“Professor Jark had previously equipped both the front stairs and the back door with electrical devices to surprise burglars. There was also a side entrance. Its equipment had caused a short circuit; and Jark had removed it for repairs.
“So I knew that if I once managed to leave the house, there would be a method of reentry. Everything was being moved out — apparatus, furniture, files. Where it was going, I did not know. I realized, though, that I would be forced to travel along when Jark and his associates departed.
“My one opportunity was to escape before moving day. I found my opportunity night before last. I fled by the side doorway. I went to the Palladium Hotel. From there I communicated with Harry Vincent.”
Bruce rested back wearily. He knew that The Shadow knew the rest. As Bruce’s eyes closed, the tall visitor arose. Passing into the hallway, The Shadow continued to the office, where he found Doctor Sayre.
“I am starting on a journey tomorrow,” informed The Shadow, in Cranston’s tones. “To Buenos Aires. Take care of the patient, doctor. Allow him to communicate with his friend, Harry Vincent. A friend of mine may also call here — a gentleman named Henry Arnaud. Should he visit you, you may speak to him as confidentially as you would to me.
“Mention that to your patient also. It may prove wise for him to talk to Arnaud on certain occasions. Good night, doctor. I should say, rather, good-by, for you will not see me during the next few months.”
“Bon voyage,” acknowledged Sayre, extending his hand.
Leaving the physician’s office, The Shadow entered a cab and rode toward Times Square. As he neared the brilliant district, glowing light showed the firm features of the disguise that he still wore.
The Shadow’s expression was meditative. His keen brain was piecing Bruce Duncan’s story, adding Bruce’s findings to facts that The Shadow had already gained. Bruce’s reference to Matt Theblaw and Digger Wight was important. The Shadow had heard of both these crooks before.
Jark — Theblaw — Wight — Tellert — Baird — five names had been mentioned by Bruce Duncan. From one of these, The Shadow might gain a clue. That point managed, the master sleuth would have a start along the blind trail that still confronted him.
CHAPTER XI
THE SHADOW’S VIGIL
ON the following morning, a tall man of distinguished appearance entered a medical building on Fiftieth Street. There was something about this individual that was dimly reminiscent of Lamont Cranston. Perhaps it was the firm mold of his features. It could have been nothing more, for facially, he did not resemble Cranston closely.
Arriving on the third floor, this visitor entered a physician’s office and inquired for Doctor Nordis Baird. The girl at the desk informed him that Doctor Baird was out of town; but that certain of his associates were available.
“Another will not do,” remarked the tall man, almost coldly. “I must see Doctor Baird personally. I am Mr. Arnaud — Henry Arnaud. I telephoned yesterday, stating that I would call today.”
“I am very sorry,” informed the girl, seriously. “It is absolutely impossible to reach Doctor Baird. No one has any idea where he may happen to be.”
“They told me that when I called his apartment house. But they added that I might gain information here.”
“We do not know ourselves, Mr. Arnaud. He left about a week ago, for a complete rest. He may be gone for a period as long as three months. We are to expect him when we see him.”
A smile showed on the lips of Henry Arnaud as the visitor left the office. It was a smile that differed from that of Lamont Cranston. For Arnaud and Cranston were two contrasting personalities, even though both were parts played by The Shadow.
As Henry Arnaud, The Shadow had more leeway in his work. For there was no real Henry Arnaud. The Shadow could let the role suit his own convenience. As a rule, however, he preferred the role of Lamont Cranston.
The Shadow had reverted to the Arnaud role because of his recent experience while playing the part of Cranston. As Arnaud, he was brisker at times. More of a business man than a leisurely gentleman of millions.
At the same time, he possessed well-faked credentials, and could summon influential friends to prove that Henry Arnaud was a man of means and ability. Therefore, the part of Arnaud was eminently suited to The Shadow’s present investigation.
As he reached the street and summoned a cab, The Shadow’s disguised face showed plainly in the daylight. It carried something of the hawkish trace that marked The Shadow’s impersonation of Lamont Cranston. But the features of Henry Arnaud were thicker and heavier. Somehow, also, The Shadow appeared shorter as Arnaud than as Cranston.
HALF an hour after his departure from Doctor Baird’s, The Shadow reached an office building south of Times Square. He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. There he entered an office that bore the glass-paneled legend:
BASIL TELLERT
PROMOTIONS
This suite, numbered 1409, was equipped in modernistic style. The reception room had chromium-plated chairs and settees; an oddly designed rug adorned the floor. It was obvious that Basil Tellert was in business to stay.
The Shadow knew that these signs of affluence were not faked. Basil Tellert was a man who had been in the news. He had been connected with the promotion of certain sporting events and spectacular stage productions.
Moreover, when Tellert dealt with investment promotions, they usually showed themselves sound. The Shadow had this information direct from an investigating agent, Rutledge Mann. Presumably an investment broker, Mann was actually an aid of The Shadow; and he had contacts that frequently proved valuable. This morning, Mann had forwarded a preliminary report that spoke highly of Tellert’s dealings.
The Shadow gave a secretary a card marked with the name of Henry Arnaud. He stated that he was here to see Mr. Tellert. The girl surveyed the visitor; then entered an inner office. A minute later, she reappeared with the announcement that Mr. Tellert was ready to see Mr. Arnaud. The Shadow entered the inner office.
Basil Tellert was a man whose face was a symphony of curves. His florid countenance was well-rounded. His hair line formed a perfect arc; his eyebrows matched the exact curve. His forehead bore three creases identical in appearance, all curving, with exact spacing between.
His lips curved upward in a welcoming smile that looked like a forehead crease inverted. Spreading from each side of his nose were vertical curves that gave his face its final symmetry. Tall, heavy of build, Tellert was an imposing figure.
“Good morning, Mr. Arnaud,” greeted Tellert, in a rich baritone. “Kindly be seated. I would appreciate it if you would begin by stating the nature of your business. That is usual, when I hold interviews.”
“Very well.” The Shadow seated himself and accepted a cigar that Tellert offered. “I have come here, Mr. Tellert, at the advice of a friend who stated that you were promoting a project that might interest me.”
“The friend’s name?”
“Carstairs Townsend. At present in Florida, where I met him last week. Like myself, he is a member of the Merrimac Club.”
“I do not know him.”
“So he told me. But he has a friend whom you know quite well. At least, so Townsend told me. I refer to Talbot Lowberry.”
“Ah, yes, the banker. Mr. Lowberry is now in Europe.”
“Townsend mentioned that fact. He stated also, Mr. Tellert, that you had interested Lowberry in some new electrical marvel — an appliance invented by an eccentric old scientist: Professor Baldridge Jark.”
Tellert’s smile faded. His lips took on a downward curve. Placing his cigar between them, he stared from the window while his left hand drummed the table. Then, suddenly, he faced The Shadow and spoke emphatically.