Reports from agents told of possible crimes that might be committed. When The Shadow was temporarily balked in the face of crime, he looked for opportunities that might attract crooks.
This was how he had learned of George Hobston. On a sheet of paper, The Shadow was writing the name of Rutledge Mann. A secret agent of The Shadow, Mann conducted business as an investment broker. He had informed The Shadow that George Hobston had made large purchases of stock that might logically be kept in the vault at the Zenith Building.
The Shadow had not mentioned Mann’s name to Howard Norwyn. But he had already sent word to Mann to perform another duty on this case. A light was gleaming on the wall beyond The Shadow’s table. The white hands removed earphones from the wall. The Shadow spoke in a whisper. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” ordered The Shadow.
“Report from Mann,” declared Burbank. “He called Seth Deswig. The man is in Florida.”
“Deswig’s secretary?”
“Deswig has no secretary.”
“Report received.”
The earphones clattered to the wall. A creeping laugh sounded within the enshrouding walls of the sanctum. From Rutledge Mann, the message relayed through Burbank, The Shadow had learned that Howard Norwyn had been hoaxed.
Had Norwyn stated to the police that he had received a call from Seth Deswig, the check-up would have proven another mark against Norwyn. Had the young man added that it was Deswig’s secretary who had called, his statement would have sounded like an excuse.
Norwyn knew Deswig as one of Hobston’s customers. Had Norwyn, as the police supposed, gone to murder and rob George Hobston, only to be trapped, his natural action would be to give some reason for summoning Hobston to the office. To lay the call on Deswig’s non-existent secretary would have proven disastrous. Here was another point that showed how well-planned the frame-up had been. The Shadow knew that he had work ahead. Cunning men of crime had played a crafty game.
Men of crime. The Shadow’s laugh indicated that the master sleuth knew the game involved more than a single individual. His hand was making notations, that came as written thoughts, disappearing after the ink dried.
SOME one had learned that George Hobston had great wealth in his vault. That might have been any one of many who knew Hobston. Some one else had learned that Seth Deswig, one of Hobston’s customers, had left Middlebury Preferred in Hobston’s keeping. Some one else had arranged the murder and the robbery. Crime had been planted on Howard Norwyn through multiple scheming.
Again the earphones clicked. In response to Burbank’s voice, The Shadow gave an order.
“Instructions to Vincent,” was his whispered command. “Cold-canvass the Zenith Building. Look for suspicious tenants. Check on those who have recently taken offices.”
“Instructions received,” came Burbank’s reply.
The earphones clattered. A click sounded as the bluish light went out. A grim laugh sounded in the blackened sanctum. It awoke shuddering echoes that died in hollow emptiness.
The Shadow had departed. As yet, he could rely only upon a long shot — an investigation of persons in the Zenith Building, through the aid of Harry Vincent, a capable agent. The Shadow knew that he was on the right trail; but it was one that would take time and might prove hopeless.
Coming crime. The Shadow scented it. For the present, he had shredded clues that might lead in different directions. All of them, The Shadow knew, would end abruptly. Criminals of a strange sort had cooperated in clever crime.
The dying laugh had been foreboding. Mirthless in its sound, it had told The Shadow’s thoughts. At times, this master investigator found himself confronted by problems that could not be solved before crime struck again.
New robbery — perhaps with murder as its accompaniment — this was the token of the future. Though The Shadow might not gain the opportunity to prevent it, another episode of evil might bring him close enough to strike.
The Shadow knew that he was facing supercrime. He expected to encounter methods that he had never met before. In that assumption, The Shadow was correct.
CHAPTER VII
CRIME INCORPORATED
Two days had passed since the murder of George Hobston. New news occupied the front pages of the New York journals. The police were still looking for Howard Norwyn. This fact was proclaimed in short columns on inside pages of the newspapers.
The Shadow, too, had gained no progress. He had learned that Seth Deswig was coming home from Florida; Harry Vincent, canvassing offices in the Zenith Building, had discovered nothing. Slender clues were bringing no immediate results.
Somewhere in Manhattan — not in one place, but in several — The Shadow might have found the answer to perplexing problems. He knew that men of crime could be forced to speak, if discovered; but he had not gained the opportunity to learn their identities.
The police search for Howard Norwyn had passed from public interest. Yet there were people who still gave it their concern. On this new evening, when the night was as misty as the time of Hobston’s death, a querulous old man was thumbing through the final edition of a newspaper, looking for new reports on the futile manhunt.
The old man was a wizened creature. He was lying propped upon the pillows of an old-fashioned bed. Beside him, on the table, were numerous bottles of medicine. His breathing came in wheezy gasps, with intermittent cackles of senile joy. From the mist beyond the half-opened window, the occasional flap-flap of tires on asphalt indicated that he was in the second story of an old house on a secluded street. The glare that hung within the swirling fog told that the house was within twenty blocks of Times Square.
The old man had found the evening item that pertained to the police search. His eyes blinked as he read the new report of failure. His lips spread in a smile of sordid delight. Again the cackle; then a coughing spell that racked the old man breathless. As the wizened face sank back into the pillows, the door opened.
The man who entered was a dry-faced individual whose countenance was solemn and gloomy. He was evidently an attendant who had the old man in his care. He approached the bed and stood in readiness while the convulsion ceased.
“You are prompt, Garwald,” cackled the old man, when he had regained his breath. “Well, you need not worry. Your duties will soon be ended. When this finishes me” — the old man coughed as he clutched his thin throat — “you can find more suitable employment. After all, you are a secretary, not a trained nurse.”
“I am in your employ, Mr. Talbor,” returned the solemn man, quietly. “I take what comes.”
TALBOR shot a look at Garwald. A knowing smile appeared upon the old man’s lips. The secretary noted the expression, but made no comment. He stood silent as Talbor chuckled with wild glee.
“You take what comes! Ha — ha — ha — ” The old man trailed a laugh. “You always take what comes. You’re right, Garwald. Quite right. You take what comes.”
Unsmiling, Garwald shook his head. His action indicated that he could not understand his employer’s mirth. Still cackling, Talbor gripped the newspaper and thrust it into Garwald’s hands. He pointed, with scrawny finger, to the news account that concerned the search for Howard Norwyn.
“Read that, Garwald,” he ordered. “Read it. Tell me what you think of it.”
“Very well, sir.”
Garwald read the item in solemn fashion. When he had finished, he looked toward Talbor for an explanation. The old man was sitting up in bed. His paroxysm ended, he was studying his secretary, smiling as he did so.