At the very moment when Ferret, in Middletown, was fancying that the affairs of Joel Hawkins were of little interest elsewhere, a brain in uptown New York was thinking of Ferret.
The scene was a windowless room, furnished with bookcases, filing cabinets, a desk, and a single chair. There were lights in the room, but each was centered on a different object. A green-shaded bulb threw a circle of light upon the desk. Other smaller incandescents glimmered their rays upon the cabinets and the bookcases.
The center of the room was dark and spectral. Only the edges were illuminated. The floor was heavily carpeted in jet black. The walls showed no opening. Despite the fringing lights, not even a shadow could be seen upon the sable floor.
Yet there, in that weird gloom, some one stood. The sole occupant of the mysterious abode was an invisible being who seemed a part of the thick blackness in the center. For this was The Shadow's secret place of consultation. The books in the shelves were funds of information that covered the specific subjects which intrigued The Shadow. The filing cases contained full, cross-indexed information on persons and events which had concerned him. One portion of a bookcase was closed by a metal panel. Its smooth surface bore no lock; yet only The Shadow could open it.
Behind that sheet of steel were special books that The Shadow guarded beyond all else.
They were his secret archives — amazing volumes from which his annals were prepared. The presence of The Shadow manifested itself when a long black arm reached out as though from space. A white hand opened the drawer of a filing cabinet. Another hand came into view. Upon one tapering finger shone a strange, mystic gem — the girasol, or fire opal, which was The Shadow's only jewel. The girasol glimmered with deep crimson that sparkled and changed to a rich purple as the hand of The Shadow stopped upon a file that bore the letter "A." The hands disappeared, carrying a paper into the darkness. They reappeared by the table.
Here the unseen eyes of The Shadow began a study of important data in the case of Daniel Antrim. It was not the first time that this subject had gained The Shadow's interest. His delving into the affairs of the defunct lawyer had been a laborious process.
The morning after the affray at Antrim's, Harry Vincent had awakened to find himself in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. He had sent a complete report of the event to The Shadow. It had begun with Harry's observation of an unknown man creeping down the hall. It had ended with the blow that Harry had received from Solly.
This had given The Shadow an inkling of the affair. Yet, until now, the man in black had not possessed the fund of knowledge necessary to draw conclusions in the case.
The reports on Daniel Antrim had been assembled tediously by The Shadow's agents. All data had reached headquarters, in this room.
Back at the filing cabinet, The Shadow brought out another paper from File F. This, when placed upon the table, showed the name of Hawk Forster. Memoranda concerning such a small-fry gangster had not been acquired easily. Hawk Forster had thrived as an underling with many mobs. A low laugh came through the gloom above the light. It echoed with a hollow tone from the walls and ceiling. Reverberating, it seemed to die away at the floor, as though absorbed by the thick blackness there.
The Shadow's hands were out of sight. Then they reappeared at the metal panel which fronted the case of archives.
Here the hands moved back and forth, lightly touching portions of the panel. Their motions were like those of a mesmerist, and with their action the panel responded in mysterious fashion. The metal barrier melted downward, into the floor itself.
Small lights within the uncovered section of the bookcase showed a row of black-bound books. From each shone a date, inscribed in gold numerals.
The Shadow's hands drew one of these volumes from its special place. Book and hands vanished, then came into view again beneath the table lamp. The hands opened the book. The girasol gleamed above parchment pages. Each contained its record — not printed, but inscribed in perfectly engrossed lettering. The preparation of these pages had been the work of a painstaking recorder.
The hands turned the leaves until they reached the spot that they required. There, a forefinger traced a paragraph. The action was slow and deliberate.
The hand was lifted. The book was closed. It was replaced by those same hands, among the secret archives. The automatic panel came upward, and closed the opening.
The Shadow's record books were not only accounts of what had happened in the past.
They served as a guide for the present, and an index to the future. Here, by exacting research, The Shadow had gained an inkling of some strange work that was afoot.
By a process of keen elimination, he had cut down the associates of Hawk Forster to one whom he could, in some manner, identify with Daniel Antrim.
Tonight's work had been a check-up of his labors. In his secret archives, which told of all that he observed and knew, The Shadow had found the key to the affairs of certain men.
The room seemed lifeless as The Shadow pondered. His mind was bridging a gap of time. From the past, he was determining the future.
Minutes rolled slowly by; then the white hands came from the folds of the cloak, and appeared upon the table. The fingers of the right hand penciled these words upon a sheet of paper.
They have but one possible purpose… The time and method of operation depends upon the place… The choice of place is restricted…
The writing ceased. The Shadow moved away from the desk. His left hand appeared beside a bookcase that continued up to the dark ceiling.
The hand touched a hidden switch. From a cylinder on the top edge of the bookcase, a mammoth map of the United States unrolled itself until it covered half the surface of the wall.
The eyes of The Shadow were studying the illuminated chart. At last the inspection was ended.
The map rolled upward in response to The Shadow's touch.
Back at the desk, the hand inscribed a list of places, visualized from the map. These were considered by the hidden eyes.
The hands tore the paper into fragments, a name on each piece. It arranged them slowly, choosing each one with care until the task was satisfactorily ended. At the top of the list appeared the name of Middletown.
The hands of The Shadow had done their work. The eyes of The Shadow had seen the result. Now, the voice of The Shadow whispered through the room. He was talking over a telephone, located somewhere in the darkness.
Mysterious instructions were going over the wire to Burbank, The Shadow's competent aid. They were spoken in a terse, low-toned voice. The meaning of the cryptic sentences were clear to the man at the other end.
The Shadow was arranging his affairs in New York. He had a mission somewhere else — and the name of Middletown was uppermost. The ways of The Shadow were mysterious; the activities of The Shadow were many. Therein lay his penchant for method.
The Shadow, though he stalked alone, would never call a truce in his war with the underworld. He relied upon his subordinates to carry on the lesser work when duty demanded his presence elsewhere. What he had uncovered now, only The Shadow knew. But with the delays that had impeded progress, there was no time for a preliminary survey.
The Shadow had spotted Middletown as a place where crime was brewing. It would be his own mission to go there — not the task of a subordinate.
The hand of The Shadow wrote its last notations — a series of tabulations that referred to certain operatives. There appeared the names of Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, two bold adventurers who served him.
Following them was the name of Rutledge Mann, an investment broker, whose office was the clearing-house for the routine work of The Shadow.
Last of all came Clyde Burke, the newspaper reporter, whose services could be pressed into duty at The Shadow's bidding.
These operatives were in New York, ready to spring to action should their master need them. They were prepared to go anywhere at any time, in response to The Shadow's orders.
Through the connecting line of Burbank, through detailed instructions mailed to Rutledge Mann, The Shadow could thwart the underworld in many places at once. His faithful yeomen were weapons, like his automatics.
Conflict lay ahead. The Shadow, dark, mysterious, and unseen, was going forth to strike.
No one would know of his presence until he struck. His territory was everywhere. His resources were unlimited. The hands of The Shadow appeared before a filing cabinet in the corner. They drew forth the bottom drawer. In response to a secret mechanism, all the drawers of the cabinet extended — in steps. The tops of these projections were covered with a solid surface.
The black cloak swished as The Shadow strode up the stairs that he had formed. The same action that had opened the cabinet, raised an invisible panel in the wall. Poised before this secret exit, The Shadow laughed. While the notes of his mirthless tone still clung within the room, the panel dropped, and the stairs slid mechanically back into position in the cabinet.
The lights went out when the motion was complete. The room was in total darkness.
Even then, the sound of that mysterious laugh continued a fading echo.
The Shadow was on his way to the distant city of Middletown, where, at that very moment, crime and death were stalking!