The real Lamont Cranston — a singular individual who traveled as fancy suited him — was at present in Afghanistan. He would not be back in America for six months to come. When he made his long excursions, Cranston never announced his destination. His friends as well as his servants had no idea when he might return.
There was one, however, who kept a close check on Lamont Cranston’s journeys. That one was The Shadow. When The Shadow knew that Cranston was far away, he frequently found it useful to take advantage of the millionaire’s eccentricities.
Cranston always kept his establishment in operation. He never talked with his servants regarding his travels. They were trained to expect him home at any hour, on any day; and they were used to his strange departures. Hence The Shadow, during Cranston’s absence, often assumed the character of the globe-trotting millionaire. The secluded New Jersey mansion served him well as a headquarters.
“I was one of Hobston’s clients,” stated The Shadow, in the quiet tones that characterized Lamont Cranston. “I called his club last night and learned that he had gone to his office. So I went there, myself, to call on him.”
“You registered in the lobby?”
“No. I happened to pass the man who was on duty. It was not until the elevator was going up that I realized that I had neglected to sign. There was no use in my returning to the ground floor. As matters developed, it was fortunate that I did not register.”
Norwyn stared as the speaker paused reminiscently. He saw significance in the quiet smile.
“When I reached Hobston’s office,” resumed The Shadow, “I found his body. George Hobston had been murdered. There was a light in the vault room. I opened the door—”
“But it was locked!”
“Not quite.” Again the smile. “It was jammed and it caused me a bit of trouble. You were in the vault room, coming to your senses as I worked with the door. When it swung open, you apparently took me for an enemy.”
“I remember. I had a gun—”
“Which I took from you. There was no time for palaver. I was forced to overpower you and carry you away, for your own good. I feared that the police might find you.”
“And blame me for the murder?”
“Yes. As they have already done.”
WITH these words, The Shadow passed a newspaper to Howard Norwyn. The young man paled as he saw his name in the headlines. The newspaper trembled in his hands. Then came the reassuring voice of Lamont Cranston.
“By good fortune,” remarked The Shadow, “I brought you to the basement; thence to the subway. My chauffeur was waiting with the limousine on Fourteenth Street. He drove us here.
“No one knows where you are — no one, except myself.”
“But — but I must surrender to the police!” blurted Norwyn. “I–I must tell them my story.”
“And thereby play into the murderer’s hands. That is not the proper course. No, my friend. I have decided that you shall remain here as my guest.”
“Until when?”
“Until this case has cleared.”
Howard Norwyn uttered a sigh of relief. He remembered the confidence that he had gained from this stranger last night. He was beginning to feel more at ease. He realized that Lamont Cranston was a friend upon whom he could rely.
“Make yourself quite at home,” declared The Shadow, in an easy tone.
“Free yourself from all qualms. No one will ever guess where you are staying. Richards, my valet, will see that you are provided with whatever you may need.”
With this reassurance, The Shadow became silent. Howard Norwyn realized that it was his turn to speak. The steady eyes were inquiring; they wanted his story.
“I didn’t expect what happened last night,” asserted Norwyn. “It all began around half past eight, when I received a telephone call from a customer named Seth Deswig. It was Deswig’s secretary who called. He insisted that he must have some stocks that belonged to him — shares of Middlebury Preferred — and I knew that Mr. Hobston had them in the vault.
“So I called Mr. Hobston at his club. He said he would go to the office and open the vault. I was to join him there. When I arrived, I–I found him dead.”
“And the vault?”
“Was open. Envelopes and folders were scattered on the floor. Before I could investigate, some one landed on me. When I woke up, I was in the vault room. You were opening the door. I had a revolver.”
“The gun that was used to kill Hobston.”
“So I realize. It — it must have been planted on me.”
“Exactly. With you were envelopes containing listed securities that belonged to Hobston’s customers. It looked as though you had been trapped, while committing robbery.”
“I understand that. But what I can’t guess is why the murderer didn’t take those securities that he must have come to get—”
Norwyn paused abruptly. He saw a new smile forming on Lamont Cranston’s lips. He waited, expecting an explanatory statement. It came, as a question.
“Did Hobston,” questioned The Shadow, “ever show you an itemized statement of the securities in his vault?”
“No,” admitted Norwyn.
“Did he ever mention,” resumed The Shadow, “that he had invested a considerable amount of money in securities of his own choice?”
“He said that he never missed opportunities when they came his way.”
“You have given the answer. You were not the only person to whom Hobston made that statement. Let us suppose that Hobston had purchased — privately, of course — securities worth about half a million dollars. Where would he have kept them, assuming that he might wish to sell at the most opportune time?”
“In the vault.”
“Under whose name?”
“His own.”
Silence.
THE truth dawned on Howard Norwyn. He realized that wealth had been taken from that vault. The murderer had rifled the strongbox of Hobston’s own possessions — of wealth known to the dead investment man alone — of securities that would not be listed in the office records.
The burglar had deliberately passed up the stocks and bonds that Hobston held in other names. Many of these might have been poor investments; others might have proven non-negotiable. The unlisted wealth had been taken; the rest had been left to add proof to the frame-up against Howard Norwyn.
“That is why,” declared The Shadow, “your story must remain untold. There is much to learn; until we have the murderer’s trail, you shall remain here.”
The tall speaker arose. He opened the door of the curio room and summoned Richards. He told the servant to see to his guest’s comfort. With that final order, he departed.
Howard Norwyn, returning to the room which had been assigned him, heard the purr of a motor. Looking through the window, he saw the limousine rolling from the driveway of the broad-lawned estate.
TWO hours later, a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays shone upon a polished table. White hands — one wearing a gleaming gem that sparkled in the glare — appeared upon the woodwork.
The Shadow had reached Manhattan. He was in his sanctum, a strange abode known only to himself. Clippings appeared upon the table; with them, reports in ink, inscribed in code.
Writing faded as The Shadow finished reading these reports. Such was the way with messages that The Shadow gained from his agents. Passing to the clippings, The Shadow studied them with care.
These newspaper reports were of various dates. They told of unsolved crimes in different cities. To them, The Shadow added items that pertained to the death of George Hobston. The hands rested upon the table.
George Hobston’s murder was the latest of several crimes that seemed disconnected except for one vital point. All had remained unsolved. Was that coincidence, or did it mean an actual connection? This was the answer that The Shadow sought.