Part 7 (1/2)

Joe Cardona was satisfied that prompt observation would prevent the murders that Kelwood Markin believed were due to come. In person, the acting inspector was going out to Long Island to keep a watch on Lester Dorrington's secluded mansion.

Cardona, thinking over Markin's statements, had become convinced that Lester Dorrington was the man to watch. With that belief in mind, Cardona had a hunch that Dorrington's Long Island home would be the spot from which crime orders would be issued. He believed that his vigilance would prevent new murder.

Little did Joe Cardona realize that new crime was due to-night. His trip to Long Island was to prove a useless journey. Murder-planned ahead-was scheduled for Manhattan. Joe Cardona was traveling from- not toward-the spot of its beginning!

CHAPTER X. SWIFT DEATH.

FLOODLIGHTS were brilliant at the Newark airport. Watching eyes were turned toward the sullen sky.

A plane from the south was long overdue. The s.h.i.+p had lost its course, but was reported safe. It was bringing pa.s.sengers from South America.

Among the watchers at the airport was a stalwart man whose face was marked by ruggedness. He was standing by the side of a coupe, at the limit of the field. This was Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow.

The thrum of motors came above the fainter murmur of automobiles that were pa.s.sing on the Lincoln highway. High lights picked out the shape of a huge trimotor plane. It was the s.h.i.+p from the south.

Watchers saw it pa.s.s above the field. It circled; then made a perfect landing.

The s.h.i.+p came almost to a stop. Circling on the ground, it taxied toward the hangars and finally came to a standstill. Spectators followed the attendants who raced up to the big plane. Cliff Marsland left his coupeand followed the small throng.

Among the pa.s.sengers who stepped from the s.h.i.+p was a heavy man of medium height. On the ground, this arrival studied the people whom he saw. His eyes peered from beneath bushy brows. Bags were on the ground; he stepped over to identify his luggage and spoke to a waiting attendant.

”This is my bag,” he declared. ”The name is on the tag. Edmund Talbot. I want to go by cab to the Hotel Goliath, in New York city.”

”Yes, sir,” replied the attendant.

Cliff Marsland turned and strolled back to his coupe. He was un.o.bserved by the man who had landed.

Cliff's face wore a grim, satisfied smile. He had discovered the man whom he had come to seek. He knew the destination which the fellow had chosen.

Cliff Marsland knew that the name of Edmund Talbot was a false one. He had been informed by Burbank that the stranger would not give his true ident.i.ty. The man whom Cliff had sighted from the crowd was Edwin Berlett, arrived directly from Pernambuco.

When people had left the field, Cliff went into the waiting room and found a telephone booth. He put in a call for the special number that he knew. Burbank's quiet voice responded. Cliff gave his report.

”Arrived,” he stated tersely. ”Identified. a.s.sumed name, Edmund Talbot. Hotel Goliath.”

”Report received,” returned Burbank. ”Instructions: go to the Goliath; learn the room number and register on the same floor, close by.”

”Instructions received'” acknowledged Cliff.

CLIFF'S coupe made good time Manhattanward. The Shadow's agent sped along, a mile or more behind Berlett's cab. Cliff was not attempting to overtake the taxi. He did not sight a cab even from the heights of the huge spans across the Pa.s.saic and the Hackensack rivers; but he did see one entering the tube as he neared the Holland Tunnel.

Pa.s.sing under the Hudson River, Cliff reached Manhattan and took a swift course uptown. He reached the street where the Hotel Goliath was located and grabbed a bag from the floor beside him. He entered the hotel just as a cab was drawing up to the door.

It was Berlett's taxi. Strolling toward the desk, Cliff allowed the lawyer to pa.s.s him. He saw the man register under the name of Edmund Talbot. He heard the clerk give the room number: 2036. Berlett followed the bell hop who took his bag.

”How about something around the twentieth?” questioned Cliff, casually, as he registered.

”I'll give you a nice room,” a.s.sured the clerk. ”Front, boy!” He pounded a bell. ”Show Mr. Marsland to 2012.”.

The rooms were not as close as Cliff had hoped. The twentieth, nevertheless, was Berlett's floor. Cliff decided that he would look the place over before calling back to Burbank.

Room 2012 was near the elevators. That was a point. The night was sultry; a partly opened door might well be intended for a breeze. Seating himself by the window of his darkened room, Cliff found that he could watch the elevators with ease. That was a decided advantage, even though Berlett's room was on the opposite side of the hotel. In Room 2036, Edwin Berlett was standing in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves. His bag was opened on the floor beside the bed. The supposedly dead lawyer was staring from the window. He seemed to be contrasting the pinnacled skyline of New York with the crescented stretch of illumination that he had observed in Rio de Janeiro.

A ring at the telephone. Berlett stepped back from the window. He picked up the receiver and spoke. A smile appeared upon his face.

”Yes...” Berlett paused. ”Yes... This is Mr. Talbot... Yes, I arrived later than I expected. s.h.i.+p delayed...

All is arranged? Good... I'll be here. Staying close to the hotel... Yes... Tired after the trip. Of course...

Of course.

”You'll call me to-morrow... Good... Everything is working out as planned... Yes, of course... I understand... Yes, I'm marking down the number...” Berlett's hand began to inscribe figures on a pad beside the telephone... ”I'll call you if I need quick service...”

Berlett hung up the receiver. He folded the slip of paper on which he had written and tucked it in his watch pocket. A crafty, satisfied smile appeared upon his face as Berlett turned out the light. A few minutes later, the creaking of the bed announced that the lawyer had retired.

CLIFF MARSLAND, not long after, pa.s.sed through the corridor outside of Room 2036. The Shadow's agent saw darkness at the transom above Berlett's door. Returning quietly, Cliff entered his own room and called Burbank. He reported Berlett's arrival and the fact that the man had evidently turned in for the night. Burbank's instructions were to remain at the Goliath until Harry Vincent came as relief.

Logically, Edwin Berlett would have supposed that no one knew of his presence in New York, other than the man who had called him on the telephone. The caller, addressing Berlett as Talbot, was evidently a partic.i.p.ant in a prearranged plan.

But The Shadow, knowing that Berlett would not tarry in Pernambuco, had radioed through Rutledge Mann to have an agent on the lookout for the lawyer. From now on, an agent of The Shadow-either Cliff or Harry-would be stationed close-at-hand to Berlett's room. Chance visitors, should they appear upon this floor, would be followed by The Shadow's men.

One man whom old Kelwood Markin had picked as a person murdered by Lester Dorrington's design was still alive, namely Edwin Berlett. The other-Hugo Verbeck-was most certainly dead. The newspapers had suggested no connection between the two lawyers; but Kelwood Markin had done so, naming Dorrington as the link between. Markin had declared himself a dupe, along with Verbeck. He had suggested that there might be others of the same sort. It was a correct belief.

A DREARY-FACED man was seated in the smoking room of the Tarpon Club on Forty-sixth Street.

Chewing at the end of a half-smoked cigar, he was reading the latest reports in the final newspapers. The subject that interested him was the death of Hugo Verbeck.

In a parallel column, this solemn man had spied the name of Lester Dorrington, mentioned in connection with the death of Torrence Dilgin. The newspaper stated that Dorrington was still withholding statements regarding the millionaire whose estate he was handling.

The dreary man came to life. He cast the newspaper aside. He walked out into the small lobby of the club and entered a telephone booth. There was a purpose in his action; in a sense, it resembled the futile phone call that Hugo Verbeck had tried to make.

The dreary man, however, did not put in a call for Lester Dorrington. Instead, he called detectiveheadquarters. When a gruff voice responded, the caller spoke in a worried tone: ”h.e.l.lo... This is Clark Durton speaking... Clark Durton, attorney... I am calling from the Tarpon Club, on Forty-sixth Street...

”No, no. There's no trouble here... I want to speak to one of your inspectors... Not just any one-a particular man-an acting inspector...”

Durton paused to recall a name that he had read of in connection with the death of Hugo Verbeck.

Before he could speak again, the gruff voice suggested Joe Cardona.

”That's the man,” responded Durton. ”Cardona... Yes... Is he there?”

Again an expectant pause. Then, in a disappointed tone, Durton resumed: ”I see... You expect him in shortly... No, don't have him call me... I'm coming down to headquarters. I'll see him in person.”