“You can rely upon me for secrecy,” came Cranston’s steady voice. The sharp eyes of the speaker were turned toward Shelburne. “I shall say nothing to the police.”
Bryce Towson had caught the direction of Lamont Cranston’s gaze. The engineer turned in his chair. He spoke to the baldheaded secretary.
“You have heard this discussion, Shelburne,” said Towson, firmly. “Remember: you are to say nothing to any one. You, like the rest of us, will abide by Mr. Whilton’s decision.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Put away the papers. You may go. Call me tomorrow. I intend to be alone tonight when the detective arrives.”
Shelburne complied. Packing the papers in the filing cabinet, he stalked, stoopshouldered, from the room. Herbert Whilton was rising as Shelburne departed.
“It is best that Cranston and I should leave,” declared the old philanthropist. “This matter, Towson, rests in your hands. I shall call you later.”
Lamont Cranston accompanied the old man from the conference room. They reached the street and entered Whilton’s car.
As they rode toward the Cobalt Club, Herbert Whilton raised a new subject.
“Fallow and Dyke are dead,” stated the old man, seriously. “I hope that the same danger does not threaten either myself or Towson. I meant to warn Towson to be careful. He and I now carry a heavy burden between us.
“However” — the old man’s tone denoted wheezy assurance — “we are both well protected. Fallow lived alone. Dyke was an absent-minded recluse. Towson’s case is different. He has three servants; he is an active man who is seldom alone.
“As for myself” — the old man chuckled — “my Long Island home is a place of absolute safety. It is a citadel, Cranston, with the retinue that I have in my employ. Look at the chauffeur of this car — Halliwell — who has served me for a dozen years. I am safe anywhere while he is with me.
“My servants: Randham, Parker, Hodge — all are reliable men. I fear nothing; but I must remember to warn Towson to be cautious. Yes, I must remember — ah! Here we are, Cranston, at your club!”
Lamont Cranston bade the old man good night. He left the limousine. As before, he did not enter the Cobalt Club, but strolled away along the street.
HALF an hour later, a phantom shape appeared in the neighborhood of Bryce Towson’s home. It became a gliding figure that moved stealthily up the steps in front of the gloomy building. Muffled clicks sounded in the darkness; the front door yielded.
The form of The Shadow appeared in the hallway. It faded from view as a servant passed. It reached the corridor outside of the conference room and melted with the darkness of an alcove.
The Shadow had dropped the guise of Lamont Cranston; he had returned in his cloak of black. He was awaiting the arrival of Detective Joe Cardona, that he might gain a double knowledge.
His first purpose was to learn if Bryce Towson could handle the interview in the fashion that Herbert Whilton had ordered. His second purpose was more important.
The Shadow was here to learn the details of the police theory regarding the death of Loring Dyke. Upon the statements that Joe Cardona might make, The Shadow could base his next endeavors in the search of crime.
Herbert Whilton had spoken wisely when he had told Lamont Cranston that danger hung over the two remaining members of the committee. His added remark, that both were well guarded, was also sagacious.
Twice had death struck. It was due to strike again. Yet the brain that planned horrible murder would be too wise to act with undue haste.
An interlude was coming; in that space of time, The Shadow would be active in his efforts to forestall the next deed of doom.
CHAPTER XI. CHARG’S REWARD
MIDNIGHT. Detective Joe Cardona, riding westward in a taxicab, noted the hour by his watch. He settled back in the seat. In a few minutes he would be at Bryce Towson’s. Midnight was the time that Joe had set for his appointment with the consulting engineer.
Towson, Joe hoped, might tell him something of Meldon Fallow and Loring Dyke. Two men — both singularly slain — had been friends of Bryce Towson. A connection between Fallow and Dyke might mean much toward the solution of these baffling deaths.
In the conference room at his home, Bryce Towson sat alone, studying minutes of the meeting which he had held with Herbert Whilton. Shelburne had taken these notes; he had left them for Towson to review.
The engineer was also anxious for the interview which he was to have with Joe Cardona. Towson, like the detective, had a purpose in mind. He had chosen to tell the truth to the greatest possible degree, without overemphasizing the importance of the supermotor which Meldon Fallow had devised.
Meanwhile, The Shadow waited. He was to be the unseen listener, the keen investigator who had advanced along the trail. In a sense, his work was just beginning. For The Shadow, as yet, had learned nothing concerning Charg, the unknown master who had launched two fiendish murders.
This hour of midnight, however, was one that had been appointed by Charg himself. While Cardona sped toward Towson’s; while Towson awaited in the conference room; while The Shadow lurked unseen, a man was approaching the obscure apartment house that hid Charg’s lair within its walls.
This man was Talbot. The false servant of Loring Dyke was pale as he entered the quiet apartment house. From his pocket, he had drawn the key which had come from the envelope opened on the subway platform.
Talbot’s hand was fumbling as it unlocked the door of the apartment. Within the poorly furnished living room, Talbot turned on the light and looked about in unfamiliar fashion. He proceeded to the passage, found the closet and twisted the hook. He pressed it five times.
The murmur of the elevator came from below. The wall opened. Talbot entered the lift and descended.
He found the entrance to the abode of Charg. He pressed the button five times. The door slid upward; Talbot stepped into the lighted lair.
THE false servant stared hard at the strange surroundings. He shivered as the door dropped behind him.
He approached the screen with faltering steps. He heard the tiny lights click; by their shaded illumination, he saw Charg’s moving arm.
Then came the grating voice — the ominous tones that brought new quivers:
“Who are you, intruder?”
“Talbot,” gasped the standing man. “That is my name. Talbot. I–I am the servant of Charg.”
Talbot had repeated instructions gained from the message which he had destroyed. It was plain that this was his first visit to the terrible being whose mandates he had chosen to obey.
“Your token?”
“Five.”
“Make your report.”
“I–I did as ordered,” stated Talbot. “Jerry Laffan was the man who — who told me about you. I–I watched the box that was left yesterday. When Jerry came — with another man — I helped them put the box in the dumbwaiter. They— they took it away afterward.”
A pause. To Talbot, passing seconds seemed like intervals. Then came the rasping voice from the screen.
“You have read my message,” were the words of Charg. “Have you destroyed it?”
“Yes,” stammered Talbot. “I tore it up. The pieces are gone. I–I left nothing.”
“You have done well.” The statement came after a second’s pause. “You have come, at my order, to claim the reward that is your due.
“Face to the right. Advance to the door that you see there. Place your hand upon it. The door will open at your touch. Are my instructions plain?”
“They are. Yes.”
“Charg has commanded.”
Talbot started to turn toward the door. He faltered, remembering that he had other words to say. Again facing the screen, he spoke.