As Clyde Burke rode downtown on the subway, his mind was occupied with the unusual events that had surrounded him since the first visit of George Clarendon to the office on Forty-eighth Street.
There had been Burke’s interview with Doctor Palermo; following that, the stirring incidents in the taxicab. The very next afternoon, Burke had received the first message from his mysterious employer, and it had caused the former reporter to make important changes in his usual routine of life.
He had been instructed to close the clipping office, and to find new lodgings. He had been warned to tell no one of his plans.
In accordance with these instructions, Burke had moved to a rooming house more than a mile from his former lodging. He had taken a new office in the downtown section of Manhattan, and no name appeared upon the door.
He was on his way there now, confident that he had followed the orders correctly.
Burke had sent in a full report of the doings at Palermo’s. His memory had been singularly clear the next morning, and he had left his detailed description at the Jonas office before noon. Thus Clarendon was fully conversant with the situation.
Burke had escaped death once, and a gunman had died. That fact presaged new attacks.
It was a warm day, Burke noted, as he trudged from the subway station toward his new office. He had chosen an old, obscure building, and his office was an inside room. It seemed stifling when he entered.
He removed his coat, and hung it over the back of a chair.
Then he glanced at the single window, which was closed. An open window would mean loose clippings fluttering about in any vagrant breeze. Still, there would not be much wind from the court, and the room was insufferably hot.
Burke went to the window, and unfastened the lock. He tried to pull up the sash, but it would not budge.
It had evidently been closed all winter. For a minute, Burke tugged in vain; then he felt the window yield slightly, and he prepared for the final effort that would raise the sash.
“P-s-s-t!”
The low, whistling whisper came from the doorway. Burke turned suddenly.
A man had opened the door, and was standing there. He was a young fellow, good-looking, and of powerful build. He was in his shirt sleeves.
“Don’t open that window!” exclaimed the man, in a low voice. “Turn back to it, again, and pretend to pull at it.”
Burke obeyed. The man’s tone betokened some important purpose.
The man had not stepped inside the door; apparently he did not wish to be seen.
“That’s right!” The voice from the doorway spoke its approval. “You’ve done enough, now. Give it up, and sit at your desk for a minute. Don’t look this way.”
Burke did as he was told. He felt like a movie actor in front of the camera, following the director’s instructions. He busied himself at his desk, and tried to conduct himself in an indifferent manner.
“Back to the window,” came the next order. “Try again; but fail. Rub your forehead, as though you were very warm.”
Burke went through the pantomime.
“I am closing the door,” came the voice. “Work at the window a few seconds longer. Then walk away, as though you were going for the janitor. Leave the office, and come to Room 463.”
BURKE kept up the pretense. Finally, with a grimace of disgust, he turned away from the window.
Stepping out of the light, he quickly picked up his hat and coat and left the office. He went to the room designated.
It was a sparsely furnished office, with an alcove in one corner. The man who had conversed with him was awaiting his arrival. Without a word, he handed Burke a sealed envelope. The newspaperman opened it. Within was a message:
EKRUB: YLER YLLUF NO EHT NAM OHW SEVIG UOY SIHT. NODNERALC.
Within a few seconds after Burke’s keen eyes had begun to scan the carefully lettered words, the writing disappeared completely. The code was a simple one. Reversed, the words were: BURKE: Rely fully on the man who gives you this. CLARENDON.
But if any other person had opened the envelope, the message would have faded away before he had realized that the words were spelled backward.
Burke’s companion evidently knew the contents of the note. He extended his hand, and as Burke shook it, the man introduced himself.
“My name,” he said, “is Harry Vincent. You and I are engaged in the same work. Before I tell you more, let me show you something that will interest you.”
He drew Burke to the alcove, which had a small, high window. He handed the newspaperman a pair of opera glasses.
“Look through the glasses, Burke,” he said. “Third window to the right— next floor above — across the court.”
Clyde Burke focused the opera glasses. The sun was shining into the window indicated. Clyde’s magnified vision discovered something that he could not have observed without the aid of the glasses.
A man was standing back from the window. Beside him was the dim outline of what appeared to be a tripod. Mounted on the structure was a rodlike device with a large, cumbersome muzzle.
“A rifle,” explained Harry Vincent, as Clyde was about to question him. “A rifle, fitted with a silencer. It’s trained directly on the window of your office. Had you opened that window — well, a few days from now, they would have discovered your body.”
“But how—”
“How did I discover it?” Harry smiled. “I have been watching you, Burke— watching both you and your surroundings. I was here to warn you.
“We are working for the same cause, and to-day I expect that we will receive definite instructions. You are safe here.
“While we wait, I shall acquaint you with important facts.”
THEY went back into the office, and Clyde Burke’s face showed eagerness as he awaited Harry Vincent’s next words.
“I have just come from Florida,” said Harry. “I was sent there, a few days ago, to investigate the death of Lloyd Harriman — who presumably committed suicide a few months ago.”
“And you discovered—” Burke could not suppress his interest.
“Nothing that would hold in a court of law,” returned Harry, “but I learned much that was of value. I am fully convinced that Lloyd Harriman was cleverly murdered, after he had first been subjected to a holdup that had not brought the results expected.”
“Murdered by whom?”
Harry Vincent shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But while Harriman was in Florida, there were two other men there—”
“Was Horace Chatham one?”
“Well, he was there also. I refer to two men besides Chatham. One was a gentleman of reputed underworld connections, known as Gunner Macklin. The other was a prominent neurologist called Doctor Albert Palermo.”
“And they—”
“Apparently they were not acquaintances. Macklin is one of the smoothest figures of gangdom. No one has the goods on him.
“Doctor Palermo possesses a high reputation. But it is my theory that the two worked together. While one — probably Macklin — put an end to Lloyd Harriman’s life, the other — therefore, Palermo — made a systematic search of Harriman’s apartment.
“I feel positive that they made a considerable haul between them, in cash, or marketable securities. At the same time, there is no evidence that they obtained the most important article they were after.”
“The purple sapphire?”
“Exactly.”
Burke became contemplative.
“If you obtained all this evidence,” he began, “it would seem to me — “
“I obtained no evidence,” interrupted Harry. “I have only indications. I was working upon information given me — upon suspicions, which were partly the result of your study through old newspaper files.
“I was recalled, to make contact with you. A gangster, disguised as a taxi driver, made an attempt upon your life, a few nights ago. The gangster is dead; but we believe that he was acting upon orders from Gunner Macklin, who, in turn, was following the dictates of Doctor Palermo.”
“I have met Gunner Macklin,” said Clyde thoughtfully. “He was brought into court while I was a police reporter on the Clarion. They never hung anything on him.
“He was a material witness in that case — and since then, I understand, he has been living a life that is above suspicion.”
“You would recognize him, if you saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Good! We may encounter him, later on. In the meantime, we are taking steps to guarantee your safety.
You have learned facts that involve Doctor Palermo. You have been marked for death!”
THE statement made Clyde shift uncomfortably. Harry smiled at Burke’s lack of composure.
“Don’t worry,” he said, in a low tone. “I may be in the same boat. We are up against a formidable antagonist.
“Doctor Palermo is planning new and more insidious crimes. Through Gunner Macklin, he can command forces of the underworld — men who will murder for money, without knowing who their employer may be.
“Palermo lives in a veritable fortress. He considers his position impregnable. But while he remains in his place of safety, forty stories above the street, he can act only through his mobsters.
“They can prove no match for the man who commands us!”
“George Clarendon—”
Clyde put the question in a puzzled tone. He knew that his employer was a man of mystery, but he had not classed him as a man who could cope with forces of the underworld. Harry Vincent smiled.
“You have met him as George Clarendon,” he said quietly, “but that is not his real identity. He is a man who has assumed various personalities — so many, that even I, who have aided him on many occasions, do not know who he actually is.
“There is but one identity by which I can define him, and that identity is as mysterious as the man himself.
“The man who commands our actions is The Shadow!”
Clyde Burke opened his mouth in startled amazement. He tried to speak, but words were lacking. A medley of surprising recollections were passing through his mind.
“The Shadow,” repeated Harry softly. “A man of mystery. A man of power. A man with a supermind, who appears in strange disguises; whose own identity, when he assumes it, is hidden beneath a black cloak.
“A man whose cry of triumph is a mocking laugh, which brings terror to the hearts of his enemies.”
The words of Harry Vincent came as a revelation to Clyde Burke.
He recalled the strange personality of George Clarendon; how the man could appear and vanish almost miraculously. He remembered that creepy laugh that he had heard, and he had vague recollections of the figure in black that had brought him safely to his room.
His tongue loosened.
“The Shadow!” he exclaimed. “I have heard of him. I have listened to his voice over the radio. They say that his identity is unknown, even in the broadcasting studio.”
“That is true,” said Harry.
“I have heard his name mentioned,” went on Burke. “It has been spoken in a whisper, by close-mouthed crooks who have feared him.
“Some have said he is a supercriminal. Others have claimed that he is a great detective. Which is true?”
“I do not know,” replied Harry frankly. “I can tell you only that The Shadow never fails those who work in his behalf. Furthermore, he has brought disaster to the schemes of dangerous men.
“Now he plans to thwart the machinations of a villainous person— Doctor Albert Palermo. It is our duty to obey The Shadow. Do you agree?”
Clyde Burke silently gripped Harry Vincent’s hand.
“Remember this.” Harry Vincent’s words were emphatic. “Gunner Macklin and his gangsters cannot defeat The Shadow. As The Shadow’s agents, we will offset their attacks.
“Palermo may be safe in his Gibraltar, but while he remains there, his schemes will be thwarted, due to the helplessness of his underlings. This means —”
“That Palermo will be forced to come into the open!” exclaimed Clyde.
“Exactly,” agreed Harry, with a smile. “The Shadow has uncovered Palermo’s channels of activity. He is prepared to stop them at every point. We are to aid in that work.”
Clyde Burke arose.
“I’m going back to my office,” he declared. “Don’t be worried”—he noted Harry’s glance of apprehension—”I’ll be careful. I’m going to pick up some of those clippings. I’ll return in a few minutes.”
Going down the corridor, Clyde pondered on the revelations made by Harry Vincent. The newspaperman had been alarmed by the first disclosures. Now he felt confident and mentally at ease.
He opened the door of his office, entered the room, and closed the door behind him. A form precipitated itself from the corner. Clyde saw the foe just in time. He grappled with his adversary, a strong, powerful individual.
Small, but wiry, the ex-reporter fought grimly. Then an arm tightened about his neck. Clyde found himself staring goggle-eyed into the brutal face of his opponent. The man’s lips wore an evil sneer.
The pressure relaxed. Clyde slumped to the floor, half-unconscious. He could barely see the man bending over him, holding the upraised butt of an automatic.
The blow was about to fall upon Clyde Burke’s skull. Weak and choking, Clyde could only stare in helplessness.
Then a powerful fist shot into view. It clipped the gunman squarely on the chin. The leer became an expression of ugly surprise as the would-be murderer toppled to the floor.
Harry Vincent helped Clyde to his feet. As though in a dream, Clyde felt himself being helped back to the other office. Harry rested him in a chair, and gave him a drink of cold water. Clyde gulped the liquid and felt better.
“I looked out the window in the alcove,” explained Harry quietly. “The office on the floor above was empty. I suspected that you had entered a trap. I hurried over to help you.”
“Thanks,” gulped Clyde. “But what about the fellow you cracked on the chin?”
“I left him there,” answered Harry. “He doesn’t even know what hit him. We can let him lie there. One of Macklin’s men. We’ll recognize him if we see him again. I took a good look at his face. I brought your clippings along, too.”
There was a slight noise at the closed door. An envelope fluttered in through the mail chute. Harry opened it. When he had finished his hurried reading of the message, he let the paper fall to the floor — a blank sheet.
“We have our orders,” he said quietly.
He opened a closet door and brought out a large suitcase. From this he extracted articles of old clothing, two automatic revolvers, and two envelopes.
He threw trousers, shirt, sweater, and cap to Clyde.
“Put them on,” ordered Harry.
In a few minutes, the two men were garbed as typical roughnecks. The clothes completely changed their appearance. It would have been difficult to identify them.
Harry placed their discarded garments in the suitcase. He pocketed one envelope and gave the other to Clyde Burke.
“A couple of tough guys from Chicago,” declared Harry, with a broad grin. “Artie Feldmann and Harry Boutonne. We’re looking for Gunner Macklin and his gang of gorillas. These letters”—Harry tapped his envelope—”are introductions from a big shot in Chicago.”