WEDNESDAY morning. Detective Joe Cardona strolled into headquarters, whistling. Acting Inspector Fennimann had not yet arrived.
“Letter there, Joe,” said a man in the office. “May be another one of those Double Z gags. Left it lay for you or the inspector—”
Cardona was ripping open the envelope before the man had finished speaking. Out came a folded sheet of paper. The detective scanned the lines that had been atrociously typed. A gasp followed.
“What’s the matter, Joe?”
“Matter? When will the inspector be here? I want him to see this. It looks real, too—”
Before Cardona could explain further, Fennimann walked in the door. He stopped short when he observed the expression on the face of the star detective.
“What’s up?” he inquired.
“Double Z again!” declared Cardona.
“No! Let me see it.”
“Wait,” replied Cardona. “I’ll read it.”
Holding the paper with both hands, he repeated the message aloud:
“To-day is the last for Arnold Bodine. He will be killed before midnight, unless you prevent. Warn him!”
“Signed by Double Z?” questioned Fennimann.
“Signed,” replied Cardona, handing the inspector the message.
Fennimann scanned the typed words. He became thoughtful as he turned to the detective.
“Looks like he’s gone back to his owl stunt,” he said. “Tipping us off like he did before. I can’t understand it, Joe.”
“It’s kind of puzzling,” admitted Cardona, “but it just shows how the man’s mind turns. He’s gotten wind of something, like he did before. Once in a while he’s wrong. But this time he seems sure of himself.”
“What’s the best way to handle it?”
“Put a bunch of plain-clothes men on the job,” declared Cardona. “Bodine hangs out in the Goliath Hotel. Along with a bunch of friends — so-called friends. Actually his bodyguards. Remember that Bernstein murder? Well, this will duplicate it if it goes through. But it won’t!”
“What about the newspapers?”
Cardona shook his head emphatically.
“Keep it away from them,” he said. “Wait until after tonight. This is either a big hoax — or it is our chance to get on the trail of Double Z!”
BUT while Detective Cardona was planning to maintain silence with the press, one reporter was aiming to get information on the very subject which the detective wished to avoid.
Clyde Burke was answering a telephone call at the Classic office. A pleasant voice was speaking over the telephone.
“Mr. Burke?”
“Yes.”
“This is the National Photo Service. Have you seen our man to-day?”
“No.”
“He is anxious to see you before ten o’clock.”
Burke hung up the phone.
“I’m going over to National Photo,” he said. “I want to look over some pictures.”
The man at the city desk nodded. Burke left the office. He went uptown instead of down. For that telephone call had contained certain words which were emphasized by the speaker.
The real import of the message was: “Our man — ten o’clock.”
The message was obvious. But “our man” did not signify a representative of the photo service. It was the name “R. Mann” — therefore Burke’s destination was the office of Rutledge Mann in the Badger Building.
Arriving at Suite 909 in the midtown office building, Burke found the stenographer in the outer office. He was ushered into the inner sanctum, where Rutledge Mann sat quietly at his desk.
This was Burke’s first meeting with The Shadow’s new contact man. Burke had received word — in code — to expect a call from him.
“Mr. Burke?” asked Mann.
Clyde nodded.
Mann handed him an envelope.
“Look over these securities,” he said.
Clyde found a coded message within. He read it.
The job is set for tonight. One thousand dollars. A big one. Details not yet known. Meeting at nine. Club DeLuxe. M.
The writing vanished. Clyde turned to Mann. He knew that he could now talk freely with the quiet-faced investment broker who had The Shadow’s confidence.
“This is a copy?” he questioned, referring to the blank sheet of paper.
“It was,” declared Mann calmly.
“He’s uncovered something, then.”
“Yes. Before he proceeds we must find out if the police have received any word.”
Burke nodded.
“They’d be keeping it quiet,” was his comment, “but I ought to be able to get it out of them.”
“Do that. Then report.”
CLYDE left the office and went directly to headquarters. There he found Joe Cardona. The detective eyed him rather doubtfully. Cardona’s manner was evidence to Clyde that the detective had received some message.
“Listen, Joe,” said Clyde confidentially, “you got another Double Z letter to-day, didn’t you?”
“I can’t recall it,” said Cardona coldly.
“That’s strange!” said Clyde. “I thought maybe you did. Well, I was on a bum steer, that’s all. What I’ve heard doesn’t count.”
“Wait a minute!” Cardona stopped Clyde as he was starting toward the door. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”
“I’ve heard a lot, doing this Wise Owl stuff for the Classic.”
“What have you heard that would interest me?”
“Nothing — unless you’ve received another note from Double Z.”
“Suppose I have?” questioned Cardona.
“Let me in on it,” answered Clyde, “and I’ll see if it checks up.”
“We don’t want anything in the Classic,” declared Cardona. “So why should I talk to you?”
“We didn’t spill what Caulkins said about Judge Tolland, did we?”
“No,” admitted Cardona. “Well, if you’ll play straight on this I’ll give it to you. You deserve a scoop, anyhow. This will be one for to-morrow.”
“Shoot!” said Clyde.
“Well,” Cardona said, “Double Z has tipped us off that some one is going to bump off Arnold Bodine tonight. Now what do you know? Does that fit in?”
“It does,” said Clyde.
“How?”
“Well,” Clyde spoke thoughtfully, “you know I’ve been handling this Wise Owl column since Caulkins died. I get around a bit, and when some of these inside boys find out who I am they spill a lot of chatter, most of which is hokum. But I’m always listening, and every now and then I overhear something that’s worth following.”
“And you heard—”
“Some mention of a big job coming off tonight. A thousand dollars being paid.”
“To whom?”
Clyde shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t know who’s in back of it?” quizzed Cardona.
“No idea,” declared Clyde. “That’s all I can tell you. One grand for one job. Where and how I don’t know.”
“Well,” said Cardona, “that’s enough. Here’s Double Z’s note and you’ve promised to keep it out of the news until I give the word.”
Clyde read the message. He was apparently studying the signature. Actually he was committing the words to memory.
“It looks genuine,” said Cardona.
“Before midnight,” remarked Clyde. “That means—”
“You get the story as soon as it breaks. If it’s a hoax, you can let it ride at one minute after twelve. I think it’s going to miss.”
“Why?”
“Because my men will be there.”
“Are you warning Bodine?”
“Yes and no. We’ll let him know something’s up, but he won’t know just what.”
Clyde went back to the Badger Building after he left headquarters. He sent a long envelope in to Rutledge Mann by the stenographer. The girl returned to tell Clyde that Mr. Mann would call him later.
Back at the Classic office, Clyde busied himself with the Wise Owl column. He had gathered numerous rumors of doubtful authenticity, and now prepared them in the form of a story which promised much and told little. It was five o’clock when he received a telephone call.
“This is Jack,” said a noncommittal voice. “It doesn’t seem as though you’re ever in the office. I called before nine this morning. What are you doing tonight, Did you get my message? I left word for you to call immediately.”
“Must have been a slip-up,” replied Clyde. “Sorry, I’m busy tonight. Give me a buzz to-morrow.”
He pondered on the message. “Seem” — that meant “See M.” Thus the complete message of emphasized words was: “See M before 9 tonight. Get message. Call immediately.”
Clyde understood. The Club DeLuxe — an uptown cabaret where gangsters sometimes gathered. An ideal meeting spot, provided little was to be discussed. In that place there would be no risk, and a possible opportunity to communicate with M, whose identity Clyde knew well.
SHORTLY before seven o’clock Detective Joe Cardona appeared in the lobby of the Goliath Hotel. A man stepped forward to speak to him.
“Nothing doing yet,” he said.
“Bodine come in?”
“No. He’s expected.”
“I’m going up to see.”
Cardona arrived at the door of Arnold Bodine’s apartment on the eighteenth floor. It was opened in answer to his rap. Joe shouldered his way in past the man who stood there. He encountered an individual whose face bore a long, twisting scar.
“Hello, Crayton,” said Cardona. “Bodine come in yet?”
“No,” was the response. The man was one of Bodine’s bodyguards. “But he’s liable to drop in any minute. What’s the idea of you coming up? You’ve had a couple of gawky-looking dicks on the floor all afternoon.”
“I’ll talk to Bodine when he comes in,” declared Cardona.
“All right,” was the response. “Make yourself at home.”
The words were spoken with assurance. Crayton knew well that Cardona was not after Bodine. The big shot had been inactive for months, living on tribute and reputation.
“You don’t know where Bodine is?” questioned Cardona.
Crayton appeared puzzled at first; then decided to be frank with Cardona.
“Listen,” he said. “If you’re worrying about him, forget it. He’s out— and when he’s out, nobody knows where he is. I don’t need to tell you that he’s O.K. the minute he walks into the lobby of this hotel. Sometimes he stays out all night, but tonight he’s coming back sure.”
“When?”
“Before midnight. By eleven at the latest.”
“All right. I’ll come back when he gets in.”
Joe Cardona strolled to the door. He noticed one of his men in the hallway, and stopped long enough to have a hurried word with him. The plain-clothes man told him that others were posted on the floor. The star detective went down into the lobby. At eight fifteen he came back.
Arnold Bodine had not been heard from, Crayton informed him. This time Cardona decided to wait. He seated himself in a comfortable chair and refused a highball that was offered him.
It was at that particular moment that Clyde Burke rolled past the Goliath Hotel in a taxicab, bound for the Club DeLuxe. He glanced at the lighted building as he went by and saw a man slouched by the entrance.
One of Cardona’s detectives, Clyde decided.
But there was something he did not see — something that also escaped the vigilant gaze of the man posted there. It was a shadowy form that lurked beside the lighted entrance, scarcely ten feet from where the detective stood.
The Shadow, like Cardona, was awaiting the return of Arnold Bodine!