CHAPTER I

DEATH INTERRUPTS

A taxicab skirted around the corner. Violently, brakes clamped on before the third house in the row. An odd, elongated figure stepped briskly to the sidewalk, hurriedly thrust a bill into the driver’s hand, and then, looking neither to right nor left, hurried up the steps to the house.

Within the hallway, the man stood for a moment, as though enjoying a sense of security for that brief interval.

The dim light revealed his thin, pale face, and his slightly stooped figure, clad in a poorly fitted gray suit. He was about thirty-five years of age, but the worried expression of his features made him look older.

A middle-aged woman came down the stairs and smiled as she greeted the new arrival.

“I hadn’t expected you for another week, Mr. Jarnow,” she said, “but your room is ready.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Johnson,” returned the man at the door. “You’re always ready here. This is one rooming house that seems like home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarnow. But I am sorry that you had to come back to Philadelphia during this hot spell. The last few days have been scorchers. You must have found it cooler, away from town—”

“I had to hurry back, because I’m expecting a visitor — a Mr. Windsor. Has he come?”

“No one has called to see you.”

“If he comes, send him up, please. But make sure it is Mr. Windsor.”

Jarnow hurried up the stairs and entered a room at the back of the house. He went to the window, opened it, and peered down into the narrow alley below. Then he closed the window, and drew the shade to its full extent.

Having concluded these precautions, he turned on a study lamp that hung above a small table, and locked the door of the room.

A glance at his watch showed eight o’clock.

“He should be here now,” muttered Jarnow. “He said he would come, and he should be here by now.”

A minute ticked by, and the man in the room became restless. He paced the floor back and forth, his hands closing and opening nervously. He stopped by the door to listen. While he stood there, intent, he heard voices in the hallway.

There was a tap at the door, and the man drew back as though afraid. Then came the voice of the landlady.

“Mr. Windsor is here.”

Jarnow unlocked the door, and admitted the visitor.

The newcomer was faultlessly attired in a tuxedo, and his rather jolly expression contrasted noticeably with Jarnow’s serious face.

“Hello, Frank,” said the visitor. “Here I am; just about on the dot. Glad to see you. What’s all the excitement about?”

Jarnow closed the door, withdrawing the key as the lock clicked, and motioned his visitor to a chair beside the table. Windsor had been drinking; his unsteadiness betrayed him even more than his speech.

“You seem rather mysterious, Frank,” said Windsor, in an indulgent tone, as the tall man took the chair on the opposite side of the table. “What’s it all about?”

“It’s a serious matter, Henry,” replied Jarnow, dropping the key into his coat pocket. “I’ve just come from Brookdale.”

“Is — is — anything wrong with Blair?” questioned Windsor, assuming an air of drunken seriousness. “Is anything wrong? Couldn’t be anything wrong with good old Blair?”

“Your brother is all right,” said Jarnow, grimly. “All right, so far as health is concerned. But there is danger there, Henry. Serious danger.

“You’ve got to sober up, Henry. I have important facts to tell you. You must believe what I say.”

* * *

Henry Windsor tilted his head to one side. He was a man past forty, and his pudgy face seemed both solemn and ridiculous. He appeared to be listening seriously, but Jarnow groaned as he realized that it would be difficult to gain the man’s attention. Henry Windsor had unquestionably reached a state of almost hopeless intoxication.

“I wish you were sober,” said Jarnow. “I’ve got to talk to you now, Henry. I can’t wait until tomorrow. It is a matter on which life depends.”

“Blair is in danger?” asked Henry Windsor. “Tell me about it, Frank. I’ll do anything to help Blair. He’s my only brother, Frank. My kid brother. Ten years younger than I am. Means a lot to me, Frank. Don’t say anything’s wrong with Blair.”

“Listen, Henry,” exclaimed Jarnow. “Forget your brother for a minute. I want to talk to you — about yourself. You are in danger. Real danger—”

“I can’t forget Blair,” interrupted Henry Windsor, in pathetic tones. “He’s all I’ve got in the world, Frank. He’s made good, that boy.

“You know, Frank, when our grandfather died, he left me nearly half a million, and he gave Blair only fifty thousand. Look at me now — I’ve got all my money yet, but no more. Live off the interest — that’s what I do.

“Blair didn’t have enough to live off the interest. He left Philadelphia. He went away — up to Boston, you know. Made money there. Maybe he’s worth as much as I am, now. He deserves it, Frank. He’s going to get my pile of dough when I die. He’s younger than I am, Frank. He’ll live longer—”

“Steady up, Henry!” interrupted Frank Jarnow. “Keep quiet, and listen to me. I know all about your money, and that’s where the danger lies.

“Something has happened, Henry; it affects both you and Blair. I want you to know all about it before it is too late.”

Henry Windsor lurched forward slightly in his chair, then steadied himself against the table. He propped his chin on one hand, and seemed to make an effort to listen intelligently. He had gained a temporary soberness that gave reassurance to Frank Jarnow.

The tall man looked nervously about the room; then leaned forward and spoke in a low, firm voice.

“I arrived at Brookdale two days ago,” he said. “I was to stay two weeks. Blair told me to stay as long as I wished. There are several people staying there. I thought they were friends of Blair’s; but I found out—”

He paused. Henry Windsor’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be half asleep. Jarnow reached across the table, and shook the man impatiently.

“Stop it!” exclaimed Windsor, starting to rise from the table in sudden anger. Jarnow pushed him back into the chair.

“You’ll be sorry for this!” cried Henry Windsor, indignantly. “Don’t try that again. You’ll be mighty sorry for it.”

“Listen to me,” said Jarnow. His voice carried a command. “I suspected something the first day that I was at Brookdale. I investigated on the second day. This morning I discovered the truth. I found this here—”

He drew a small sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it before Henry Windsor’s eyes.

“Can’t read it without my glasses,” said the other man. “Read it to me, Frank. What does it say?”

“It says,” replied Jarnow, “that Blair Windsor—”

His lips became rigid. He was staring over Henry Windsor’s head, toward the door beyond.

“What does it say?” questioned Henry Windsor.

Two shots reverberated through the little room. Frank Jarnow sprawled across the table, one hand firmly clutching the sheet of paper, the other extended against Henry Windsor’s shoulder. Windsor, half rising, nearly toppled to the table.

The light clicked out.

“Frank,” mumbled Henry Windsor. “Speak to me, Frank!”

Befuddled though he was, he fancied he heard Frank Jarnow moving by the table. He reached out to steady himself and his hand rested on Jarnow’s neck.

Groping along the table, Henry Windsor touched metal, and his fingers clutched the handle of a revolver.

* * *

There was a crash at the door. The wooden barrier gave slightly; excited voices were shouting outside. Henry Windsor became suddenly aroused.

“Good old Frank,” he said. “Shot good old Frank. I’ll stop them!”

The door fell. A hand pressed the wall switch that controlled the ceiling light.

In the midst of the illumination, Henry Windsor faced the doorway and raised the revolver. But before he could press the trigger, a man leaped forward and wrested the gun from his hand. Windsor was overpowered by three of the intruders.

“Shot Frank Jarnow!” exclaimed Henry Windsor as he was pressed against the wall. “Frank’s dead! You’ll be sorry for this. I’ll kill all of you!”

A woman screamed from the doorway. It was the landlady, following the men who had broken down the door.

Some one was running for the police.

Chaos seemed to rule the house, and in the midst of it lay the silent form of Frank Jarnow.

* * *

The morning newspapers carried a sensational story. The very circumstances of the tragedy marked it as the most startling crime news that had broken in Philadelphia during that placid summer.

Henry Windsor, wealthy clubman, had murdered his friend, Frank Jarnow, in an obscure boarding house. The occupants had broken in and had managed to overpower the murderer before he could escape, and he had threatened to kill them, also. They had heard him confess his guilt.

Pictures of Henry Windsor and Frank Jarnow were on the front page, with a photograph of the boarding house and a picture of Mrs. Johnson.

But amid the multitude of words that crowded the columns of the journals, a most important statement did not appear.

There was no mention whatever of the uncompleted sentence which Frank Jarnow was uttering when death interrupted him!

CHAPTER II

DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES

Shortly before noon, Detective Harvey Griffith entered Mrs. Johnson’s rooming house. Griffith, the keenest man on the force, had been out of town on another case, and had come to view the scene of the murder immediately upon his return.

He found a policeman in the room on the second floor, but the body of the murdered man was no longer there.

“They moved the body out,” explained the officer. “Got all the evidence there was. This fellow Windsor didn’t have a chance to get away. Lucky he was drunk. He might have shot them when they grabbed him.

“Harrison is handling the case; he’ll be up in a minute. He’s talking to the landlady now.”

The sound of whistling came from the stairs, and a tall young man entered the room. He stopped suddenly when he encountered the short, stolid form of the star detective.

“Hello, Griffith,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t get here before we removed the body. You could have seen the whole layout. No mystery to it; they got the man quick enough. Guess you read it in the papers.”

“You can’t rely on them,” replied Griffith. “Let’s hear what you found out. I just thought that there might be a link between this murder and some of the cases I handled before I took my vacation. That’s why I drove up from Atlantic City. If you’ve landed the right man, I’ll head for the shore again, to-night. But if you haven’t—”

Harrison smiled at the seriousness of Griffith’s expression. The star detective was always ready to make a tremendous mystery out of a simple case. Some there were who claimed that he exaggerated all crimes purposely.

“Well,” explained Harrison, referring to notations, “Frank Jarnow came in at exactly eight o’clock. Arrived in town suddenly. Went up to his room. Told Mrs. Johnson — landlady — that he expected Mr. Windsor. At about eight fifteen, Henry Windsor arrived, nicely drunk. Came into the room. Mrs. Johnson showed him in; she heard Jarnow lock the door.

“A boarder going by the room at about eight thirty — on his way up to the third floor — heard a voice say: ‘You’ll be sorry for this!’ Claims it was Windsor’s voice — he heard Windsor speak afterward.

“Just after eight thirty the shots were fired — two of them. People rushed upstairs. Smashed down the door. Found the light out; Windsor holding the gun. He threatened to shoot to kill. They disarmed him.

“He said he shot Jarnow — also said the same thing down at the district station, but he says he doesn’t remember bringing a gun, nor does he remember the actual action of firing it. Claims his mind is pretty much a blank — says his friends will testify that he gets that way when he boozes.”

“Mm-m-m!” grunted Griffith. “How long between the time when the shots were fired and the time they captured Windsor?”

“We reckon it at about five or six minutes.”

“How did Windsor get in?”

“The landlady let him in.”

“The front door wasn’t locked when I came here just now.”

“No; they don’t lock it until midnight.”

Griffith looked about the room.

“Where was Jarnow?” he asked.

Harrison silently took his position in the chair, and slumped on the table — to indicate the position of the murdered man.

“And Windsor?” questioned Griffith.

Harrison pointed to the chair opposite.

Griffith sat in the place which Henry Windsor had occupied, and remained thoughtful for a few moments.

“What about the bullets?” he asked.

“They’re from Windsor’s gun,” replied Harrison, “His finger prints are on the gun, too. Windsor must have stood up to shoot; Jarnow was just about to get up; the bullets came downward at a slight angle.”

“How tall is Windsor?”

“About your height.”

“How tall was Jarnow?”

“About my height.”

* * *

Griffith walked to the window; raised it; and looked below. The alley was slightly raised; the distance was about nine feet to the ground.

“Window unlocked?” asked Griffith.

“It was,” replied Harrison. “Raised just a fraction of an inch at the bottom. Shade fully drawn.”

Griffith walked about the room, whistling softly.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a tiny scrap of paper that lay on the floor near the table.

“Don’t know how I missed that,” said Harrison. “Looks like it was torn from a larger sheet.”

Griffith picked up the bit of paper, and laid it on the table.

Harrison’s conjecture was correct; it was a scrap from a larger sheet. It appeared to be the corner, and it bore two written letters — o and r.

“The word ‘or’,” said Harrison, promptly.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Griffith. “Why would ‘or’ be in the lower right corner?”

“There might be another sheet following,” returned Harrison. “What is it if it isn’t ‘or’?”

“Some other word ending in the letters o and r.”

“Such as—”

“Windsor.”

Harrison was dumfounded at Griffith’s terse reply. Somehow, the star detective always managed to gain his point; was always able to prove that something could be added to evidence.

“Here’s all we found on Jarnow,” said Harrison, pulling a large envelope from his pocket. “We can add the piece of paper to the collection.”

He slid the miscellaneous articles on the table. Griffith fished among them.

“Probably nothing here,” he said, “except a few notes that may be of value.”

Griffith picked up an envelope, and observed some penciled notations. They were short, with initials, such as B, and H; and it was quite possible that they might prove important.

“Better let me look these over,” said Griffith.

“Suit yourself,” replied Harrison. “There’s nothing else there — except eighty dollars in cash; that’s all that is valuable.”

Griffith continued to rummage through the remaining articles.

“Bring them along with you,” suggested Harrison. “You’re coming right down, aren’t you?”

“I may stop at the morgue,” replied Griffith. “I’d like to see the body. But I won’t be there long.”

“All right,” said Harrison.

He left, followed by the policeman, who had been a silent observer of the proceedings.

* * *

Left to himself, Detective Griffith walked about the room; then returned to the table. He studied both the notes, and the sheet of paper.

Then he put them back in the envelope, and picked up the money. It consisted of three twenty-dollar bills, and two tens. The tens were old, and worn. The twenty-dollar bills were crisp.

“Not important!” grunted Griffith. “Valuable. Worth twenty dollars apiece?” — he held one of the crisp bills to the light — “not worth twenty cents each! Phony mazuma. On Jarnow, the murdered man. Passed on him? Planted on him? Or—” Griffith shrugged his shoulders significantly.

The detective studied both the door, and the window. Then he sat at the table, where Windsor had been. Suddenly he stood up, and bumped his head against the hanging study lamp.

He stepped back, and pointed an imaginary pistol toward the spot where Jarnow had been seated. He repeated the experiment, avoiding the lamp.

“So Windsor was here,” observed Griffith. “He stood up, and shot downward. Funny, wasn’t it? The light was right in front of his eyes — green shade and all!”

The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket, and began to mark details. He arranged events on a schedule, and studied the times that intervened. When he had finished, he talked aloud — though softly — in order to make each finding clear.

“After Henry Windsor entered,” he said, “Frank Jarnow locks the door but does not lock the window. That might be all right — still—” he paused doubtfully.

“Then,” he added, “Windsor shoots Jarnow from an almost impossible position. Funny that Jarnow let him do it. When they crashed the door, they took the gun away from Windsor.

“What was Windsor’s motive, anyway? He certainly didn’t plan well. He had about five minutes to get away; but he didn’t go — not even through that window. Sober enough to shoot Jarnow; too drunk to put up a fight, or to escape. Doesn’t sound right, does it?”

The detective made another survey of the room; then drew some diagrams, and made penciled notations. He went out into the hallway, and stood by the wrecked door. He looked back down the stairs.

“Suppose,” he said softly, “that I am an unknown person in this job. I can come in the front door unnoticed. Up to here; then unlock the door — any skeleton key would do, and the regular key was in Jarnow’s pocket — then sneak into the room.”

He edged through the doorway, and a smile of satisfaction came upon his face as he noticed the position of the table in front of him. Again he raised his hand, and pointed his forefinger downward.

“From here,” he said, half aloud, “it’s a perfect shot! Then—” he stepped toward the table, and snapped the button on the hanging lamp — “out goes the light; and out I go — through the window, which remains unlocked.”

Griffith sat at the table, and laughed.

“The gun?” he said, as though asking himself the question. “Wipe the handle; then plant it right in Windsor’s hand.

“That slip of paper? Either Windsor or Jarnow had it. Our man snatched it, and a piece tore off. No time to hunt for it.”

The detective again reviewed his progress of crime reconstruction, and he seemed more satisfied than before. He went to the window, and peered below.

There might be evidence there, he thought, but at the moment, he had a more important idea.

Picking up the envelope, Griffith took another look at the twenty-dollar bills. The presence of what might be counterfeit currency added a new angle of interest.

Whom did it involve; Henry Windsor, or Frank Jarnow?

* * *

The question puzzled Detective Griffith as he walked down the stairs. He went to the back of the house, and made a few observations, both up the wall, and on the ground.

Then he returned to the room, and examined the window sill. He had seen no marks there before; now he observed what appeared to be a slight smudge. He shook his head.

“Looks like a handkerchief or something was laid there,” he said. “There’s a clever man in this somewhere. Enough sense to avoid finger prints during the getaway.

“There’s a man in this — a man you’re going to meet some time, Harvey Griffith, and let’s hope it’s soon.”

Satisfied with his accumulated evidence, the star detective walked from the rooming house, and moved leisurely along the street. He smiled as he thought of Harrison.

It would have been foolish to have mentioned a single clue, except, of course, the piece of paper, which Harrison should have found. Griffith knew from experience that it was best to gather all possible evidence before mentioning any of it.

“There’s ‘ifs’ to it,” he acknowledged. “But if the bills are phony; if the other man came in; if—”

He remembered the slip of paper, and drew out his notebook. He marked down an item: to check the writing of the letters “o” and “r” with any available copy of Henry Windsor’s handwriting.

“If these clues hold together,” observed Griffith. “It’s going to mean a lot to Henry Windsor. They’ve got the goods on him so far, and he’s an easy goat. It may be lucky for him that I begin where Harrison leaves off.”

So thinking, the detective continued his easy pace. These clues could wait a little while, locked in his brain, and recorded in his notebook.

For as yet, Harvey Griffith had not seen the body of the murdered man. After that had been inspected, he would be ready for action.

“Yes,” concluded the detective, “I have a hunch that this visit to the morgue will lead me to the murderer.”

CHAPTER III

IN THE MORGUE

The city morgue was located in an old brick building that stood on a side street. It had been erected many years before, in the days when windows were few; and the architect had apparently sought to make the structure as forbidding as possible.

Detective Harvey Griffith stepped into gloom the moment that he left the street. He entered a long, echoing hall, that was illuminated by two small electric lights.

Visitors to the morgue had often remarked upon the depression that seemed to grip them when they entered the portals of the ugly building, but Griffith had been there too often to sense this natural repulsion.

There was a door at the right of the hall; it was open, and it showed the dingy office, where an attendant sat at a dilapidated desk. The man glanced upward and waved his hand in recognition.

“Hello, Mike,” greeted Griffith. “I’ve come to take a look at the body.”

“You’ll find it downstairs,” replied the man at the desk. “It’s on truck number six. You won’t have any trouble finding it.”

“Many people been in to see it?”

“Not yet. It was identified at the house. Couple of reporters came in. Expect there’ll be more later on; probably some female ones.”

“Yeah. They send the sob sisters out on these cases now. Gruesome details have a new touch when women write about them.”

“You don’t want to talk to any newspaper people, do you?”

“Send them down if they come in. They won’t bother me, and they won’t learn anything. It’s not my case anyway. Harrison is on it.”

Mike laughed.

“Well,” he said, “they’ve got to play up this murder with a lot of bunk. There’s no mystery about it.”

“No mystery?” murmured Griffith to himself, as he walked to the end of the hall. “We’ll see about that.”

Descending the stone steps at the rear of the building, Griffith entered the chamber below. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor of the low room as he walked to the truck on which lay the body of Frank Jarnow.

The room was well illuminated, and Griffith stood a few feet away from the corpse, studying every detail. With his left hand across his breast, and his right against his chin, the detective became as motionless as the form which he surveyed. He stood like a statue, in a room of silence.

After a time, he leaned forward, and looked at Frank Jarnow’s form from close range. He felt through the pockets of the murdered man, but found that Harrison had made a thorough search. Then he stood back, and resumed his first position, looking at the body of the murdered man.

His eyes rested on Jarnow’s face: the dead man’s eyes were staring; the mouth was half-open, as though some terrible realization had caught the man at the instant of death.

* * *

Footfalls came from the steps, and Griffith turned to see a young man of medium height enter the chamber. The critical eyes of the detective studied the newcomer.

The fellow was about thirty years of age; his face was sallow, and his eyes were sharp. The man stopped, openmouthed, and glanced about him.

“Well?” growled Griffith.

The man blinked his eyes, and looked at the detective with a foolish smile.

“I’m from the Gazette,” he said. “My name’s Bolton. Harry Bolton. You’re Detective Griffith, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. You’re a new man on the Gazette, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. They just gave me a city job. Used to be an out-of-town correspondent. First time I’ve ever been in this place. Woozy, isn’t it?”

Griffith laughed.

“I never felt it that way,” he said. “Guess I’m used to it.”

He glanced around him, as though conscious for the first time of his surroundings. He realized that the place was indeed forbidding. The walls of solid masonry made it a sound-proof dungeon. The rows of trucks, a few of them occupied with bodies, lent a sinister aspect to the situation.

The detective noted that the reporter was sniffing, as though trying to recognize the peculiar, pungent odor which saturated the atmosphere of this hideous room.

“Formaldehyde,” explained Griffith.

“Oh, that’s what it is,” replied the reporter, removing his hat, and displayed a shock of black hair. He shook his head as though to fight off a feeling of nausea; then he glanced toward the body of Frank Jarnow. The sight of the murdered man did not seem to annoy him.

“I’ve seen a lot of dead ones,” he explained. “It wasn’t that that bothered me. It was walking into the place with that smell of formaldehyde hitting me so quick. It seemed like I was out of the world, just cut off from everything.

“The lights are bright” — he looked at the row of brilliant incandescents — “outside of that, it’s the gloomiest place I ever saw.”

The reporter walked about the room, as though to familiarize himself with the strange surroundings. White, blank walls on every side. He and the detective were the only living persons in this compartment where death reigned.

Bolton stopped, and then looked at Griffith, who was again studying the corpse. The reporter approached the detective, and also observed the lifeless figure.

“I don’t know what kind of a story you’re going to get here,” said Griffith. “The story happened last night. Seems like the papers always send men around after everything’s over.

“Guess they thought the experience would be good for a new man like you. Otherwise I can’t see what you’re going to learn.”

“Well,” replied the reporter, “they like to get the story from every angle. I’m kind of lucky at that, finding you here. Maybe you’ve got some new opinion on the case.”

“It isn’t my case,” laughed Griffith. “Detective Harrison is handling it. I’m just looking in on it, because it interests me.”

“The Gazette heard that you might take charge,” persisted the reporter. “The motive hasn’t been established yet. It’s an important case, even though the murderer is known — for Henry Windsor is well known in this town. So if you have any opinion—”

“None at all,” snapped Griffith. “I keep my opinion to myself, young fellow. Harrison has the facts. See him.”

“It couldn’t have been premeditated,” observed the reporter, ignoring the detective’s antagonistic air. “When Windsor fired that gun he gave it all away.

“Funny thing to do — use a gun up there. If he had intended to kill Jarnow, he could have stabbed him better — but he would have had to use a knife — from in back—”

* * *

Detective Griffith laughed good-naturedly. The wandering talk of the reporter pleased him — for it was drawing the conversation from a touchy point; namely the shots that killed Frank Jarnow.

With his newly found clues, the star detective was anxious to avoid any interview concerning the murder. So he interrupted suddenly, taking advantage of Bolton’s reference to a knife.

“Did you ever see any one use a knife?” he asked.

The reporter shook his head.

“You don’t know anything about it then,” continued Griffith. “Stabs don’t have to come from in back. Look at this.”

He lowered his right hand to his side, and half clenched his fist, indicating an imaginary knife. Then he swung his arm forward, and upward, directly toward the reporter’s body. Bolton stepped back nervously, and turned half away, to avoid the sweep of the detective’s arm.

“That’s the system,” said Griffith. “One thrust like that, and it’s all over — if the man knows how to do it.”

The detective was standing with his right arm still outstretched, a knowing smile on his face, as though pleased with his demonstration.

“Like this,” replied the reporter suddenly. He swung toward the detective, and his right hand shot upward from beneath his coat, in exact duplication of Griffith’s movement. But Bolton’s arm was swifter, and amazingly sure in aim.

The detective emitted one startled gasp as he saw the flash of steel in the other man’s hand. Then the long, thin knife was buried in his body.

With a grotesque twist, Detective Harvey Griffith toppled forward and fell across the body of Frank Jarnow.

The pretended reporter drew the blade from his victim’s body, and calmly wiped it on the dead detective’s coat. He did not seem nervous now; in fact he was extremely calm, and a contemptuous smile lit his sallow face.

He slipped the knife within his belt, into the sheath from which he had drawn it under cover of his coat. Then he stooped forward, and his fingers quickly moved through the pockets of the dead detective.

His smile increased as he opened the envelope containing the articles which Frank Jarnow had once owned. He pocketed the envelope, and then rapidly purloined Griffith’s notebook, and other articles of value.

With one foot, he drew a truck toward him; then rolled the detective’s body upon it, and pushed the truck back to its position.

He opened a cigarette case which he had removed from Griffith’s coat, and coolly lighted a cigarette. He studied the bodies that lay before him as a craftsman might admire his workmanship.

“You butted into it, Griffith,” he said, softly. “I thought you were on the right trail. So you had to go too.

“I made a nice getaway last night — good enough to fool that dumb-bell Harrison — but Harvey Griffith was wise. Wise, but not cautious.

“You didn’t have a story for a poor reporter, did you? Well, you’ve made one now. A better one than that fellow—”

He waved his hand toward the form of Frank Jarnow. Then, puffing easily upon his cigarette, the murderer strolled across the gruesome room, and ascended the steps.

Mike, busy at the desk, heard the supposed reporter stop at the door, and called to him without glancing in his direction.

“Did Griffith give you a good story?” he asked.

“No,” was the calm reply. “I don’t think he knows anything at all.”

The door of the morgue slammed as the man departed.

CHAPTER IV

AN UNOFFICIAL REPORT

It was the morning after the murder of Detective Harvey Griffith. A round-faced gentleman with an amiable smile was at work in his inner office on the fifteenth floor of the Grandville Building, in New York. He was none other than Claude H. Fellows, the prosperous insurance broker.

To-day, this gentleman’s mind was absorbed in unusual work. With large spectacles adjusted to his nose, he was reading through a newspaper. The columns in which he was interested referred to the murders of Frank Jarnow and Detective Harvey Griffith.

Methodically, Fellows transcribed important details to a sheet of paper. His careful eyes overlooked no salient fact.

On his desk was a stack of Philadelphia newspapers through which he had already read carefully. Finishing the last one, he gathered up the entire pile and disposed of them in a large wastebasket.

Going to his personal typewriter, the insurance broker copied the memoranda that he had made. Back at his desk, he read the condensed report.

The top of the typewritten page gave such simple facts as the location of Mrs. Johnson’s rooming house, and the Philadelphia morgue — the two places where the murders had transpired. Then followed two disconnected accounts: the first referred to the death of Jarnow; the second to the demise of Griffith.

The first trace of Frank Jarnow was when he called Henry Windsor by long distance from New York. H.W. remembers the call. It reached him at the Civic Club; the operator there corroborates it. H.W. claims to have made an appointment for eight o’clock with F.J., at the latter’s room. F.J. arrived in taxi at eight. Came in on train from New York. Taxi driver substantiates this. Went up to room, expecting H.W., who arrived fifteen minutes later. H.W. had been drinking. Was unsteady. Went in room with F.J. Door was locked. Roomer heard argument between men. Words said by H.W. were “You’ll be sorry for this.” Two shots fired at eight thirty. People broke into room. Time elapsed, nearly five minutes. Captured H.W. with gun. He tried to resist. F.J. lying dead. H.W. accused of murder. Does not remember carrying gun or firing shots. Agrees he must have done it, however. Seems to be in a stupor. Being held by Philadelphia police without bail. His brother, Blair Windsor, Boston stockbroker, is expected to arrive in Philadelphia, coming from Massachusetts. Only information on Frank Jarnow: Philadelphia bank teller. Good reputation. Left a week ago for vacation in Maine. Arrival home unexpected. Only relatives in California.

Detective Harvey Griffith arrived morning after murder of F.J. Went to house where murder had taken place. From there to morgue to view body of F.J. A man claiming to be a reporter entered morgue, and was alone with H.G. downstairs. So-called reporter left. H.G. did not come up. Half hour later, Mike Burke, in charge at morgue, went down and found the body of H.G. Had been stabbed to death. Murder is attributed to Philadelphia crooks. H.G. was to testify on important case. Apparently good opportunity to get rid of him. Had many enemies. Notebook and other articles taken from H.G., including envelope containing items in pocket of Jarnow. This was given to H.G. by Detective Harrison, man on Jarnow case. Harrison had list of articles. None important, except eighty dollars cash. Conclusion: No possible connection between two murders. All newspapers agree on this. Murder of Griffith has put Jarnow murder in background.

The insurance broker folded the typewritten sheet, and placed it in an envelope. He pressed a buzzer. The stenographer entered.

“Take this to the Jonas office,” directed Fellows, giving her the envelope.

He watched her through the door of his inner office as she picked up her purse and went through the outer door. Then, alone, his mind indulged in speculation.

He went back over the recent episodes of his life, and he wondered what the future would hold for him.

For Claude Fellows was the confidential agent of a strange, mysterious individual known as The Shadow — a man whose name struck terror into the hearts of those who dwelt in the underworld.

Who was The Shadow?

That was a question that no one seemed able to answer. He was an uncanny being who was capable of being everywhere; yet who also had the peculiar ability of being nowhere. His name was scarcely more than a myth among gangsters; yet they dreaded it.

Some had claimed that they had heard his voice coming through spaceless ether, over the radio. But at the broadcasting studio, no one knew the identity of The Shadow.

He was said to have been allotted a special room, hung with curtains of heavy black velvet, along a twisting corridor. There, masked and robed, he faced the unseeing microphone.

A spy of the underworld had contrived to enter the broadcasting studio, to watch the door of the room that was supposed to be The Shadow’s. Yet no one ever entered that room!

A crook whose specialty was wire-tapping had managed to secure a position as radiotrician at the studio. But even the most astute questioning of his fellow workers had brought nothing to light. Around the studio, The Shadow was almost as much a myth as on the outside.

Only his voice was known. It might be that he broadcast by remote control, his voice coming to the studio by private wire. No one knew. Yet millions had heard the voice of The Shadow over the radio, and with it, his fear-striking laugh.

There were those who had met The Shadow. But even they had no knowledge of his identity.

The only man who felt sure that he knew The Shadow’s real personality was Claude Fellows — and he had gained his information during a period of emergency.

Fellows had entered the service of The Shadow in order to avoid financial failure. His only contact with the mysterious being was through messages which Fellows sent to an office in an old building on Twenty-third Street, east of Broadway. The office was apparently deserted. On its door appeared the name, “B. Jonas.”

In return, Fellows received letters, written in simple code which he could read quickly. The writing was in a special kind of ink, which disappeared shortly after the letter had been opened.

The insurance broker was an excellent man for gathering detailed information. He followed all The Shadow’s instructions perfectly. In return, he received a substantial salary, which came from some unknown source.

The Shadow was, of course, a man of considerable wealth. Fellows had recognized this from the start. On one occasion, the insurance broker had gone to visit a friend named Lamont Cranston, a millionaire who had an estate in New Jersey, some distance from Newark.

He had gone in Cranston’s limousine; and on the way, The Shadow had joined him in the car, and talked with him in the darkness — only to disappear when the automobile arrived at the millionaire’s home.

But later on, Lamont Cranston had been wounded — in some mysterious fight. Fellows had gone to see him, and had secured the services of a wireless operator named Burbank, who operated Cranston’s amateur sending station while the millionaire was incapacitated.

The Shadow worked by radio. He was a man with unlimited resources. Lamont Cranston had a sending station; he was a millionaire. So Fellows had smiled to himself, but had said nothing. He, alone, was sure that he knew the identity of The Shadow.

Where was The Shadow now?

Fellows could not answer that. Lamont Cranston had been away for some time. He was a man who came and went as he chose. His servants remained in the house. They never discussed his affairs.

It was while Claude Fellows’s mind was still considering the subject of Lamont Cranston that the door of the outer office opened.

“Come in!” called Fellows.

Some one crossed the outer office. The insurance broker looked up, and his mouth gaped. For there, in the door of the inner office, stood Lamont Cranston!

CHAPTER V

FELLOWS IS PERPLEXED

Fellows arose, and ushered his visitor to a chair. His mind was working with strange, confused rapidity. He stared at the man who had come into his office.

Lamont Cranston was a tall man, with rather pronounced features, who seemed to carry a very bored expression, as though life was rather tasteless.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Cranston?” he asked.

The millionaire smiled wanly.

“I haven’t come on business, Claude,” he replied. “Why be so formal? You’re an old friend. Call me Lamont.”

Fellows laughed in embarrassment.

“I don’t see you very often,” he said.

“That’s because I’m away so much,” answered the millionaire. “By the way, when did you last see me?”

Fellows hesitated.

“Don’t you remember?” urged Cranston.

“Well, er—” replied Fellows. “It was the time I came out to your house — some time ago — when you were — when you—”

“When I was injured, and sent for you?” interrupted Cranston. “Did you come out then?”

“Yes. That was the time.”

Lamont Cranston arose from his chair, and went to the window. He stood, looking over the sky line of Manhattan, tapping the glass with his knuckles. Then he turned suddenly, and faced the startled insurance broker.

“I can’t understand it, Claude!” he said. “This is a real mystery to me. I didn’t believe it until now.”

“Believe what?” gasped Fellows.

“Believe that I am crazy.”

“Why?”

“Well, here’s the story, Claude. My hobby is to do what I please. I forget the past. I live in the present. I go away when I choose, and return just as unexpectedly as I wish. You know that from your own experience with me.

“My establishment is run by Richards, my valet. He has been with me for years. He knows that I come, and go.

“A few months ago I left for California. I returned home two days ago. I expect to stay here for a month, at least.

“Yesterday, I slipped on the stairs, and fell against my shoulder. It hurt me considerably for the moment. Richards saw me, and rushed up in alarm. He asked if I had injured my wounded shoulder.

“This surprised me. My wounded shoulder! I never had such a thing. I demanded what Richards meant. The poor fellow looked as though he would liked to have bitten off his tongue.

“He said that he had made a mistake; he couldn’t explain his statement. Still, I insisted. He apologized, saying that he should not have mentioned something which I had ordered him never to discuss. That made it worse.

“I realized that Richards was in a predicament. He evidently believed that I had given him some instructions which he must obey; and that he must not discuss the subject even though I now demanded it. At last he found a way out. He passed the buck to you.

“He reminded me that you had come out to see me; that I had sent for you; and that he really knew very little about the purpose of your visit.

“So I told Richards to forget it. To-day I came in to see you. I want to know what it’s all about.”