“No smudges on the knob of the safe,” declared Cranston. “The killers either found it open or opened it. In either event, they closed it, turned the knob and wiped it clean. Look at this door knob, senor; the murderers turned to enter and to leave.”
“It is smudged, though,” put in Corlaza, almost triumphantly.
“Only in parts,” corrected Cranston. “The man who handled it wore a glove. That destroyed some of the old smudges on the knob.”
CRANSTON was opening the door as he spoke. He showed the brass knob on the outside as well as the one on the inside. His statements were correct. Corlaza stared.
“Rund was seated at his desk,” pictured Cranston, in an easy, meditative tone. “He had torn off a sheet of paper from his pad. Pen in hand, he was writing. The murderers entered; put out the light; and sprang upon him before—”
“How do you know this, senor!” interrupted Corlaza, with sudden challenge.
“Did you see Commissioner Weston write at the desk?” questioned Cranston, quietly.
“Yes,” responded Corlaza.
“What were his actions?” inquired Cranston.
“He tore a piece of paper from the pad,” declared Corlaza, “then took his pen from his pocket—”
“Exactly,” interposed Cranston. “Any one would have done the same. With paper available, one takes it first; then draws a pen from the pocket. Sigby Rund would have done the same. His pen was on the floor. Where was the paper upon which he had written, or had planned to write?”
Corlaza was silent. He had no suggestion to offer.
“The paper,” continued Cranston, “was taken away after Rund’s death. It was certainly not found upon his body, or Detective Cardona would have known that fact. Very well. There we have it. Paper on desk, pen in hand — Rund saw the lights go out.
“He sprang back. The distance of the chair from the table — more than three feet — shows that he performed such an action. He was overpowered; his pen fell to the floor at the time. Then he was thrown from the window. No leap, senor, would have enabled him to clear that cornice. It projects too far.”
Corlaza remained dumfounded. Only his eyes were expressive. They sought to glance into Cranston’s, but failed. Cranston’s gaze was in another direction — toward the inner office, where Weston and the others were concluding their fruitless examination of Rund’s documents.
“The murderers,” observed Cranston, “should have pushed that chair back closer to the desk. They should have placed a blank sheet of paper on Rund’s big blotter. They would have done well to have picked up the pen and dropped it on the desk They should have polished all the light switches — not just the one in Rund’s private office.”
“What of the cornice, senor,” There was a tinge of sarcasm in Corlaza’s tone. “Should they have tried to cut it loose?”
“The cornice could pass suspicion,” returned Cranston, “with the other clues destroyed. Detective Cardona did overlook it; it is also possible that a body could have struck there and rolled off. But I am dealing in probabilities, Senor Corlaza. None of these clues are complete in themselves. Combined, they give a finished picture.”
“So, Senor Cranston,” purred Corlaza, “I suppose that you intend to tell all this to Senor Weston, eh?”
“Not at all,” rejoined Cranston. “I intend to say nothing. On your account, Senor Corlaza.”
“On my account!” came Corlaza’s challenge. “What do you mean?”
The South American’s eyes were showing sudden fury as they at last found Cranston’s gaze.
“On your account,” repeated Cranston. “You are anxious to leave promptly for Garauca, are you not?”
“Yes.” Corlaza’s response was a suppressed hiss.
“Very well,” decided Cranston. “Why should I detain you by starting Commissioner Weston on a hunt for the slayers of Sigby Rund? If Weston thinks that Rund is a suicide, he will not tarry in New York. But murder would make him stay.”
“Ah!” Corlaza’s tense expression eased. “Gracias, Senor Cranston. I understand. That is most kind of you.”
“After you have gone,” said Cranston, “I shall give my theory to the police. Weston will be with you; it will evolve upon the new commissioner to seek the murderers of Sigby Rund.”
“Again my thanks, senor,” purred Corlaza. “It is wise that Senor Weston and I should depart for Garauca. I know you are my friend.”
The South American extended his hand. Cranston received it; then turned to the outer door.
“Tell the commissioner I had to leave,” he remarked. “I shall see him when he sails. Buenos noctos, senor.”
When Marinez Corlaza walked back into the private office, his lips were forming a curiously twisted smile. The expression was one of satisfaction; yet it held a shrewdness that indicated cunning thoughts within Corlaza’s brain.
Commissioner Weston had completed his examination of Sigby Rund’s documents. Nothing concerning the Garaucan bonds had been discovered. Weston was dismissing Tyson Curwood. He was ready to leave; and Corlaza quietly awaited him. The South American dropped the smile as he pressed a cigarette between his sallow lips.
ON the street in front of the Halbar Building, Lamont Cranston was stepping into a parked taxi. The driver started as he heard the quiet order from the passenger whom he had not seen enter.
“Drive me to the Cobalt Club,” was Cranston’s order.
“Yes, sir,” responded the driver.
As the cab rolled along a side street, a soft laugh sounded within the darkness of the rear seat. Confined to a weird whisper, that mirth was sinister in tone. It was a touch of ghostly mockery.
Clues to death! The Shadow had found those traces of murder where the law had failed to grasp a single thread. The Shadow could see the evil purpose behind the sudden demise of Sigby Rund. The man who could have told the truth concerning the Garaucan bond swindle was no longer alive to speak.
But The Shadow could see further. He was looking into the tangles of intrigue that had brought about Rund’s death. He could see that it was the beginning of further crime that must be thwarted.
The Shadow had shown purpose in his comments to Marinez Corlaza. His first remarks; then his sudden change; both had served to catch the South American off guard, then restore him to serenity.
For in Marinez Corlaza, The Shadow saw a man who knew more than he pretended. His plans concerning Corlaza were made. They would soon be completed. After that would come the further task.
The Shadow would delve deeper into the realm of crime.
CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW’S MESSAGE
IT was late the next afternoon. Commissioner Ralph Weston was seated in the little office of his apartment. Facing him across the desk was Detective Joe Cardona. It was a last meeting between the chief and his star sleuth.
“I’m counting on you, Cardona,” stated Weston. “Remember that. Counting on you — just as much as if I were still Police Commissioner of New York.”
“You still are,” put in Cardona. “To me, anyway, commissioner. You’ll be back on the job some day—”
“I hope so,” interposed Weston, dryly. “Nevertheless, you are taking the exact attitude that I do not wish you to display. I want you to regard my successor as your chief. I want you to work for him as you worked for me.”
“Count on me, commissioner.”
“You will hear from the new commissioner. He is going to keep you working on important cases. So to pave the way to understanding, I have arranged a brief meeting before I leave.”
“But you are leaving in a few hours.”
“Yes. But that will not interfere with my plans for an informal meeting. Wainwright Barth — the new commissioner — is coming here. I expect him within the next quarter hour. You and Barth will accompany me to the boat.”