Sealing his large envelope, Mann pocketed it and left his office. He appeared upon Broadway a few minutes later, hailed a taxi and rode to Twenty-third Street. There he sauntered to a dilapidated office building that stood as a relic of a forgotten business period.
Entering this edifice of the past century, Mann ascended a flight of warped stairs. He reached a blackened door; its dingy glass panel was scarcely discernible. Painted letters displayed the name:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped the envelope in a door slit beneath the glass panel. He went back to the stairs and left the building. All remained gloomy behind the frosted pane that bore the name B. Jonas. Yet Rutledge Mann’s visit had been no blind errand.
He had dropped the envelope in The Shadow’s letter box. Communications deposited through that obscure door invariably reached the personage for whom they were intended. Though no one ever observed a person leaving or entering that deserted office, The Shadow had some mode of getting within.
THE proof of this occurred an hour later. A light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands appeared, holding the envelope that Mann had dispatched to The Shadow. Fingers tore the wrapper. Keen eyes studied clippings and reports. A soft laugh sounded from the gloom beyond the range of focused light.
A click. The bluish rays were extinguished. Again, the laugh shuddered weirdly through The Shadow’s sanctum. Then came silence amid the Stygian walls. The master who inhabited this strange abode had sallied forth on new business.
ONE hour later, a visitor was announced at the apartment of Seth Deswig. The arrival was Lamont Cranston. Seth Deswig, a thin-faced, middle-aged gentleman, told his servant to usher in the visitor. A few minutes later, Cranston and Deswig were shaking hands in the living room.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Cranston,” declared Deswig in a thin-pitched voice. “I am afraid, however, that your visit will be to no avail. Your broker — Mr. Mann — called me in regard to a stock which I own. Middlebury Preferred.”
“Yes,” returned Cranston, quietly. “The stock is not on the market; and I am trying to obtain some shares.”
“I choose to hold mine. I was fortunate in purchasing Middlebury Preferred. I am doubly fortunate in that I still own my shares.”
“How so?”
“The stock was in the hands of my broker, George Hobston. It was in his vault.”
“You mean the man in the Zenith Building? The one who was murdered in his office?”
“The same. I left my stock with him a long while before I went to Florida. Fortunately, nothing was stolen from Hobston’s vault. The police turned the stock over to me, after they learned that I was the rightful owner.”
“You are really fortunate,” observed Cranston, in a thoughtful tone. Then, with a change of expression, he added: “Mr. Mann has informed me that you do not care to sell. I thought, however, that you might know of other persons who held this stock. Perhaps you could name some one from whom I might buy.”
“I know of no one,” returned Deswig, with a shake of his head. “I purchased the stock a year ago.”
“Did Hobston hold it all that time?” questioned Cranston, in a casual tone.
“No,” responded Deswig. “I left it with one of his assistants — young Howard Norwyn — along with other securities, about three months ago.”
“I see. I presume you purchased the stock through Hobston, originally.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Too bad that Hobston is dead,” mused Cranston. “He would have been the proper man for me to see regarding a purchase of Middlebury Preferred.”
“No; you could not have done so.” Deswig was positive on this point. “You see, I wanted to buy more of the stock through Hobston. He was unable to acquire any of it. Hobston was in the market for all that he could get.
“I mentioned the matter to various friends. I told them that I had bought Middlebury Preferred from Hobston; that if they knew of any one who held such stock, to give their names either to myself or Hobston.”
“I understand,” nodded Cranston. “You tried quite frequently to locate holders of Middlebury Preferred?”
“I did. In fact, I discussed the stock with people up until the time I left for Florida. I mentioned it several times to friends at the Merrimac Club.”
“And told them to see Hobston if they learned that more stock could be obtained?”
“To see either George Hobston or Howard Norwyn. I stated that I had turned over my present shares to Norwyn, who had deposited them in Hobston’s vault for safe keeping. You see, I intended to go away—”
“Do you believe,” came Cranston’s casual question, “that any of those club members might have uncovered some Middlebury Preferred during your absence? I suppose that you remember the names of the men to whom you spoke?”
“Unfortunately,” declared Deswig, seriously, “I never mentioned the matter to any particular individual. Investments become a group discussion at the Merrimac Club. I remember only that I spoke of Middlebury Preferred in a general way — to whomever happened to be on hand when the talk turned to securities.”
“Well, Mr. Deswig” — Cranston’s tone signified readiness for departure — “it appears that we are both in the market for Middlebury Preferred. Should you learn of any shares that you do not intend to purchase, I would deem it a favor, should you communicate with Mr. Rutledge Mann.”
Five minutes later, The Shadow was leaving the apartment house where Seth Deswig lived. The visit had proven one point; namely, that Deswig’s name had been used by the unknown person who had called Howard Norwyn, prior to the murder of George Hobston.
UNFORTUNATELY, Deswig had been unable to name definite persons to whom he had mentioned that his shares of Middlebury Preferred had been placed in Hobston’s vault through Howard Norwyn. Again, The Shadow was balked in his tracing of a clue.
The odds pointed heavily to some member of the Merrimac Club as the one who had duped Norwyn. But there were as many members in the Merrimac Club as there were offices in the Zenith Building.
Sifting, alone, could find the culprit. It would be a process that might require many weeks. All that The Shadow had gained was a negative opportunity. Should he find a suspect who belonged to the Merrimac Club; should he find one who had offices in the Zenith Building, he would know that he had men of crime before him. But to reverse the process was a prolonged task!
Coming crime! Again The Shadow scented it. But when and where was it to strike? Who would be the men responsible for it? While the police still followed their hopeless hunt for Howard Norwyn, The Shadow was far in advance. Yet the master sleuth, like those of lesser skill, had encountered an impasse.
Coming crime! While The Shadow considered its potentialities, the beginnings of such evil had been planted. On this very night, cunning crooks were to spring their next attack.
IN the room where Barton Talbor had died, Fullis Garwald was standing alone. The former secretary of the dead plotter was smiling as he tore two sheets of paper and applied a match to them.
Garwald was living in Talbor’s home. It was his headquarters for the present; this house would be his abode until he chose to move. The sheets that he had torn were coded messages. They were the final replies to communications which Garwald, at Talbor’s instruction, had sent along the chain of Crime Incorporated.
Evil which Barton Talbor had plotted was to find its completion to-night. Aided by other members of the strange criminal group, Fullis Garwald was ready to fare forth. His smile was one of recollection, coupled with confidence of the outcome.