THE SHADOW’S WORK
EARLY the next evening, a gentleman in evening clothes was reading a newspaper in the tomblike library of the Cobalt Club. The few members who happened to pass by recognized the calm, dignified features of Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire.
When he was in New York, which was only occasionally, Lamont Cranston spent much of his time at the Cobalt Club.
He also appeared frequently at the Merrimac Club, which was less exclusive, and one which had a larger and less select membership than the Cobalt Club.
Even those who had seen Cranston most often knew very little about him. The man was a great traveler. A trip around the world was a mere jaunt for him, and he would set out on a long journey in a moment’s preparation.
He had a large mansion in New Jersey, where he entertained on rare occasions. He came and went as he pleased. When he was away, no one — not even the servants at his pretentious home — knew where he was.
Thus Lamont Cranston was a puzzling personage, and most of his acquaintances considered him a mystery. But none had ever fathomed the amazing secret that shrouded his identity.
It was one that surpassed belief — so incredible that even Cranston’s own servants did not suspect it.
There were two Lamont Cranstons: one, the genuine; the other, an impostor, who boldly appeared as the multimillionaire whenever he so chose.
The real Cranston was a traveler, indeed. At the present time, he was in India. The false Cranston was a man unknown — The Shadow!
Here, in the Cobalt Club, in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow spent hours of leisure, his mighty mind at work, his very identity concealed.
Tonight, he was reading the details of a case that involved himself; and, as usual, his purpose in that affair had not been fathomed.
He was reading the latest reports on the tragic death of James Throckmorton, the fourth victim of an unseen hand.
Joe Cardona, in accordance with his determined policy, had let the facts of the case be known.
James Throckmorton had been asphyxiated by illuminating gas. The leak had been discovered. It might have been caused by accident.
There was no evidence to prove that the hose had been loosened by a murderer’s hand. But mystery had hovered in that top-story room last night.
Some one had been seen in Throckmorton’s secluded sanctum. The sinister figure had escaped by the skylight; it was probable that he had entered by the same route.
The police were investigating. That was the same old story. They had investigated other cases before this one, and they had been balked.
The link between this tragedy and three other well-timed deaths was admitted. There was every reason to expect another killing tomorrow night — perhaps more after that!
The only factor that saved Detective Cardona from a merciless grilling by the newspapers was his willingness to give information to the reporters.
In return, there was a tendency to soft-pedal belittling thrusts at Cardona’s capability. One tabloid journal indulged in condemnation, but the other sheets withheld their scorn.
There was nothing in James Throckmorton’s career to class him as a marked man. He had possessed wealth, but much of it had been expended in his hobbies.
He was a harmless person, whose chief weakness was ornithology. On various occasions, the members of the Falcon Society had visited his home.
These men were interested in the study of birds. It was mentioned, in the reports of the society, that Throckmorton had completed his book on ornithology a few months before. He had shown the manuscript to the members of the society at that time.
Not even the most painstaking reporter had been interested in the minutes of that meeting.
Birds and murder did not seem closely related. But to The Shadow, those minutes were of importance.
They would be recorded, in all probability, in the Avifauna Journal — a small publication of limited circulation which went to keen students of bird life.
Laying the newspaper aside, the man who appeared to be Lamont Cranston strolled to a corner of the extensive library.
The Cobalt Club subscribed to all sorts of unusual publications. These were kept on file until ready for binding.
Hanging from an obscure rack, the searcher discovered back numbers of the Avifauna Journal.
It was not long before a tapering finger rested upon the account of the meeting which had been held at Throckmorton’s home a few months previously.
The report of the Falcon Society was dry and dull. But included with it was a list of those who had been there, both members and friends.
The pointing finger rested upon a name that was included in the latter group.
SHORTLY afterward, Lamont Cranston’s limousine rolled northward from the Cobalt Club. The man in the back seat was invisible. Only the moving glow of a cigarette betrayed his presence.
He alighted from the car near the home of James Throckmorton and ordered the chauffeur back to the club.
The Shadow had hastened twenty-four hours ago into Throckmorton’s home. Tonight, he entered stealthily. He crept easily up the stairs and reached the room with the broken door.
There was something about that room which The Shadow had noticed — for no facts of consequence ever escaped his eagle eye.
He had observed the partly opened door of a closet, with piles of loose-leafed notebooks stowed within.
It was in that closet that The Shadow sought. One by one, volumes were removed — some large, some small. Most of them were records that pertained to James Throckmorton’s hobbies.
Among them, The Shadow discovered a few dusty volumes that appeared to be diaries. These were the books The Shadow placed upon the desk.
By the light of that same gas lamp, The Shadow began his search. His gloved thumb left no imprint as it ran through page after page with surprising rapidity.
The eyes that watched did not stop to read. They were looking for a written name.
James Throckmorton had been copious in his notations. If that name entered into his life, it should be here.
The moving thumb stopped. There, on a page dated nearly two years ago, was this written statement:
Discussed inventions with Silas Harshaw at his home. Told him my decision was final. Unwise to invest money in so doubtful an undertaking. Harshaw seemed piqued and erratic. Said I was like others. We would all see, some day. He talked about people stealing his inventions. Seemed to consider me as a suspect. He is a very queer old man.
The black-gloved thumb dog-leaved the pages. The various volumes were put back in the closet. But the diaries were now on top, instead of beneath the other books.
This one volume lay closest at hand. In fact, it was leaning from the top of the stack when The Shadow closed the door.
Then the room of death was once more deserted. The Shadow had gone — not by the skylight, however. He had taken to the stairs, moving silently downward through the darkness.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT MAYHEW was still on duty at the Redan Hotel. Tonight, the vigil seemed hopeless. The plainclothes men had been withdrawn.
It was a ruse; for they would be back tomorrow — the night when a fourth note was due to be mailed. The forty-eight-hour interval was now recognized.
The Shadow smiled as he glided up the stairs of the Redan Hotel.
He knew that Cardona’s men were gone. He knew that the detective was right in his assumption that there would be no note tonight. For The Shadow knew the source of those mysterious billets. He also knew when the next would be on its way.
The shadowy form reached Harshaw’s apartment and entered with accustomed ease. The flashlight glimmered while The Shadow worked.
Tonight, he did not visit the death spot by the window. Instead, he pried into the little cache where muffled clockwork ticked.
With careful touch, The Shadow removed the letter from the clips that held it. From beneath his robe, he drew a vial of liquid.
With a tiny brush, he forced the fluid beneath the flap of the envelope. The flap peeled back. The message was removed by a gloved hand.
With a pen, The Shadow wrote four words across the typed lines. He refolded the message and put it back into the envelope, which, in turn, he replaced between the clips.
The Shadow was laughing softly as he prowled about the room. He came to a point directly opposite the window. There he stopped, and his flashlight searched the wall.
The glow revealed the spot where a bullet had buried itself in the woodwork.
This spot was less than three feet from the floor. In the corner of the room, The Shadow’s light showed a footstool.
The hidden man moved to the corner where old Harshaw’s sculptured objects still rested undisturbed. Again, that low laugh. The light went out. Something was lifted softly from the table.
Now, The Shadow was gone from the study. He was in another part of the apartment — the room which had served Harshaw as laboratory and workshop.
Here, the man in black made a careful survey. He discovered a drawer that bore the letter “E.” That was the drawer for which The Shadow searched.
He slid it open, and discovered several papers. They were mostly crude, hand-sketched diagrams that meant nothing, in themselves.
They might have pertained to some contrivance, but without the actual apparatus, they were useless.
The Shadow paid but little attention to these sketches. He replaced them carefully.
Then, from his pocket, he drew an envelope. It was sealed, and on its face it bore the words:
DETECTIVE CARDONA — IMPORTANT
The characters were written in a shaky scrawl. They had been formed by the hand of The Shadow.
They were identical with the writing that had appeared upon the envelope that had been received by Thomas Sutton — the wrapper which had contained the notation concerning the gold-headed cane.
The Shadow had seen that envelope in Cardona’s office. Strangely enough, its scrawl coincided exactly with other envelopes that The Shadow had found in this apartment last night!
Those envelopes were in the hiding place by the window, where The Shadow had discovered and replaced them.
What was The Shadow’s purpose?
Only time could tell, but the soft, sinister laugh that echoed now was the forerunner of some clever scheme.
The Shadow’s work was now completed. The softly moving form swished from the workshop.
It traveled to the outer door, and made its exit from the stairway. The Shadow was seen no more that night.
But his voice was heard by one who had not expected the sound of those weird, whispered tones!
AT headquarters, Joe Cardona was puzzling over the facts of the Throckmorton death, trying vainly to link them with the other killings.
Within twenty-four hours, another letter would be on its way, announcing one more death!
The telephone rang.
Listlessly, Cardona answered it.
The detective gasped as he recognized the voice from the other end. It was a voice he knew — a voice that he had heard before.
A voice in which he believed, despite the doubts of others.
It was the voice of The Shadow!
“Cardona?” came the weird whisper.
“Yes,” replied the detective.
“Five deaths!” were the sinister words.
“Five?” questioned Cardona.
“One: Silas Harshaw,” tolled the voice. “Two: Louis Glenn. Three: Thomas Sutton. Four: James Throckmorton. Five—”
The voice ended.
“Quick!” cried Cardona. “Name the fifth!”
“You shall know the name tomorrow night,” came the low, deliberate voice. “It is not necessary now. Death — will — not — take — place!”
Cardona pressed the receiver close to his ear and listened intently. Was there more to come? Yes! The voice was speaking again!
“Think of death that has occurred,” said the voice of The Shadow. “Do not consider death that I shall thwart. Think of those that went before.
“Listen!” The voice was hissing. “I shall go back. Throckmorton kept a diary. Sutton made out checks. Glenn smoked cigarettes. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Detective Cardona eagerly. “I understand. Throckmorton’s diary — I haven’t looked for it. Sutton’s check book — I passed it up.
“Glenn’s cigarettes I have them here. But what” — Cardona paused breathlessly — “what of Harshaw?”
A low laugh tingled in Cardona’s ear.
“Harshaw?” questioned the eerie voice. “What of Harshaw? The answer to his death remains in his apartment.
“You will find it if you search. But be careful. Heed this warning.
“The death dealt to Harshaw was dealt to another. It will strike again to those who use no caution. Go back, Cardona, to your first clew.
“Seek for death at the place of death. There you will find the trail.”
The receiver clicked at the other end of the wire. Joe Cardona sank back in his chair.
The detective’s face was white and tense. Every word that the mysterious voice had spoken echoed through his brain.
There were clews to every death! Danger still lurked at the apartment where Silas Harshaw had been slain! These statements, meager though they might seem, meant worlds to Cardona.
But more important than them all was that one emphatic utterance that pertained to tomorrow night. Those words had been spoken by The Shadow — the man who never failed!
“Death — will — not — take — place!”