The theft of George Hobston’s private wealth had been a big job. Culbert Joquill was holding vast spoils for later division among the members of Crime Incorporated. He regarded himself, for the present, as no more than a connecting link.
Yet Joquill had another duty. An emergency had arisen. Professor Langwood Devine was dead — killed under circumstances that had obviously rendered it impossible for the old professor to transfer his franchise in Crime Incorporated. There would be no substitute to take the dead man’s place. A link was broken in the chain.
Culbert Joquill went to the door of his private office and softly turned the key. Crossing the room, he opened the hinged bookcase. He stepped into the secret room. There he faced the solid back of the bookcase. He pressed a panel. It moved upward, revealing a narrow space between two vertical surfaces.
From this cache, Culbert Joquill removed an envelope. From the container, he produced two smaller envelopes. He chose one that he knew had come from Langwood Devine. He replaced the other, closed the trick panel, and moved from the secret room, shutting the bookcase from his office.
At his desk, Joquill ripped open the sealed envelope. He found a piece of paper that bore a coded name. Joquill chuckled. This was the name of Professor Devine’s other friend. In all probability, that man was at present opening an envelope of his own, to learn the name of Culbert Joquill.
THE lawyer inscribed a note in the circled code. His rapid writing showed that this was merely a formality; that the succession of circles was merely a blind.
Then he followed with a second message, which he prepared slowly, pausing to choose his statements. This was in the blocked code. Finished with his hieroglyphics, Joquill pondered over the message.
Smiling, the lawyer folded both sheets and placed them in a plain envelope. Methodically, he tore up the little slip of paper that revealed the name of Professor Devine’s other connection. He tossed the bits from the window. Then, from memory, he addressed the envelope:
Chalmers Blythe,
Merrimac Club,
New York City.
Carrying the letter, Joquill used his private exit to reach the hall. He returned a few minutes later, without the envelope. He unlocked the door to the outer office, seated himself behind the desk and picked up the morning newspaper.
Casually, the attorney turned to the page that listed steamship sailings. He chuckled as he found the name of the Steamship Mauritius. The liner was not scheduled to sail for one full week.
Some one knew that crime could be launched upon that ship. The plotter of evil had stated his case to his fellow members in Crime Incorporated. Word had come to Chalmers Blythe; from him to Langwood Devine; then to Culbert Joquill; and the lawyer had sent it further on.
Replies would be immediate. From somewhere in the chain of crime, a crook equipped to do the task requested would pledge his cooperation in the stroke that was required. Members of Crime Incorporated would act in teamwork aboard the Steamship Mauritius.
The plotter had probably sent requests in two directions. Perhaps cooperative aid would come from some one beyond Joquill; possibly it would come from the opposite end of the chain. In either event, the waiting plotter would be assured of aid before the Mauritius sailed from New York.
Culbert Joquill chuckled. He had done his part. Not only had he forwarded the request; he was ready to send along the reply when it arrived. But he would send no message to Professor Langwood Devine. The dead man had been eliminated from the band of supercrooks. The new recipient of Joquill’s messages would be a man named Chalmers Blythe.
Already, Joquill had phrased a coded note to Blythe. He would probably receive a similar epistle from Blythe himself. Unknown to each other in the past, Joquill and Blythe were now joined as friends. They had bridged the gap left vacant by the death of Professor Langwood Devine.
The Shadow had been forced to slay Devine. That, in a sense, had been a victory for The Shadow. But it had again brought him to the end of a blind trail. The Shadow had simply broken one link in the chain of Crime Incorporated.
The break had been joined. Devine, dead, was a discarded unit. Culbert Joquill and Chalmers Blythe were unencumbered. Crime Incorporated could proceed with its heinous plans, its evil members hidden as effectively as before!
CHAPTER XV
CARDONA MEETS A VISITOR
“I AM going out this evening, Norwyn. Perhaps we can play our chess match after my return.”
Howard Norwyn nodded as he looked up from the chess board. Before him, he saw the tall form of his congenial host, Lamont Cranston. Dinner ended at the New Jersey mansion, Norwyn had retired to the smoking room while Cranston made a telephone call. They had planned a chess match during dinner; now it would have to be deferred.
“You are going into the city?” questioned Norwyn.
“Yes,” came Cranston’s quiet reply.
Norwyn seemed pleased. Though his host was a leisurely, non-committal sort of personage, the young fugitive sensed that Cranston’s frequent visits to New York were in his behalf. Norwyn’s worries had quelled considerably during his extended stay at Cranston’s.
“The limousine is waiting, sir.”
Richards made the announcement from the hallway, with a friendly nod to Norwyn, Cranston turned and left the smoking room. A minute later, the limousine purred away from the drive, with Stanley at the wheel.
IT was nearly an hour later when a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands toyed with clippings. They reached for earphones. A voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” whispered The Shadow.
“Report from Burke,” informed Burbank. “He has left headquarters. Cardona is still there, working on the Devine case.”
“Any mention of the codes?”
“None.”
“Report received. Burke off duty.”
“Instructions received.”
Earphones clattered. Again, the hands were at the clippings. A soft laugh sounded in the gloom beside the focused light. Among the news items was one that had been mentioned in a previous report. It was a planted story in the New York Classic, put there by Clyde Burke through The Shadow’s bidding. It announced that Mynheer Hansel Vaart, prominent economist from the Netherlands, was due to arrive in New York.
Burke’s story — of half a column length — consisted of a reputed interview with the Dutchman. The article was conspicuous enough to attract the attention of the average newspaper reader.
The Shadow’s light went out. A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The sanctum was empty. But The Shadow had not left the neighborhood of his abode. Another light clicked in a second room. Its burning glare was reflected by the polished surface of a mirror.
Away from the light, motion was in progress. At last, a shape moved forward, close to the polished looking glass. The blackness of The Shadow’s cloak came into view. The sable garment was drooping from the shoulders that wore it.
The slouch hat was gone. A face was revealed in the light. It was not the masklike countenance of Lamont Cranston. It was another visage that The Shadow, master of disguise, had chosen to don as one would put on a new garment.
The face that showed in the reflected light was a puffy, robust one. Above it was the edge of a close-fitting wig that was topped by thin hair of iron gray. White hands, moving upward, smoothed the line where the wig began. Deft fingers, pressing against cheeks and lips, were molding the countenance as one might work with clay.