Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 325 - The Whispering Eyes

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THE WHISPERING EYES

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. A QUESTION OF MURDER

? CHAPTER II. KILLER UNKNOWN

? CHAPTER III. TRAILS OF THE MIND

? CHAPTER IV. THE EYES HAVE IT

? CHAPTER V. ENTER THE PROFESSOR

? CHAPTER VI. THE ARTFUL FAKER

? CHAPTER VII. DIVIDED TRAILS

? CHAPTER VIII. LARRY THE HORSE

? CHAPTER IX. MURDER AT MIDNIGHT

? CHAPTER X. EYES IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER XI. THE TALE OF A CAT

? CHAPTER XII. THE CRYSTAL SEANCE

? CHAPTER XIII. CRIME UNRAVELS

? CHAPTER XIV. CRANSTON GETS AROUND

? CHAPTER XV. MIND MEETS MIND

? CHAPTER XVI. THE HINDU TEST

? CHAPTER XVII. WITHIN THE CORDON

? CHAPTER XVIII. HOODED DEATH

? CHAPTER XIX. APPOINTMENT AT MIDNIGHT

? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S PAY OFF

CHAPTER I. A QUESTION OF MURDER

LAMONT CRANSTON sauntered into the Cobalt Club and paused for a moment to listen to the

chatter of the reporters who had gathered there. From doorways, balconies and alcoves, dignified club

members were glaring at the newspapermen, and Cranston could hear the rumble of outraged voices. It

was unthinkable, this invasion of the most exclusive club in all Manhattan. It behooved somebody to do

something about it, and at once.

Somebody was trying to do something.

That somebody was Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. Himself a member of the Cobalt Club, the

commissioner could sense that his standing in that exclusive retreat was somewhat at stake. Often,

Weston had been eyed askance when he invited representatives of the press into these select preserves.

To date, however, Weston had only admitted reporters singly or in pairs; never in droves. He had

intimated to his fellow members that he was their shield against a mass intrusion such as this. A shield no

longer, the commissioner decided to become a sword and drive the upstarts out of the foyer.

"Outside please, gentlemen!" Pompous, but with booming voice, Weston was raising both hands to

gesture the crowd back. "This is no place for an interview. I have no appointment with any of you!"

A chorus came from the reporters:

"You've got an appointment, commissioner, though maybe you don't know it."

"That's right. Your appointment is with Inspector Cardona and our appointment is with him."

"It's for seven o'clock, commissioner, right on the dot."

"Down in the grill room, where you always are at seven -"

"And it's almost seven o'clock now!"

There was no holding back the throng. A dozen strong, they were pressing Weston back toward the

stairs up which he had come at first news of the invasion. Bristling to the tips of his military mustache,

Weston realized suddenly that the reporters couldn't have halted if they'd tried. Shoving in behind them

was a larger crew of photographers and their assistants, anxious to crowd downstairs and set up their

cameras. At that, Weston would have offered a last resistance, if Cranston had not sidled in beside him,

to apply a persuasive grip upon his arm.

"Let's get them down to the grill room," suggested Cranston in an even tone. "The sooner the better,

unless you want to be trampled. We can ease them out through the kitchen afterward."

With a helpless gesture to the club members who bordered the foyer, Weston turned and waved for the

intruders to follow him downstairs. Cranston went along to help hold back the stampede and soon

Weston, purple-faced but tight-lipped, found himself seated at a table in the center of the grill room. It

was the sight of Cranston, seated alongside him, that enabled the commissioner to regain his self-control.

Calm-faced, casual of manner, Cranston was taking the situation as a matter of course.

"Perhaps you can explain this, Cranston," sputtered Weston. "You act as though you had expected it."

"I have learned to expect anything," returned Cranston, nonchalantly, "but I can assure you I had no part

in this affair. Perhaps one of these gentlemen"- Cranston's eyes were idly roving the group—"might act as

spokesman for the rest and tell us what brought them here."

Cranston's eyes chose one face in the circle and flashed a signal by the merest pause. Catching the flash

that was unnoticed by the rest, the chosen man stepped forward. He was a wiry chap, who had the look

of an experienced newsman, including the slightly reassuring smile that impressed people who didn't want

to be interviewed. Commissioner Weston recognized him as Clyde Burke of the New York Classic.

"It happened last night, commissioner," said Clyde, "when Inspector Cardona invited us down to

headquarters."

"You mean Inspector Cardona is responsible for this?"

"Not exactly," rejoined Clyde. "I would credit it more to Professor Bogardus."

Nods from the surrounding reporters gave Clyde's statement unanimous approval, which only served to

revive Weston's recent outrage.

"And who," demanded the commissioner, "is Professor Bogardus?"

"Eric Bogardus," specified Clyde. "He calls himself a P.H.D., all in single letters, which he says stands for

Professor of Hypnotic Demonstrations."

Weston turned a side glance toward Cranston.

"Have you ever heard of this Bogardus?"

"Frequently," replied Cranston. "He does hypnotic shows three nights a week in an upstairs hall just off

Broadway. I understand he gives lessons in between."

"You have seen him work?"

"No." Cranston gave a shrug. "There are a lot of such chaps around town, commissioner. Their

demonstrations are boring and very similar."

Weston turned to concentrate on Burke.

"What was Bogardus doing down at headquarters?"

"It was some question about a license," Clyde explained. "Dr. Fontaine, the psychologist, claimed that

Bogardus was engaged in a form of medical quackery. He argued that unless Bogardus could

demonstrate actual hypnotism, his performances should be stopped."

One of the cameramen was pressing forward with some photographs. He handed Weston one that

showed a handsome man with a high forehead and a trim Van Dyke beard. The commissioner scanned

the photo, gave a nod.

"Big forehead, small chin," said Weston. "That's the reason he wears a beard. It's practically a disguise

for the character he lacks. I could tell this man for a fraud at first sight. Now if you notice his eyes -"

Weston didn't get further with his analysis, because Clyde snatched the picture away and handed it back

to the cameraman.

"Come again," the reporter told the photographer. "You gave the commissioner the wrong picture. This is

Dr. Fontaine and he's a real Ph.D. We want the P-h for phoney and that's Professor Bogardus."

Sheepishly, the photographer went through his prints while the surrounding newsmen chortled at his

mistake. That was a bad break for Commissioner Weston, whose self-importance had been jarred by his

own quick jump to conclusions. Only Cranston noticed the several shades of red that diminished on

Weston's face, Then Clyde had found some Bogardus pictures and was spreading them before the

commissioner.

"Here's a good shot," said Clyde, extending one photo. "It was taken down at headquarters last night."

The picture showed Bogardus as a man with a rugged, commanding face, glittering eyes and bulging jaw.

Weston made no comment on that score; he couldn't, without damaging his earlier opinion. Clyde had

helped the situation however by giving Weston a picture that showed another man beside Bogardus. The

other man was Inspector Joe Cardona, whose face was swarthy and square-set. In the picture, Cardona

was staring intently at the eyes of Professor Bogardus.

"What is Bogardus saying?" queried Weston. "I never saw Inspector Cardona look so interested in

anything before."

"The inspector is hypnotized," explained Clyde. "He wanted Bogardus to demonstrate his powers, so

Bogardus did."

At that, Weston grunted disdainfully.

"Bogardus gave Cardona a post-hypnotic impression," continued Clyde. "That's why we held off the

story. At seven o'clock tonight, Cardona will again be under the professor's influence, though he doesn't

know it."

An old-fashioned clock was beginning to strike seven from its place on the grill room wall. Weston gave

the clock a startled glance; then laughed, a bit indulgently.

"That's why we came here," Clyde finished. "Cardona asked Bogardus if a hypnotist could make a man

perform a crime, like murder. Bogardus said 'no,' but stated he could cause a subject to simulate a crime

without his knowledge."

"Simulate a crime?" demanded Weston. "How do you mean?"

"Bogardus gave Cardona an imitation knife made of paper," stated Clyde. "While Cardona was

hypnotized, Bogardus told him that at seven o'clock tonight, he was to seek out a certain victim and try to

stab him with that knife."

"And who was that victim to be?"

"You, commissioner."

The clock had finished its chiming, which made the sudden silence all the more impressive. Suppressed

wrath was purpling Weston's face anew, as he stared about the group, convinced that this whole party

had been arranged as an absurd hoax. Then, before any one could interrupt Weston's mental train of

indignation, the commissioner himself supplied the grand surprise.

Staring past the group, Weston fixed his eyes on the stairway, with a gaze of total unbelief. Instantly, the

reporters spread apart, edging in among the tables, to clear the setting for the next scene in the drama.

The chief actor in that scene had arrived.

Moving forward from the steps that he had just descended was a swarthy man of stocky build. His face

had the square-set features of the photograph, with the same rigid stare. The man was none other than

Joe Cardona, ace inspector of the New York force, behaving in the fashion of a human automaton, a

manner which Weston had never seen him employ before.

Step by step, as though he had become a self-appointed purveyor of doom, Inspector Cardona moved

mechanically toward the target of his gaze, Commissioner Weston. The scene took on unexpected drama

when Weston rose from his chair, stepped forward and gave a brushing gesture, the sort that he'd used

to shoo away the reporters when they were upstairs.

"Enough of this farce, inspector!" exclaimed Weston. Then, as flash bulbs flicked: "We'll be the

laughingstock of the whole city, if you continue with this farce."

Stolidly, Cardona moved forward, straight toward his goal. A photographer caught a snap of Weston's

face, showing a mingling of rage and amazement. The commissioner was realizing that this wasn't a game.

Inspector Cardona wouldn't jeopardize his status by knowingly defying a superior's order.

And now, Cardona's hand, thrusting beneath his coat, was drawing out a feeble weapon, an imitation

dagger made of paper that had been folded in the fashion of a child's soldier hat. Between flashes from

bulbs, Cranston, calm-faced as ever, stepped forward to thrust Weston back before the commissioner

could grab at the silly object in Cardona's hand.

"Let him continue, commissioner," advised Cranston. "It is always best, when a subject is under a

post-hypnotic influence. He must carry his purpose to its realization."

As Cranston withdrew, Cardona arrived. With a half crouch, the inspector delivered a stab with the

paper knife, directly against Weston's chest. The frail weapon crumpled, but Cardona did not notice it.

His eyes were on the man whom he had made an imaginary victim. Recoiling, more through bewilderment

than the force of Cardona's blow, the commissioner sat down in his chair and gave a flabbergasted look

around the group while bulbs flashed anew.

In the center of the scene, Cardona slowly opened his hand and let the folded paper flutter to the floor.

His face showed no expression that could betray his thoughts, if he had any. Staring at the hypnotized

inspector, Weston said, in hollow tone, "If that had been a real knife -"

Weston didn't finish the sentence. Turning to look for Cranston, he saw his calm-faced friend moving

toward the wall, where the clock now registered three minutes past seven. That clock was a trophy

which had been given to the Cobalt Club and other odd gifts adorned the wall along with it. Among them

was quite a different sort of souvenir, a thin-bladed stiletto that some medieval duelist had used as a

fencing dagger.

Plucking the stiletto from the wall, Cranston strode toward Cardona. The reporters were frozen, the

photographers too stunned to remember their cameras. Planting the handle of the stiletto in Cardona's

hand, Cranston gestured for Weston to rise, which the commissioner did, though slowly. Snapping his

fingers toward the photographers, Cranston brought them to life.

Here was drama, indeed. A question of murder was at stake. Would Cardona use the steel blade as he

had the paper? If he did, could Cranston, standing by, be quick enough to stop the thrust which Weston,

stepping forward, was about to invite?

Up came Cardona's hand. As bulbs flashed, the silence was the sort in which anyone could have heard

the dropping of a proverbial pin. It was more than a pin, however, that struck the tiled floor with a

sudden clatter. It was a stiletto.

Cardona's eyes had tilted downward, drawn perhaps by the weight he noticed in his hand. He had

dropped the stiletto in horror and now his hand was spread in the same wide fashion as his eyes.

Springing forward, Cardona gripped Weston by the shoulders.

"What have I done, commissioner? Why am I here? Where is Professor Bogardus? He said I would kill

somebody. He even gave me the knife!"

Steadying, Cardona turned, saw Cranston weighing two knives, one of steel, the other of paper, in either

hand. Staring toward the stiletto, the inspector noticed that its blade was not bloody and gave a relieved

sigh. Looking toward Weston, Cardona saw the commissioner going toward the side of the room, where

an attendant was beckoning him to a telephone. Cardona followed, Cranston accompanying him. Clyde

Burke also came along, with the reporters crowding after.

"Don't worry, inspector," Cranston was saying. "You only used the dummy knife, the paper one, which

Bogardus gave you. When I handed you the stiletto, you shunned the very suggestion. That's usual with

subjects under a post-hypnotic influence."

Clyde Burke was busily dashing off penciled words on a sheet of paper. As Weston turned from the

telephone, lowering the receiver from his ear, Clyde read what he had written.

"You can't commit murder with a paper knife," stated Clyde. "How's that for a caption, commissioner?

We'll use it with the picture that goes with the story. It won't reflect on anyone and it's a true statement.

You can't commit murder with a paper knife."

Weston's eyes gave Clyde a stare that was much like Cardona's recent trance gaze. In a tone like an

echo, Weston queried, "You can't?"

"Of course not."

"Tell me, Burke," said Weston, "did you ever hear of a man named James Kelthorn?"

"Why, yes," recalled Clyde. "He's an importer who was mixed up recently in a government investigation."

"Would you like a good murder story, Burke?"

"Of course."

"Very well. I'll take you along to cover one and you can bring your photographer. James Kelthorn has

just been murdered."

Commissioner Weston was quite himself again and from the grimly humorous expression on his

mustached face, Lamont Cranston could guess what was coming next, though Clyde Burke didn't.

"Perhaps, Burke," added Weston, "you would like to know the sort of weapon with which Kelthorn was

slain?"

"Definitely," replied Clyde. "I suppose they told you over the telephone?"

"They did," declared Weston, tersely. "Make a note of it and at the same time cross out that clever

caption you just wrote." Grimly, yet triumphantly, the commissioner swept his gaze around the group as

he added:

"James Kelthorn was murdered with a paper knife!"

CHAPTER II. KILLER UNKNOWN

COMMISSIONER WESTON had misinterpreted the statement on the telephone that caused him to

infer that James Kelthorn had been murdered with an imitation knife made of paper. He had been told

that the death instrument was a paper knife, which was something quite different from the toy weapon

that Inspector Cardona carried and decidedly more lethal.

Now, in Kelthorn's office, Weston was studying the paper knife along with the body of the victim.

Kelthorn's office was on the fourth floor of a building on West Twenty-fifth Street. The building was old,

but well managed. It had one elevator and a watchman named Jenkins who also operated the elevator

during the night shift. Only Jenkins could have gone up and down, because the stairway from the ground

floor was closed off at night by a locked gate, which had not been tampered with.

When on duty, Jenkins remained in the lobby and kept a signed book of all persons who entered and left

the building, listing the times of such arrivals and departures. Jenkins had come on duty at six thirty, he

testified, and at six forty-five, Kelthorn had arrived, according to the register. Seven was the time at

which Jenkins began his rounds and he had started on time. Arriving in Kelthorn's office, he had found

the murder.

James Kelthorn, a baldish man whose limited streaks of hair were gray, was sprawled in front of an old

safe at the back wall of his small and rather shabby office. The door of the safe was wide open and its

contents, mostly papers, had been scattered all about the dead man. Behind the body was a desk with a

revolving chair, now turned toward the safe.

Apparently, while opening the safe in the presence of some visitor he trusted, Kelthorn had been stabbed

treacherously in the back. Either that, or the murderer had entered stealthily, staged a silent sneak to the

spot where Kelthorn stooped, and had driven home the killing blow. Weston inclined to the theory that

the killer was already present. Unless Kelthorn had been with a man he considered a friend, he would

have been more cautious and would probably have locked the office door before opening the safe.

The paper knife had been twisted from Kelthorn's body after the fatal blow and was now lying on the

floor beside the body. Weston had not touched it, because he wanted the knife to be tested for

fingerprints, but he was examining it closely, as he stooped on the floor. The paper knife had a flat metal

handle, stamped with letters. Its long metal blade had nothing of a cutting edge, but it came to a fine,

sharp point, like an ice-pick.

"More deadly than it would appear at first sight," was Weston's statement in regard to the knife. "If

Kelthorn's friend noticed it lying on the desk, it could have tempted him to murder, providing, of course,

that he had considered such an act." Looking up at Cardona, Weston added, "Bring the light closer,

inspector. I want to read what's stamped on the handle."

While Cardona complied, Lamont Cranston studied Jenkins. The watchman had a sharp, pointed face,

the kind that indicated an individual who should be nervous and quick of manner. Instead, Jenkins had

assumed a stolid pose; his eyes were fixed dully on the scene before him, as though he were witnessing

the enactment of a dream. There was nothing of horror and scarcely anything of interest in the

watchman's gaze. All this might merely be routine, quite customary in his rounds, judging by the fellow's

expression.

"Compliments of the Arcturus Agency," read Weston, from the knife handle. "General Insurance.

Brumder Building, New York, NY. Phone, Chelsea eight—four —three—six—six. Call them,

inspector."

Cardona picked up Kelthorn's desk phone by its tips, to avoid smudging any likely fingerprints. He

dialed, then lifted the phone to his ear, with the same trick hold. Receiving an answer from the insurance

agency, Cardona announced himself officially and asked if they did business with Kelthorn. Learning that

they did, Cardona also found that Kelthorn was a steady enough customer to have been given a

complimentary knife.

"Tell them to send a man over," ordered Weston, as he caught the gist of Cardona's conversation. "We

want them to identify the paper knife."

"And you might have them bring another sample," suggested Cranston. "It would be good for a

comparison."

Cranston's remark was addressed to Weston, but Cardona waited for the commissioner to repeat it,

which he did. Cranston gave a slight smile of approval. It was smart of Cardona to let the order come

direct from Weston, rather than ruffle the commissioner by acting without his authority.

That was always the way when Commissioner Weston was personally investigating a case. Patience was

more than a virtue; it was a necessity. During the next quarter hour, Cranston, Cardona and others

watched Weston sift stacks of papers, bills, receipts, invoices and other documents from Kelthorn's safe,

all of which seemed to become more and more irrelevant to the case. Over near the door, Cranston

heard Clyde Burke confide to another reporter.

"If they ever find the murderer," Clyde said, "he will have saved himself half a life's sentence by the time

the commissioner catches up with him."

An interruption came soon afterward. The man from the Arcturus Agency arrived, bringing one of their

paper knives. Prompt comparison of this sample with the murder weapon proved the wisdom of

Cranston's suggestion. The knife with which Kelthorn was slain obviously had been sharpened for the kill.

Either the murderer had surreptitiously taken Kelthorn's paper knife during a previous visit, or he had

prepared one and substituted it on this trip, taking Kelthorn's away for keeps. In discussing this,

Inspector Cardona made notes to the effect that the murderer must have been familiar with Kelthorn's

office, a valuable thing to know in pursuing the investigation.

That brought the matter back to Jenkins.

Concentrating upon the dull-eyed watchman, Cardona began a direct quiz.

"You say you came on duty at six thirty, Jenkins?"

Jenkins nodded.

"Who was here when you came on?"

"Rankin was. He's the super. He'd locked the gate and made the rounds. He always does."

While Cardona was jotting down Rankin's name, Cranston put a casual question:

"Where were you, Jenkins, before you came on duty?"

Snapping suddenly from his dull manner, Jenkins gave a quick grunt, "Huh?" Then, laughing a bit

nervously as Cardona looked toward him, Jenkins addressed Joe.

"Funny, what this gentleman just asked me," the watchman said. "I was just thinking about it myself. I

came in from the back alley, like I always do. I've got a key to the back door of the lobby, you see. Only

I was a little late. I guess Rankin was sore."

"So you were a little late," repeated Cardona. "Why?"

"I don't know." Jenkins let his eyes set in a dull, reflective gaze. "I should have been on time. I guess I

was late on account of what happened in the alley."

"And what happened in the alley?"

"That's where I saw the eyes." As he spoke, Jenkins assumed a mechanical tone. "They were staring right

out of the dark, like a cat's eyes. Seems like I can't remember anything else, except the voice."

"Eyes, staring at me," repeated Cardona, in a voice that seemed an imitation of Jenkins'. "I can't

remember anything else, except the voice."

Apparently, Cardona was repeating Jenkins' testimony, but the inspector's hand was not writing down

the notes. Curiously, Joe's gaze had assumed a fixed look, too. Cranston noticed it, as did Clyde, who

was watching from the door. Then Weston snapped into the situation.

"So you heard a voice." Weston spoke impatiently to Jenkins. "What did the voice say?"

Jenkins shook his head and Cranston noticed that Cardona did the same.

"Then what did you do?" demanded Weston. "Come, man, snap out of it."

There was a nervous blink of Jenkins' eyes, which Cardona matched in less apparent style. Then:

"I came in and went on duty," said Jenkins. "Rankin was there, right enough, because I remember him

saying something about my being late. I know I must have locked the alley door because it was locked

afterward. Then"- Jenkins rubbed his head—"I kind of remember going up and down in the elevator. Or

maybe that was later."

"You mean," asked Weston, "when Kelthorn arrived and you brought him up to this floor?"

"That I remember perfectly," replied Jenkins. "I know Mr. Kelthorn" - he gave a side look toward the

floor—"I mean I knew him. So I had him sign the book and I brought him up to his floor."

"And then you went down again."

Jenkins nodded; gave his chin a rub.

"I must have," he decided. "I guess it was afterward that I took the car up and down. It's this way,

commissioner. You take so many trips for one reason or another, that you kind of forget what they were

about, or who was with you. But I couldn't have taken anybody up and nobody could have rung to come

down. I guess I was thinking about some other night. This whole thing kind of worried me."

"You mean finding Kelthorn's body?"

"Not exactly. I mean I was worried about Kelthorn when he came in. It was sort of like I expected him

and I was uneasy knowing he was in the building. I sort of thought there ought to be somebody else

coming in and out instead of him. Finding the body sort of shocked me out of the way I felt. I guess I feel

sort of responsible for something I don't know anything about."

"At least, you've proven yourself a man of sorts," asserted Weston, testily. "All right, Jenkins. At seven

o'clock you made your rounds. Did you start from the top of the building down, or from the bottom up?"

"I came right to this office first," testified Jenkins. "I always check the book to see who's in the building

before I start. Tonight it was only Mr. Kelthorn and looking at the book made me begin wondering about

him."

"Did you say wondering," queried Weston, "or worrying?"

"Both. I must have been worrying first or I wouldn't have been wondering next. So I came up here and

found—that."

Jenkins accompanied the "that" with a nod toward Kelthorn's body. At that, Cardona suddenly came

back into the quiz.

"You've told us something we didn't think to ask you, Jenkins," said Cardona. "You said you'd started

your rounds, so we supposed you'd made them this far. I should have known you came directly here.

Otherwise, you couldn't have reported the murder so soon after seven o'clock."

Weston gave Cardona a glance of disapproval.

"You should have thought of that sooner, inspector."

"I was thinking of other things around seven o'clock," reminded Cardona. "Maybe I wasn't thinking of

anything, or at least not for myself, on account of the hangover from that hypnotic jolt Professor

Bogardus gave me last night. But let's get back to this case, commissioner. If Jenkins didn't make his

rounds, he hasn't checked on how the killer might have got in or out."

"Then why not check with him now?" queried Weston. "I'll stay here and finish going through Kelthorn's

papers."

Cardona gestured to Jenkins and they started on their task, followed by a small coterie of reporters and

photographers that Weston had allowed to accompany him here. Cranston strolled along to see what

might be found, but from the calm, almost bored expression that he wore, he apparently didn't expect

much.

If so, Cranston was due for a surprise, provided he ever allowed any experience to surprise him.

Around a turn in the hall, the group came to a door that led to a fire escape. Like all such doors in the

building, this one had a heavy latch, which prevented it from being opened from the outside. Beside the

door was a window which also gave access to the fire escape; as a precaution against marauders, it had

been fitted with a frame containing heavy bars.

No longer was that window barred.

Someone had wrenched the frame, bars and all, from the surrounding framework of the window. The

barred device was propped against the hallway wall. Whoever had done this must have employed huge

strength to wrest the frame from its moorings, for there were no marks on the bars to show the use of any

instrument, nor were the bars bent. The edge of the fire escape was only a foot away from the side of the

window. Cardona flickered his flashlight, saw nothing amiss with the fire escape, then turned the beam

straight down.

All the inspector saw below was narrow paving alongside a brick wall, with a few ash cans stacked with

old barrels. Turning to Jenkins, Cardona asked, "Is that the back alley where you came in?"

"Yes," nodded Jenkins. "The extension ladder from the fire tower is right alongside the back door."

"And that's where you saw eyes like a cat's?"

"That's right. I guess it was a cat that looked at me. They like to sit on the barrels and boxes there."

"But what about the voice you heard?"

"I guess maybe I imagined it. I can't remember anything it said. That shouldn't happen with a voice or

should it, inspector?"

"I ought to say it shouldn't," replied Cardona, "but since last night, I'm beginning to think anything can

happen. I'm not sure about voices myself. We'll go down in the elevator and check the back door. But

first we'll report this to the commissioner."

They headed back to Kelthorn's office, where Cardona was the first to enter. Weston was rising from

among the dead man's papers as if eager to receive Cardona's report. But before the inspector could

speak a word, the commissioner delivered a triumphant announcement of his own.

"I've found what the murderer was after!" exclaimed Weston. "Either he missed it entirely, or he found a

lot more like it, enough more so he didn't bother to count them, to see if they were all there!"

With that, Weston shoved his right hand, fisted, into the light. Spreading his fingers wide, he disclosed an

object lying in his palm. It was a gem, a magnificent ruby, which both in size and sparkle proclaimed itself

a thing of worth. Even a skeptic like Cranston would have accepted that stone as a prize without

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 325 - The Whispering Eyes

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