Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 107 - The Sledge Hammer Crimes

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2024-12-23 1 0 484.83KB 85 页 5.9玖币
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THE SLEDGE-HAMMER CRIMES
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. WORD FOR THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER II. CRIME'S AFTERMATH
? CHAPTER III. DUSK BRINGS THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER IV. THE THRUST THAT FAILED
? CHAPTER V. CRIME BREAKS AGAIN
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S VISIT
? CHAPTER VII. TRAILS LINK
? CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER ENTRANT
? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND THRUST
? CHAPTER X. MILLION DOLLAR MURDER
? CHAPTER XI. THE DAY'S QUEST
? CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S LINK
? CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN WHO KNEW
? CHAPTER XIV. THE VITAL HOUR
? CHAPTER XV. DEATH AFTER DEATH
? CHAPTER XVI. THE POSTPONED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVII. CRIME DENOUNCED
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW SUGGESTS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE MURDERER SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XX. THE MURDERER'S TOMB
CHAPTER I. WORD FOR THE SHADOW
THE Mayan Museum formed an oddity against the dusk of Manhattan's sky. Of all the structures in New
York, none was more curious than this one. Its setting, moreover, added to its bizarre appearance.
The museum was squatty and square-shaped. Constructed of white marble, it loomed from a terraced
plaza that verged an avenue where traffic was heavy and rapid. For this location was in the upper reaches
of Manhattan, well north of the broad cross-town street that marked the end of Central Park.
The flattened hill that bore the museum was like a miniature Acropolis. Below the white walled building,
beside it and in back, were crumbly, close-built houses scarcely better than tenements. The glittering
lights of the avenue offset these dilapidated structures; but behind the museum, the scene was utterly
squalid.
The rear street was on a lower level. There, on one side, the museum formed a high, barren wall. On the
other side of the street was a row of dingy brick fronts, time-worn and battered. Broken windows
outnumbered those that had panes, for most of these old houses were deserted.
The Mayan Museum was as formidable as a fortress. Its lower floor was windowless. Gratings barred
access to the narrow, slitted windows of its second floor. The bronze bars broke the monotony of the
white marble. So did the massive front door on the ground floor. It, too, was of bronze construction.
No lights glimmered from the museum. One would have classed it as an abandoned edifice. Yet the
visitor had only to ring for admittance at the front door. Then—up to six o'clock in the afternoon—he
would be admitted. Within, he would find a network of corridors and exhibit rooms, all well lighted.
There, leering Aztec gods would greet him. Shelves of ancient pottery would attract him. Glass cases
filled with beads and trinkets would compel a long inspection. For the Mayan Museum was crowded
with ancient relics brought from Yucatan and Guatemala.
THE curator's office was at the rear of the museum. It was small and cramped, because all larger rooms
had been devoted to exhibits. Despite the confines of his office, the curator seldom left the little room.
The endless task of cataloguing kept him constantly busy.
Lewis Lemand was the curator of the Mayan Museum. He was bald, rotund, methodical and easily
annoyed; especially by visitors. But on this particular afternoon, Lemand had a visitor in his office; and
the man was one whom he was glad to see.
This was Prentiss Petersham, the attorney who represented the Mayan Museum. Tall, sharp-faced, with
outthrust lower lip, Petersham had an overbearing air that resembled the expression of an Aztec idol. He
looked as though he were trying to mimic some statue that he had seen on his way to the curator's office.
An odd pair, Lemand and Petersham. As odd as the museum itself; as bizarre as the curator's office,
which was lined with photographs of Mexican ziggurats and pictures of recent excavations in Guatemala.
But neither the curator nor the lawyer were gifted with a sense of humor. Each admired the other for his
solemnity.
Petersham was speaking, while Lemand listened, owlish. The lawyer's tone was gruff; but it expressed
keen disappointment.
"It's too bad, Lemand." Petersham shook his shocky mop of gray-streaked hair. "Too bad. But nothing
can be done about it. The Luben Expedition made some rare findings in Yucatan; but the entire lot is
being shipped to the Aztec Museum, in Chicago."
Lemand was slowly tapping the glass top of his mahogany desk. His lips showed a wince.
"I know how you feel about it," gruffed Petersham. "The new relics have great value. They should
logically have come here. It must be a blow to you, Lemand."
"It is," admitted the bald-headed curator. His tone was a saddened drawl. "And yet, in a sense, it is not
unfortunate. I am overburdened, Mr. Petersham. Frightfully overburdened!"
"Overburdened? Why? If you need new assistants, the board of directors will supply them."
"That would not help. It is responsibility that overburdens me."
"Responsibility for the curios that are already housed here?"
"Yes." Lemand nodded. He had ceased his tapping on the desk. "Particularly because of the pure gold
relics that are in the lower exhibit room. They are of immense value, Mr. Petersham."
"Why should they concern you? No visitors are allowed below. That lower exhibit room is as strong as a
vault."
"Quite. Well protected, too. It has a burglary alarm system of its own; one that is automatic. The doors
are protected by a time lock. And yet—well, I am apprehensive. I want no more burden than I have. I
am glad, in a sense, that the Luben Expedition favored the Chicago museum. The items that the
expedition uncovered are all of gold. Evil men seek gold, Mr. Petersham. Those who protect gold are in
danger -"
LEMAND'S drawl had risen to a high pitch. His tone was one that carried fear. Petersham was staring
closely, through narrowed eyelids. He was keenly intent when the curator's words ended abruptly.
Petersham noted a look of dread that gripped Lemand's face.
"Listen!" The curator leaned forward and whispered hoarsely. "Listen! You will hear the sound that I
have heard!"
He paused again. Tense seconds passed. Then came a strangely muffled sound —one that no ear could
have located accurately.
Click—click—
The noise ended so sharply that the listeners were startled. Both Lemand and Petersham half imagined
that they had heard a third click as an echo. Long tension followed. Petersham broke it with a shrug.
"Nothing of consequence," began the attorney. "Such sounds are not uncommon -"
Lemand's hand was nervous with its interruption. Petersham stopped short. Instantly, the double click
was repeated, as though the curator had conjured it with a wave. Lemand chewed his lips; then shook his
head.
"I cannot locate it," he said, wearily. "It seems to come from within the wall; but which wall, I cannot
decide. Sometimes it is frequent. At others, the interval is great."
Click—click—
The elusive sound came again, an instant after Lemand had spoken. The curator quivered. The noise
seemed human. Its repetition ridiculed his statement.
"Listen!" pleaded Lemand. "We must locate it! The sound is ominous! It has persisted since two days
ago -"
Another interruption; this was a rap at the closed door of the office. Lemand sank back in his chair. It
was Petersham who gave the order to enter. The door opened; a dry-faced attendant stepped in from
the lighted corridor and gazed at the shrunken curator.
"What is it, Rome?" queried Lemand, rising weakly in his chair. "Why have you come here to disturb us?"
"It is quarter of six, sir," informed the attendant. "You told me to notify you of the time."
"So I did," nodded Lemand. Then, to the lawyer: "It was on your account, Mr. Petersham."
"I have an appointment," acknowledged the lawyer, rising. "I must leave at once. We have discussed our
subject, Mr. Lemand. There is no reason why I should remain longer."
LEMAND conducted Petersham out to the front door of the museum, with Rome tracing their footsteps.
There, the curator drew a bunch of keys from his pocket. He used one large key to unlock the door.
After an exchange of handshakes, Petersham departed. Lemand locked the door and returned to his
office.
Nervous, Lemand left the office door ajar. Very few minutes had passed when he heard voices in the
hall. The curator looked up to see Rome entering with a new visitor, a tall heavy-built man with black,
pointed mustache. Lemand recognized the arrival and winced.
This was Elvin Lettigue. Lemand knew him as an eccentric millionaire who had donated funds to the
Mayan Museum. Because of past philanthropies, Lettigue was always admitted promptly to the curator's
office. Nevertheless, Lemand did not relish Lettigue's visits. Whenever the millionaire proposed a gift, it
always had too many provisions attached.
"Hello, Lemand!" Lettigue's rumble was friendly, his handshake firm. "Just dropped in to congratulate
you."
"On what?" queried Lemand.
Lettigue cupped his hand to his ear. The millionaire was hard of hearing. Lemand repeated the question.
"Regarding what?" shouted Lettigue.
"Why, about the new treasures you are gaining. The gold relics brought back by the Luben Expedition.
When will the treasures arrive here, Lemand?"
"Never!" returned the curator, in a loud tone. "They are going to Chicago. To the Aztec Museum."
Anger showed upon Lettigue's bluff face.
"An outrage!" exclaimed the millionaire. "I can't believe it, Lemand. Those treasures belong here."
"Perhaps they do. But we shall not receive them."
Lettigue dropped his arm and caught a huge-headed cane that he was carrying. He pounded the point of
the walking stick upon the marble floor of the office.
"Bah!" he rumbled. "They are fools! I contributed to that expedition. I thought surely that the treasures
would be donated here. I shall raise a protest."
"It will do no good, Mr. Lettigue."
A pause. Amid it came the evasive sound that had previously troubled Lemand. This time, the muffled
noise was almost beneath the feet of the standing men.
Click—click—
Lemand looked toward Lettigue. The millionaire was muttering to himself. Apparently he had not heard
the clicks. Lemand turned toward the door and called for Rome. The attendant appeared.
"Did you hear a noise, Rome?" queried the curator. "Other than our conversation?"
"A clicking noise, sir?"
"Yes. Listen -"
Timed almost to the curator's words came the double click. Its direction was puzzling. Lemand swung
about to face his desk. He stepped in that direction and fumbled nervously with a short, stone-headed
hammer—a chance Mayan relic that happened to be in the office.
"Shall I listen for the noise, sir?"
The query came from Rome. The curator shook his head.
"No," he replied. "You can go off duty. I shall remain here, alone, as I have work to do."
"Very well, sir."
A RUMBLE came from Elvin Lettigue, who had been muttering steadily to himself. Apparently, he had
not heard either the clicks or the conversation between Lemand and Rome.
"An outrage!" repeated the millionaire. "But you are right, Lemand. Nothing can be done about it.
Nevertheless, I shall protest."
Lettigue swung on his heel and stalked from the office. Curator and attendant heard him pace along the
corridor, thumping the floor with his heavy cane. As Lettigue's footsteps faded, Lemand turned suddenly
to Rome.
"Go and unlock the door," ordered the curator. "Mr. Lettigue will not be able to go out."
"I left the door unlocked, sir."
"Then go and lock it!" snapped Lemand, angrily. "You were negligent to leave the door open."
"It is not yet closing time -"
"But Davis is off duty to-day. You know my instructions. The door must always be kept locked, except
when you or Davis are in the front corridor."
"Sorry, sir." Rome looked rebuked. "I had forgotten."
The attendant left the office. With his departure came two clicks, from somewhere in the wall. Lemand
gritted his teeth; determination had replaced his previous dread. Then the curator decided to follow
Rome to the front of the museum.
Lemand arrived at the door to find the attendant locking it. He spoke new instructions, his voice a trifle
testy.
"You can go Rome," ordered Lemand. "I shall lock the door after your departure."
"Very well, sir."
Rome reversed the direction of the key. He swung the big door inward. Both he and Lemand stared as a
man came briskly up the steps. A wiry figure stepped into the light. Curator and attendant saw a keen
face.
"Mr. Lemand?"
The curator nodded at the arrival's query.
"My name is Burke," explained the visitor. He looked youthful in the light. "From the New York Classic.
I came to find out about the curios shipped by the Luben Expedition. When do you expect them?"
"They are not coming here," returned Lemand. "They have gone to the Aztec Museum in Chicago."
He nodded to Rome. The attendant stepped out through the door. Lemand clanged the big barrier from
the inside. Burke stared blankly; Rome grinned and walked away, out toward the avenue. The clatter of
a key sounded within the lock.
OUT in the dark, the reporter stood silent, slowly realizing that his interview with the curator was ended.
Then he smiled. To Clyde Burke, star news gatherer on the staff of the New York Classic, this was an
unusual experience. Seldom did he get cut short when on the quest for information.
Yet Clyde Burke was still smiling when he walked to the lighted avenue. He covered a block; then
stopped at a cigar store. Entering a telephone booth, he put in a call. A quiet voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."
"Burke calling," was Clyde's prompt answer. "Report on the Mayan Museum."
"Report."
"Treasures not coming to the Mayan Museum. They are being shipped to the Aztec Museum in
Chicago."
"Report received."
Clyde Burke still carried a smile when he strolled from the cigar store. His work was done. He had made
his report. But it had not gone to the office of the New York Classic. Clyde Burke had duties other than
those of a reporter.
Clyde was an agent of The Shadow, that mysterious being who hunted down men of crime. The
Shadow, like others, had supposed that the Luben Expedition was sending its treasures to the Mayan
Museum. Through Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow had delegated Clyde to learn when the
valuables would be due.
For it was The Shadow's purpose to guard those treasures while in transit. Hence Clyde had found out
all that The Shadow needed. The golden relics were going to Chicago, not to New York. The Shadow
would have to cover elsewhere.
IT had also been Clyde Burke's province to note whatever else that might seem of importance. Clyde
had gained but little opportunity to accomplish such a task. In his brief speech with the curator, Clyde
had learned nothing that struck him as suspicious.
Rome, the attendant, had obviously been sent off duty—a natural occurrence at six o'clock, the closing
time for the museum. Lewis Lemand, as curator, had apparently found work to keep him in his office until
later. Such were Clyde Burke's conclusions; and they were correct.
But Clyde had arrived too late to witness the separate departures of two individual visitors. In fact, he
had found the front of the museum vacated at the time when he had reached there. Clyde, moreover, had
heard nothing that concerned the mysterious clicks that had so recently sounded about the walls of
Lemand's office.
Those were items that Clyde would have reported, had he learned them. Slight though they seemed, they
might have brought The Shadow to the Mayan Museum. As it was, The Shadow, uninformed, would be
elsewhere. A fact that foretold misfortune.
For Lewis Lemand's apprehensions had not been unfounded. Grim events were due this very night,
within that white-walled edifice where stone-eyed idols dwelt.
CHAPTER II. CRIME'S AFTERMATH
"HELLO, Burke!"
The words were sharp across the telephone wire Clyde Burke grunted sleepily. It was morning; he had
been awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone bell in the living room of his little apartment.
"Burke!"
Clyde recognized the voice. The tone belonged to Donney, assistant city editor of the Classic. This time,
Clyde managed words when he made reply. He was nearly awake.
"Waked up, have you?" Donney's voice was sarcastic as it snapped from the receiver. "Well, it's time.
Got a job for you, Burke. A robbery. Hop to it. Up to the Mayan Museum."
The final words electrified Clyde. He shot a prompt answer to Donney, forked the receiver and dived
into his clothes. Shave and breakfast were forgotten, as the reporter hurried to the street. There, Clyde
hailed the first cab he saw.
The taxi reached the Mayan Museum. Clyde saw a police car on a side street. He ordered the driver to
take him to the back of the building. The cab pulled up in the rear street. Clyde disembarked to join a
cluster of police and plainclothes men.
Just off the center of the museum wall was a huge hole that measured five feet in diameter. Jagged edges
showed that the marble facing was only a few inches thick; but there was brick beyond it. This masonry
had been shattered through a thickness of four feet.
Flashlights were blinking from the cavelike interior of the museum's basement. Clyde approached and
jostled a patrolman. The bluecoat waved the reporter back. Then a stocky man in plain clothes stepped
from the hole in the wall. Clyde recognized a swarthy, square-jawed face. He pushed past the patrolman.
"Hello, Joe!"
The swarthy man heard the reporter's greeting and nodded affably. He was Joe Cardona, ace detective
on the New York force. Cardona's present capacity was that of acting inspector.
"HELLO, Burke!" grunted the ace. "Thought you'd be here pretty quick. Well, this is a story for you."
"Much loot, Joe?"
"Plenty! The place is cleaned. Just talked over the telephone with a lawyer named Petersham, who
represents the museum. He figures it at half a million."
Clyde gaped. He had not realized that the Mayan Museum had already housed such vast treasure.
"All the stuff was gold," explained Cardona. "Pure gold. Not just junk curios. If the crooks melt the swag,
they'll get full value."
Cardona's tone was sour.
"How did they crack the place?" queried Clyde.
The question brought a grunt from Cardona.
"How'd they crack it?" echoed the ace. "Take a look for yourself. Maybe you think this hole was part of
the architect's plans."
"What I mean," persisted Clyde, "is how did they smash in without making too much noise?"
"A swell question," retorted Cardona. "If they'd been considerate, they would have left some one here to
tell us all about it. But they didn't. So we figure that they used sledge hammers."
"But sledges would have been heard and -"
"And so would dynamite. This wall wasn't souped. But sledges can be muffled better than TNT."
Clyde caught the idea. Sledge hammers, muffled with cloth, would be useful in demolishing a wall. But the
task, in itself, was herculean. Clyde lost count when he tried to estimate how many impacts would be
necessary to smash so thick a barrier.
"Couple of hours' work, at least," decided Cardona, eyeing the gap. "But they couldn't have picked a
better place in Manhattan to try it. This street is just about deserted at night. The only trouble is the
patrolman."
"What happened to him?" inquired Clyde, eagerly.
"Nothing," returned Cardona—"and that's just it. There was less than two hours' interval between the
times that he passed here on his beat. He didn't spot anything."
"Maybe the crooks covered it when he came along."
"Maybe. That looks like the only answer. They needed more than two hours for the job."
Cardona spent a few minutes in speculation. Then, slowly, he added details.
"WE'RE shy on clues," admitted Joe. "Those wires, though, tell us one thing. See them sticking out from
the bricks? They belong to a burglary alarm system."
"One that didn't work?"
"You guessed it." Cardona nodded as he answered Clyde's query; then resumed: "Maybe it was put on
the fritz. After the crooks rifled the lower floor, they didn't go any farther."
"Why not?"
"Two reasons. First, there were steel doors to crack. Doors with a time lock, set with an alarm. One that
they couldn't take a chance on, I suppose. Second, they didn't have to go any farther. The junk upstairs
isn't worth much."
Clyde was making notes on a folded sheet of copy paper. Affably, Cardona added further comment:
"Petersham tells us that he was here at quarter of six last night. When he left the place, the curator was
still here. His name is Lewis Lemand. Besides the curator, there was an attendant named Rome."
"Who left at six o'clock," added Clyde, "leaving Lemand alone in the museum."
"What's that?"
Cardona's quiz was sharp. Clyde grinned.
"I stopped here at six last night," said The Shadow's agent. "I wanted an interview with Lemand about
some Aztec treasures. He dismissed the attendant, then slammed the door in my face."
Cardona's gaze narrowed.
"You've told us something, Burke," affirmed the acting inspector. "We haven't been able to locate either
of them—Lemand or Rome."
"How come?"
"Lemand isn't at his apartment. We don't know Rome's address -"
An interruption came, as a burly detective sergeant appeared upon the scene. He had come from the
front of the museum. Cardona broke off to make query:
"What is it, Markham?"
"Rome just showed up," returned the detective sergeant. "We're holding him by the front door."
"Has he any keys with him?"
"Yes. We made him hand them over."
Cardona turned to Clyde. "Come along, Burke."
WITH Markham, they arrived at the front door of the museum. Another man had arrived; he was talking
to Rome. Clyde recognized the dry-faced attendant; but he wondered who the other was. The man was
tall, with shocky, gray-streaked hair. His face was sharp-featured; his air dominating.
As they approached, the tall man faced Cardona. He must have decided that Joe was the man in charge,
for he introduced himself promptly.
"I am Prentiss Petersham," he told Cardona. "I came up from my office, after I talked with you by
telephone. Have you located Lemand?"
A headshake from Cardona. The ace took the keys and unlocked the big door. He motioned for others
to enter. Then he made query:
"Where are the lights?"
Rome pointed out the switchboard; then pulled on the lights at Cardona's order. Somewhat reassured,
the attendant made comment.
"Mr. Lemand must have turned them out when he left."
"At what time was that?" demanded Cardona, promptly.
"I don't know, sir," replied Rome. "He dismissed me about six o'clock. I do not know how long he
intended to remain."
"Which way leads to Lemand's office?"
"I'll show you, sir."
Rome guided, with Cardona and Petersham close behind him. Clyde was a few steps in the rear. They
reached the door of the curator's office. Rome opened it; the room was dark. The attendant found a light
switch and clicked it.
"Step inside, sir."
Rome's words were to Cardona. The attendant had turned toward the corridor as he spoke. Clyde,
behind Cardona and Petersham, was the first person to observe a puzzled expression that came upon
Rome's face.
The reason for Rome's bewilderment was curious. The attendant was looking straight at Cardona and
Petersham. Their eyes had riveted toward the floor of the room. Both men were frozen in position.
Clyde saw Rome turn, to stare in the same direction. He heard the horrified gasp that sped from the
attendant's lips. Rome half staggered against the inner wall. Cardona, stepping slowly forward, opened a
gap that enabled Clyde to see past Petersham.
Like Cardona, Clyde was accustomed to gruesome scenes; yet, on this occasion, the reporter was
appalled by the sight before him. A body was sprawled in the center of the little room, just beside the
desk.
The corpse lay face downward. Atop the skull was graphic evidence of how the victim had met death.
There Clyde saw a battered wound. One ferocious blow had caved in the dead man's pate.
Clotted blood dyed the thin hair that fringed a bald crown. The marble floor was stained with an irregular
pool of crimson. Close beside lay an instrument that could well have played its part in death. It was the
stone-headed Aztec hammer that had previously lain upon the curator's desk.
Dropped to the floor, the stone hammer was also stained with blood. Apparently some killer had found
the ancient weapon; then had used it to deliver a downward blow, struck from the rear without the
victim's knowledge.
JOE CARDONA had reached the body. Skirting the pool of blood, the acting inspector reached
forward and carefully raised the dead man's head. The move brought a profile into view. A groan came
from Prentiss Petersham as the lawyer recognized the face.
To Clyde Burke, it was odd that the lawyer had not recognized the dead man until that moment.
Probably it was because of the shock that the sight had given Petersham. But Clyde, though he did not
relish the scene, had already guessed the identity of the victim. So had Rome, awe-stricken in his corner.
The viewing of the face was but the visible proof of something which both the reporter and the attendant
had realized almost instantly; and their simple clue had been the pronounced baldness of the victim's
head.
The dead man was Lewis Lemand. Alone, trapped within the walls of his own office, the curator of the
Mayan Museum had found the danger that he had feared. Though isolated from the exhibit room below;
snug in a spot where thieves had failed to enter, Lemand had fallen prey to a murderous intruder.
Though circumstances indicated that the crimes had been separate, no one could doubt that their
purposes had been linked. Lewis Lemand had died because he might have given an alarm.
Murder had accompanied the robbery at the Mayan Museum.
CHAPTER III. DUSK BRINGS THE SHADOW
摘要：

THESLEDGE-HAMMERCRIMESMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.WORDFORTHESHADOW?CHAPTERII.CRIME'SAFTERMATH?CHAPTERIII.DUSKBRINGSTHESHADOW?CHAPTERIV.THETHRUSTTHATFAILED?CHAPTERV.CRIMEBREAKSAGAIN?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SVISIT?CHAPTERVII.TRAILSLINK?CHAPTERVIII.AN...

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