BURBANK GOES ON DUTY
Lamont Cranston’s valet knocked at the door of his master’s room.
“Is that you, Richards?” came the voice of the millionaire.
“Yes, sir,” replied the valet.
“Come in, then.”
Richards entered.
“It’s past noon, sir,” he said. “Mr. Burbank is here.”
Lamont Cranston rose leisurely, and yawned.
“I’m getting to be a late sleeper, Richards,” he said. “I wasn’t always this way, was I?”
“No, sir. Only occasionally, sir. I don’t entirely remember, sir.”
Lamont Cranston smiled. Richards was most noncommittal. It was his duty to be so. He never remarked on any eccentricities which his master displayed.
This matter of Burbank, for instance.
Richards had expressed no surprise whatever at Lamont Cranston’s sudden awakening of interest in the wireless station upstairs. Yesterday he had been instructed to call Burbank, the man who occasionally assisted the millionaire in his radio experiments. Now Burbank was here.
“Send him up,” ordered Cranston.
Burbank, a quiet-faced man, entered the millionaire’s room.
“I’m going into New York this afternoon,” explained Cranston. “That’s why I sent for you, Burbank. There may be a message.”
The silent man nodded.
“I’ve expected to hear from Vincent for several days,” continued the millionaire. “I sent him certain messages — not from here, however — and he has not replied to them. I expect him to report.”
Again the nod.
“There are no instructions to be sent back to him,” said Cranston, “except this simple statement: Tell him to tune in at nine o’clock, as usual. That is all. But be sure to take down any word that he sends. I shall call you in the evening. Give me the information at that time.”
The wireless operator went upstairs. The millionaire attired himself, and went down for breakfast. It was nearly two o’clock when he appeared in the tower room where Burbank was located.
“Nothing yet,” said the wireless operator.
The millionaire did not reply. He seemed deep in thought. He began to study different radio apparatus that he had installed in this laboratory.
There were remarkable devices here. Burbank understood some of them; but the millionaire alone was familiar with all of the equipment.
* * *
At three o’clock, Lamont Cranston left the laboratory. He went to his own room, and began to mark a schedule of activities for the afternoon.
“Jason’s at four o’clock,” he murmured. “Four-thirty will be time enough. Fellows never leaves his office until five-thirty. Dinner at six — at the club. Radio station at nine.”
He paused, considering the items which he had arranged in column form. A vague smile appeared on his face. He took a pencil, and inserted a single line.
“Loo Look’s at eight o’clock,” were the words.
Lamont Cranston shook his head.
“Only fifteen minutes there,” he said softly. “There’s no good reason to go — it can wait. But Tiger Bronson wants it. Why not give him a chance?”
He let the notation stand. Then he rang the bell for Richards.
“Tell Stanley to bring the car,” ordered the millionaire, when the valet appeared. “I want to get to town soon after four o’clock.”
“Very good, sir.”
The millionaire paid one final visit to the wireless room before he left. No message had been received from Vincent. So Lamont Cranston entered his luxurious limousine, and was driven to the city.
* * *
Shortly before six o’clock, Lamont Cranston appeared at the exclusive Cobalt Club. He put in a call for his home, and talked to Burbank. No message had been received.
“Never mind,” he told the wireless operator. “I can wait until nearly nine o’clock. If you receive any word, put it down in tabloid form, so you can give me the details quickly. I can fix a reply in less than ten minutes.”
“Very good,” said Burbank.
Had he known that the reply — no matter how important it might be — was to go over the air, artfully concealed in a radio program, Burbank would have marveled at the amazing ability of Lamont Cranston. But Burbank knew nothing of the means of communication which his chief intended to use.
Dinner at the Cobalt Club was an interesting affair for Lamont Cranston. He sat down at the table with wealthy friends, who were accustomed to dine from six thirty until well after eight.
But on this occasion, the globe-trotter warned his companions that he must leave them by seven thirty, in order to keep an important appointment.
One of the diners brought up the subject of recent criminal activities. The news of the gang war in Tiger Bronson’s home had not found space in the newspapers. It was merely a rumor. One of the men had heard of it.
“We know very little about what goes on in the underworld,” remarked a millionaire named Berkeley, with a serious expression on his face. “There are characters there whose power is tremendous — personages of whom we seldom hear. Take, for instance, The Shadow.”
His listeners gazed at him quizzically.
“There is a real man called The Shadow,” said Berkeley, in a low voice. “I have heard that, on good authority.
“He tries to pretend that he is simply a fictitious character. He is featured in a radio program. Yet, actually, he is real, and alive.”
He paused to let his words take effect.
“No one knows his purpose,” he continued. “Criminal or detective — whichever he may be — he strikes terror into the hearts of gangsters. He moves by night.”
“Some have seen him; yet none can recognize him. He is a man of many faces; the only one that no one has ever observed is his own.”
Some of the men were serious; others were smiling. Berkeley became impressive.
“The Shadow is said to be a man of wealth,” were his next words. “He might be any one of us. You, for instance!”
Berkeley pointed directly at Lamont Cranston.
“I?” questioned Lamont Cranston. “The Shadow?” He began to laugh at the suggestion. His mirth was contagious. The others joined, much to Berkeley’s annoyance.
“Dreams, Berkeley,” said Lamont Cranston, spreading his arms in belittlement of his friend’s theory.
No one noticed the grotesque, batlike shadow that appeared when Lamont Cranston’s hands hovered above the white tablecloth.