“Two house detectives and a policeman went there. They encountered an unknown assailant, who escaped. A search failed to uncover him. It is believed that he made a get-away before the alarm was given.”
A pause. The Shadow responded: “Report received.”
“Report from Shrevnitz,” announced Burbank, promptly. “He took a man from the Hotel Goliath to the Doswind Apartments on Fifty-fourth Street. Ten minutes running time. Noted the bell that the man pressed. Examined it later.
“The name is Tully Kelk. Vincent paid a later visit to the same apartment house. Kelk lives on the third floor, Apartment 3 F. Vincent can arrange to occupy Apartment 3 G, now vacant, across the hall.”
“Reports received,” pronounced The Shadow. “Instructions: Vincent to occupy the apartment at the Doswind. Shrevnitz to remain in that vicinity. Burke to cover headquarters.”
“Instructions received.”
“Marsland to conduct investigation in the underworld, to gain information concerning movements of mobsters who might have had part in the Treblaw killing.”
“Instructions received.”
The bluish light clicked off. The sanctum was in darkness.
But The Shadow’s work had not yet finished. He, too, was faring forth to make investigations of his own. He knew that new clues might be found in the confines of the underworld.
DOWN at detective headquarters, Clyde Burke and other reporters were talking with a stocky, swarthy-faced man who sat behind a battered desk. They were worrying Detective Joe Cardona, acting inspector in the Treblaw case.
“You want my theory,” growled Cardona, studying the faces before him, “so I’m giving it to you. But remember — it’s not final. We’ve got two facts to work on. Treblaw was killed about nine o’clock. His place was rifled; but when they found the body, some guy was still there. Close to an hour later.”
“How do you figure that happened, Joe?” quizzed Clyde.
“I’m coming to it,” stated the detective. “There must have been a couple of guys after Treblaw. One got in there and bumped the old man. Then he beat it and called back to make sure Treblaw was dead. Finding it clear, he went around to grab what swag there might be. That accounts for the first telephone call.”
“Right.”
“Well, the second guy shows up. Figuring he’s due there, the first bozo called the hotel, just to crimp the other man’s game. He did it right enough; the second bird nearly got nabbed for what the first one did.”
“Then you’re not looking for the man who got away?”
“I’m looking for the man who murdered Stanton Treblaw. So far the motive looks like robbery. I’ve called Treblaw’s home in Droverton, New Jersey. I’m going out there tomorrow to find out more. That’s all I’ve got to say for tonight.”
Cardona thumped his desk, arose and strode from the office. An ace sleuth who worked on hunches, Cardona had hit one good guess tonight: namely, that the person who attacked two house dicks and a policeman was not the murderer of Stanton Treblaw.
But outside of that one feature, Cardona’s theory lacked merit. The ace detective would have been astounded had he known that the final visitor to Treblaw’s room was The Shadow!
Oddly, The Shadow, too, was working on a theory which involved a double visit. His view of Treblaw’s body had convinced him that a squad of killers had murdered the old collector. But The Shadow was also taking into account the arrival of a second person after Treblaw’s death; one who was already playing a cunning part in the scheme of things.
That man was Tully Kelk, who lived in Apartment 3 F at the Doswind Apartments on Fifty-fourth Street. As yet, the trailing of Kelk constituted The Shadow’s only clue. But with it for a start, the master sleuth saw possibilities that had not dawned upon Detective Joe Cardona.
For Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was now close by to keep tabs on Tully Kelk, while Moe Shrevnitz, taxi driver extraordinary, was available to take up any trail that Kelk might give.
From these two aids, The Shadow was expecting prompt developments that would lead to an ultimate solution of committed crime. For The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, could play hunches on occasion. And his present hunch was that Tully Kelk had provided an important clue in the complicated chain of crime.
CHAPTER VII
TWO MEN MEET
AT SIX o’clock the next afternoon, Harry Vincent was seated in his new apartment reading the evening newspaper. These furnished quarters at the Doswind had proven quite comfortable; and while engaged in vigil, Harry was posting himself on the latest details of the Treblaw case.
Detective Joe Cardona had been to Droverton that morning. He had issued a statement to reporters: namely, that Treblaw had left his home the day before for a short trip to New York.
According to the testimony of the old man’s servants, Treblaw had attached no significance to his journey. Nor had he carried any items of great value. So far as the Droverton aspect was concerned, there seemed no reason why anyone should have slain Stanton Treblaw. The old man had lived a quiet, secluded life. All his affairs were in order. He had apparently had no enemies in the world.
Cardona had learned the names of distant relatives who might come in for a share of Treblaw’s moderate estate. That constituted the ace sleuth’s only gain from his visit to Stanton Treblaw’s home.
Harry had just completed his reading of these details when he caught a slight sound from the hallway outside of his apartment. Moving softly to the door, he listened to departing footsteps. Opening the door, he peered through a small space and spotted Tully Kelk heading for the stairway.
Closing his door, Harry went to the window. He could see Moe Shrevnitz standing beside his parked cab. Harry gave no signal. He knew that he could count on Moe. Watching, he saw the alert cabby spring suddenly into his vehicle and drive up to the apartment entrance. Peering cautiously, Harry caught a glimpse of Kelk stepping into the cab.
Moe pulled away. Harry went to the telephone and made a call to Burbank. The contact man received the brief report. Harry’s vigil was ended until Kelk’s return.
MEANWHILE, Moe’s cab was rolling toward a ferry, connecting with a railroad on the Jersey shore. Moe, shrewd-faced and quick thinking, was making good time in response to Kelk’s order. He knew that his passenger must be in a hurry to catch a train on the Jersey side; but he was anxious to learn the exact destination. Moe grinned as he figured a way to gain that information.
When they reached the ferry, Kelk alighted, hurriedly paid his fare and entered the ferry slip.
Moe swung the taxi into a parking space and slid from his seat. He followed Kelk’s course and peered into the big waiting room just in time to see Kelk go through the gate. Moe saw the man displayed a ticket.
A gong sounded to announce the departure of the ferryboat that Kelk had caught. Moe walked into the waiting room and approached a lone ticket window. He spoke to the man behind the wicket.
“Fellow with a mustache,” remarked Moe. “Just bought a ticket. Did he take the ferry?”
“Guess he did,” replied the ticket agent. “That’s what he was after.”
“Left a package in my cab,” stated Moe. “I just found it and came back to catch him. Where was he going to?”
“He bought a ticket to a town called Droverton,” returned the agent. “One day round trip, so he ought to be back. Where did he come from?”
“An apartment house up on Fifty-fourth Street,” replied Moe. “Guess he lives there. I’ll drop the package there when I go back that way. They ought to know about him.”