From Laffan’s standpoint, all was well. Strolling from the neighborhood, Charg’s minion nodded as he walked along. There was other work to do; it would be done. The danger of discovery was past.
CLYDE BURKE, when he had left Joe Cardona, continued toward Times Square. He reached a massive skyscraper — the Badger Building — and took an elevator. He alighted at the twenty-second floor and came to an office which bore the statement:
RUTLEDGE MANN
INVESTMENTS
A few minutes later, Clyde was seated at the side of a desk in an inner office. He was talking to a chubby-faced, placid individual who nodded and made notes while the reporter spoke.
Clyde gave a complete description of Meldon Fallow’s apartment. Referring to his list, he described the articles of furniture and how they had been located. This completed, Clyde Burke left.
Rutledge Mann inscribed a message in ink; then folded the sheet and placed it in an envelope. Turning to a typewriter in the corner, he rattled off the items of Clyde’s list and added this sheet to the one in the envelope.
It was nearly five o’clock. Rutledge Mann pocketed his envelope and left the office. On the street, he took a taxi to Twenty-third Street. There he entered a dilapidated building and ascended a flight of stairs.
Mann reached what appeared to be a deserted office. The grimy, glass-paneled door was cobwebbed, Upon the smudged pane was the name:
B. JONAS
Mann deposited the envelope in a mail slot. He left the building. The message was delivered, so far as Mann was concerned. An agent of The Shadow, Mann formed contact for the active workers. Letters deposited in that door would reach The Shadow — so Mann knew from past experience.
It was dusk when Rutledge Mann left Twenty-third Street; but it was not until three hours later, when Manhattan was aglow with evening light, that the gloom of twilight descended upon the Golden Gate.
Not far from San Francisco, a monoplane was taking off for an eastward hop. It was the same ship that had crossed the continent three nights before.
The Shadow’s mission had been accomplished. The master sleuth was returning to New York. One task completed, another awaited his arrival.
The Shadow was coming to seek the unknown criminal who had brought about the death of Meldon Fallow. Soon The Shadow would be on the trail of Charg!
CHAPTER VI. THE BROKEN TRAIL
A LIGHT was burning in The Shadow’s sanctum. White hands were at work; their long fingers sorting clippings that lay upon the polished table.
Twenty-four hours had passed since Rutledge Mann’s visit to the building on Twenty-third Street. In that time the contact man who posed as an investment broker had sent more packets through the mail chute of the office that bore the name B. Jonas.
The Shadow’s clippings had come from Mann. Though cut from New York newspapers, most of them dealt with news from another city. The entire country had been electrified by dispatches from San Francisco.
There, the headquarters of a notorious dope ring had been uncovered on the outskirts of Chinatown.
Men, long sought by the government, had been found dead. Some terrific battle — its cause unknown — had ravaged the lair of the evil band.
It was supposed that the conflict had been between members of the crew itself. The laugh that whispered through The Shadow’s sanctum came as the master’s eyes were reading this report. The Shadow knew the truth; it was he who had tracked the desperate crooks to defeat them in their den.
The Shadow had departed; he was three thousand miles from San Francisco. His efforts had remained unknown. His laugh, alone, was the grim recollection of a swift fray that he had fought and won against odds.
The San Francisco clippings slid aside as The Shadow finished with them. That work was done. Newer and more sinister duty lay ahead. Here, in New York, The Shadow was seeking a foe who struck by stealth. He had taken on a task of vengeance. He must find the man responsible for the murder of Meldon Fallow.
CLIPPINGS told but little. More important was the note that had come from Rutledge Mann. That message lay upon The Shadow’s table. It was a blank paper now; for its coded lines had faded after The Shadow had read them. In all correspondence with his agents, The Shadow made use of a special ink that disappeared shortly after contact with the air.
There was a paper, however, that had not turned blank. This was the typewritten list of the furniture that Clyde Burke had seen at Fallow’s. With each item was a brief description of the object itself and its position in the murdered man’s apartment.
Through the newspaper reports, The Shadow had gained a thorough knowledge of the circumstances, so far as the police had viewed them. Cardona still held to the theory — obvious in his opinion — that the murderer had entered Fallow’s apartment to deliver death.
Lacking knowledge of a motive, the ace detective had inclined to the theory of a maniac.
The Shadow, however, knew more concerning Fallow than did Cardona. The Shadow could see the reason for the inventor’s death: namely, Fallow’s unyielding decision that his supermotor must never be used for the gain of wealth.
With knowledge of this motive, The Shadow sought subtlety behind the murder. Brutality in the killing of Fallow seemed at odds with the purpose that must exist. Why a killer of vicious strength — a mauler whose clumsiness must certainly mean stupidity?
How could such a man have prowled, unseen, into the apartment house, there picked a strong lock, and later have made a clean departure? How had the dragnet failed to pick up a brute of such description?
The Shadow sought the answer. He was looking for the methods of a schemer. The very fact that the police were looking for a strangler was proof of strategy that had swept the law’s endeavor into a hopeless path.
One fact impressed The Shadow. Fallow’s death had been coincident with the sale of furniture. Any one concerned with the inventor’s affairs could have learned that Fallow intended to move.
One by one, The Shadow eliminated the items in the list. There were objections to all, except the desk. It was the object before which Fallow’s body had been found. Could it have formed a hiding place for the killer?
The question produced a paradox. The brutal manner in which Fallow had been mangled suggested the power of a giant — not the limited strength of a midget or a dwarf. Yet paradoxes, to The Shadow, often pointed toward the solution of a crime.
Subtlety again. A slayer of small proportions, depending upon a cramped hiding place, would do well to make his work appear as the efforts of a mighty strangler. Such was the reasoning that brought a new laugh from The Shadow’s unseen lips.
The bluish light clicked out. The laugh was repeated. Shuddering echoes died. The Shadow had departed. His sanctum, a room hidden somewhere in Manhattan, was an empty, black-walled chamber that held the stillness of a tomb.
IT was dusk in Manhattan. The gloom of night had been approaching while The Shadow had been in his sanctum. Lights were gleaming on Ninth Avenue when a taxicab stopped in front of a decrepit furniture store. Ephriam Goggins, the toothless, bewhiskered proprietor, shambled toward the door of his shop as a tall man entered.
Goggins saw chances for a worth while sale. The stranger looked like a good customer. In the gloom of the dimly lighted shop, his features seemed like the chiseled countenance of a statue. His tall form cast a weirdly shaped shadow along the grimy floor.
“Good evening.” The customer spoke in a steady, quiet tone. “I have come to look for furniture.”