“There were two of them,” stated the millionaire. “One called Louie; the other, Matt. Louie was the driver; Matt was in command. I say there were two; actually there were four when the chase began. You managed nicely, however, when you eliminated two of the subordinates.”
“I allowed the escape,” said The Shadow, “so that you would not be involved in a wreck of the car. Now I am at the beginning of a new trail. I intend to trace it in a new way.”
“By dropping my identity?”
“Yes. And in order that no new complications may arise, I suggest that you start on another trip. You have worked well with me in the past, Cranston. In fact, we have become very much in accord.”
“I’m game for the future. Another trip? Certainly. I have been considering a voyage to the Argentine. I have my passport available. Suppose I start tomorrow?”
“Excellent!” The Shadow arose and extended his hand. Cranston gripped it. “You are sure about the passport? If not, I have a duplicate, bearing your name.”
“I have it. But you forget nothing, do you? Well, cable me in Buenos Aires when it is time for me to return.”
RICHARDS was not in the hall when The Shadow emerged. On looking through an upstairs window, the visitor saw the valet out front talking with Stanley. Descending to the ground floor, The Shadow went out to a side veranda. He paused as he neared the front of the house. He could overhear the servants talking.
“Most alarming, Stanley,” Richards was saying. “As I chanced to pass the master’s door, I heard him talking to himself.”
“Mumbling?” demanded the chauffeur. “Like he had gone to sleep again?”
“I could not distinguish the words,” stated the valet, “but he seemed to be engaged in an actual conversation. Questioning himself and answering. Chuckling and laughing. One would have thought that two persons were in the room. But both voices were the master’s.”
Stanley shrugged his shoulders as he went to the coupe. He intended to drive into New York, to get the limousine. Richard went back into the house, wondering if he should awake his master from what he believed must be a strange sort of nightmare.
The Shadow stepped into view as soon as Richards had closed the front door. He reached the coupe just as Stanley was about to start. Opening the door, he smiled in greeting, then took his seat beside the perplexed chauffeur.
“Cobalt Club, Stanley,” ordered The Shadow, in Cranston’s easy tone. “Leave me there and go up to the garage. Drop the coupe. Have the limousine washed and bring it back here. I may be home again before your return.”
Stanley was silent as he drove along. He decided that his master must have been awake when Richards had heard him talking to himself. Stanley made no comment, however. Lamont Cranston’s servants were trained to be silent.
While The Shadow was riding Manhattanward with Stanley, Richards, passing Lamont Cranston’s room, heard a slight motion from within. The valet decided that his master must have returned to bed; that the talk that he had heard had actually occurred while Lamont Cranston was asleep.
Once again, the servants of this household had a new problem to baffle them. Yet the fact that they served two masters had never yet dawned upon the faithful attendants of Lamont Cranston!
CHAPTER X
BRUCE DUNCAN’S STORY
LATE that afternoon, a taxicab stopped in front of an uptown apartment house. The figure that alighted was that of Lamont Cranston. The Shadow, traveling about in Manhattan, had still retained the millionaire’s guise.
The ground floor of the apartment building housed a physician’s office. The name that appeared upon the brass plate was that of Doctor Rupert Sayre. The Shadow entered the office.
A few moments later, an inner door opened. A serious-faced young man peered into the reception room.
This was Doctor Rupert Sayre. Despite his youth, Sayre had already gained a high reputation as a medical practitioner through study both in America and abroad. To counteract his young appearance, he had cultivated a solemn air that made him look half a dozen years older than he was.
Sayre recognized the features of Lamont Cranston. Well he might, for he had contacted this visitor in the past. In fact, The Shadow — as Cranston — had himself been a patient of the skilled young physician on more than one occasion.
The Shadow had originally performed signal service in Rupert Sayre’s behalf. The physician owed his own life to The Shadow’s intervention, when one Eric Veldon, self-style master of death, had held Sayre prisoner.
Since then, Sayre had ever been ready to perform services for this personage whom he knew as Lamont Cranston. Sayre had hazily identified Cranston and The Shadow as one. He knew that this mysterious friend was constantly battling for right. Under such circumstances, Sayre believed that the rendition of medical aid was both ethical and just.
Last night, Sayre had accepted Bruce Duncan as a patient. There had been no question in the physician’s mind. Bruce had been brought here in Cranston’s limousine. That was sufficient. Today, Sayre had received telephone calls concerning the condition of the patient. He had suggested that Lamont Cranston call at five-thirty.
“How is the patient, doctor?”
The question came in Cranston’s quiet voice. Sayre smiled as he heard The Shadow’s query.
“I owe myself a compliment,” remarked the physician. “My patient was still in a stupor this noon; but I was confident that he would be fully conscious by five o’clock. I was right. Save for the after effects of a slight brain concussion, he came completely to his senses half an hour ago.”
“I can see him then?”
“Certainly.”
Sayre ushered The Shadow through a hallway. They reached an inner room — Sayre’s apartment adjoined the office — and there The Shadow saw Bruce Duncan propped in bed. The young man’s head was bandaged. His eyes were closed as he rested his head back upon his pillows.
The Shadow nodded to Sayre. The physician stepped back into the hall and closed the door, leaving visitor with patient. The Shadow took a chair beside the bed. He spoke in a slight, almost inaudible whisper. Bruce Duncan opened his eyes.
BRUCE’S vision was still blurred. He could barely distinguish the features of his visitor. But he knew, from the whisper that he had heard, that The Shadow had arrived for conference. Bruce tried to speak; then he heard a quiet voice; this time, Cranston’s tones.
“Tell your story,” urged The Shadow. “But use no effort as you do so. Merely mention names as they occur to you. I shall understand.”
Bruce Duncan nodded; then he spoke slowly.
“Some months ago,” he stated, “I met Professor Baldridge Jark. It was purely a chance meeting; but when Jark learned that I had some knowledge of electrical apparatus, he offered me a position as his secretary.”
“That came about in natural fashion?” inquired The Shadow.
“Yes,” acknowledged Bruce. “Much of my income was tied up and I had become confidential secretary for Talbot Lowberry, the banker. It was at Lowberry’s home that I met Jark. The professor, learning that I intended to leave Lowberry’s employ; offered me a job.”
“Proceed,” remarked The Shadow, after a pause.
“Professor Jark wanted seclusion,” declared Bruce. “He was working on a new invention, a disintegrating ray with which he had gained some success. I saw designs of the apparatus. It was a concave projector, broadmouthed but shallow, its inner surface fitted with powerful coils.”
Bruce paused to rest. The Shadow made no comment. He watched the young man’s eyes close and waited until Bruce had again opened them. Bruce reached for a glass of water on the table. The Shadow tendered it. Bruce swallowed a drink and proceeded.