The Shadow was leaning over the dead form of Richard Glade. He was drawing water-soaked papers from the crook’s pockets. He found a wallet among these effects. The rays of the flashlight were focused steadily upon Glade’s dead face.
A soft laugh rippled from The Shadow’s lips as keen eyes took in every feature of the dead man’s countenance. The members of the crew shuddered at the sound. The Shadow picked up the gun that lay beneath Glade’s body. Leaving the crew weaponless, he stepped forward; three men shuffled aside as he advanced.
The Shadow reached the cabin. He stepped upon its roof. With a single leap, he gained the shore, where Clyde and Cliff were standing by the lashed trunks. The men on the boat, realizing that they were free, hurriedly started the motor. The former rum runner chugged in reverse. Its occupants were wild in their effort to get away from that spectral shape which stood upon the shore.
Cliff and Clyde nodded as they heard The Shadow’s whispered command. They unlashed the trunks while The Shadow’s figure faded in the darkness. When the agent brought the first trunk toward a spot where each had left a car, they heard one motor leaving. The Shadow had taken a coupe brought by Cliff. He had left Clyde’s sedan.
The trunks were too large for the sedan. The Shadow’s agents opened them and removed the contents. They loaded the car and consigned the trunks to the bushes. Clyde took the wheel and headed in the direction which The Shadow had taken toward Manhattan.
TWO hours later, a spectral figure entered an apartment in the nineties. The Shadow had arrived at the residence of Richard Glade. He had learned the address from the dead crook’s papers. Methodically, the investigator began a search of the place.
An electric heater, designed in imitation of a coal-grate, was standing in a fire place. Its upper section was filled with chunks of darkened glass that looked like lumps of coal. With a soft laugh, The Shadow stooped and tipped the heater forward. The false coal came clattering to the hearth.
Lying on the wire screen above the unused heater was a large envelope. The Shadow ripped it open. He found a stock certificate labeled Aztec Mines. He found a document inscribed in the blocked code which he had deciphered. He found two smaller envelopes which he opened.
The Shadow’s laugh reechoed softly through the room. At intervals, the reverberation was repeated, while The Shadow studied the coded by-laws that he had uncovered. At last, the hands of The Shadow appeared, ungloved, beneath a desk lamp in the corner of the room.
In Glade’s documents, The Shadow had learned the names of the dead crook’s contacts. He had also discovered the names of two men beyond, through the inner envelopes with their coded messages. He had also discovered points of interest regarding the working of the chain to which Glade had belonged.
The Shadow inscribed a message in the blocked code. He added another — a trivial cryptogram with the circled code — to serve as the blind that went with all messages sent through the chain. He folded these sheets and inserted them in a plain envelope that he found in a desk drawer.
The Shadow duplicated the messages and sealed them in a second envelope. He addressed each letter separately. Gathering envelopes along with documents, he pressed out the light.
Faint light of dawn showed through the window when The Shadow raised the shade. The tinged rays revealed a vague form of black, making its departure. The laugh of The Shadow whispered its forbidding chill.
The Shadow’s mirth was again an omen. It was inspired by the letters which this master sleuth had prepared. Those coded messages were to carry news along the chain of evil workers.
There was good cause for The Shadow’s laugh. The master fighter had profited through the death of Richard Glade. With craft and with certainty, The Shadow had issued a summons that Crime Incorporated would obey!
CHAPTER XXII
THE DIVIDEND
EIGHT days had passed. Another night had come to Manhattan. The lobby of the Hotel Grammont was ablaze with light. This hostelry, for years a central spot near Broadway, never failed to attract throngs of evening visitors.
A stocky man approached the manager’s office. He flashed a badge that gave him admittance. It was Detective Joe Cardona. The star sleuth entered to find two men awaiting him. One was the manager; the other a hotel detective.
Introductions completed, Cardona stated his business. He spoke in a manner that was gruff, but speculative. Joe had come here on a doubtful errand. He did not want it to appear that he might be the victim of a hoax.
“You know what tip-offs are,” explained the ace. “We get them right along and chances are they’re phony. Just the same, if they sound like something might be doing, we play along to make sure.
“Well, I got a tip-off to-night. I was told to be in the lobby of this hotel at nine o’clock. What’s more, I was told to have a squad follow me. That’s a big order — when it comes without anything else — but there’s a reason why I took it up.”
Joe paused for emphasis. He saw doubtful looks upon the faces of the men before him; and he delivered the statement which he had planned for them.
“It was on your account that I came here,” resumed the ace. “The Grammont’s a big hotel, with lots of people going in and out. Sometimes a tip-off means that one smart crook is trying to get even with another.
“If there’s one chance in a thousand that gun business might start in this crowded lobby, it’s worth while to be ready for it. That’s why I’m staying — and there’s six plain-clothes men coming in before nine o’clock.”
The manager nodded in agreement. He saw the wisdom of protection. Cardona arose and sauntered to the lobby; the house detective followed. The time was five minutes of nine.
Joe Cardona had not stated the real reason for his prompt following of the tip-off. The ace held the hunch that business was due to-night. The call that informed Cardona of potential trouble in the Grammont lobby had come to headquarters. Over the telephone, a weird, whispered voice had delivered its instructions in a creepy monotone.
Cardona had heard that sinister voice before. He believed that he knew the identity of the caller — that was, so far as the actual identity of the personage could be traced. Joe Cardona had recognized the whisper of The Shadow.
GIRDING the Grammont lobby was a glittering balcony. Twenty private meeting rooms opened from that mezzanine. On this evening — as on nearly every other — more than half of the chambers were occupied.
In the Gold Room, where curtains of dull orange hung in clustered draperies and walls were ornamented with gilded frescoes, a group of men were gathered about a massive table. Furniture, like decorations, glistened in golden hue. The color seemed appropriate, considering the affluence of the men assembled.
All looked prosperous. There were eighteen present; seven to a side and two of each end of the long table. According to the statement which appeared on the day-board in the lobby, this was a meeting of the Aztec Mines owners. Perhaps that was why the management had designated the Gold Room for the meeting.
Aztec Mines seemed to indicate gold; and wealth was the subject of this meeting. But none of the eighteen had come to discuss treasure wrested from the earth. They were here to speak of profits gained through murderous endeavor. These were the members of Crime Incorporated.
The meeting had been set for eight forty-five. No one had been late. A man with a solemn countenance had risen at one end of the table. It was Fullis Garwald, self-appointed chairman of the meeting.
“According to the by-laws of the Aztec Mine Organization,” began Garwald, in a dry tone, “the holder of certificate number one is to preside at any meeting of this group. I am the owner of that certificate. I shall produce it in due time.