THE car drew up in front of an old house on a side street. Frederick Froman glanced at his watch as he alighted.
“Half past twelve,” he remarked. “We made excellent time coming in from Waddell’s place. Thank you very much for the ride, Mr. Cranston.”
“You are quite welcome,” was the reply.
“I should like to have you visit me sometime,” added Froman. “This is my mansion” — he smiled as he indicated the somber house beside which the car was stopped — “and although it is modest in appearance, I can assure you that the hospitality is extended with the best of will.”
Lamont Cranston bowed, and extended his hand. Froman strode up the steps of the old brick-faced house, a three-story building of a former era.
Cranston noted that Froman rang the bell. The door was opened, yielding a flood of light, just as the limousine pulled away at Cranston’s order.
By the time the car had reached the nearest avenue, Cranston gave an order through the speaking tube that led to the chauffeur’s seat.
“You are going in the wrong direction, Stanley,” he said. “Turn back and go down the street again, then to Twenty-third Street.”
Passing the house into which Froman had gone, the silent observer in the rear seat of the limousine noted that there were lights in the windows of an upstairs room. Evidently, Froman had gone there immediately upon his arrival.
The car swung southward. It reached Twenty-third Street. Stanley, at the wheel, heard Cranston’s quiet voice telling him to stop. The chauffeur obeyed. Cranston alighted.
“Take the car to the Cobalt Club,” was Cranston’s order. “Wait for me there.”
Stanley nodded and drove away. Cranston remained standing on the curb, watching the departing limousine. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he raised the lapels of his coat and drew the garment closely about his body. With a short, soft laugh, Cranston turned and stepped away from the street.
His black-clad form was swallowed instantly by the gloomy shroud of a blank-walled building. In that spot, away from the glare of the nearest street lamp, Cranston’s action was both amazing and mysterious.
A wayfarer who had noted the tall figure standing by the curb stood gaping in astonishment at the disappearance.
Where Cranston had been, no living person remained. The blackness of night had opened like a curtain to admit a mysterious entrant. The only trace of Cranston’s presence was a gliding blotch that slid along the dim-white pavement.
Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow!
In a twinkling, the calm-faced millionaire had transformed himself into Manhattan’s man of mystery!
THE SHADOW!
None in New York knew the identity of that strange personage. A master mind who battled crime, he worked from the blanketed seclusion of darkness to thwart the fiends who dominated the underworld.
Tonight, The Shadow was not concerned with affairs of gangdom. In his adopted guise of Lamont Cranston, he had passed an evening of quiet observation. Now, he was bound toward some unknown haunt — the contact point from which he received the reports of operatives who obeyed him faithfully, yet who had no inkling of his identity.
Nothing remained to show the course of The Shadow’s journey. Not for one instant did his tall, gliding form come into view. The next sign of his presence appeared in a small, pitch-black room — a silent chamber which gave no sound until a slight click occurred amid the darkness.
With the click, a green-shaded lamp was lighted. It cast a circular spot of illumination upon the surface of a polished table.
Into that sphere of illumination came two long white hands, moving creatures of life that seemed detached from the hidden body which controlled them.
The hands of The Shadow!
Slender hands they were, yet the muscles beneath the smooth skin gave indication of tremendous strength. The restless, tapering fingers moved with silky ease. Upon one finger — the third finger of the left hand — glowed a large, translucent gem.
This jewel was a priceless girasol, or fire opal. Amid its hue of milky blue appeared deep reflections of gleaming crimson.
This stone was the symbol of The Shadow, the strange amulet that was always with him. Its sullen glow had carried thoughts of doom to dying eyes of evildoers; its vivid sparkle had brought hope to those who were sorrowed and oppressed.
A tiny light appeared from across the table. The hands reached forth and drew back a pair of earphones.
The hands disappeared as the instruments were attached to the hidden head. A low, solemn voice spoke through the darkness above the lamp.
“Report, Burbank.”
“Marsland at the Belmar Hotel,” came a quiet tone across the wire. “Reports no sign of Marcus Holtmann. He has not been there. He has not checked out. Baggage still in room.”
“Continue.”
“Vincent at Grand Central Station. Holtmann did not appear to take the Midnight Special for Chicago. Both operatives standing by.”
“End operation.” The Shadow’s voice was stern. “Marsland to cover David Tholbin; Vincent to cover Frederick Froman. Both listed in telephone book. Watch and report any activity that might pertain to Holtmann.”
A pause; then these added instructions:
“Special call to Waddell’s home. Ask for Parker Noyes. Cut off system prior to conversation.”
The hands placed the earphones on the other side of the table. Then they appeared beneath the light, carrying a small packet of papers.
The deft fingers worked smoothly as they distributed the papers. The hands produced a flat map of the United States, upon which were white-headed pins. Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other cities of the Middle West were indicated.
AMONG the papers was a written report inscribed in the odd characters of the Russian language.
Besides this appeared notations in French and German. They were alike to the hidden eyes above the lamp. The Shadow read them all with ease.
Each page bore one name penned at the top. That was the name of Marcus Holtmann. Evidently The Shadow had a keen interest in the affairs of the man who had come from Russia.
Holtmann had said that he was going to Chicago. That city was indicated by a pin on the map; but there were other marked cities besides.
Upon a blank sheet of paper, the hand of The Shadow began a series of penciled notations. First appeared the name Marcus Holtmann. Then two words: “Purpose — destination.”
The probable purpose of Marcus Holtmann was covered by the papers on the table. The destination was ostensibly one of the cities indicated on the map.
As The Shadow’s hand remained motionless, it was obvious that some unforeseen happening had intervened to obstruct well-formulated plans in the trailing of Marcus Holtmann.
Tonight, The Shadow had watched to see if Holtmann had contacted with other persons prior to his departure from New York. Noyes, Froman, and Tholbin, guests at Waddell’s, had come under the careful surveillance of Lamont Cranston.
Holtmann, no matter what his plans might have been, would in all probability have gone to the Belmar Hotel to check out. If his proposed trip to Chicago should be a blind, he might not even have taken the Midnight to Chicago; but, had he departed on that train, Vincent would have followed him.
Neither Marsland at the hotel, nor Vincent at the terminal, had observed Marcus Holtmann! Somewhere between Waddell’s Long Island home and Manhattan, Holtmann had vanished. The Shadow’s careful plans had been crossed by this unexpected occurrence.
Upon the paper, The Shadow wrote three names:
David Tholbin Parker Noyes Frederick Froman
With one of these three might rest a key to the mystery of Holtmann’s disappearance. These men could be involved, even though their actions at Waddell’s had been unsuspicious.
From the data which pertained to Holtmann, The Shadow selected a sheet which included a report of the man’s activities since his arrival in New York.
According to the observations of The Shadow’s agents, Marcus Holtmann had held no significant communication with any one since his return from Russia.
Tonight’s function had been his last opportunity. David Tholbin had left shortly after Holtmann. Parker Noyes had remained at Waddell’s. Frederick Froman had been taken to his home by Lamont Cranston.
Of the three, only Tholbin seemed free.
The light flickered from across the table. The earphones were ready. Burbank’s report came in its methodical tone.
“Marsland reports David Tholbin at Club Drury, with party of friends. Check on time indicates he came there directly from Waddell’s.
“Vincent reports short watch at Frederick Froman’s house. Light in front room upstairs. Extinguished now. House dark. No one has entered or left.”
A pause; then Burbank added:
“Parker Noyes still at Waddell’s.”
There was no reply for a full minute. Then, the low voice of The Shadow sounded as he gave new orders to his trusted agent, Burbank.
“Marsland to watch Tholbin,” said The Shadow. “Vincent to watch Froman’s home. Until morning.”
The conversation ended. The hands of The Shadow rested motionless upon the table. At length, they moved, while the fingers slowly piled the sheets of paper.
The check-up had ended in a blank. The riddle was unsolved!
The Shadow was confronted with a perplexing problem. One man was missing. Marcus Holtmann, after leaving Waddell’s home in a taxicab, had effected a strange disappearance.
The light clicked off. The room was in total darkness. A low, tense laugh echoed through the gloom.
Then, The Shadow was gone.
Half an hour later, the desk clerk at the Belmar Hotel answered the telephone. In response to the quiet voice across the wire he gave this answer:
“Mr. Holtmann has not come in, sir… No, he has not checked out.”
Shortly after that call, Stanley, the chauffeur, drove up to the front of the Cobalt Club in response to the doorman’s call. Lamont Cranston stepped from beneath the marquee, and entered the limousine.
“Home, Stanley.”
As the big car rolled southward toward the Holland Tunnel, the lone figure in the back seat was deep in thought. Buried in the darkness, Lamont Cranston was a silent, invisible being.
The brain of The Shadow was at work, seeking a clew to the strange disappearance of Marcus Holtmann.
The missing man must be found.
That was to be The Shadow’s task!