Yet the law, despite its promptness, had arrived too late. It was murder, like that of the night before. A slaying that matched the killing of Ralgood and Basslett. New death despite the campaign of the law; new death despite the vigilance of The Shadow!
CHAPTER VII. LINKS OF DEATH
HALF an hour later, a large automobile pulled up in from of the apartment building wherein James Shurrick had been slain. Two men alighted. One was a brisk individual, of military bearing, whose short-clipped mustache showed pointed ends. A policeman saluted as he recognized the Police Commissioner, Ralph Weston.
The other arrival was a tall personage of quiet demeanor. He was clad in evening clothes; his face appeared masklike above the white collar just beneath it. There was something hawklike in the molded visage of Weston’s companion. The policeman remembered that he had seen that face before. Weston’s associate was Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter.
“I am glad you were chatting with me at the club, Cranston,” observed Weston, as they walked into the apartment house lobby. “From what Cardona tells me, this case links with the death of Luther Ralgood. Both were friends of Milton Callard. Like yourself.”
“I was not actually acquainted with Milton Callard,” corrected Cranston, in a steady tone. “I told you, commissioner, that I merely knew who Callard was, when he was still alive.”
“That might be important,” assured Weston. “Anything may prove of value in this situation. That was why I insisted that you come with me here.”
They had reached the elevator. As they entered, the light showed the faint flicker of a smile upon the steady lips of Lamont Cranston. Keen eyes flashed from the masklike face; their gleam faded without the commissioner noting the momentary change in his companion’s expression. That brief interlude, however, was a revelation. This personage who passed as Lamont Cranston, was actually The Shadow.
Uniformed policemen were on guard when the arrivals reached the twelfth floor. Continuing past saluting bluecoats, the commissioner and The Shadow reached the penthouse. There they were greeted by Joe Cardona, acting inspector in charge. With the ace was his side-kick, Detective Sergeant Markham.
A police surgeon was completing his examination of Shurrick’s body. Three solemn-faced men — Bill, Jerry and Lattan — were grouped against the wall. Near them, limp in a chair, was Courtney Dolver, still weary from the ordeal that he had undergone.
“Let me hear your report,” ordered Weston, briskly.
CARDONA read statements that had been made by the clerk and elevator man. He followed with the report of the officer who had crashed into the penthouse. He exhibited the revolver that the policeman had found on the ledge below. It was an antique weapon with five chambers. All its cartridges had been emptied.
“Here’s Mr. Lattan, commissioner,” stated Cardona. “Timothy Lattan. He lives in apartment 12 G on the floor below. He heard the shots.”
Weston turned to Lattan. The shirt-sleeved man spoke in a troubled tremolo.
“My window was open,” he explained jerkily. “Guess I’d have heard the shots anyway. The doors aren’t thick and I’m right at the end of the hall. They were quick shots; bang-bang. Seems like I heard five.
“I was sort of bewildered for a minute. Listened, wondering what was coming next. I was sure the shots had been from up here. I looked out into the hall and didn’t see anybody. So I called downstairs. Then I kept watching from my door until people arrived.”
“How long was that?” queried Weston.
“Five minutes maybe,” responded Lattan. “Could have been a little longer, commissioner; but not much. I’m counting from when I heard the shots.”
“I understand. Were you acquainted with the dead man?”
“Only by sight, commissioner. I had never spoken with him.”
WESTON eyed the witness; then motioned him to a chair. The commissioner turned back to Cardona, who indicated Dolver. The dignified man looked up, smiled weakly and nodded.
“I think that estimate was about correct,” declared Dolver. “Of course, my experience began before the shots were fired. It was most grueling, commissioner; yet I think that I preserved most of the details. My story begins with my arrival on the twelfth floor.”
“Just after Mr. Shurrick had gone up,” informed the clerk.
Weston motioned for silence. Bill subsided. Dolver resumed his story.
“I have lived in this apartment house for a month,” he explained. “I took a furnished apartment while my Long Island residence was being redecorated. Like Mr. Lattan, I knew James Shurrick only by sight.
“Tonight, when I was entering my apartment — number 12 B — I happened to glance toward the fire tower. I was sure that I saw a man move out of sight. The elevator had gone down. When I arrived inside my apartment, my first thought was to call the clerk.
“At that moment, I heard footsteps. These doors are thin; I was sure that the intruder was coming from the fire tower. The footsteps passed; purely upon impulse I opened my door, very cautiously. I saw a man sneaking up the stairs to the penthouse.
“I thought the fellow must be a sneak thief; one who would welsh if surprised. I decided to follow him, believing that I could deal with any rascal of such low caliber. As I neared the top of the stairs, I heard the man rapping lightly on the door. I arrived on the landing just as Mr. Shurrick answered the summons. I saw the intruder entering. To my horror, I observed that the rogue was masked and had a revolver in his hand.
“I sprang into view and pounced upon the fellow before he could close the door. I saw James Shurrick standing terrified in the center of the room. Had he aided me, we might have overpowered the murderer. But Shurrick was too frightened to raise a hand.”
DOLVER paused. He puffed wheezily and clapped his hand against his chest. His voice was less husky when he resumed.
“The murderer swung at me with his revolver,” he stated. “His vicious attack failed; I could see his eyes glaring through the slits of the bandanna handkerchief that he was using as a mask. I tried to seize his revolver. He punched with his other hand, squarely against my chest.
“The blow sent me back against the open door. It slammed shut; and I collapsed. While I was gasping on the floor — the punch had taken my breath away — I heard the revolver shots. I glimpsed James Shurrick falling forward. As I tried to rise, I saw him sprawl upon the floor.
“Then the murderer pounced upon me. He rolled me on my face. He began to truss me with a rope that he must have had upon his person. I could struggle but weakly; the man was most expert in his performance. It could not have taken him more than a minute to bind me.
“I tried to cry out. As I found my voice, the rogue snatched off his mask and gagged me with it. He growled for quiet, as he kept my head face downward so I could not see his features. I was helpless, almost choking. I heard the murderer open the window; I could hear him leap below. That was all until the rescuers arrived.”
Dolver subsided. His voice had altered to a new wheeze. Weston waited until the man had regained his breath; then questioned:
“Would you recognize the murderer if you saw him again?”
“I think so,” replied Dolver, slowly. “He was rugged in build. His voice was harsh, although its gruffness might have been a disguise. His lower face seemed hard, as though his teeth were gritted. He was square-jawed, I would say.”
“A photograph of Dave Callard would help us, commissioner,” put in Cardona. “But we haven’t been able to find one.”
“Tell me, Cardona,” questioned Weston, “what evidence have you to link up this case with that of Ralgood?”
Cardona smiled. The ace detective always relished an opportunity to score with the commissioner.