THE telephone rang in a booth in the Grand Central Station. An attendant at the lunch counter opposite heard the ring. He finished serving a customer and went to the rear of the counter.
Alone and undisturbed, he dialed a number. He heard a voice at the other end.
“Burbank,” he said softly.
“Good,” came the reply. “Any report?”
“None.”
“Where is Vincent?”
“Gone.”
“Burke?”
“Gone.”
There was a momentary silence. Then the voice issued a brief order.
“Be ready,” it said. “Act instantly on any double call. Report news here at once.”
The receiver clicked. The lunch counter attendant hung up the phone and went back to give the waiting customer his check.
At police headquarters, Inspector Timothy Klein was chewing the end of a fat, unlighted cigar as he stared sullenly at Detective Joe Cardona.
“You see the connection, don’t you?” he demanded.
Cardona nodded.
“This whole thing is your fault, then. If you had got your man the first time, this new mess wouldn’t have come along. It’s time you woke up, Joe.”
“Woke up!” exclaimed the detective. “I’ve been trying to trail that mug that was at Marchand’s house.
“Whether he did the murder or not, we’ve got the goods on him! He was carrying guns. He resisted arrest and assaulted me. But even at that, I believe his story—”
“Blah!” interjected the inspector. “Don’t be a kid, Joe. Wise up.” He thrust a copy of the Morning Monitor before the detective’s eyes and pointed to the glaring headlines.
“Look at the ride they’re giving us. Another murderer slips the police. Where is the man that was in the car? Look over here” — he turned to a back page — “they even point out the similarity to the Lukens murder.
“They want to know where the man is who was found beside the doctor’s body. There’s the connection right there!”
He threw the paper in front of Cardona. The detective did not seem to notice it. Klein became sarcastic.
He turned to the want-ad section.
“Maybe this will interest you more,” he sneered. “You’re liable to be looking for a job pretty soon. Humph!” — the inspector grunted — “you’d better put in an ad like this one. A big executive. Wants a job with minimum salary of ninety-seven hundred and fifty bucks a year.
“That’s a tip for you, Joe. Ex-detective wants a job. Fifteen thousand or up. Especially willing to shadow The Shadow—”
CARDONA angrily snatched the newspaper from the inspector’s hands. He opened it to the front page and pointed to a small heading.
“Look at that,” he said. “I told the reporter to put it in.”
“‘Detective Nonplused,’” read Klein. “‘The disappearance of man from the wrecked car is a mystery to Detective Cardona. He seems to be facing the same failure that he encountered in the Lukens murder. He openly admitted that unless he finds a new clew—”
Klein dropped the paper and stared.
“You — told — the — reporter — to — put that in!” he said, in astonished tones. “What in blazes made you do that?”
“I wanted The Shadow to read it,” replied Cardona. “That bloke, wherever he is, may have the key to Blake’s death as well as the Lukens case. He promised me—”
“Promised you!” blared the inspector. “You’re crazy, Joe. He may be the guy in back of it all!”
Cardona shook his head.
“Listen, Joe,” said Klein seriously. “I’ve told you that you’re all wrong. You find a guy on the scene of the murder. He gets away. He comes back—
“You recognize him as The Shadow. You were wise enough to simply call him an unidentified man. The newspapers would razz you if you pulled The Shadow stuff. But you know, and I know, that he’s a clever guy.
“Now a fellow comes to see Wilbur Blake. He pretends to be some one else. He gets away when he is discovered.
“Blake is killed in the fracas. The guy disappears from a wrecked car with people all about him. It’s The Shadow! Who else could do it?
“Okay. He was responsible for Blake’s death. It’s likely that he killed Lukens.”
“You’re wrong, chief,” replied Cardona. “This thing is beyond me. But there’s a lot more to it than you think.
“We got The Shadow’s guns, that night Lukens was killed. It wasn’t his rods that bumped off the old doctor. Now he gets into a fight with Blake. He may have been responsible for Blake’s death, but it was the chauffeur who fired the wild shots. Somebody else was in back of it.
“What about the mystery car that chased The Shadow? They peppered machine-gun bullets all through the wrecked car. Who were they? I’ll tell you!
“They were hooked up in some way to the Lukens murder! They were out to get The Shadow!”
Klein was slightly impressed by Cardona’s statements. He became thoughtful.
“We’ve heard about The Shadow before,” he said. “That guy may be all right — he may be crooked. I don’t know. But one thing is sure— he don’t work with the police.”
“Listen, chief,” insisted Cardona. “The Shadow has handled some pretty bad boys in his time. They say that when he tells a crook something is going to happen to him, it happens.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“All right. Argue it the other way, then. He told me he’d put me wise when he got the dope on who killed Lukens. They say The Shadow means what he says. That’s why I’m counting on him.”
“You’re counting wrong, then,” grunted Klein.
A phone rang beside him. He answered it and handed the instrument to Cardona. “For you, Joe,” he added.
“Hello,” said Cardona wearily.
THEN his eyes began to stare. They were looking directly at Inspector Klein, but Cardona was unseeing. His companion looked at him in alarm. The detective seemed gripped by some overpowering astonishment.
“Yes! Yes!” exclaimed Cardona.
“Who is it?” demanded Klein.
The detective made a grimace. He signaled his superior not to interrupt. Fumbling on the table before him, he found a pad and pencil.
“The Lukens murderer?” he questioned. “You’ll have him for me? With the evidence?”
There was a pause as the detective listened intently. Then his voice spoke in more startled tones.
“The Blake case? You’ll have that, too? The murderer… Oh, you’ll clear it, you say… What’s that?… Yes, yes—”
He began to write hurriedly. Klein leaned over, but could not decipher his shaky scrawl. Occasionally Cardona exclaimed the word “Yes.” Then, finished with his notes, he slumped into a chair. Klein grabbed the phone.
“Hello!” he demanded.
The receiver clicked at the other end.
“Who was it?” exclaimed the inspector.
“The Shadow!” replied Cardona.
“The Shadow! What did he say? Were you sure it was him?”
“I’d know that voice any time,” declared Cardona. He steadied himself and began to copy his scrawled notes.
“Tonight at nine thirty,” read the inspector. “Be ready with a dozen men. Wait until the exact minute. Then proceed to—”
The inspector grunted. “What’s that,” he exclaimed angrily. “A note under the seat of a telephone booth in the cigar store at Broadway and— What is this, Joe, a hoax?”
“It’s a good one if it is,” replied the detective.
“Get up there now and nab the guy that leaves it,” ordered Klein.
“No, chief,” answered Cardona. “We’ve got to play the game. The Shadow has given me his answer. A false step, and he will drop us like a hot penny. Let me handle it the way he wants.”
“All right,” agreed Klein testily, throwing away his chewed cigar and pulling a fresh one from his pocket.
“I’m leaving it up to you! Hop to it!”