“It may,” interposed Fetzler gravely. “I am counting on you, Hamprell.”
“Count on me,” agreed Hamprell, “only on one condition. Namely, I must know the reasons in back of it all.”
Ward Fetzler considered. Hamprell’s decision seemed fair enough. Fetzler grasped the murderer’s viewpoint. He drummed nervously upon the arms of his chair. He motioned to Hamprell to sit down. The murderer knew that an explanation would be forthcoming.
“HAMPRELL,” began Fetzler, “Cyril Wycliff was a friend of mine. Several years ago, he invested more than one hundred thousand dollars in a large purchase of Utah land that I owned — acreage which offered future profit through the development of shale oil production.”
“Rather speculative,” remarked Hamprell.
“Yes,” agreed Fetzler, “but a sound investment at the price which Wycliff paid. I retained a smaller tract of land adjacent to the acreage which Wycliff purchased. I was not anxious for people to know that I had sold the land. Wycliff was not anxious to have it known that he had bought the property. So he gave me additional money, and I continued to pay the taxes.
“Recently, I discovered pitchblende deposits on the Utah property. I am positive that large quantities of uranium can be produced there. The land, at my estimate, is worth millions. I realized my mistake in having sold the property to Cyril Wycliff. I met him, just prior to his illness, and offered to repurchase it on a profitable basis. He refused to sell.”
“You did not tell him,” remarked Hamprell, “that the land contained pitchblende.”
“Certainly not,” resumed Fetzler. “On my next trip to Utah, I went to see if Cyril Wycliff had registered the new deed to the property, I found out that he had not. The land, to all appearances, is mine — provided only that Wycliff’s deed is never registered!”
“Ah!” Hamprell nodded shrewdly. “Cyril Wycliff will not register the deed now. Someone else, however—”
“The deed is hidden,” interrupted Fetzler. “Cyril Wycliff had a habit of keeping his important papers in places which he alone could reach. When I learned of his illness, I hoped that he would die. As he began to recover, I decided that I must take extreme measures.”
“Which succeeded,” said Hamprell, “thanks to me.”
“Which succeeded only in part,” returned Fetzler.
Martin Hamprell arched his eyebrows in quizzical fashion. He did not understand this statement. Ward Fetzler offered the explanation.
“When Cyril Wycliff was dying,” he stated, “he managed to blurt out something about a deed — hidden, he said, somewhere in his library. The deed which I hoped would be forgotten — its existence unknown to Howard Wycliff, the son — will now be the objective of a search.”
“How did you learn what Cyril Wycliff said?” questioned Hamprell suddenly.
“My plans have been carefully arranged throughout,” asserted Fetzler. “I have long since had contact with — well, with a certain man who knows what takes place in the Wycliff home. This man was present when Cyril Wycliff died. He heard what was said.”
“Someone at Wycliff’s home?” quizzed Hamprell. “Was he there when I called — as Doctor John Arberg?”
“Yes,” replied Fetzler calmly.
Martin Hamprell chuckled. He took the affair as a huge joke. He pictured the various incidents at Cyril Wycliff’s home. He remembered eyes that had watched him during his visit there.
“I think I know your man,” he declared. “Did he know that I was not Doctor Arberg?”
“He was posted,” answered Fetzler, “to stand by you in case of emergency. He knew that your visit was a crucial test. He does not, however, know your actual identity.”
“What are you going to do now?” demanded Hamprell.
“I am receiving reports from my man,” responded Fetzler. “He will play a part in the search. He will try to uncover the deed before the others find it. Moreover, he will notify me in case some other person discovers the deed. That will mean—”
“A job for me,” interposed Hamprell.
“Exactly,” agreed Fetzler. “I wish to avoid further murder merely as a matter of policy. If, however, an emergency arises, I shall put you on the job immediately.”
“I see,” laughed Hamprell. “I wondered why you wanted me to remain here, instead of taking for cover. It wouldn’t take long to get from this hotel to Wycliff’s. Maybe I’ll have to bump off the son like I did the father.”
“I hope not,” said Fetzler, in a calloused tone. “Another murder might make trouble. However, if my man fails to discover the deed before someone else, it will be too bad for the person who does find it.”
MARTIN HAMPRELL picked up the newspaper that lay upon the floor. He crinkled the sheet and tapped it significantly. His evil leer registered the confidence that he felt from reading the newspaper.
“The cops are shooting wide,” he asserted. “This fellow they call Cardona — the ace detective — is a sap. He will never trace me as the murderer of Johan Arberg. He will never even visit Cyril Wycliff’s home. He is wide of his mark; the further he goes, the worse off he will be.
“What is another murder?” Hamprell snapped his fingers. “Nothing — provided it is intelligently accomplished. Your man is competent at Wycliff’s?”
“Very competent,” assured Ward Fetzler.
“Then we are ready for the emergency,” decided Hamprell. “We are murderers — you as well as I — and we can be murderers again. We can bide our time until murder is necessary; then strike. The deed of which you speak is ours.”
“I must see it destroyed,” declared Fetzler. “After that, all will be well. Once that attested document is in fragments, I shall be free to harvest millions. You and my other aid will receive liberal compensation.”
“I’m satisfied,” returned Hamprell shrewdly. “We’ll wait and take it as it comes. No one will be the wiser.”
Martin Hamprell’s wicked grin was well received by Ward Fetzler. A gloating smile appeared upon the big landowner’s puffy lips. What Hamprell said, Fetzler believed to be true. Murder, past and future, would remain undiscovered. No one who sided with the law would be cunning enough to grasp the truth.
Yet while murderers gloated, there was one who was already seeking the answer to two deaths. The Shadow, whose keen deductions had seen through a murderer’s ruse, was taking up the cause of justice!
CHAPTER XI
THE SILENT GUEST
THE reports in the evening newspapers had been pleasing to Ward Fetzler, man of wealth and crime. Fetzler’s reactions had been shared by his murder dispenser, Martin Hamprell. Minions of the law had been directed from the real trail of crime.
Yet the very reports which the evil pair had considered so favorable now lay before the eyes of another personage. The Shadow, within the portals of his secret sanctum, was reviewing them beneath the blue-rayed lamp above his table.
Clippings were spread before The Shadow’s eyes. A complete summary of Cardona’s findings was in view. Marked with a blue ring was a paragraph which mentioned that Doctor Johan Arberg had returned from a visit to the home of Cyril Wycliff shortly before the murder in the Hotel Imperator.
Coincident with this report was a small, detached clipping that lay beside the longer news items. This was a brief obituary notice which referred to the death of Cyril Wycliff, stating that his demise had been the result of thrombosis, from which he had been ailing.
The Shadow’s long fingers marked these parallel items. To The Shadow, the accounts were definitely related. He divined that a bold and successful murderer had gone from the Hotel Imperator to the home of Cyril Wycliff. It was more than coincidence that Cyril Wycliff, like Johan Arberg, should have died so suddenly.