That was just it. What would Jake have gained? Nothing, in The Shadow's silent opinion. He saw what lay behind the message that had come to Sherbrock's.
It was a fake tip-off, like the one that the police received the night before. Real murderers had known that a victim would die at Club Fifty-five, and were trying to plant the job on Jake because of the bartender's questionable past.
The dead man's name was Howard Jorton, which fitted the initials 'H. J.' mentioned in the note. He was well-dressed, had plenty of money in his pocket, and was fairly well-known at Club Fifty-five, where he often came to spend the late afternoon.
Jorton was in the rug business, as evidenced by cards found on his person, but his office was closed when Weston tried to reach it by telephone. Apparently, Jorton had lived at some hotel, because there was a big key in his pocket with the number 331 on it; but it didn't bear the name of the hotel.
Having called headquarters to make a general check-up on hotels, Weston began an examination of Jorton's effects. Money, cards, and other items were spread along the bar, when Cranston called attention to a ring that Jorton wore on a finger of his left hand.
It was a gold ring, with a fair-sized stone that had no color. Weston drew it from the man's finger, which was rather difficult, since Jorton's hands were swollen. The police surgeon, recently arrived, attributed the swelling to the effect of the poison, which had not yet been identified.
'A cheap stone,' declared Weston, as he held the ring to the light. 'Too sparkling to be glass, but not good enough for a genuine diamond.'
'A variety of quartz,' identified The Shadow. 'Such stones are often sold under the name of Brazilian diamonds. You are right, commissioner - they are very cheap, though persons are sometimes deceived by them.'
A telephone bell was ringing. Taking it to be a call from headquarters, Weston answered. His voice immediately became both brisk and eager.
'Yes, yes!' he exclaimed. 'Mr. Jorton is here... He's to call Mr. Bayle? Which Mr. Bayle?... I see, Moreland Bayle. May I ask who you are?... You're Bayle's butler -'
A second later, Weston was hammering at the receiver hook. The speaker at the other end had hung up very suddenly. Pouncing for the phone book, Weston was trying to find the name of Bayle, when Cranston reached across his shoulder and pointed it out for him.
'Moreland Bayle -'
After the name, Weston repeated the number from the directory. But when he called Bayle's number, he received no reply, not even from the mysterious butler, a point which troubled The Shadow. The call had all the earmarks of another so-called tip-off, designed by crooks. It produced the sinister picture of further crime to come.
THERE was nothing to do but go to Bayle's, so Weston started, taking Cranston and Margo along in his official car, while Cardona remained at Club Fifty-five to clear up what little he could in the Jorton case.
Bayle's address turned out to be a small apartment house, a converted dwelling, and Weston was pressing at the button which bore Bayle's name, when a taxicab pulled up in front.
It was The Shadow who stepped out to meet it, when he saw the driver give a puzzled stare into the rear seat. Before the driver could object, Cranston was opening the rear door of the cab.
The act brought another shriek from Margo, who was standing by, though she managed to stifle the cry somewhat. However, it was enough to bring Weston full about in time to see the reason.
A body was rolling from the cab, to hit the curb and stretch flat before The Shadow could stop the force of its dead weight. Arriving at Cranston's side, the police commissioner stared down at a horrible, grinning face, quite as bloated as Jorton's.
Then came Cranston's calm-toned statement of identity:
'Moreland Bayle.'
The Shadow was correct. Examination of the victim's pockets proved him to be Moreland Bayle, traveling representative of a large paper company. The gulping cab driver declared that he had picked up his fare at the Pennsylvania Station, from an incoming train.
It was plain to The Shadow that murderers had not cared just where Bayle died, though they would probably have preferred him to fall from a cab, the way he had. The pressing question was whether or not Bayle's death would produce another planted lead, as Jorton's had.
No other name was indicated among Bayle's effects, but the man was wearing something which, to The Shadow, was a menacing token.
The object was a cheap ring, but its stone was Spanish quartz, rather than Brazilian. Almost colorless, the so-called gem had a faint tint of amber, which might have led a person of credulity and imagination to accept it as a topaz. It wasn't in keeping for Bayle to be wearing such a ring, any more than Jorton.
Accepting Cranston's suggestion that they go up to Bayle's apartment, Weston was going through the door of the house, when his friend stopped him. In the slit of Bayle's mailbox The Shadow observed the mere corner of a sheet of paper, and drew it out.
The paper had a calling card attached to it by a paper clip. It bore the printed name: 'Arthur Halden.'
Down in a lower corner was the name of a hotel, the Marwood.
It wasn't far to Halden's hotel. Having hailed a patrol car and putting the officers in charge of Bayle's body, Weston suggested a quick trip to the Marwood. The place turned out to be a small one, and an affable clerk nodded as soon as Halden's name was mentioned.
'Mr. Halden is in,' the clerk said. 'He called me a while ago. At least, he started to, and then hung up. I'll ring him.'
'We'd better go up,' decided Weston. 'Give me a passkey.'
THEY reached Halden's room. While Weston was unlocking the door, Margo stepped forward, only to be pressed back by Cranston's arm. That left it to Weston to utter the gasp of horror, when he pressed the door wide.
The commissioner voiced Cranston's name, and his friend stepped calmly past him, to view a sight which he fully expected.
Flat on the floor lay a tall man, his face turned toward the doorway, his features skewed in a one-sided smile that was very far from pleasant. But it wasn't the glimmer of bulging eyes that attracted The Shadow's chief attention.
He had expected to find Arthur Halden dead. More important was the gleam that came from the finger of the man's stiffened hand, the one that clamped the telephone, which Halden hadn't quite been able to put in use for a frantic call.
The gleam was of a slightly pinkish hue, produced by a stone which The Shadow classed as rose quartz, quite as cheap as the settings in the finger rings worn by the two previous victims, Jorton and Bayle.
Again, death had arrived ahead of both The Shadow and the law.
Murder still reigned, how many more victims it would take was a matter for conjecture, even by The Shadow. He, the inspector who had so often run down crime, could only hope that the toll of dead men would stop before it reached the total of six!
CHAPTER X. THE STOLEN LINK
THE clerk at the Hotel Marwood was a better informant than either the bartender who had seen Jorton die, or the cab driver who had brought Bayle's body home. The clerk knew quite a lot about Arthur Halden. The dead man, he said, was a former stock broker who had retired during a flush period of more than ten years before.
Halden was quite wealthy and still had dabbled in the market, advising friends, as well. However, he was living on his investments, which weren't paying the old-time dividends, hence he preferred a reasonably priced hotel like the Marwood.
In trying to recall the names of Halden's friends, the clerk promptly remembered one. The man in question was Kirk Raft, who had a real-estate office on upper Broadway, not far from the Marwood.
The clerk remembered Raft, especially, because there had been a phone call from the realtor's office while Weston and his friend, Cranston, were coming down from Halden's apartment.
Since Raft's office was near, Weston suggested an immediate trip there. On the way, he confided:
