Evening found Detective Joe Cardona worn and worried. From the time he had left Commissioner Weston's office, his mind had been working in forbidden channels. At the Hotel Dalban, he had searched for hidden clues. He had discovered none.
The Shadow!
That was the one thought that had impressed the detective more and more. With that mysterious name uppermost in his mind, Cardona had become singularly mute and unresponsive. He had gained the privilege that he had desired — complete freedom in the handling of the Harvey case. But he knew well that, should Commissioner Weston suspect the detective's mind was reverting to The Shadow, the solution of the crime would become the work of other men at headquarters. Often in his career, Cardona had seen traces of The Shadow. He knew well that the name alone could bring terror to the black hearts of hardened gangsters.
Crooks had died, gasping that strange name. Time and again, the plans of clever mobsters had been thwarted by The Shadow.
Who was The Shadow?
Cardona had no idea whatever. He knew simply that the strange man who identified himself by that name was the sworn enemy of crime.
A power of vengeance, he descended upon skulking criminals, and brought them to account for their misdeeds. Often had The Shadow's terrible automatics barked forth their message of doom to those who fought the law.
Yet, even the most crafty leaders of the underworld were totally at a loss concerning the identity of The Shadow. They knew him only as a man in black — a tall, weird figure that came from nowhere, and vanished into the thickness of the night.
Fiends of lawlessness had faced The Shadow. They had listened to his awe-inspiring voice. They had heard the sibilant whispers of his hidden lips. But those who might have answered questions regarding The Shadow did not live to yield such information.
Cardona, himself, had seen The Shadow. He knew that the man of the dark was no myth. But no one at headquarters could support the star detective's word. Cardona had seen lives saved by The Shadow. He, himself, had escaped destruction, due to the intervention of this mighty man. On other occasions, Cardona had solved mysteries that were seemingly unfathomable, through the secret aid of The Shadow. But Cardona, not The Shadow, had received the credit. Only The Shadow had known the truth — and The Shadow had never told!
Millions of people had heard the voice of The Shadow — were hearing it even now. For, once a week, The Shadow broadcast over the radio on a national chain.
Often had mobsters sought to gain a clue to the identity of the mysterious announcer who spoke from the silence of a black-curtained room. But ever had they failed.
Men lurking at the very door of the inclosed compartment had heard the mocking tones of The Shadow's laugh; and had entered quickly, only to find the room a void.
These facts were known to Joe Cardona, but they had brought him nowhere. Now, his day's work ended, he was seated at his desk in headquarters, staring glumly at the wall. His theories were vanishing like early snowflakes.
The laugh that had echoed through the seance room — it could only have been the laugh of The Shadow!
The amazing disappearance of the thirteenth man — only The Shadow could have accomplished it!
Only one of two men might have killed Herbert Harvey. One was Professor Jacques, the medium — and he could not have done the crime. The other was The Shadow — and he would not have stooped to murder.
Cardona had investigated Herbert Harvey. He had discovered that the man had money and good social standing, although the was alone in New York.
It was possible that Harvey might have been a crook. But it was not the way of The Shadow to strike from the dark, with the knife.
This knowledge brought Cardona back to the impossible. The hand of a ghost — or the hand of Professor Jacques, the pretended ghost maker? Neither could be possible.
What was the meaning of the crime? Cardona had a gloomy sense of foreboding. He had seen mysterious murders before — murders that had led to new killings.
The detective had left the commissioner's office that morning in a spirit of elation. Now, his sense of triumph was gone. He saw defeat— perhaps disaster.
IT was in this time of gloominess that a startling hope dawned within Cardona's brain. The evolution of the inspiring thought came through a slow and unexplainable process. A chain of ideas led to its inception.
First, Cardona thought of the presence of The Shadow. That presence showed crime and great crime. A single murder would not merit The Shadow's attention. Others were in progress; and unless The Shadow could thwart them, they would become new and difficult crimes for Joe Cardona to solve. Whatever the outcome might be, the detective faced a hazard. He saw hopeless days ahead, with clues dwindling and opportunities fading.
For once, Cardona had won Commissioner Weston's complete confidence. If he faltered now, that confidence would be lost.
The Shadow had helped Cardona in the past. Would he help him now? Cardona had that hope; but he greatly feared that The Shadow's aid would come too late. Perhaps only after Weston had decided that his judgment of Cardona's ability had been mistaken.
The Shadow's ways were mysterious. No one but The Shadow could govern them. But did The Shadow know Cardona's present situation? Perhaps, if The Shadow knew—
That was the thought that brought the inspiration. The Shadow would know if Cardona told him! The detective's mind centered on that point. How could he reach The Shadow?
Reflecting, Cardona knew that when a certain crime development aroused The Shadow's interest, no detail was too small to escape the notice of the man of mystery.
To-day, reporters had been clamoring for a statement from the star detective. Cardona had gruffly stalled them. He knew that they would call again to-night. They would want an interview. He would let them have one.
Although he was capable at solving cryptic statements, Cardona was no hand at making them. He began to scrawl on a sheet of paper. His first effort failed, and he scowled as he crumpled the paper and threw it away.
This experience was repeated. Before long, the place was littered with the detective's attempts to word a message that would have a special meaning to a person who could read between the lines. At last, with a much-penciled sheet before him, Cardona sat back in his chair and scowled. He heard a slight shuffling at the door, and looked up to see the familiar figure of Fritz, the taciturn janitor, who liked his job so well that he often spent evenings cleaning up at police headquarters. The sight of Fritz forced a grin to Cardona's perspiring face. For once in his life, the stolid janitor appeared nonplused. He was staring, in apparent bewilderment, at the havoc which Cardona had wreaked. Balls of paper everywhere.
"Clean it up, Fritz," said the detective. "Stick around a while. I'll have a lot more for you. I'm just playing a game by myself."
"Yah," responded the stoop-shouldered Fritz, stooping to pick up the crumpled sheets of paper. Joe Cardona, forgetting the janitor's presence, transcribed these words from the heavily penciled sheet:
Murder of Herbert Harvey New Elements Entering Death Hotel Employees Left Penniless Seance Had A Dozen Offhand Witnesses
A noticeable point about Cardona's writing was the size of the capital letters in the three lines beneath the top. These letters were so large that they spelled a statement in themselves. It read:
NEED HELP SHADOW
The weakness of the idea did not escape Cardona. He knew that the remarks, if they appeared in print, would appear with letters in lower case, instead of capitals.
He could not dictate just how type must be set up. It would give the game away. However, it was the best that he could do.
He transcribed the statements to another sheet, to see how they would look in print, and he shook his head mournfully at the result.
Reluctantly, he crumpled the capitalized sheet and threw it on the floor for Fritz to remove. Beneath the final, poorly formed draft, he wrote a few brief remarks along the lines suggested by the headings. He folded the weak effort in his pocket, and walked from the room, still shaking his head. Fritz continued his slow and laborious job. The last sheet of paper that the janitor picked up for his rubbish can was the one which Cardona had thrown to the floor before he left. Fritz did not drop this with the others. He placed it in the pocket of his overalls. Moving slowly from the office, Fritz made his way to a deserted locker room. There, he discarded his working clothes. His attire underneath was a well-fitting suit of black. He had simply covered it with his overalls.
Before he put the overalls into the locker, Fritz withdrew the crumpled paper and dropped it in his coat pocket.
A metamorphosis had come over the man. No longer stooped, he stood erect before the locker. From the depths of the iron box, he drew forth two objects— a black cloak and a slouch hat. A broad flash of crimson showed from the lining as the changed man flung the cloak about his shoulders. Then he was a form totally clad in black, from cloak with upturned collar, to hat with turned-down brim that completely masked his features.
Fritz, the janitor, had become The Shadow!
Silently, swiftly, the man in black swept from the locker room. He became a fleeting form as he moved down me corridor to the street door.
Then this mysterious being went out into the night, and not even a splotch of darkness indicated the course that he had taken!
Half an hour afterward, a click sounded in a little room. A circle of light appeared beneath a green-shaded lamp. The rays of illumination were centered on a table.
Two hands appeared. They were long, white hands, and upon one finger glowed a gem with changing, translucent hues.
It was the same gem that Professor Jacques had seen on the hand of the hawk-faced man who had disappeared from the seance room! It was a rare girasol — or fire opal — a stone unmatched in all the world. That gem, alone, was a single jewel that The Shadow wore!
Something plopped upon the table. It was Cardona's sheet of paper. A moment later, it was unfolded, and there the hidden eyes of The Shadow read the message meant for them.
A low, whispered laugh passed through the darkness of that room. Its tones were neither mocking nor mirthful. They seemed to carry a meaning that could not be defined.
Cardona's plea was whisked away into darkness. Had The Shadow ignored it?
His next action gave no clue to his purpose. A stack of typewritten sheets appeared upon the table. One by one, the hands went through them. They were confidential reports of The Shadow's agents — a small but efficient band of loyal henchmen.
The Shadow's hands stopped momentarily upon one sheet. The soft laugh was repeated. The papers disappeared. Now the hands had taken a new task.
The left hand held a small metal disk of a dull silver color. The right was poised with a small engraving tool between its fingers.
Carefully, the hand inscribed. The disk was cupped in the left hand so the letters were hidden as each was made.
Invisible eyes were guiding the task. Soon the work was completed. The light went out.
The soft laugh sounded and when its echoes died, the room was empty. The Shadow had departed. Morning found Joe Cardona entering his office with a folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His statement had been printed.
Despite his insistence to the reporter that he be quoted exactly, Cardona had found that his wording had been changed — probably by some one at the copy desk. His attempt at a message to The Shadow bad been badly garbled, although traces of it still remained.
Cardona was dubious. He knew The Shadow's skill at solving cryptic messages. But this had been a crude, poorly made attempt. The keenest mind in all the world could hardly see any meaning in such a pitiful endeavor.
A Detective, lingering within the door, pointed to a package on Cardona's desk. It had been there when the man had come in.
Wondering, Cardona looked at the small cardboard box. It bore no name or address.
Nevertheless, it would not be on his desk if it were not intended for him.
Cardona broke the string and opened the box. He fished through a layer of tissue paper, while his companion watched him.
A raucous laugh came from the other detective as Cardona's hand emerged. For Joe Cardona, hard-boiled sleuth, was standing stupefied, with a bunch of violets in his grasp!
The sole witness of this hoax shouted from the door, and other faces peered in to view the ridiculous sight. Angrily, Cardona strode toward the door. The laughers scattered, as they saw the savage fury on his face.
Cardona slammed the door. His face reddened as he glowered at the flowers. He drew back his arm to hurl the bouquet against the wall. His clenching fist crunched the tender stems. Cardona stopped his toss with arm still raised. Something was driving itself against the base of his thumb — a hard, edged object.
Bringing the violets below the range of his eyes, Cardona pulled the bouquet apart and let the flowers flutter to the floor. All that remained between his finger and thumb was a blank disk of silvery metal. Cardona stared; then turned the disk over. On the reverse side, he noted an inscription. He read this cryptic announcement:
SATURDAY PHILADELPHIA ANITA MARIE
Bewildered, Joe Cardona wondered. Then, almost mechanically, the answer dawned. A marked disk, tendered in a bunch of violets.
The Shadow's answer to Cardona's call for aid!