CARDONA TRACES MURDER
THE sensational death of Charles Blefken was the greatest crime news of the year. The dead attorney had been a man of high repute. The killing that had taken place in his own home, with friends and a detective present, was evidence that a bold and relentless killer was at work.
Cardona had been busy on the case all that night. The next noon found him at headquarters. A few short hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. Grim-visaged as ever, the star detective spoke with thin, firm lips as he talked to the reporters.
“I was there because we expected trouble,” was Cardona’s admission. “But get this straight, boys: Blefken walked into it! He did the wise thing when he called on me. His mistake was in what followed. If he hadn’t left that room, he’d be alive to-day!”
“Look here, Cardona,” said one of the police reporters. “We’ve printed your statement. We’ve been sent down here to get more — if you’ve got anything else to say. There’s one point they’re all asking. Why did you let Middleton get out of that room?”
“Let’s see one of the morning newspapers,” retorted Cardona. “I haven’t had time to look at any of them.”
A reporter pulled a newspaper from his pocket. Cardona spread the sheet and stared at the front page. All of the reporters were eyeing him closely.
A frown appeared upon Cardona’s swarthy visage. The detective’s lips grew tighter, and for a moment he appeared on the point of rage. Then he gave vent to his feelings by crumpling the paper and casting it in the corner. His fists tightened as he glared at his inquisitors. After that, his natural calmness returned.
“I’ve come in for a panning, eh?” he questioned. “That’s a nice play-up you’ve given this case. Making me look like a dummy! Incompetent, eh?”
“It’s not my fault, Cardona,” retorted the reporter who had spoken before. “I’m sent out to get facts. Maybe you’re right about Blefken walking into trouble. But look at the facts — that’s what we’re after.
“You let the murderer get away. Your statement shows that Middleton was dangerous. We’ve printed the letter he sent to Blefken. The time element is bad, too. One minute you said he was gone. Yet he managed to choke Blefken and make a clean get-away while you were finding the body and raising a holler—”
The speaker stopped short. Cardona’s eyes were blazing with suppressed rage. The reporter knew it was not wise to go on. The others shifted uneasily. They did not know what to expect.
“My statement still stands,” declared Cardona firmly. “That’s all I care to say. My statement stands!”
“All right.” The talkative reporter shrugged his shoulders and left the room. The others waited.
“See Inspector Klein, if you want more,” bawled out Cardona furiously. “See him. See if he thinks I’m incompetent—”
He caught himself, realizing that this scene would do him no good in print. He smiled sourly; then sat down at his desk and began to study some reports.
Men left the room, and when their footsteps died away, a wan smile came over Cardona’s rigid features. He fumbled among the pile of papers and produced a photograph.
It showed a reproduction of a thumb print. Next, Cardona brought out an envelope. He stopped before opening it. He looked around, conscious that he was being watched. He saw Clyde Burke standing near.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the detective. “I thought you’d gone out with the rest of those news hounds.”
“I’ve stayed to talk with you, Joe.”
“You heard what I said. That’s sufficient!”
“Not for me!” Burke smiled broadly. “I know you too well, Joe.”
“What do you mean?”
“That poker face of yours. It wouldn’t have slipped up when you saw the newspaper, unless—”
CARDONA was staring with keen interest as Clyde Burke paused to let his words make a definite impression.
“—unless,” resumed Burke, “you were thinking of something else. Unless you were so sure of yourself that the wisecracks in the newspapers would come as a surprise.”
“So you think I’ve got something up my sleeve?”
“I know it,” returned Clyde. “Positively! I was sure when the others left; I stayed on that account. I’ve been watching you.”
“You’re a good guy, Burke,” declared Cardona, gazing speculatively toward the wall. “You’ve always treated me right. So I’m going to return the favor. I’m going to let you have a story for the Classic that will knock the daylights out of these phonies.”
Burke grinned at Cardona’s reference to the other newspaper reporters.
“They’re panning me,” declared Cardona, “because I let Middleton get away. They’re already calling Middleton the ‘society slayer.’ That’s what the headline said on that newspaper.”
Cardona wagged his thumb toward the corner, where he had thrown the paper. Burke nodded knowingly.
“Well,” continued Cardona, “they’re all wet — all but you, Burke. Picking my statement to pieces. Saying I’ve committed myself as incompetent — not one of them seeing that my statement itself proves that I didn’t have a chance to get the killer.”
“How’s that?” Burke was interested.
“Look at the time element,” retorted Cardona. “The very factor they hold against me. I followed Middleton in less than one minute after he was gone. Less than one minute, mind you, Burke. Have you seen the body?”
“Yes,” replied Burke, wondering why Cardona had so suddenly shifted his discussion.
“Did you see the marks on the throat?”
“Yes.”
“Those deep thumb prints?”
“Yes.”
Cardona paused to give Burke time to reflect. The reporter was pondering, but his thoughts were far different from what Cardona supposed.
Clyde was thinking of a thin white line — an almost invisible mark — that had girdled the neck of Charles Blefken. He was also recalling a dim spot on the dead man’s forehead.
Clyde Burke had observed both of these, because he was looking for them; but it was evident that Joe Cardona had not seen them.
“The thumb prints,” repeated Cardona expressively. “Pretty deep, weren’t they? Lots of pressure, wasn’t there? Now just figure it out. Middleton was in that little room. When he left, I followed—”
“I got you, Joe!” cried Clyde, a sudden intelligence dawning. “Middleton had only one minute to get out in that hall, murder Charles Blefken, and make his get-away—”
“You’ve got it! Give him half a minute at the most to choke Blefken. He couldn’t have done it, Burke. Impossible.
“Furthermore, it was more than five minutes — closer, maybe, to ten — from the time that Blefken left the cardroom until his body was found. Where was he all that time? He was due back in the lounge. There was nowhere else that he could go.”
“Then some killer was waiting for him—”
“That’s it, exactly.”
“In the little passageway.” Burke was picturing the scene. He had been to Blefken’s house that morning.
“Which was pitch-dark,” prompted Cardona.
“And the killer got him!” Burke went on. “Caught him as he was coming back. Choked him to death. Long, heavy pressure. Then the murderer must have left, very quickly.”
“He did leave. Before Middleton came along, as I reckon it,” Cardona agreed.
“How do you explain Middleton’s action?” asked Burke.
“Simply enough,” said Cardona. “He may have gone to find Blefken. I thought that at first; but I figure it different, now.
“I think Middleton was beating it. Nervous. He was on his way to that side door — hesitating, maybe but when he stumbled across the body, he kept right on going.
“Why?” questioned Clyde.
“Why?” echoed Cardona. “Plenty of reason why. He’d have been the goat. What was he doing in the place?
“He had come to prevent Blefken’s murder. He had failed. Only Blefken knew about it; at least, that’s what Middleton thought.”
“I see,” said Clyde. “Say, that all fits together, Joe! You think Middleton was on the level, then?”
“I’m not guaranteeing that,” replied Cardona cautiously. “I’ve seen too many crazy killers to believe everything a man like Middleton might say. Perhaps he was an accomplice. One thing is certain. He wasn’t the actual killer!”
CARDONA had begun his statement in a guarded tone. His last words were spoken with positiveness. The detective leaned close to the chair where Clyde was sitting.
“Burke,” he said confidingly, “I could have told those fellows plenty. I’m telling you, because I’m going to let you stick along with me. Not a line for your paper until I say the word. Then you can blow the works.
“Within an hour, I’ll have the man who murdered Charles Blefken!”
Clyde Burke had not expected this startling announcement. The reporter had played a hunch. He had hoped to learn some hidden angle of the lawyer’s death. Instead, he had uncovered a gold mine of hot news.
Clyde knew Cardona well. Not for an instant did he doubt the detective’s statement. Joe Cardona never counted his game until it was as good as in the bag.
“Take a look at this,” said Cardona quietly.
He opened the envelope. From it he drew a folded strip of cloth. He unrolled it. The cloth had been torn from the inside of a man’s coat. At the top was a section of a label, bearing the inscription:
HELMSF Tai New
“Make anything of that?” quizzed the detective.
“Looks like a clothing tag,” said Clyde.
“Not much of a guess, is there?” laughed the detective. “You’ve probably never heard of the concern. Small but exclusive: ‘Helmsford Brothers. Tailors. New York.’ That’s the complete name.
“Here’s something just as important. Notice that bit of gray cloth that came off with the lining?”
Clyde nodded.
“All right,” continued Joe Cardona. “This was clutched in Charles Blefken’s hand. I found it just after the doctor declared him dead. I took it.
“The minute I had a good look at it, I knew that Middleton wasn’t the man I wanted. He was wearing a dark-blue suit. That bit of gray cloth indicated another person.
“I didn’t wait until daylight. At three o’clock this morning, I had James Helmsford, head of the tailoring concern, in his shop.
“Luck was with me, Burke. This Helmsford outfit are a high-priced crowd. They know their cloth when they see it. Helmsford showed me a remainder of the same material.
“He checked up. Found they were keeping it for a man named Clinton Glendenning. He owns two suits of this same stuff. His own private material, you might say.
“I put Williamson covering Glendenning’s house from then on. At ten o’clock this morning, a young man came out, carrying a gray suit. He took it to a little tailor’s shop a block away. Williamson and his men grabbed him.
“They took him and the suit to the nearest police station, and got in touch with me.
“I’ve just come from there, Burke. There’s a piece ripped out of that suit matches this to a dot!”
Burke could see elation gleaming in Cardona’s eyes. He knew that there was more to come.
“They’re still watching the house,” said Cardona. “I’ve quizzed the young fellow that they pinched. He wouldn’t talk until he saw me. Then he began to let a lot off his mind.
“He’s Glendenning’s secretary. His name is Elder Larkin. Been working for the old man for several years. He’s been worried because of things that were going on around the place. Glendenning sent him out last night, he says. When he came back, the old man wasn’t there.
“Came in afterward. Larkin noticed he acted funny. This morning the old man gave him the suit, and told him to have it repaired right away. Said it had been torn in the door of a taxicab.
“Larkin was to go downtown. Not expected back until one o’clock. So I told the boys to hold the pinch until I joined them. I came down here hotfoot, leaving Williamson watching the house.
“We’ve got the key to the front door. Larkin gave it to us. That secretary’s going to be valuable.
“Inspector Klein is to meet me here. He’s going up to the place with me. We’re timing the entrance close to one o’clock, so, if there’s any noise, the old man will think it’s Larkin coming in.
“We’ve got the place covered like a blanket. And when I come in here, all keen, and set to go, what do I run into? A bunch of newspaper punks wanting to know what’s the matter with me! They’ll find out. You’re the only real guy in the crew, Burke.”
A MAN entered the doorway. It was Inspector Timothy Klein. Joe Cardona was picking up the photographic sheet as the inspector entered. He rushed over and showed it to Klein.
“If Glendenning’s mitts match these, we’ve got him sure!” exclaimed Cardona. “Let’s get started, chief. I’ll tell you more on the way up.”
Inspector Klein looked disapprovingly toward Clyde Burke. Cardona grinned to show that it was all right.
“Burke’s coming with us,” he said. “We’re going to let one reporter see how we work. This is one fellow who will treat us right. He deserves the break.”
Cardona was buzzing in Klein’s ear as the three men rode rapidly uptown in a police car. Burke caught very few words of their conversation. It seemed no time at all before the car pulled up at a corner, and the men alighted.
“Down the next street,” said Cardona. “Didn’t want to come too close with the car. Not a body in sight. Great! Williamson’s doing a nice covering job.
“Stay back. I’ll take care of this, chief.”
Clyde Burke remained with Inspector Klein. They saw Cardona sidle along the street and step into a doorway. He evidently held a short conference with a man hidden there.
Shortly afterward, the star detective reappeared and moved on to a house with stone steps. He went up and unlocked a door. He disappeared inside.
Two other plainclothes men appeared as if by magic. They entered the same door, as reinforcements for their leader. Tense moments followed. Then came the shrill sound of a whistle. Half a dozen men sprang into view.
“Come on,” said the inspector.
He and Burke jogged along the street and followed the men ahead. The trail led up a flight of stairs and around a corner. They passed men who were opening doors and prying everywhere.
They came into the front room. There, in a chair, sat an old, gray-haired man, his hands raised above his head. His lips were moving. He was uttering incoherent threats.
Cardona was covering Clinton Glendenning with an automatic. As the inspector arrived, the detective motioned to two of his men. They took Glendenning into custody.
For an instant, the old man looked as though he intended to begin a fight. He gripped one of his captors’ arms in a viselike clutch.
But the sight of Cardona’s automatic brought his hands up again. Handcuffed, he was led away.
“Down to headquarters with him, Williamson,” came Cardona’s order to a solemn-faced detective who was standing by the door. “We’ll be there shortly. Have Larkin there, too.”
A bundle of keys lay on Glendenning’s table. Cardona jingled them; then spied the door that led to the old man’s bedroom. He entered, followed by Klein and Burke.
There were curtains beyond. The detective spread them and uncovered a narrow staircase that led to the floor below. Footsteps sounded from below.
Cardona hailed. It was one of his men. The fellow joined them.
“What’s down there?” asked Cardona.
“Nothing,” was the reply. “This is just a short cut to the first floor.”
“We’ll go down the other way,” declared Cardona.
They started along the hall. They stopped at the end, and Cardona tried a locked door.
“Glendenning has a niece,” explained Cardona. “This is her room — when she’s home. The secretary said she went away. The old man doesn’t know she’s gone.”
He tried a few keys, and finally opened the door. The room was plain, but neatly furnished. Cardona strode across to look at something lying on the table. In another minute, he was reading a note, aloud:
“UNCLE CLINTON: “I have left. I can bear it here no longer. I have been deceived. I know now what has become of the one I loved. I can never forget him. Do not fear that I shall ever tell what I have learned about you. Simply know that I am out of your life forever. “MARGARET.”
THE detective passed the note to the inspector, who studied it close to the window.
“The girl was wise,” declared Cardona. “She must have found out the old man’s game. Maybe we can trace her.”
There was a call from downstairs. Cardona hastened in that direction. Clyde Burke followed. What a scoop this all would be for the Classic!
But even more this thought was Clyde’s most important one — it would make a report of high value to The Shadow!
“How about this door?” a plainclothes man was questioning Cardona, in the hall at the back of the stairs. “Looks like it leads down to the cellar.”
Cardona was busy with the keys. The door opened. The detective’s flashlight showed a wall switch. Cardona pressed it, but there was no illumination.
With his electric lantern, the ace detective started down the steps. He reached the cellar with Burke, and the other man behind him.
A nailed-up coal bin caught Cardona’s eye. The detective moved forward to investigate. His assistant wrested with the boards, and Clyde Burke lent a hand. An opening was made, and all stepped through.
In the corner of the compartment was a heavy box, fastened with a padlock. None of the keys answered. The man who had called Cardona disappeared. He returned with a hammer.
The lock resisted his first blows; then a well-directed stroke shattered it. Cardona raised the lid of the box and let his flashlight glare into the interior.
The lid of the box dropped. Cardona turned to the other men, who were at the entrance of the bin. Cardona’s arm was lowered; the flashlight glared upward, and the detective’s solemn face showed strangely as the rays revealed it.
“What is it?” exclaimed Clyde, startled at the sudden change that had swept over Cardona.
“A body,” replied the detective slowly. “A body. The dead body of a man — murdered! Another victim — murdered by the fiend that we have captured!”