DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA was a man who played hunches. For months, he had been thinking off and on of Double Z. He had classed the man as an eccentric individual, who knew the inside of crookdom, and liked to display his knowledge by letters to the police.
He had harbored a hunch that Double Z might some day become dangerous, and he had been waiting for that time.
Now, the day had come. The murder of Joel Caulkins indicated action on the part of Double Z. It enabled Cardona to form his impression of what type of man Double Z might be.
He pictured him as one of those characters who fringe the borders of the underworld — perhaps a “fence” who disposed of stolen goods. Through contact with crime, the man had gained knowledge. Now, possessed of more intelligence than the average criminal, the lure of crime had caused him to enter the field himself, while his eccentricity still made him follow his old practice of writing letters to the police.
Cardona recalled that two of Double Z’s veiled tips of impending death had failed to materialize. Some months ago, he had said that a gangster was to be put on the spot, within a week. The killing had not occurred.
Then, he had hinted also the kidnapping of a prominent society woman. The police had become vigilant.
The abduction had not taken place. These, therefore, were indications that Double Z had known of crime, but had not planned them. On the contrary, most of his statements had proven true.
Three unsolved murders had been predicted by Double Z. In one case, he had been of aid to the police.
He had told of a plot to assassinate Signor Galvini, Italian plenipotentiary to the United States. His note had been turned over to the secret service. They had forestalled bomb throwing on the part of anti-Fascists, but had not discovered the men higher up. A few lesser criminals had gone to jail.
Joe Cardona was not a man to place too much faith in impressions. Doubts lurked in his brain, when he tried to identify Double Z as a definite personality. Some smart crook might be using this guise for some unknown purpose. But despite his suspicion of impressions, Cardona had a weakness for hunches. The first had materialized.
Double Z had committed crime and had shown himself to be shrewd, but bungling. He had lured Joel Caulkins, and had then required four shots to kill him, thus proving that Double Z was not so good when it came to gun play. Perhaps, Cardona speculated, Double Z might be an old man.
While the detective still doubted his own impressions, he had experienced another hunch; and in that, he had no doubt. He felt positive that Double Z, once a killer, would now enter crime with boldness.
It was because of this hunch that Wentworth had been placed on watch. The house on Eightieth Street might be a hideout for Double Z, masquerading under the name of Joseph T. Dodd. If so, he might return there. Cardona was sure that the killer would soon be heard from, and awaited that time.
THAT was why the detective registered no surprise when he arrived at headquarters at noon to find Acting Inspector Fennimann anxiously awaiting him. This was on the day after The Shadow’s secret visit to the old house — two days after the murder of Joel Caulkins.
“What is it?” questioned Cardona, when he saw the inspector. “More on Double Z?”
“You guessed it, Joe. He’s sent another note.”
“Here?”
“No. To Philip Farmington, the big banker. A direct threat. Read this.”
Cardona received a paper. Its words were poorly typewritten. The detective recognized the battered M and the weakly struck A. Double Z sometimes scrawled; on other occasions he typed. Always, he inscribed, at the foot of the note, those twin letters that served as his signature. The message read: You are making a mistake. Stop at once or you will hear from me. Death will come to you!
The detective was contemplative for a few moments. Then he turned to Fennimann:
“When did Farmington get this?” was his question.
“This morning,” replied the acting inspector. “Sent it down by messenger. Called up to make sure it came in. I told him you would come up to see him. He will be home at one o’clock.”
Joe Cardona glanced at his watch.
“I know where Farmington lives,” he said. “I’ll go up there right away.”
When the detective arrived at the banker’s home, he was ushered into a room that served as an office. It adjoined a large living room.
Cardona took a chair near a huge mahogany desk, and awaited the return of Philip Farmington. The banker arrived within half an hour.
JOE CARDONA was keenly interested in the meeting. He had seen Philip Farmington, but had never spoken to him before. The man was a keen, hard-faced individual; one who possessed a powerful physique and a commanding personality. Cardona knew that he was reputed to be a multimillionaire, and was a strong figure in the activities of international bankers.
After shaking hands with the detective, Farmington seated himself by the desk and got down to business.
He opened a box of cigars that was on the desk. Cardona accepted one. Farmington was already smoking.
“Well,” asked Farmington, “what do you think of this Double Z matter?”
“The man is crazy,” declared Cardona. “Nevertheless, he is dangerous.”
“Unquestionably,” acknowledged the banker. “Not only dangerous, but methodical. I see a purpose in his threat.”
“What is it?”
“He knows that I understand his message. I have already replied to it.”
“What! You know where he is—”
“No,” smiled Farmington. “I have replied by action, knowing what is in his mind.”
Cardona appeared puzzled, but waited without asking questions.
“For some time,” continued the millionaire, “a group with which I am associated has been considering a loan to the Fascist government. The matter awaited my decision — to-day. The letter arrived while I was at breakfast. I took it with me to the office. It was obviously a threat if I gave my approval to the loan.”
“Did you approve?”
“I did. The announcement of the loan appeared in the early editions of the evening newspapers. So Double Z — if he is watching — knows now that I have failed to heed his instructions.”
“Hm-m-m,” said Cardona. “Did you have any previous indication of this?”
“No,” replied Farmington.
“When did you announce that your decision would be made to-day?”
The millionaire chewed the end of his half-finished cigar; then threw the perfecto into a tubular ash receiver. He arose and paced the floor, in thought. At last, he turned to face Detective Cardona.
“It has been known,” he said, “that my decision regarding the loan might be made within a few weeks; but yesterday I made an announcement, indicating I would reach a definite decision to-day.
“A number of my friends were here last night. They had seen the announcement in the newspapers. I stated that it was correct, for I had definitely made up my mind.”
“Did you speak to any one else about it?”
“Yes. To reporters who called up while my friends were here. They wanted to corroborate the announcement for the morning newspapers.”
CARDONA puffed his cigar and became thoughtful. Philip Farmington noted that the detective was considering the matter minutely. He decided to assist him.
“Suppose,” he said, “that I tell you everything that has happened since I gave the announcement to the evening newspapers, yesterday.”
“Good idea!” replied the detective.
“Well,” said the millionaire, “they had been questioning me constantly. I made up my mind to act, without telling any one definitely. At noon yesterday, I received a call from the Evening Sphere. It was the usual call. Any decision planned on the Fascist loan? I said that it would probably be settled favorably to-day.
“I came home before three o’clock. I was in this room until nearly six. Then I dressed for dinner. About twelve persons arrived before seven thirty. We had dinner, and the guests departed between ten and eleven o’clock.”
“When did the newspapers call you on the phone?”
“Before nine o’clock.”
“When did you discuss the matter with your friends?”
“It was mentioned during dinner.”
“Did anything unusual happen during the evening?”
“No. We were in the living room most of the time. A few of the gentlemen came in here, but after we had gone out, I locked the door. I don’t usually keep this room open. It serves me as an office at home. I explained that to them. I never come in here in the morning. The room is kept locked until I return from downtown. Then, at dinner time, I lock up until the next day.”
“The room was open when I came,” said Cardona.
“Of course,” replied the millionaire. “There is nothing of value here, and Ralph, the butler, has a duplicate key. I called from the office and told him to show you in here.”
“I see. Now, regarding this note of Double Z. According to the postmark, it was mailed from the Bronx about midnight.”
“Yes. I noticed that.”
“All of the notes come from the Bronx.” The detective hesitated. “That may mean something — it may also be a blind. One thing is certain: it is a genuine Double Z note. It has been compared with the others that we have at headquarters.”
“You have quite a collection?”
“Yes.”
“All threats?”
“No. A few are tips. One in particular enabled us to forestall a plot against the Fascist delegate to America. That is why the note addressed to you is both right and wrong.”
“How?”
“Because,” said Cardona, “we have connected Double Z with Fascisti matters. That fits in. But previously, he seemed to favor the Italian government. Now, however, if your idea is correct, he opposes it.”
“Most peculiar!”
“Yes. But Double Z is eccentric, don’t forget that. I’ll tell you what I want to do, Mr. Farmington. I’m going to take notes of everything you have told me, just in case there may be a clew somewhere in it. This may be dangerous business.”
“It doesn’t worry me!” declared Farmington emphatically. “Nevertheless, we must capture this scoundrel. Make your notes, and I shall check them.”
Farmington sat down at the desk and leaned back in the large chair. Cardona began to make notations, exactly following the statements which the millionaire gave him.
While Cardona was at work, Farmington unlocked a lower drawer of the desk and opened a cigar box.
He brought out a cigar and cut off the cud. He flipped the bit of tobacco toward the ash receiver, and lighted his cigar in a methodical manner.
“I don’t recall your telling me about this morning,” remarked the detective. “You went directly to the office?”
“Yes. After an eight-o’clock breakfast.”
“When did the conference begin?”
“At nine thirty.”
“When did it end?”
“Ten fifteen.”
“And the evening newspapers were notified—”
“Immediately.”
“Did anything happen after that?”
Farmington chewed the end of his cigar as he reflected. He was leaning back in his chair, and Cardona noted the firmness of his profile.
“Nothing else,” came Farmington’s reply.
“All right,” declared the detective. “I’ll read all my notes. Afterward, we can see if we’ve missed anything.”
He began in a monotonous tone. Occasionally he looked up to see if Philip Farmington was listening. The millionaire had turned away slightly, so his profile was no longer visible. His head was leaning back; his hand was resting on the desk, holding the cigar.
Cardona went on until he finished reading. He waited for Farmington to finish considering it. At last Cardona’s patience ended.
“Anything else?” he questioned.
Philip Farmington did not reply.
“Satisfactory?” questioned Cardona.
No reply.
SURPRISED, Cardona frowned. He arose and stepped toward the seated millionaire. He advanced only three paces. He stopped stock-still, too amazed to move farther forward. He could now see the face of Philip Farmington, and it was his view of that countenance that astounded him.
Philip Farmington was staring at the wall with glazed, wide-open eyes. Upon his face had come a grayish pallor that matched the thin wisp of cigar smoke which curled upward from the hand upon the desk.
The firm features of the millionaire had taken a ghastly appearance that Cardona had never before observed upon the face of any man.
Startled, the detective stood motionless. Then, while a strange sensation brought incredible realization, Cardona reached forward and grasped the shoulders of the seated man.
The firm clutch brought results.
The millionaire’s body gave way beneath the pressure. It slumped down into the chair. The arms dropped lifelessly, and the lighted cigar rolled upon the floor. The head with the staring eyes fell back, and the gruesome gaze turned unseeingly toward the ceiling.
A deep gasp came from Detective Joe Cardona.
Philip Farmington was dead!