Caulkins didn’t have a chance, even though the guy that killed him was a bum shot. Right here is where we figure the murderer was standing. Nervy, eh, while Caulkins was phoning?”
Clyde nodded. Somehow, Wentworth’s description, a duplicate of Cardona’s findings, did not fully satisfy him; yet he could not explain what was wrong. He and the detective left the house. Clyde grunted a good-by, and started back to the newspaper office. On the way, he stopped at the building on Twenty-third Street. Standing in the dim hall, he scrawled a short coded message, describing his visit to Eightieth Street, and dropped the note in the door that bore the name Jonas.
BEFORE the desolate-looking house on East Eightieth Street, Detective Sergeant Wentworth continued his vigil. Dusk came. The door of the old house across the street was dim in the increasing darkness.
Watching it, Wentworth fancied that he saw a moving blur pass momentarily in front of it. He strolled across the street and tried the door. Locked. Wentworth went back to his post.
As his footsteps clicked down the stone steps to the sidewalk, a low laugh sounded in the vestibule. The soft mirth did not reach Wentworth’s ears. A man was standing in the vestibule — a man clad in black. He was totally invisible in the darkness. He had entered the front door in spite of the detective’s vigil.
Now, a light appeared in the inclosure — a tiny spot of light no larger than a half dollar. It shone directly upon the lock of the inner door. A queer-looking key appeared within that circle of illumination. A black-gloved hand used the key to probe the lock.
The door opened. It did not close immediately. The man in black was still working at the lock. The key moved in and out, as though being used to probe the metal depths.
At last, the door closed. Silence reigned with darkness. The light shone at intervals, moving upward on the stairway. It stopped on the third floor. Its rays swinging pryingly, stopped at the very spot where Joel Caulkins had stood in the hallway, unobserved by the man he was following. The tiny light, close to the floor, revealed slight dust marks.
Metal clicked against metal. The door of the apartment opened. The ray of the flashlight widened as it advanced uncannily, not a foot above the floor. It seemed to be following an invisible trail.
It paused; then, swerving, went to the door of the side room in which Caulkins had hidden himself.