Facing Weston, Joe began a statement.
“Luther Ralgood was a friend of Milton Callard, wasn’t he?” demanded Cardona. “Well, if there was reason to kill him, there might be reason to kill any other friend of Milton Callard’s.”
“Correct,” acknowledged Weston. “But was this dead man also a friend of old Milton Callard?”
“Yes,” assured Cardona. “Look at this commissioner; it’s an old memoranda book that I found right here in this penthouse. Buried in a desk drawer. It belonged to James Shurrick and it lists Milton Callard’s address and telephone number.”
Weston nodded as he received the little book and studied the page that Cardona indicated.
“Take a look at these ropes, commissioner,” insisted Cardona, turning to a table to pick up the cut bonds that had held Courtney Dolver. “See the knots on them? It would have taken a man who knew his business to handle ropes the way this fellow did.”
“Young Callard was a sailor—”
“Right. These are sailor’s knots. Plenty tight.”
WESTON nodded; then passed the ropes to The Shadow. Still retaining the fixed expression of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow studied the heavy, hard-drawn knots. In leisurely fashion, he brought cut portions of the rope together, to observe the exact formation of the bonds as they had been.
“When I was up at Ralgood’s,” continued Cardona, “I found a box of cartridges in a desk drawer. Here’s one of the cartridges, commissioner. Look it over. They haven’t made these for years. They didn’t fit Basslett’s gun; so we figured that Ralgood’s murderer must have taken a revolver that belonged to the old man.”
Weston nodded.
“All right.” Cardona smiled triumphantly as he picked up the five-chambered revolver that the policeman had found on the ledge. “Look at this, commissioner. These emptied cartridges. They’re the same as that good one you’re holding.”
“You mean that the murderer used Ralgood’s gun?” exclaimed Weston. “Used it to kill Shurrick and dropped it in his flight?”
“That’s it, commissioner. Plain as day. Dave Callard didn’t want to use the same rod that he worked with up at Ralgood’s. That’s why he swiped the one he found there. He thought we wouldn’t guess that he took that revolver. Didn’t realize that the cartridges would be a give-away.
“There’s no fingerprints on this gun. He wiped them off, all right. But he left the gun, so as to fool us. Figured we’d never trail it back to Ralgood. He made another slip-up there — not digging up that letter he wrote to Ralgood. And he didn’t have time enough here to dig through Shurrick’s papers and find the book with the names and addresses.”
There was emphasis in Cardona’s pause. The star sleuth watched Commissioner Weston nod. The evidence at hand fitted Cardona’s theory; and Weston was pleased with the acting inspector’s prompt findings.
“Good work, Cardona,” complimented the commissioner. “You are showing real ability at deductive reason. A point of investigation that I have always admitted. Did you hear that summary, Cranston?”
THE SHADOW nodded. His long-fingered hands had finished their toying with the rope. In the leisurely fashion of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow replaced the cut coils upon the table. He spoke casually to Weston.
“Cleverly done, that tying job,” commented The Shadow. “Cardona is right when he states that the knots were worthy of a sailor’s skill. The man who tied them was evidently well versed in his study of the half hitch and the slipknot.”
“Those were used?” queried Weston, picking up the rope and disarranging the loops from the position in which The Shadow had left them.
“Yes,” replied The Shadow. “They were employed in modified form. Pressure or tugging against such knots merely serves to tighten them.”
“No wonder you couldn’t get out,” said Weston to Dolver, who had advanced shakily from the wall. “Did your struggles seem to handicap you further, Mr. Dolver?”
“They did,” nodded the importer. “I could scarcely move when I was cut free. The gag was dreadfully tight as well.”
Jerry grunted his seconding of Dolver’s statement. The elevator man remembered the difficulty that he had experienced in cutting the prisoner’s bonds. Weston was about to speak again when Courtney Dolver gripped his arm. In steadied tone, the importer spoke.
“I have recalled something,” he declared. “Words that James Shurrick groaned while he was dying on the floor. I could not see him; but I heard what he uttered, just as the murderer was leaving.”
“What was it?” quizzed Weston.
“I made out two words,” returned Dolver. “The rest were indistinguishable. But those two words were repeated. He said: ‘The locket — the locket’ — that was all that I could understand.”
“The locket?” queried Weston. “What locket?”
Bill, the hotel clerk came forward from the wall. The police surgeon had risen from beside Shurrick’s body. Bill pointed excitedly; Weston followed the direction of the fellow’s gesture. The clerk was indicating a watch chain that ran across the front of the dead man’s vest.
“There was a locket on that chain!” cried Bill. “One that Mr. Shurrick always wore! A large locket, with a cameo front. Remember it, Jerry?”
“Sure thing,” vouched the elevator man, stepping forward. “A swell piece of joolry, I’d have called it. It ain’t there now, though. It’s been snatched, right enough.”
Courtney Dolver looked toward the body; then nodded slowly.
“I, too, recall that cameo, now that it has been mentioned,” stated the importer. “I remember seeing it on Shurrick’s watch chain, one of the times I ran into him in the hallway. It was quite conspicuous.”
“I’ve seen it, too,” put in Lattan.
“Here’s the ring it was hitched to,” informed Cardona, stooping beside the body. “A little gold loop, hooked around the chain. Dave Callard must have yanked the locket off its fastening.”
“We’ve found a motive, Cardona,” declared the commissioner, as the detective arose. “Robbery was in back of murder here to night. This, however, is a matter which we shall discuss later. After a study of your full report, Cardona.
“In the meantime, you can send the witnesses downstairs. Have the body removed to the morgue. I shall hear your report, doctor” — this was to the police surgeon — “and that will conclude your work here. I shall come back to the club later, Cranston” — Weston turned to The Shadow as he spoke — “and I hope that I may meet you there.”
“Very well, commissioner,” responded The Shadow, with a faint smile that characterized Cranston. “I do not expect to go home until midnight, so I shall probably see you later.”
TURNING, The Shadow followed the witnesses, who were already filing from the room. Markham was ordering them down to the twelfth floor, to wait in Dolver’s apartment. The Shadow descended the stairs and entered the elevator, which was being operated by a detective.
As he stepped from the car, The Shadow ran squarely into a young man who had just come in from the street. It was Clyde Burke; the reporter mumbled an apology and stepped into the elevator without further notice of his chief.
The door of the elevator slammed. Standing alone in the empty lobby, The Shadow delivered a whispered laugh that came from motionless lips. Playing the part of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had taken Commissioner Weston’s tip and had left the apartment house.
Though he had gained no new clue to the present whereabouts of Dave Callard, The Shadow had no worry concerning further crime. He had learned enough to forestall all coming strokes of doom.