CHAPTER I

CARDONA HAS A HUNCH

RALPH WESTON, police commissioner, was seated at his desk. With one elbow on the broad, glass-topped surface, he rested his chin upon his hand and stared intently at Detective Joe Cardona.

It was the first meeting between the recently appointed police commissioner and the ace detective, who was recognized as the best sleuth in New York.

Beside the commissioner’s elbow rested a large stack of typewritten reports. He had been referring to these.

Now, with the detective actually present, Weston tapped the pile of papers as he spoke.

“I have been studying your records, Cardona,” he said. “I wish to commend you upon the capability which you have displayed. You have been a most important factor in the combat against crime.”

Cardona, swarthy and stern-visaged, showed no change of expression as he heard the compliment. Weston’s commendation pleased him, but the detective had a habit of maintaining his poker face under all circumstances.

Weston, keenly observant, smiled thoughtfully as he watched the detective.

“I have made an exhaustive survey of your work,” the commissioner continued. “I find that you possess a remarkable aptitude in the practical solution of crime problems.

“I note, however, that you seldom resort to theory. That is the matter which I wish to discuss with you today.”

Cardona’s eyes narrowed as he returned the commissioner’s stare.

“Just what do you regard as theory, commissioner?” he questioned.

“All crimes,” explained Weston, “demand a double treatment. Practical methods, such as arrests, grilling, dragnets, and the like, are useful in the majority of cases. Theory, in which crime is considered as a serious study, is just as essential as practice when one is confronted by a baffling problem.”

“That’s well and good, sir,” declared Cardona. “I use theory, but I mix it with practice. My idea is to get at the facts in a case. The quicker you do that, the quicker you get results.

“I can track down half a dozen facts while I might be bothering around with one fancy stunt that would lead to nothing. Get the goods, and forget the rest of it. That’s what works!”

The commissioner was silent. A slow, thin smile appeared upon his lips.

The smile made Joe Cardona uneasy. He felt that his emphatic statement was due for a criticism. He waited, resolved to stand by what he had said.

“You have given me your definite opinion?” questioned the commissioner.

Cardona nodded.

“You actually believe,” continued Weston, “that the final report on a solved case should be free of all extraneous impressions and unsound notions?”

“Certainly,” said Cardona.

“Then why” — Weston’s voice was deliberate as he tapped the typewritten papers — “why have you frequently left an element of profound uncertainty in connection with cases that you have declared to be completely closed?”

Cardona looked puzzled. He tried to grasp the commissioner’s thoughts, but failed. The detective did not know what to reply, and Weston seemed to enjoy Cardona’s bewilderment.

“Let me speak more specifically,” declared Weston, leaning back in his chair. “In at least six of your reports, you have referred definitely to one individual, whom you claim has played an important part.

“You have established this person in your own mind. You have linked him with widely differing affairs. Yet, you have not presented one tangible bit of evidence to prove that this person is a single individual.

“He might be one, as you suggest. He might be three. He might be six. He might” — the commissioner’s voice slowed with emphasis — “he might be none at all!”

“You mean” — Cardona was speaking in a confused manner — “you mean that I — that in those cases—”

“I am referring,” interposed Weston, “to a person whom you have called The Shadow; an individual whom I am forced to regard as mythical.”

THE words were stunning to Cardona. The detective realized that the commissioner had picked his weakness.

To Joe Cardona, The Shadow was a most important personage — a living being who fought with crime, but who had always managed to mask his identity.

Often, during his career, Cardona had been aided by both information and action which had come from an unknown source. The similarity of these instances had convinced him that one man was back of them all.

So far, the detective’s theory had not been seriously questioned at headquarters. Now, the new police commissioner had delivered a bombshell, and Cardona was at loss.

“You say that you deal in facts,” came Weston’s voice. “Therefore, you should form your conclusions upon facts.

“So far as The Shadow is concerned, your only identification is that he is a man dressed in black, who appears and vanishes in a most fantastic fashion!”

“That proves that he is real,” declared Cardona.

“It proves nothing of the sort!” responded Weston. “Suppose, Cardona, that you had come into this office and found me sitting at this desk, wearing a black cloak and a black hat. In accordance with your past policy, you could have gone back to headquarters to report that you had seen The Shadow here. Actually, you would have seen me — with my identity hidden — not even disguised.”

“But the crooks know that The Shadow is real!” protested Cardona. “I’ve heard dying men call out his name. I’ve heard others testify—”

Weston held up his hand, and the detective ended his excited statement.

“What does that prove?” questioned the commissioner smoothly. “It shows one of two things: Either that certain criminals have been deceived as easily as you, or else that those crooks have taken advantage of your weakness, and have deceived you.

“Your fault, Cardona, is lack of analysis, so far as this one point is concerned. You have permitted yourself to fall into an error that could cause you disaster.

“Suppose that criminals at large should learn of this absurd notion? Suppose, also, that your mistaken judgment should be supported by our other detectives?

“Surely you can see the logical result,” continued the commissioner. “Any malefactor who chose to hide himself within the folds of a black cloak would enjoy virtual immunity.” The commissioner smiled.

“He could come and go at will — while in their reports, detectives would mention The Shadow — and that would be the end of it!”

“That’s a bit exaggerated, sir,” objected Cardona. “You’ve got to see my viewpoint. The Shadow doesn’t appear every day in the week — not by a long shot! But whenever he has shown up, it’s always helped.

“I didn’t have to mention him in my reports. None of that stuff went to the newspapers. At the same time, I’m positive that The Shadow was in the picture — and it was my job to say so!”

“Cardona,” said Weston seriously, “I gave you an exaggerated impression merely to enable you to appreciate your own mistakes.

“No thinking man could share your views on this matter of The Shadow. Let us agree that some unknown person, or persons, can be connected with certain crimes that have occurred.

“To give that person, or those persons, an identity that is vague and uncertain is an unwarranted procedure.

“As your superior, I am instructing you at this time to make no such references in the future. Should you discover any one who has cloaked himself in black and has adopted the name of The Shadow, you may make a report to that effect.

“‘John Doe, alias The Shadow,’ would be an actuality. The Shadow — as a personality — is nonexistent. Is that clear?”

Cardona nodded. He saw perfectly the commissioner’s point. Weston was right. Nevertheless, Cardona could not fully reject his own impressions.

“Have you talked with Inspector Klein?” Cardona asked. “He knows something about this—”

“I have held a discussion with Inspector Klein,” interrupted Weston, “and his views are in accord with mine. He has never accepted your view that The Shadow was an actual person.

“Nevertheless, Klein recognized your capability, and accepted your reports in a negative way. When I made it a definite issue with him, he admitted that the only logical viewpoint was the one which I hold.

“On that account, I decided to discuss the matter with you personally.”

“Suppose,” said Cardona, “that I run into another case in which The Shadow figures; that is” — he made a hasty correction — “a case in which I think The Shadow figures. What am I to do about it?”

“THAT is easily answered,” smiled the commissioner. “You will merely be dealing with a person unknown.

“If that person could be apprehended, you should make it your duty to capture him. If there should be no reason to make an arrest of the anonymous person, then take no action.

“Forget your preconceived notion that you are dealing with a mysterious individual who possesses a fantastic identity. However, I do not think that you will encounter the difficulty in the future.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because, Cardona, I have arranged to make a very valuable series of experiments. In going over your records, I find that your capability is unexcelled — so far as practical methods are concerned. Whatever theoretical ability you possess is chiefly intuitive.”

“I follow hunches,” said Cardona. “Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly,” resumed the commissioner warmly. “But you do not possess the faculty of analyzing those impressions. Usually, your practical methods come to your aid. But they have failed — and will always fail — when circumstances depend solely upon deductive reasoning.

“I do not hold to the opinion that theoretical reasoning is the proper method of combating crime. I do believe, however, that when baffling and unexplainable mysteries occur, the ideal detective must turn to deduction.

“Therefore, I intend to combine practice with theory. I have selected you as the practical man. I have also selected a man who should prove to be an excellent theorist.

“He is Professor Roger Biscayne, whose experiments in psychology have included an exhaustive study of the criminal mind.

“I do not consider Biscayne a detective; but I am positive that, as an analyst, he can produce remarkable results.

“I am withholding my experiment until some unusual crime occurs. Then I shall have Biscayne cooperate with you in its solution.”

As Weston finished speaking, he fancied that he saw resentfulness in Cardona’s eyes. The commissioner could understand it.

There was every reason why the detective should regard this scheme as a form of interference with his work. Weston, accordingly, made a definite effort to curb Cardona’s budding antagonism.

“You will understand,” he said, “that Professor Biscayne is not seeking publicity, nor is he desirous of taking credit that should rightfully belong to you.

“He agrees with me in the opinion that he will learn more from you than you could possibly learn from him. He will not be officially employed in this work.

“He has always commended the methods of professional detectives. I can safely predict that when Biscayne publishes his next book on psychology, his references to your work will add greatly to the fine reputation that you have already gained.”

The tone of the commissioner’s voice as well as his actual words were pleasing to Joe Cardona. They showed him that Ralph Weston would be a valuable friend in the future.

He realized that he held a high position in the new commissioner’s esteem, and that Weston’s power and influence could be used to advantage.

“I get your idea, commissioner,” said Cardona. “You can count on me. I’ll be glad to work with the professor. I’ve got plenty to learn — I find that out the older I get!

“If the professor can figure out where my hunches come from, it will please me plenty.”

“Excellent!” declared Weston. “I am glad that you like the plan. Should you encounter a crime that involves a mysterious, unknown individual, your contact with Biscayne will prove of advantage to you.

“Reverting to the matter of The Shadow, I want you to remember what I have said. Avoid references to such an uncertain quantity. The Shadow — as you have described him — can be regarded only as an impossibility!

“I shall instruct Inspector Klein to notify me of the first crime that seems well suited to my experiment.

“There is, at present, no case which calls for cooperation between yourself and Professor Biscayne. We may have to wait a considerable length of time.”

“Maybe not, commissioner,” declared Cardona suddenly.

The detective drew an envelope from his pocket. It had been cut open at the top. Cardona extracted a folded sheet of paper and passed it, with the empty envelope, across the desk.

THE envelope was addressed to police headquarters. It was typed in capital letters. Weston opened the sheet of paper and read the typed statement that appeared within:

IN MEMORY OF S. H. WHO DIED LAST NIGHT HE WAS THE FIRST

“When did this come in?” asked the commissioner, frowning at the document.

“Yesterday morning,” declared Cardona. “It was mailed night before last. Postmarked ten o’clock.”

“It looks like an ordinary crank note,” said Weston. “We get hundreds of them. Did any person with the initials ‘S. H.’ die two nights ago?”

“Not to my knowledge. We looked through the obituaries yesterday and today. There was no S. H. among them.”

“Then the letter is a hoax!”

“I’m not sure about that,” stated Cardona. “It’s different from the usual crank note. It makes no threats. It gives no warning. It carries no tip-off to any crime that is now being investigated.

“It is simply a statement of something that has happened. The last line is important. One person has died. Another death will follow — if the implication is correct.”

“What have you done about it?” Weston asked.

“Nothing — as yet. It may be a crank note, as you say. If it proves to be otherwise, we’ll investigate it. There’s only one chance in a hundred that the letter means anything, but I have a hunch that that one chance is going to hit.”

“A hunch,” repeated Weston slowly. “Well, Cardona, from what I have ascertained, you attach too much significance to hunches. I prefer to accept the ninety-nine, rather than the one.

“Nearly forty-eight hours have now elapsed since this letter was posted. You believe that it may be important; I believe that it is not. We shall see who is correct.”

Cardona felt a return of resentfulness as the commissioner tossed the letter and the envelope across the desk. He wisely veiled his feeling, but he did not like Weston’s attitude.

It had been a mistake to mention this letter, Cardona felt; and to argue the subject would only make his position worse. So he placed the paper in the envelope and pocketed it.

He looked glumly toward Weston. Before the commissioner had more to say, the telephone rang.

Weston answered the ring and passed the telephone to Cardona.

“Inspector Klein is calling,” he said. “I suppose he wants to speak to you, Cardona.”

The commissioner saw the detective’s eyes narrow as he received the message. There was eagerness in Cardona’s voice as he gave short, quick response to the words that he was hearing.

“I’ll be over right away!” said Cardona. “It’s five thirty, now. I’ll be there before six!”

He hung up the receiver and looked at the commissioner. Cardona spoke and reached in his pocket at the same time.

“An old man found dead,” he said. “Shot through the heart. An old inventor. Living alone in an apartment at the Redan Hotel.”

Weston looked up inquiringly.

“The dead man’s name is Silas Harshaw!” added Cardona.

Weston noted an emphasis on the name. “Silas Harshaw?” he repeated. “Who is Silas Harshaw?”

Cardona flung the envelope triumphantly upon the table, and stared squarely at the commissioner.

“Silas Harshaw,” said the detective, “is S. H.!”

CHAPTER II

A STRANGE DEATH

EARLY evening found Detective Joe Cardona in Silas Harshaw’s apartment at the Redan Hotel. There, the detective anxiously awaited the arrival of Commissioner Ralph Weston.

The death of the old inventor was the very type of mystery that the commissioner had been awaiting.

Harshaw’s suite occupied one entire side of the building. It was on the top floor of the old hotel.

Cardona stood at the entrance of the apartment, beside the door which had been smashed from its hinges.

Within the apartment was Detective Sergeant Mayhew, who was taking orders from Cardona.

A clinking sound announced the ascending of the elevator. The slow-moving car was on its way to the tenth floor. When it arrived, two men stepped out.

One was Commissioner Weston. The other was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, whose shrewd eyes peered through gold-rimmed spectacles. The man’s high forehead and overhanging brow indicated him a scholar.

Cardona divined that this was Professor Roger Biscayne. The introduction proved him to be correct.

Cardona was about to lead the way into the apartment when the commissioner stopped him.

“Let us go over this, step by step,” he suggested. “So far, neither Professor Biscayne nor myself know what has happened here.

“We have been discussing Silas Harshaw on the way to this place, and I find that Professor Biscayne knew the old man. Therefore, he may be able to give us some unexpected assistance.”

“Very well,” said Cardona. “This afternoon, Doctor George Fredericks, Harshaw’s physician, called at the hotel and asked if the old man was in his apartment.

“Harshaw had no telephone in the place. He wanted to be alone and undisturbed. A boy came up and tapped at the door. There was no response.

“Doctor Fredericks expressed anxiety. He stated that he feared something had happened to the old man.

“A policeman was summoned. It was necessary to smash the door off its hinges, as it was double-bolted on the inside. There is the wreckage.”

Cardona led the way into a plainly furnished living room and indicated another door at the rear of the room. Like the first, this door was broken also.

“No one was in here,” declared Cardona, “nor was any one in the room that Harshaw used as a laboratory” — he pointed to the other side of the living room — “so they broke into the old man’s study. There, they found his body.”

The three men walked into the study. The doorway formed an entrance at one corner. The study was a long room, with a single window at the far end.

The window was open; but it was covered with an iron grating. It had a projecting sill, beneath which was a radiator. In front of the window lay the body of Silas Harshaw, sprawled face upward.

As the men approached, they saw a bloody wound in the old man’s chest.

A SINGLE bullet had ended the life of Silas Harshaw. Here, in this locked and secluded room, he had been shot to death. Cardona pointed to a door at the side of the room.

“That’s the bedroom,” he said. “It only has one door, opening off this room. It has two windows, both with gratings. Nothing in there. That’s the layout, commissioner.

“Old Harshaw very seldom let visitors in here. He usually met them in the outer room.”

Commissioner Weston turned to Professor Biscayne.

“Tell Cardona what you know about the place,” he said.

“I am familiar with this room,” declared Biscayne. “I visited Silas Harshaw here, perhaps a half dozen times, in the course of the last six months.

“I suppose that you have learned a great deal about him already; let me give you the information which I possess. Then you can check with what you have discovered.

“Silas Harshaw was working on an invention — a remote-control machine. He was very secretive about his plans, and he had very little success in interesting people in them.

“He wrote to me and asked me to visit him, which I did, about six months ago. The old man took me to his laboratory and brought me in here. He showed me just enough of his work to arouse my interest.

“Then it developed that he wanted me to influence my cousin, Arthur Wilhelm, to invest money in the experiments.”

“Arthur Wilhelm, the soap manufacturer?” inquired Cardona.

“Yes,” replied Biscayne. “Arthur is very wealthy. He agreed to let Silas Harshaw have three thousand dollars as a preliminary fund. Harshaw went to work, and I came here occasionally to see how he was progressing. My last visit was two days ago.

“I came here late in the afternoon. Harshaw’s servant, a man named Homer, let me in. Harshaw met me and brought me into this room.

“He said that he was going out for an hour, and asked me to remain here. He gave me a manuscript that he had written on remote control. I read it during his absence. It was crudely scrawled, in longhand, and was very vague in its details.

“After Harshaw returned, he asked me if I could obtain more money from Arthur Wilhelm. I said that I would find out; but I offered no assurance.

“I left at seven o’clock, and Homer went with me. The servant told me that he had been discharged, and that he was not coming back. He did not know why Harshaw had dismissed him. I could have told him, but I refrained from doing so.”

“Why was that?” asked Cardona.

“First,” explained Biscayne, “I think Harshaw must have mistrusted the man. I don’t think he ever left Homer here alone. He insisted that I bolt the door while I was inside here, two days ago.

“Second, Harshaw was planning to take a trip to Florida, for his health. He told me that in confidence. Naturally, he would not need the servant while he was gone. He did not want people to know of his absence.”

“Do you think,” questioned Cardona, “that Harshaw was afraid some one might try to get in here and steal his plans?”

“Yes,” replied Biscayne, “I do. He told me once that he had a model of his remote-control machine, and that he had put it where no one could possibly find it. He also spoke vaguely of enemies.

“He said — I can recall his exact words — that he kept their names in his head, and that was where he kept his plans, also. He said that they would like to steal his model, but that he had planned to prevent them.

“He mentioned those enemies two nights ago, and his remarks might have been construed as threats against those unknown persons. But he was so vague and eccentric in all his statements that it was difficult to get his exact meaning.”

“Do you really think that he had enemies?” Cardona asked.

Biscayne replied with a broad smile:

“Perhaps they were actual only in his own head — as he himself said. Harshaw was an interesting but complex study in psychology, and my contact with him was too occasional to enable me to fathom him.”

CARDONA drew a report sheet from his pocket and referred to notations which he had made.

“We have covered just about everything that you have told me, professor,” said the detective. “We have tried to trace Harshaw’s servant. The man’s name is Homer Briggs. We have been unable to locate him.

“We learned at the desk that you and Homer left here two nights ago. About an hour afterward, Harshaw came downstairs and made a telephone call. He went back to his apartment.

“He was not seen after that. The police surgeon who examined the body believes that Harshaw was shot some time before midnight — the same night.”

“Within the last forty-eight hours,” observed Weston.

“Yes,” said Cardona. “I am expecting Doctor Fredericks, now. He is coming in from Long Island. Perhaps he can give us more information.”

The police commissioner was walking about the study, examining the place with curiosity. Cardona began to point out certain objects, and Biscayne intervened to explain a few points of Silas Harshaw’s eccentricities.

“The old man was a great student of chess,” he said, indicating a small table with an inlaid board and expensive chessmen.

“I don’t think he played a great deal, but I know that he spent much time over problems. That is a sign of a mind that is both self-centered and unusual — perhaps an eccentric one.

“He was an expert mechanic, and he was constantly forgetting his important work to toy with other devices. You will find an odd assortment of peculiar contrivances in the room he used for both workshop and laboratory.

“He devoted a great deal of time to chemical experiments. One other oddity was a passing interest he had in crude modeling and sculpture. Here is an indication of it.”

Biscayne pointed to a table in the front corner of the room. Along with other crudely fashioned subjects was a bust of somewhat less than life-size.

It bore a striking resemblance to the dead man by the window. It was evidently an attempt at a likeness of Silas Harshaw, made by the old man himself. All the modelings were formed of hard clay, as Weston discovered by inspection.

The commissioner turned around to speak to Biscayne, and noted that the professor and Cardona had gone to look at the dead man.

Before Weston could join them, Detective Mayhew entered, accompanied by a stout, middle-aged man.

The newcomer was Doctor George Fredericks. He had already seen Harshaw’s body that afternoon, but had been forced to leave when the police surgeon arrived.

Fredericks had been at a Long Island hospital until an hour ago. He had hurried back to the city.

“Tell us what you knew about Silas Harshaw, doctor,” said Cardona.

“He was a sick man,” said Fredericks solemnly. “His heart was bad; his blood pressure was high. He was in poor condition, generally. I advised him to take a trip South; to stay away from his laboratory and forget his experiments for a while.

“He called me up, two nights ago, to say that he was leaving the next day. I told him to call at my office for a prescription.”

“That explains the eight-o’clock phone call,” interposed Cardona.

“Yes,” said the physician, “I had told him to call me at eight. I was not at my office, yesterday. It was not until this afternoon that I learned Harshaw had not come for his prescription.

“Immediately, I feared that something had happened to him. He would not have gone without first coming to my office. That is why I came here and insisted that a search be made of this place.

“I expected to find him sick and helpless. Instead, we found him dead — murdered!”

Biscayne was examining the body. Now, apparently oblivious to those about him, he walked across the room to the door. He looked at Harshaw’s desk, midway between the door and the window.

While the others were watching him, he came back slowly and spoke to Weston.

“It looks to me, commissioner,” said Biscayne, “as though some one had been waiting outside that door. When Harshaw opened it, the assassin shot him. Then the murderer dragged his body over here and opened the window, to make it look as though he was killed there.”

“How did the killer escape?” queried Weston.

“That remains to be discovered,” declared Biscayne.

JOE CARDONA smiled. He went to the body and made an examination of his own. He stared closely at the dead man’s right hand. He looked at the radiator beneath the window ledge.

He clambered on the sill, and his flashlight gleamed about the bottom of the iron grating. He dropped back into the room.

“I disagree with you, professor,” he said pleasantly. “Silas Harshaw was killed right at this spot!

“If you care to look at the window ledge, you will see the evidence. There are two marks there that must have been made by sharp hooks.

“Then, perhaps, it would be wise to note the finger nails of the dead man’s right hand. You will find a silver glint upon two of them.

“I shall tell you how I believe Silas Harshaw was killed. Some one tried to enter this room by hooking a ladder from the window of the room below. Silas Harshaw heard the noise.

“He opened the window to listen. He crouched behind the sill, then drew himself upward by gripping the radiator. The other man was at the window. He shot Harshaw through the grating, then made his get-away.”

Commissioner Weston nodded as he turned to Biscayne. Professor Biscayne also nodded. In spite of himself, the professor was forced to admit that Cardona’s theory was too plausible to reject. The detective smiled.

His theory was supported by facts — facts which Roger Biscayne had not observed. Biscayne had known something of Harshaw; Cardona had known nothing. Yet the detective had scored in the first test.

“Let’s go down and take a look at the room below,” suggested Cardona, eager to press his advantage.

They went along, leaving Detective Sergeant Mayhew in charge. They found the door of the room unlocked. It proved to be an ordinary hotel room, unoccupied.

Cardona raised the window and peered upward. While he was thus engaged, some one knocked at the door. A bell boy entered in response to Cardona’s order.

“Detective Cardona?” he queried. “There’s a phone call for you at the desk. I was upstairs looking for you. The man up there told me you were here.”

Cardona picked up a telephone from a table in the corner of the room, and asked for the call.

It was from headquarters.

“Yes… yes…” the others heard him exclaim. “Right away, inspector. Right away… We can come back here later.”

He hung up the receiver and turned to the group.

“A man named Louis Glenn,” he said. “Stockbroker. Died coming home in a taxicab. Only six blocks from here. I’m going over there to see what happened!”

“We’ll go along,” responded Weston. “Come, Biscayne. You, also, Doctor Fredericks. You might be needed.”

There was something in Cardona’s tone that had prompted Weston to this quick decision. The commissioner was beside the detective as they passed through the lobby. He spoke to Cardona in a low voice.

“Do you think there’s a connection?” he asked. “Two deaths — Harshaw and Glenn—”

“Remember the note,” replied Cardona cryptically. “Harshaw was the first. Glenn may have been the second!”

CHAPTER III

THE SECOND MESSAGE

Two policemen approached the commissioner’s car as it stopped before Louis Glenn’s apartment house. Cardona spoke to them as he alighted.

One of the policemen pointed to a taxicab. It was the car in which Glenn had died.

“The driver found him,” said the officer. “He called the doorman. They took Glenn up into his apartment.

“They’re up there now with the doctor. Glenn was dead before they got him out of the cab.”

Two more policemen were in charge of Glenn’s apartment. They were watching the cab driver, the doorman, and Glenn’s valet. The body of Louis Glenn lay on the bed, its arms doubled, and its face distorted. A physician was making an examination.

While Fredericks spoke with the physician, Cardona began to quiz the witnesses. Weston and Biscayne watched in admiration while the businesslike detective made pointed notations.

Within a few minutes, Cardona had traced Glenn’s movements up until the time of his death. Carrying notes, the detective went to a telephone in another room, to call the Merrimac Club, where Glenn had been that evening.

He was gone for fifteen minutes. Then he called to the commissioner. Weston and Biscayne joined Cardona.

Seated in Louis Glenn’s sumptuous living room, Cardona gave a brief but definite summary of his findings.

“Glenn went out of town two weeks ago,” he declared. “He was in the Middle West — due back here tonight. He went directly from the train to the Merrimac Club, where he has a private room.

“He had made the trip East specially to attend a fraternity dinner that was being held tonight.

“He was going back to Chicago on a midnight train. So he left the club early to come here.

“There are a number of persons whom I shall have to question. I wanted to get the outline of Glenn’s activities right away — and I did that by telephone.

“Glenn was met by several of his friends when he came into the club at six o’clock. Some one was evidently with him from then on. He seemed in good spirits and in perfect health.

“He ate the same meal as the others, and no one else has complained of any ill effects. When Glenn left, he stepped into a cab that the doorman called. The driver is known down there.

“I have checked the time, and I figure that they made a quick trip here. The driver saw Glenn doubled up on the floor when he reached out to open the door for his passenger.

“Whatever happened to Glenn took place while he was on his way here. Yet he was alone when he left the club, and alone when the cab reached this apartment house.

“I intend to hold the driver for further questioning. I have a list of names here” — he showed the paper — “and I’m going to quiz these men.”

Doctor Fredericks entered as Cardona finished speaking. The physician’s face was both solemn and perplexed.

“Glenn unquestionably died from the effects of a most virulent poison,” declared Fredericks.

“I thought at first it might have been an overdose of some medicine or a narcotic, but now I regard those possibilities as being out of the question. What I should like to learn is how the poison was administered.

“An autopsy should reveal its nature, but it may not give a clew to how the dose was taken.”

Accompanied by Biscayne, Cardona descended to the street, and made a thorough inspection of the taxicab, which was being watched by one of the policemen. The search revealed nothing.

Back in the apartment, Cardona made a call to headquarters. He left orders there, then started a systematic search of Louis Glenn’s abode. He found nothing that excited his suspicion.

He questioned the valet, and obtained information regarding Glenn’s habits. The man stated that his employer had never, to his knowledge, indulged in narcotics, nor did he use liquor.

This statement was not only in keeping with the inspection which Cardona had made; it was also corroborated by a telephone call from Glenn’s physician, who had been notified of the death.

Cardona learned that Louis Glenn had seldom used medicine of any description; that he had been in excellent health and particularly proud of his physical condition. He was a cigarette smoker, but mild in that habit.

During the search, Cardona came across some empty boxes that had contained cigarettes. These were of an imported variety, a blend which Glenn constantly used according to the valet.

Inspecting the articles in Glenn’s pockets, Cardona discovered a package of the same cigarettes. There were three cigarettes in the box. There had originally been ten, packed in two layers of five each.

Cardona kept the package. He also took Glenn’s handkerchief, expressing the belief that it might have been moistened with some liquid containing poison.

Cardona was seeking facts. He could not find them. When he had satisfied himself that he could accomplish no more at the apartment, he left for the Merrimac Club, to investigate there.

IT was after midnight, and Commissioner Weston was driving homeward with his friend, Professor Biscayne.

“What do you make of these deaths?” was Weston’s question.

“Both are baffling,” declared Biscayne. “This man Cardona is a worker. He may hit upon a successful clew before he has finished.”

“He obtains results,” said Weston. “It is the first time I have seen him at work. His method is all fact — he uses theory only as a follow-up.

“In the case of Harshaw, he intends to find out what has become of Homer Briggs, the old man’s servant. He wants to know whom the old man regarded as enemies.

“There, he is dealing with the death of a man who was eccentric. It will be hard for him to establish facts at their face value.

“But this case of Glenn is entirely different. Here is a man who was evidently well liked and prosperous. He has apparently fallen at the hand of some enemy. Everything about Glenn seems normal.”

“So far as deductive reasoning is concerned,” said Biscayne, “neither case is sufficiently developed to require it. You have said, yourself, commissioner, that Detective Cardona obtains results. I do not doubt it.

“By gathering many facts, he can pick those which appear pertinent to the case. One simple discovery may lead to the end of the trail.

“However” — Biscayne’s tone became thoughtful — “the necessary facts may be totally hidden. We have seen two cases of what appear to be deliberate murder. We cannot be sure in either one.

“Sometimes men are killed by mistake. I am anxious to watch Cardona as he progresses. At this stage, I cannot help him; in fact, I am quite apt to hinder him. The work he is doing now does not appeal to me.

“I am more interested in the study of the facts themselves. To me, it is fascinating to take the details of a crime — particularly murder — to know that the elusive clew is among them, and to seek it by the pure process of deduction.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Weston. “I told Cardona, to-day, that that was his one failing — an inability to resort to scientific deduction when all other methods are insufficient. He claims that he has hunches—”

“Intuitive deductions,” interposed Biscayne with a smile.

“—but,” continued Weston, “from his past record, I have seen that he goes wide of the mark when pure theory is involved. Take, for example, the case of the man he calls The Shadow.”

“The Shadow?” echoed Biscayne.

“Yes,” said Weston. “Cardona seems to believe in the existence of a superman called The Shadow — a terror of the underworld.”

“The Shadow,” observed Biscayne, “is the name adopted by a man who makes radio announcements. I have heard him over the air — he has a weird, uncanny laugh.”

“Well,” declared Weston, “Cardona has taken care of that. He actually believes that there is a connection between the radio announcer and the strange being who moves by night.”

“Not really!” exclaimed Biscayne. “That is too absurd, especially for a man so attentive to detail as Detective Cardona—”

“I mean it, Biscayne,” affirmed the commissioner. “Cardona claims that he has received mysterious information pertaining to certain cases which he has handled.

“He tells me that he has heard telephoned messages, uttered in that same weird voice. He says that he has encountered a man in black, but has never been able to discover his identity.”

“THAT is excusable, commissioner,” said Biscayne, in an indulgent tone. “We might almost regard it as a form of superstition with Cardona.

“You know, a great many people are so unimaginative that when they meet with the simplest facts that seem unexplainable, they seize upon the theory which is closest at hand, and none can shake them from it.”

“You have described Cardona,” declared Weston. “That form of susceptibility appears to be his weakness.

“When you first talked to me, a few months ago, about the higher methods of crime detection, I was extremely anxious to experiment along those lines.

“In Cardona, I have found the ideal man — from the practical standpoint. His records show that he utilizes facts to the utmost.

“You will have every opportunity to observe his methods. If he encounters difficulties that he cannot solve by his usual procedure, you can then make suggestions.

“Naturally, my first wish is that both these crimes may speedily be laid upon the guilty persons. Therefore, I hope that Cardona has immediate success.

“At the same time, it would intrigue me greatly if your cooperation should become necessary.”

“Particularly,” remarked Biscayne, “if one or both of these deaths should involve the man whom Cardona calls The Shadow.”

“Not The Shadow,” corrected Weston. “Say, rather, a man — criminal or otherwise — who might happen to appear upon the scene without revealing his identity.

“Should that occur, Biscayne, I shall give immediate orders to pursue him. But I feel convinced that Cardona’s ideas regarding such a person are purely misconceptions.”

The car had arrived at Biscayne’s home. After bidding the professor good night, the police commissioner rode to his own residence, feeling satisfied that the next day would bring interesting developments.

Biscayne, in leaving, had promised to call at Weston’s office the first thing in the morning. By that time, perhaps, Cardona would have more facts.

IT was nine o’clock the following day when Weston reached his office. His idea about Cardona’s activity was not a mistaken one. The detective had called up nearly an hour before, to leave word that he would be at the commissioner’s office before ten o’clock.

While Weston was awaiting Cardona’s arrival, a secretary entered to state that Professor Biscayne wished to see the police commissioner.

Biscayne entered, carrying a copy of the morning newspaper. Its report of the two murders were somewhat meager. Commissioner Weston had read the full accounts.

When Biscayne inquired if Cardona had discovered new data, Weston explained that the detective would arrive shortly. In the meantime, he produced the letter which had proclaimed the death of S. H., and gave it to Biscayne to examine.

“We believe that it refers to Silas Harshaw,” declared Weston. “That is Cardona’s belief. I feel that his opinion is correct.”

“It may be,” replied Biscayne quietly. “It is another evidence of Cardona’s method. He chooses the simplest and most direct explanation that he can obtain from a fact.

“This letter states that a man designated as S. H. has died. The initials of Silas Harshaw are S. H. Therefore, it seems to fit. Yet I do not think it would be wise to be too sure on this point.”

Scarcely had Biscayne finished speaking before Cardona himself was ushered into the office.

He had evidently arrived in great haste, but he curbed his impatience when the commissioner began to speak. Weston pointed to the letter which Biscayne held.

“We were just discussing this letter, Cardona,” said Weston. “I was telling Professor Biscayne that we thought S. H. must surely mean Silas Harshaw. Biscayne is doubtful—”

“I should not be surprised,” interposed Biscayne, “if this letter did actually refer to Silas Harshaw. But, theoretically, we cannot accept that belief on the evidence of the letter alone. It may be purely a coincidence.

“I suppose, Cardona, that you may have found some tangible fact about this letter that made you definitely believe it referred to Harshaw?”

“I had a hunch,” replied Cardona. “I told you that much yesterday, commissioner.”

“Last night,” reminded Weston, “you also mentioned another hunch — that there might be a connection between the murders of Silas Harshaw and Louis Glenn.”

“I am sure there is a link between them!” declared Cardona.

“Ah!” exclaimed Biscayne. “You have unearthed some new facts since we left you?”

“No,” said Cardona. “I have found no worth-while clews. But I have received something that makes me sure these two deaths were engineered by the same parties.

“You speak of coincidences, professor. They don’t happen twice in a row — not like this!”

As he spoke, Cardona drew an envelope from his pocket. It was identical with the envelope that Roger Biscayne held.

From the envelope, Cardona extracted a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and laid it triumphantly upon the glass-topped desk.

“This letter,” he announced, “arrived in this morning’s mail!”

Weston and Biscayne were staring at the typewritten sheet. It was very similar to the letter that had come two days before, but the wording varied slightly: