell. “I’ve done the job you wanted. I’ve been paid. I want you to be satisfied. You don’t appear to be. Why don’t you let me in on the whole idea? Maybe two heads will work better.”
Fetzler made no comment. He was staring gloomily. Hamprell lighted a cigarette and began to speak in a reminiscent tone. His words began to take effect upon Fetzler.
“I’ve been crooked for a long time,” he asserted, “and you knew it. Martin Hamprell — fake promoter; fake physician; fake lawyer; fake what-not. There’s my story. Quite a contrast between myself and you. Ward Fetzler has a reputation for honest dealing. Big landowner and developer. Head of corporations. There’s your story.”
Fetzler looked up as Hamprell paused. The murderer gave a shrewd look, then continued with his discourse.
“You knew my unique abilities,” resumed Hamprell. “You learned that I was in Buffalo. You called me by long-distance telephone and invited me here. You told me frankly that you wanted a certain man to die — namely, Cyril Wycliff. The chief obstacle to Wycliff’s death was the fact that he was recovering from thrombosis, under treatment prescribed by Doctor Johan Arberg of Copenhagen.”
“Correct,” agreed Fetzler. “But why continue—”
“Let me proceed,” interposed Hamprell. “I suggested the plan to eliminate Cyril Wycliff. I decided to impersonate Doctor Johan Arberg. I watched the old doctor from the time he arrived in New York. I prepared my make-up. Then I tried to persuade Doctor Arberg not to visit Wycliff’s home. I failed in persuasion, so I committed murder.
“PLAYING the part of Johan Arberg, I visited Cyril Wycliff. I mixed the ingredients for a hypodermic solution. I had some drugs of my own with me. They proved unnecessary. Small quantities of nitroglycerin had been used in Wycliff’s injections. I mixed a solution overcharged with nitroglycerin. The result was Wycliff’s sudden death after the first injection.”
“My tracks are completely covered. The newspaper accounts prove that fact. The motive for Arberg’s death is accepted as robbery. I left a clock on the floor of Arberg’s room, after setting its hands more than one hour ahead. The murder is believed — positively — to have occurred after Doctor Arberg’s supposed return to the hotel.”
“To add to my good fortune, the police today received a call from Doctor Barton Keyes, the physician attending Cyril Wycliff. Keyes stated that Arberg visited Wycliff’s home between nine and ten. Hence they are sure that Arberg was alive during that period.
“They have seen no connection whatever between the deaths off Cyril Wycliff and Johan Arberg. Doctor Keyes has declared Wycliff’s death the result of thrombosis — a sudden passing that was to be expected.
“Now for my conclusion. Doctor Arberg’s death has been laid to mobsters — jewel thieves — and not to any person of my caliber. Therefore, his death is advantageous. Cyril Wycliff is dead, as you desired. Yet you still appear in a quandary and assert that further murder may be necessary.”