CHAPTER I. THE HUNTED MAN

THE hand that held the key trembled. At last it found the lock. The key turned. A tall man stepped into the dim hallway, and closed the door behind him.

A slight sigh came from his lips — lips thin and parched, that showed above the heavy muffler which covered the man’s neck, even to his chin.

Slowly, the man moved along the hallway. He turned suspiciously as he reached the stairs, glancing back at the door. The glass transom above it worried him.

He thought of the dark vestibule, which obtained its only rays of light through that very transom. He remembered the nervousness that had gripped him while he had fumbled with the key. He listened, as though he expected some one else to unlock the door.

Now the man laughed nervously. He started up the stairs, his fears banished. His tall, stoop-shouldered figure seemed to stalk upward like a mechanical dummy.

At the landing, halfway to the second floor, he stopped; then continued on his journey, with that same slow, methodical stride.

Another key grated in the lock of the vestibule door. The slight sound began just after the man on the landing had again moved toward the second floor.

The vestibule door opened. A short, broad-shouldered man slipped into the hallway.

He closed the door noiselessly. His eyes gleamed in the dim light as he stared toward the landing below the second floor. His firm face took on a pleased expression.

He followed the course that the first man had taken; but he ascended the stairs with amazing speed and remarkable silence. Two steps at a time he went, one hand on the banister taking part of the burden, he almost vaulted upward. But the strangely gangling figure of the first man was lost in the shadows.

The third floor of the building was darker. When the short, pursuing man arrived there, he stopped at the end of the stairway. His keen ears heard the click of metal. The first man was unlocking a door at the side of the hallway.

Swiftly, the pursuing man advanced through the darkness, keeping against the wall, and moving with his previous stealth. Within a few seconds, he stood only an arm’s length from the tall man at the door. He heard the tall man’s tense, hissing breaths, but the pursuer gave no sign of his own presence.

The door opened inward. The tall man remained motionless in the darkness. He was listening for sounds from downstairs, totally unknowing that a living person stood within a yard of him. Not satisfied, he tiptoed toward the stairway to listen, almost brushing against the hidden man as he went by. After a momentary pause, the tall man returned along the hall. He walked with reassurance. By this time, the short man who had followed him had gone in through the open door.

The tall man closed the door behind him and fumbled for a light switch. A click, and the room was flooded with light. He was in a small, but comfortable, sitting room of a third-story apartment. The tall man seemed confident in the security of his own abode.

He removed his hat, revealing a head covered with black, gray-streaked hair. He drew the muffler from his neck, disclosing the face of a man of fifty. He doffed his coat and placed it on a chair.

There was a mirror at the far side of the room. The tall man stood in front of it and studied his own features. They were well formed except for the chin, which was long and pointed.

The man rubbed his chin reflectively. Then he placed his hands upon his temples to hide the streaks of gray hair. He seemed pleased with his appearance while he held his hands in that position — pleased, despite the worried, haggard expression which dominated his countenance.

OUTSIDE, a driving wind swept around the old house. In the room on the third floor, the windows, one on each side of the mirror, rattled dismally. But that sound did not disturb the man who was engrossed in his own reflection.

He evidently regarded this apartment of the old house on East Eightieth Street as a sanctuary, in which nothing could harm him.

He did not hear the slight click behind him as the wind shook the panes again; he did not see the door open slowly at the other side of the room.

The man studying his reflection lowered his hands from his temples, and a ghostly smile played over his thin lips. They moved, as if muttering words of satisfaction.

A voice spoke behind him.

“Yes, judge,” it said. “A little more black dye is necessary. The gray is showing through. Perhaps it is coming back. That would be unfortunate.”

The man before the mirror stood petrified. He no longer studied his own reflection. His eyes had turned at an angle. They were focused on another figure that also showed in the looking-glass.

He was intently watching the man who had come up behind him, a short, stocky fellow clad in an old coat and soft brown hat. The stranger’s face was not unfriendly, but it bore a look that was both sophisticated and challenging.

The tall man suddenly recovered himself. He swung quickly and faced his visitor. His hands went toward his coat pockets, but stopped on the way. He noticed that the other man’s hands were hidden. Any intention he might have had to draw a gun faded instantly.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a hoarse voice. “How did you come in here?”

“My name is Caulkins,” said the short man, in an affable tone. “I’m the fellow they call the ‘Wise Owl’.”

“The Wise Owl?”

“Yes. With the New York Classic. I’m the chap who gives the low-down on unsolved mysteries. That’s why I’m here tonight.”

“You — you—” The man with the pointed chin began to splutter, but suddenly controlled himself. “Just what,” he asked, with sudden dignity, “is the purpose of your visit? I never knew that newspaper reporters had the privilege of making forcible entry to a man’s home.”

“It wasn’t exactly a forcible entry,” declared Caulkins, with an agreeable smile. “I came in from the hallway when you left the door open.”

THE middle-aged man was studying his visitor closely. He had betrayed signs of nervousness at first; now he felt sure that the speaker was telling the truth.

“Well,” he said quietly, “we’ll forget this intrusion. I might call the police” — he waved his hand toward a telephone — “but I hardly think it’s necessary. If you are really a wise owl, Mr. Caulkins, you will leave here immediately.”

“Not until I have interviewed you,” came the firm reply.

“Interviewed me?” queried the tall man, with feigned surprise. “Why should you interview me? Perhaps you have mistaken me for some one else. My name is Joseph Dodd — Joseph T. Dodd—”

“That’s the name over the bell in the vestibule,” interrupted Caulkins, “but it isn’t your name. You’ve changed your appearance since I last saw you. That was more than a year ago, just before you disappeared — Justice Tolland!”

The older man did not reply. He stared at his visitor, wondering whether to order the reporter to leave or to engage in a discussion with him. Then anger gave way to an expression of cunning on the thin man’s face.

“Why do you think I am Tolland?” the man asked suddenly.

“I know you are!” declared the reporter. “Judge Harvey Tolland disappeared fourteen months ago. Foul play was the story for a while, but I never figured you were dead. Now, why are you here?”

The positiveness in the reporter’s voice was convincing. Had the other man been less anxious, he might have realized that the Wise Owl was bluffing. Caulkins watched him keenly, waiting expectantly for the reply.

It came. The older man pointed to a chair.

“Sit down,” he said, in a hopeless tone. “There’s no use in my trying to deceive you any longer. You are right. I am Judge Harvey Tolland.”

Caulkins dropped into the chair with a broad, triumphant grin. His quest of fourteen months was ended.

The greatest story of the year was in the bag. He had found the missing man, whose strange disappearance had remained unsolved!

He watched intently as the tall judge strode across the room and unlocked a table drawer. Tolland removed a paper from the drawer and thrust it into the reporter’s hands.

“You have asked me a question,” he said grimly. “You want to know why I disappeared. There is the answer!”

Caulkins hastily unfolded the paper. He scanned the written lines that appeared upon it. Suddenly, his hands began to tremble.

The older man, now calm, watched him grimly. The reporter’s eyes were fascinated. They had completed the reading of the message; they were staring at the cryptic signature that appeared beneath it.

Then Caulkins uttered his startled exclamation in words that were gasped through trembling lips.

“A threat from Double Z!”

CHAPTER II. OVER THE WIRE

NEVER was a man more dumfounded than was Joel Caulkins of the Classic, after he had read the note shown to him by Judge Harvey Tolland. The fact that the older man was now calmly surveying him from an opposite chair did not ease his perturbed mind.

For the cryptic name of Double Z spelled fiendish horror. It was a title coined from the strange signature of a fanatic whose connection with a series of murders had terrorized New York and bewildered the police.

Caulkins, with his inside knowledge of detective investigations, knew of the menace that lay behind that strange signature. He had been shown other notes signed by Double Z, and not for an instant did he doubt the authenticity of this one.

The two letters appeared side by side, one a half line lower than the other, so close together that they formed a mysterious symbol.

Slowly, mechanically, Caulkins folded the paper and laid it on the table beside him. He looked at Judge Tolland and noticed that the jurist’s thin lips were twisted in a mirthless smile.

“Startled, eh?” asked Tolland.

“Yes,” admitted Caulkins.

“I read your articles regarding my disappearance — those that you wrote under the name of the Wise Owl. They were keenly done, Caulkins. Strangely enough, they were partly true. But they missed the important elements.”

“This note from Double Z?”

“Yes. But you were not to blame for that.”

Caulkins nodded thoughtfully.

“I never would have connected it,” he said. “Double Z was not heard of until several months after your disappearance. Even now, I do not understand.

“The note simply says: ‘You have one week to live’ — then comes the signature. Since Double Z was unknown at the time, I cannot understand why the threat frightened you. Judges often receive letters from fanatics.”

“Caulkins,” said Tolland slowly, “I am going to be confidential with you. With any other newspaperman, I would have bluffed this matter out. I have been on the verge of revealing myself during the past few weeks. I think you can help me — and also aid the police to clear up this terrible mystery.”

The reporter’s eyes focused keenly on Tolland’s. The statement freed his mind from the bewilderment that had gripped it. Here would be a real scoop!

“The theory of my disappearance,” said Tolland slowly, “has followed one general trend, beginning with the day I left my home and did not return. That day was, incidentally, the day after I received that note from the man you call Double Z.

“It has been presumed that I had accepted bribes from criminals, and that I feared discovery. On the contrary, it was because I refused bribes that I found it necessary to disappear. There were certain cases due to come up before me.

“I received a visit from a man who offered me a very large sum to favor the defense of one case and the prosecution of another. I refused. After that I received the Double Z warning.”

“You knew the man who tried to bribe you?”

“I knew the man.”

“But you said nothing?”

“I could do nothing at the time. It would have been impossible. The standing of the man — well, you will realize it later when I tell you who he is. The warning came from him.”

“He is Double Z?”

“Yes. He knows that I am still alive. He wants to kill me. I have frustrated the man for months. I shaved my mustache and dyed my hair. Yet, despite my changed appearance, you recognized me, which is proof that my disguise is insufficient. So I am now ready to act; to bring this affair to a crisis; to meet my enemy and turn his own weapons upon him.”

“His own weapons?”

“Yes. The letters he has been sending to the police. What do you think is their purpose?”

“I considered them the messages of a fanatic.”

“The man is a fanatic,” admitted Tolland, “but an amazingly clever one. I am the only person who knows the purpose of his messages. They are sent to frighten me.”

“To frighten you?”

“Certainly! When I received mine — the first of all the Double Z correspondence — I took it seriously and went into hiding, in this house. The enemy suspected my game. He knew that I was protecting my own skin in order to deliver a counterattack.

“He felt that the effect of his threat would gradually wear off. So he launched his campaign of informing the police of his intended murders, believing that each one would weaken my morale when I heard of it.”

CAULKINS sat upright in his chair. This amazing statement threw a new light on Double Z. It showed a method behind the criminal’s strange notes to the police.

“For months,” went on Tolland, “I have been giving my enemy a chance to betray himself. One slip — one slight clew of his identity to the police — and my reappearance would clinch the fight for justice. That clew has not been forthcoming. And I, alone, cannot give his name to the authorities. It must come from him — from some act of his.

“Nevertheless, I have decided to act — because of you.”

“Why because of me?” asked Caulkins in surprise.

“There are two reasons,” declared the judge calmly. “First, because you discovered me. That shows that my enemy may discover me, also. I am not immune.”

“I saw you in a little barber shop,” explained Caulkins, “having your hair dyed. Your chin looked familiar. I followed you here. I obtained a key that opened the vestibule door.”

“The second reason,” continued Tolland, passing over the reporter’s explanation, “is because you credited that note when you saw it. I was afraid to put it to the test before. Now I am sure that I shall be believed when I speak.”

“With your prestige—”

“My prestige? Where is it now; I may have had some before I obeyed the impulse to flee to safety. Yet I was wise to go into hiding. I learned that my enemy had arranged a complete frame-up that would make my sudden death seem well-deserved. I believed that.”

“What do you intend to do now?”

“I’m leaving that up to you. You are free to lift the lid with the most sensational true exposure of crime that has ever appeared. Meanwhile, I shall be traveling. You will hear from me when the time comes for my statements.”

“When Double Z has been exposed?”

“Yes. If the exposure fails, I shall still be safe — safer than I am here in New York.”

Caulkins arose and paced the room. He swung toward Tolland with a question.

“When shall I start?”

“Right now!” declared Tolland, as if fearing to hesitate. “Every minute may be precious, now that some one has discovered me. Call your newspaper from here. Give them the story, while I am here to check on any questions. Then we shall both leave and that paper will remain in your possession.”

Caulkins picked up the message from Double Z. He spread it and pointed to the signature.

“Who is Double Z?” he asked.

“I shall tell you, Caulkins,” replied Tolland. “His name is an important one. There is method in everything he does even in that signature. What does it represent to you?”

“Double Z. Two initials. I can think of no one who would have such initials.”

Judge Tolland seized the paper.

“Look now!” he declared, moving his finger across the signature. “Does that mean anything to you?

Forget Double Z. Think of a big man — a powerful, prominent man whose initials are—”

Caulkins suddenly stiffened. A startled look of incredulity came into his widening eyes. Before he could reply, Tolland picked up a pen and paper from the table and wrote a series of short lines, inscribing his signature beneath.

“There!” he exclaimed in a voice of indignation. “There is the name of the fiend — the merciless murderer! I have written it, with my signature beneath. That is my statement to you. Tell your paper; tell the police. When it is safe, you can count on me to testify!”

Caulkins leaped to the telephone. He dialed a number. He stood, with both papers on the table before him, studying one and then the other, his eyes bulging, his breath coming in anxious gasps.

“Classic?”

His question came in a wildly eager whisper. Judge Tolland, eyes gleaming expectantly, stood close beside the reporter, tense and hopeful.

“City desk,” ordered Caulkins.

A pause. Both men were strained. The time it took for the connection seemed interminable. It was a matter of seconds only, but to Tolland those seconds were hours.

A voice came over the wire. Tolland saw Caulkins clutch the phone more firmly. The reporter’s lips began to move, and Tolland’s hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned close to catch the words from the other end of the line.

Vindication! His opportunity was here. After months of persecution, he had decided upon the vital step.

Within the next few minutes the persecution which had threatened him would be ended.

For Caulkins was about to reveal the identity of the man called Double Z — reveal it so all the world would know the secret of that man who gloried in crime.

CHAPTER III. DOUBLE Z STRIKES

THE reporter at the city desk in the Classic office placed his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and called to the city editor.

“Caulkins on the phone, Mr. Ward.”

“Just a minute, Gaynor.”

The reporter spoke into the telephone. Again he called to the city editor.

“Says it’s urgent, Mr. Ward.”

The city editor came grumbling to the desk.

“Time he called up,” he said. “Expected him in an hour ago. We want that Wise Owl copy in a hurry.”

He took the swivel chair as Gaynor slipped out of the way, and picked up the telephone.

“Yeah?” he growled.

Words came breathlessly from Caulkins.

“Biggest scoop ever, boss,” was what Ward heard. “I’ve located Judge Tolland—”

“Where?”

“Right here with me now. In a hideout on East Eightieth Street. Listen: This Double Z business—”

“Wait, I’ll put Gaynor on, if you can’t get in with the story.”

“No, no, boss!” came the protest. “Wait until I give you the dope. I’m afraid something may happen if I don’t get it off my chest quick. Judge Tolland is alive. He’s given me a statement. He knows who Double Z is. Don’t think I’m crazy, boss! Double Z is—”

The voice broke off. Simultaneously, Ward heard the sound of a revolver shot over the wire. Three more followed in rapid succession. There was a clatter of a telephone falling.

“Hello! Hello!” called the city editor.

Vague sounds came through the receiver. Ward fancied that he heard a gasp. A sharp click ended the chaos. The phone was hung up at the other end.

“Gaynor!” shouted the city editor. “Try to locate where that call came from — the phone number! Quick! I heard shooting.”

He singled out another reporter.

“Up to Eightieth Street, Briggs,” he said. “East Eightieth. Take Stewart along with you. Try to locate Caulkins. He was calling from somewhere up there. There was shooting in the place where he called from.”

The alert city editor spotted another man.

“Get police headquarters, Perry. Tell them what you just heard. Shooting up on Eightieth Street. Caulkins is there.”

Ward sagged back in his chair, his excitement passed. He became meditative, giving no thought to the scurrying men who were on their way to do his bidding. He leaned forward to the desk and wrote a concise memorandum of what he had just heard.

Then he pushed pencil and paper aside while he checked his recollections. He tilted back in his chair and looked across the room at the clock. He glanced toward the typewriter desks. Harwood, star rewrite man, was sitting idle.

“Say, Harwood,” said the city editor in a matter-of-fact tone, “do a Wise Owl column. Anything you want. It’s your job from now on. I don’t think Caulkins will be with us any longer.”

THE city editor of the Classic was correct in his prophecy. A few hours later, the lifeless body of Joel Caulkins was discovered in the third story of an old house on Eightieth Street. No shots had been heard in the vicinity.

Police had arrived at the place by a process of elimination. The owner of a little store had seen a car pull away from the building where no car had stopped for months. The place was supposed to be empty. The statement had warranted a search. The body of the ex-Wise Owl was found there.

Acting Inspector Fennimann was accustomed to reporters from the Classic. He considered most of them a nuisance. The tabloid newspaper was always after sensational stories, and the Wise Owl revelations, a page of presumably inside stuff, was not liked at headquarters.

But on this particular night, after he had received a report from Detective Sergeant Wentworth, the acting inspector was surprised to receive a visit from Dale Ward, city editor of the Classic.

The editor received a cordial welcome. In a few minutes he and Fennimann were in close conference, chewing fat cigars while they talked.

“I heard the shots that killed Caulkins,” explained Ward. “But it was what happened before then that is most important. He was in a hurry when he called me. Before they bumped him off, he told me that Judge Tolland was there with him.”

“Judge Tolland!” Fennimann raised his eyebrows incredulously. “That’s impossible, Ward! If Tolland was anywhere around New York, we’d have located him before this. Say! You aren’t going to run any stuff like that, are you?”

“That wasn’t all that Caulkins said. He told me that Tolland knew all about Double Z. He was just going to let me know who Double Z was when—”

Ward stopped as the door opened. In stepped the familiar form of Joe Cardona, the dark-visaged detective whose reputation as a crime investigator was known throughout New York.

“I’m glad you’re here, Joe!” exclaimed Fennimann. “This Caulkins killing has got me worried — with Inspector Klein away and you off on an other job. This is Mr. Ward, city editor of the Classic. What about this Caulkins case, Joe — have you seen Wentworth?”

“Yes,” replied Cardona tersely, while he was solemnly shaking hands with Ward.

“I stopped at East Eightieth Street on my way home from the Bronx. I’ve seen the place — the body — and Wentworth’s report. Happened to call here while you were out, and they told me about the murder.”

Fennimann turned to Ward.

“Tell Joe what you told me,” he said.

Cardona was expressionless while he heard the city editor’s statement. Then he became thoughtful. He scratched his chin and turned toward the newspaperman.

“How many shots did you hear over the wire?” he questioned Ward.

“Four.”

“Did the receiver click right after that?” continued the detective.

“Not for fifteen or twenty seconds — perhaps half a minute.”

“Four shots,” said Cardona thoughtfully. “That’s the number of bullets that were in the dead man’s body.”

“Which means—”

“That if anybody was with him when he called, it’s a sure bet that’s who killed him.”

“He said that Judge Tolland was there,” Ward asserted.

“So you told me. Was Caulkins reliable?”

“He was the Wise Owl,” said Ward without a smile. “Apt to get fanciful at a typewriter — but not on the telephone, when talking with me.”

CARDONA closed his eyes. He was visualizing the scene in that room on East Eightieth Street, where he had observed the lone body of Joel Caulkins. He pictured the bullet-ridden form.

“Wentworth thinks that some gangsters coaxed Caulkins up there,” he said. “Wentworth may be wrong.

Let’s see that paper he brought you, Inspector.”

Reluctantly Fennimann pulled a paper from the desk drawer. Cardona studied it and read it aloud:

“You have one week to live!”

He passed the note to Ward, who stared at the cryptic Double Z signature in amazement. Fennimann looked questioningly at Cardona, who signaled that all would be well.

“Where did you find this?” asked Ward.

“In the dead man’s hand,” said Fennimann.

“This ties up Double Z with the murder,” was the city editor’s comment. “But where does Judge Tolland come in?”

“That’s the question,” said Cardona.

“Is this a genuine Double Z note?”

“It looks like one. If there is such a person as Double Z, it is probably genuine.”

“What do you mean — if there is a Double Z—”

“It may simply be a ruse adopted by different criminals,” explained Cardona. “But in this case it may be Double Z. He had told us of several murders before they occurred — but they may not have been of his doing.”

“I understand that,” replied Ward. “Caulkins covered some of the Double Z cases and was working on them as the Wise Owl. Double Z, I understand, is presumably a fanatic, who has a remarkable knowledge of what is going on in the criminal world.”

“Look here,” declared Cardona. “I’m going to give you some theories. But lay off of any wild stuff. Work with us. This hits home. It’s one of your own reporters. Get me?”

Dale Ward nodded.

“A number of people have received Double Z threats,” said Cardona. “Now, the way I figure it is this. Caulkins may have received that note and kept mum about it. But that’s hardly likely, eh?”

“Not unless he got it after he went out this afternoon,” responded Ward.

“All right, then. Maybe he received it then. Sent to him by the bird that killed him. Now, why did Caulkins go to that house on East Eightieth Street?”

“Probably he got a tip to go there. He knew a lot of gangsters. Or perhaps he met some one—”

“Very well. I incline to the first theory. However, he went to the place alone, unarmed, apparently suspecting no danger. There was some one there with him. Maybe some one posing as Judge Tolland.

Double Z, for instance.”

“Double Z!” exclaimed Ward.

“Yes. Because Caulkins was not killed by a gunman!”

“Why not?”

“Gunmen don’t bump off reporters — at least, not in New York. Besides that, it took four shots, and two of them were wide ones. Caulkins was at the telephone — an easy mark. A gangster would have nailed him with one shot, or two at the most.”

Ward nodded. He saw Cardona’s point.

“Now get this,” declared the detective. “Whoever was intending to murder Caulkins inside that house gave Caulkins the opportunity to spill a certain amount of information. From your description, that information came straight from Caulkins — it was not under threat. Caulkins had confidence in the man who was with him.

“Now, Judge Tolland, if he is alive — if he is in New York — would certainly want to lay low. At any rate, he would have seen to it that Caulkins either said nothing or said everything. That’s logical, isn’t it?”

“It seems so.”

“But let’s figure Double Z on the job, pretending to be Judge Tolland. That wouldn’t be difficult. You could double for Tolland, and so could Fennimann, here. Nobody’s seen Tolland for more than a year. He’d be apt to be changed in appearance, anyway. So we’ll consider Double Z a hound for leaving his mark or showing his hand.

“He gets a phony message to Caulkins. The reporter goes up there. He meets Double Z, who calls himself Tolland, and hands him a lot of bunk. Caulkins swallows the story. He calls you.

“First he tells you that Tolland is with him. That’s part of the game. Then he brings in Double Z. That’s great. Verbal statement as a new development on the note stuff. Then, when Caulkins begins to give away who Double Z is — maybe the guy was crazy enough to actually tell him — bang! Curtains for your reporter.”

“And this note?”

“Left there to make it look like Caulkins was threatened previously by Double Z. That guy would never take back a note once he sent it. Looks like he just left it there, after Caulkins had brought it out to show him, thinking he was really Judge Tolland.”

“A great story,” declared Ward, his journalistic instinct coming to the fore.

“All right,” agreed Cardona, “if you leave out the Judge Tolland part.”

“Why?”

“Because we want to keep Double Z from thinking we’ve got everything. He doesn’t know how much was really heard or understood at your end of the phone. He wants to bring in a lot of mystery about Judge Tolland. I think his game is to make people believe that Judge Tolland has gone berserk and is Double Z.”

“That’s possible!” exclaimed Ward.

“Possible, yes,” said Cardona. “But lay off it. Your story is good enough. Caulkins was lured to the old house, after receiving a threat from Double Z. He went there because some one had tipped him that he would give him the real low-down on who Double Z was — and, naturally, Caulkins was anxious to find out, because of the threat.

“There he met Double Z in person, but didn’t know it. He called up, started to say something about Double Z, then came the shots, and— that’s all! Double Z played it right up until the last minute.”

THE city editor became reporter. He began to jot down the theory given by Cardona.

“This is a break for you,” said Fennimann. “I wanted to hold back on the note. This Double Z stuff doesn’t do us any good. Reference to Tolland would be worse.”

“Right,” agreed Ward. He was sold on the capabilities and methods of Joe Cardona.

“Now,” said the detective, “I’ll be glad to have one of your men come up and look for inside stuff. I’ve given you what appear to me to be the real facts. Let’s stick to them. Keep an eye on what your man writes. I want to nail the guy that got Caulkins. That’s my job.”

The city editor of the Classic was thoughtful when he left detective headquarters. He admired the work of Joe Cardona. He saw the fallacy of attempting to revive the Judge Tolland case, even though it fitted in with tabloid ideas.

Joe Cardona was also pleased to have met Dale Ward. He was more pleased when he saw the next day’s Classic. Along with photographs of the martyred reporter and the death house appeared the story that he had arranged. Double Z was in the news again; but now the strange criminal had overshot his mark. The police were obtaining clews. Detective Cardona expected results.

“Double Z,” muttered Joe Cardona as he stared at the newspaper spread upon the desk. “I’ve got the guy’s number now. He’ll boil up because that Tolland stuff didn’t land. He’ll show his hand again— and when he does, it will be too bad for him!”

CHAPTER IV. BURKE BRINGS ACTION

“BURKE!”

Clyde Burke stepped up to the city desk. His eyes met those of Dale Ward. The two men had much in common. Both were journalists of long standing. Burke, formerly a reporter with the defunct Evening Clarion, was now handling special assignments for the tabloid Classic.

“You’ve been talking with Harwood about the Wise Owl job, eh?” questioned Ward.

“Yes,” replied Burke. “He told me he had to jam some stuff through for it, but that he won’t be able to handle it very long. It occurred to me that perhaps—”

“That you would be the man to handle it.”

“Exactly.”

The city editor laughed.

“You win, Burke,” he said. “I was thinking you were the man for the job. When Harwood spoke about it, I marked you down for the Wise Owl. You were pretty friendly with Caulkins, weren’t you, old man?”

Clyde nodded.

“Well,” continued Ward, “that’s one reason why I figured on you. It’s also the main reason why I’m going to tell you something that wasn’t in to-day’s story.”

Ward half rose from his swivel chair to make sure that no one was near the city desk. Then he leaned forward and buzzed in Burke’s ear. A look of surprise appeared on the reporter’s face.

“Judge Tolland!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “You mean that he may be in this?”

“That’s what Caulkins was saying when they got him,” declared Ward. “I’m laying off it for the present. But keep your eye peeled. Listen, Burke: One of three things is sure. First” — Ward tapped his left thumb with his right forefinger — ”Caulkins may have seen Tolland and have gotten some real dope from him.

Second” — the city editor tapped his left forefinger — “Double Z bluffed Caulkins into thinking he was Tolland. Third” — Ward indicated on another finger — “Double Z is—”

Ward did not end the sentence. Clyde Burke finished it for him silently. The reporter’s lips framed a single word.

“Tolland!”

“Right’” said the city editor briskly.

“I’ll be on the lookout,” declared Clyde.

“Keep mum,” warned Ward. “This detective, Cardona, has the right idea. Double Z is in the mix-up.

Keep him guessing!”

“I’ll run up to East Eightieth now,” suggested Clyde.

“Good idea,” agreed Ward. “Maybe you can trace back over the trail Caulkins followed. Then get in with the bunch that know. See how they’re taking this story we ran to-day.”

Clyde Burke sat down at an obscure desk in a corner of the news room. He drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote on a sheet of paper. Any one who might have observed him would have decided he was simply adding up his expense account. Clyde Burke looked the part of a police reporter.

But this firm-faced young man was engaged in a different task. He was inscribing a note of strange appearance. He was writing a series of coded letters, and the words which those letters formed told the vital facts which he had just heard from the lips of the city editor.

Clyde folded the sheet of paper and sealed it in an envelope. He sauntered from the newspaper office.

He turned his steps toward Broadway, then to Twenty-third Street. There he reached a dilapidated old building. He entered.

Inside he ascended a flight of rickety stairs. He stopped in front of a glass-paneled door, upon which appeared the name:

B. JONAS

The reporter dropped the envelope in a mail chute cut in the door. He departed immediately. No one had seen his action. In fact, no one had ever seen a person enter through that door with the grimy, cobwebbed glass. Yet notes dropped there by Clyde Burke always reached their destination.

Clyde was thinking of that destination as he traveled uptown. He knew where his message was going.

For the obscure office of B. Jonas was a receiving place used by that mysterious man of the night — The Shadow!

Clyde Burke, to the world a newspaper reporter, was actually a trusted agent of this master of crime detection.

DURING the past few months, it had been Clyde’s duty to watch for all startling developments in criminal activities. As a police reporter, especially with a tabloid newspaper that hungered for crime news, Clyde was in an excellent position to do this work.

Now, with the Wise Owl assignments in his hands, his contact with the underworld was reaching its zenith. He had already gained an insight into strange facts concerning the death of Joel Caulkins, and he had passed his findings on to his mysterious employer.

Despite numerous messages that he had delivered, Clyde had received no orders from The Shadow during these recent months. This was a singular state of affairs. Clyde could not recall any other period of inactivity on the part of The Shadow that was as long as this one. He wondered, sometimes, what had become of The Shadow.

Had the battler of crime withdrawn from the field? Had some shrewd gang leader pierced the unfathomable veil that obscured The Shadow and forced him to seek safety outside of New York?

These were unpleasant thoughts, but Clyde, at times, had worse qualms. Perhaps something had happened to The Shadow!

For years gangsters had been trying to put him on the spot. Had they succeeded?

The only ray of comfort was The Shadow’s broadcasts. Once a week this man of mystery spoke over the radio, and his uncanny laugh thrilled thousands of eager listeners. The broadcasts were going along on schedule; nevertheless, it was possible that some other man had taken The Shadow’s place. No one had ever positively identified The Shadow, Crime Detector, with The Shadow, Radio Broadcaster.

Various tips on crime that Clyde had dropped in the Jonas office had been apparently ignored, although the reporter had felt sure that The Shadow would respond to them. To date, The Shadow had not, to Clyde’s knowledge, taken the slightest interest in either the disappearance of Judge Harvey Tolland or in the peculiar correspondence that the police had received from a man called Double Z. But this was not disconcerting.

The sudden departure of a crooked jurist — that was the general opinion of Tolland — was not likely to interest The Shadow, who dealt with supercrooks. The strange notes from Double Z, hitherto regarded as the epistles of a madman, were also beneath The Shadow’s notice.

Double Z had predicted certain deaths. Some had occurred; others had not. The few that had transpired had been minor gang killings. Never had the hand of Double Z appeared as that of the actual murderer.

But now the cry was out. Newspapers considered the death of Caulkins to be a gang killing, and at the same time suggested murderous work on the part of Double Z. Cardona’s description of the case as the work of an inexperienced murderer had been played up in the Classic. Double Z had become a menace.

Clyde Burke anticipated action from The Shadow. He felt sure that the Tolland connection would bring it.

WITH his mind occupied on these thoughts, Clyde arrived at the old house on East Eightieth Street. He studied the place from across the street. He noticed the heavily curtained front windows of the third floor.

He sauntered across the street and ascended the steps. The door was locked.

A gruff voice spoke from the sidewalk.

“Hey, there!”

Clyde turned. He found himself staring at the squat, square-shouldered form of Detective Sergeant Wentworth.

“Oh, it’s you, Burke,” said the officer in an affable tone. “Didn’t recognize you at first. Want to get in?”

“Sure thing.”

Wentworth was explaining his presence as they entered the hallway and ascended the stairs.

“We’re keeping watch on the place,” he said. “If this nut Double Z is mixed up in the killing, there’s no telling what may happen. He’s just bugs enough to come back to the place. Might have left something here. So we’re lying in wait.”

Wentworth unlocked the door of the third-floor apartment. He and Burke entered the gloomy room, where Caulkins had died. The detective pointed out the telephone, and indicated the position in which the body had been found.

“Who lived here?” questioned Clyde.

“Wish we knew,” said Wentworth. “Name downstairs says Joseph T. Dodd, but we haven’t got any clew from it. We do know that some fellow did live here a while. We’ve found clothes and other articles. The only trouble is, he seems to have been careful to keep himself unknown. Nothing is here in the way of identification.”

Clyde looked around the room, while the detective kept up a line of intermittent patter. The supposed actions that had taken place in the room were well established in Wentworth’s mind.

“Caulkins came in,” he explained. “He found the guy who had coaxed him here. They were talking about this Double Z stuff. Caulkins went to the phone— right there; the other bird was standing here.

“Just as Caulkins began to spill the story, the other fellow outs with a gat and plugs him four times.

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.

Next, the light swung around the room, and aimed downward, to reveal the carpet. The floor covering was cheap and plain. It showed wear near the door and by the table. There was another spot where it was worn. The flashlight paused at that place, then moved upward. Its light glinted back from the silvered surface of the mirror that hung on the wall.

After a pause, the light went to the table. It moved busily about. It showed the telephone, off slightly to one side, and the chair, placed at an angle.

It examined the far side of the table, and the floor beside it. There, in the carpet, was a tiny stain. The light started toward the door, probing the carpet. It revealed another small dark splotch.

Then it went down the stairs, seeking, occasionally stopping to note some trifling sign. It reached the vestibule and made a thorough search. Here were no splotches — only a broad smear, in the midst of a dust-streaked floor. The light was tiny now, as it ran up the side of the wall and stopped on the name of Joseph T. Dodd. Then the light went out.

The front door opened softly, and a thin figure slipped through, to merge with thickening night.

Wentworth became suddenly alert across the street. He fancied that he had seen another motion at the door of the house; then he laughed at his imagination.

Why should he be concerned with every fleeting shadow that might appear before that door? He was posted to watch for a living being— not a phantom!

And so, when Wentworth ended his vigil, being relieved by a plain-clothes man, he made out a simple report: namely, that no one had visited the house that day — with the exception of Clyde Burke, reporter on the Classic.

His report said nothing of a shadow in the dusk. If it had, it might have attracted the attention of the observant Joe Cardona. For the star detective knew more about shadows than did Wentworth.

Joe Cardona, alone of the New York detective force, might have suspected the truth: that The Shadow, living phantom of the night, had come and gone at the old house on East Eightieth Street. In answer to Clyde Burke’s messages, the strange man of darkness had investigated the spot where Joel Caulkins had died.