The Shadow gained the stairway, a soft laugh rippling from his hidden lips. His form vanished in the darkness. The echoes seemed to continue as the weird intruder continued his downward course.
The elevator that had brought Joe Cardona and the house detective was moving downward to give the alarm in the lobby. The operator had hesitated behind his metal doors, wondering if he should wait until the detective returned. That was a point that served The Shadow.
A second elevator was coming down from the twenty-fourth floor. Its operator knew nothing of the excitement on the eighteenth. Seeing a stop signal for the sixteenth story, he halted his car and opened the doors.
A tall passenger entered. The operator noted a keen, hawklike visage. He glimpsed a briefcase that the entrant was carrying. In methodical fashion, the elevator man closed the doors. He let the car descend. There were no more stop signals. The car reached the lobby ahead of the one that was bringing the alarm.
Calmly, the passenger with the briefcase strolled out through the lobby. He reached the sidewalk just as the other elevator came to the bottom of the shaft. The alarm had arrived; it was too late to trap the being who had caused it. The tall personage who had left the Hotel Salamanca was The Shadow.
CHAOS had come again to the Hotel Salamanca. In the furore which followed the operator’s report, one man alone maintained a steady composure. That was Detective Joe Cardona. Although faced with what appeared to be a third murder mystery, the ace sleuth was calm.
He had summoned police. He had reported to headquarters. He had gained incoherent statements from both Rupert and the house detective. But amid it all, Cardona had seized upon a potential clue. He had found the folded papers upon Langwood Devine’s desk.
Joe Cardona was an unusual detective. He had a keen ability for gaining hunches; a remarkable aptitude for silence when it was needed. Instinctively, Joe had decided that those coded messages might hold the key to the death of Professor Langwood Devine.
Murder at the Hotel Salamanca! The alarm had gone rapidly. To-night, reporters were on the job almost as quickly as Inspector Klein and the police surgeon. Through their early arrival, the news seekers managed to reach the eighteenth floor before they could be stopped.
The spokesman of the journalistic throng was Clyde Burke. To this reporter, Joe Cardona gave terse statements regarding the death of Langwood Devine. But the ace sleuth said nothing of the discovery that he regarded as the keynote to the case: those coded sheets that he had plucked from the dead professor’s desk.
WHILE Cardona was still at the Hotel Salamanca, a bluish light was burning in a secret room. The white hands of The Shadow were taking earphones from the wall, where a tiny bulb was glowing to signify Burbank’s call.
The Shadow’s weird voice called for the report. Across the wire came the details that Clyde Burke had gained from Joe Cardona. There was no mention whatever of discovered codes. The earphones clattered back into their place.
Out went the bluish light. A sardonic laugh quivered through the sanctum. Ghoulish echoes came from blackened walls. The Shadow’s mirth was strident.
For to-night, The Shadow had gained much despite the unexpected events which had obstructed his path. He had learned that Langwood Devine was but one member in a group of criminals. He had seen the dead villain forward word along the chain.
The Shadow knew that the key to hidden crime lay in those coded sheets that Devine had failed to destroy. Moreover, The Shadow knew that the all-important papers had fallen into good hands.
Joe Cardona held the coded messages. They would be safe — more than that, their existence would be unknown — while they remained in Cardona’s hands. The Shadow knew who held the cryptic papers. With that knowledge, he could find a way to learn their exact contents.
The fading tones of The Shadow’s laugh were again foreboding. Previously, that mirthful cry had presaged trouble for Professor Langwood Devine. On this occasion, it foreboded ill for Crime Incorporated!
CHAPTER XIV
THE CHAIN CLOSES
AT nine o’clock the next morning, Culbert Joquill entered his office in the Zenith Building. There was a serious expression upon the dignified lawyer’s face. Joquill’s greeting to the office staff was no more than a curt nod.
Reaching the inner office, Joquill seated himself behind the desk. He drew a folded newspaper from his overcoat pocket. With forehead furrowed, the attorney began to read a news account that he had studied while riding hither in the subway.
The headlines told of death at the Hotel Salamanca. Professor Langwood Devine, a scholarly old recluse, had been slain by an unknown assailant. Details were complete. The newspapers mentioned that the fray had commenced while Professor Devine was alone in his suite. His servant, Rupert, had returned from posting a letter to see the professor alive for the last time.
Still frowning, Joquill tossed the newspaper aside. His eyes looked toward the tray upon his desk. There, projecting from the morning’s mail, was an envelope which caught the lawyer’s attention. Joquill seized the missive. He ripped it open.
Out came two folded sheets. One carried the circled code; the other, the series of block-like characters. These were the copies that Professor Devine had made.
No wonder Culbert Joquill had been alarmed by the reports of Devine’s death. The professor and the lawyer were connecting links in the chain of Crime Incorporated!
Joquill settled in his chair. He pondered. A smile showed on his benign features. The lawyer was considering the circumstances of Devine’s death as revealed by this forwarded copy of the word which Devine had received.
Some member of Crime Incorporated had started a request along the line. Last night, Devine had received his notes. He had copied them and forwarded the request to Joquill. That work had been accomplished before Devine had faced the danger which had brought his death.
Culbert Joquill was positive that Langwood Devine must have destroyed the coded message that he had received. That step, normally, should have preceded the forwarding of copies. The newspapers contained no mention of any papers found at Devine’s.
Joquill chuckled. The chances seemed certain that Devine had destroyed his messages. What if he had not? It made no difference. Joquill had confidence in the code itself; he was positive, also, that Devine must have kept some excellent hiding place for his documents that pertained to Crime Incorporated.
Knowing Devine, Joquill recalled that the old professor had a special lodging somewhere in the city — a place where he seldom went — and the chances were that his stock certificate and coded by-laws were concealed there.
The fact that Devine’s letter had come through the mail was all that Joquill needed to feel absolutely secure. Freed from sense of menace, the lawyer became methodical. Taking pen and paper, he copied the coded messages that he had received. His own writing showed a difference from Devine’s.
WHILE his copies were drying, Joquill picked up Devine’s notes and tore them to shreds. He raised the window and let tiny fragments of paper flutter out into the breeze. Intermittently, like flurries of confetti, the bits of Devine’s notes were scattered beyond recall.
Returning to his desk, Joquill picked up his own copies; he sealed them in an envelope. He wrote an address, sealed the letter and strolled from his office. He posted his letter in the mail chute by the elevators; then returned to his private office.
Culbert Joquill had sent the request along the chain. The promptitude with which he had copied Devine’s notes and mailed them proved that he could see no way in aiding coming crime. In fact, the satisfied smile that showed on the lawyer’s lips indicated that he felt he had done his share.