“I mean it,” asserted the detective. “Dustin Cruett dropped dead three nights ago. Maurice Bewkel collapsed last night and died. There’s no trace whatever of homicide. And yet—”
“Yet what?”
Cardona shrugged his shoulders.
“It beats me, inspector,” he admitted. “At the hospital, the doctors say Bewkel showed effects of gas poisoning — almost like a chlorine victim. But where could it have hit him?”
“Where was he coming from?”
“The Merrimac Club. He had dinner there. On his way to Times Square, evidently; from there he was going home. He certainly couldn’t have been gassed at the club. The time between there and the spot where he died wasn’t sufficient for him to have entered any place.”
“But still you think—”
“I don’t know what to think. A man could be gassed in the open — but how? If someone had chucked a gas bomb, there’d be evidence. Bewkel wouldn’t have been the only one to get it.”
A shadow fell across the floor. Inspector Klein noticed it and looked toward the door. He smiled as he heard the clatter of a pail. Fritz, the janitor, appeared with his inevitable mop and bucket.
“Come on,” suggested Klein, rising from his desk. “It’s late, Joe. These two odd deaths are just coincidences. When you think of how many people there are around Times Square, it’s a wonder there’s not a half dozen dropping dead every night.”
“This is different, inspector,” insisted Cardona, in a serious tone, as he watched Klein thrust the report sheet in the drawer, “I’d think the same as you do — if it wasn’t for this poison element.”
“What have you gotten in the way of clews?”
“Nothing. All I can do is watch for something new to develop. But I’ll tell you this, inspector. I’m going to stick around Times Square at nights. I don’t care what kind of death hits there — I’ll be suspicious of it.”
“Not a bad plan, Joe.”
“I’ve got a hunch, inspector.” Cardona was accompanying Klein toward the door. “I figure we may be up against something new — something in crime that’s way ahead of us. Picture it — a death zone in Manhattan—”
Cardona had passed through the door while he was speaking. His voice had dwindled. Its tones could no longer be heard within the office. Fritz, his tall form almost doubled, kept on with his mopping for a few minutes. Then he stepped toward the desk and opened the drawer.
KEEN eyes surveyed Cardona’s report sheet. As on the previous occasion, the dullness left Fritz’s gaze. His eyes were the eyes of The Shadow. The report sheet went back into the drawer. The false Fritz picked up mop and bucket and left the office.
Several minutes later, a vague form passed along a dimly lighted street not far from headquarters. The Shadow, impersonating Fritz, had received his first report — from Detective Joe Cardona.
Some time afterward, a click sounded amid blackness. Bluish light was reflected by polished wood. The Shadow was in his sanctum. His long white fingers were opening envelopes while the girasol glimmered with its ever-changing hues.
The first reports were clippings. Statements had been gathered from newspapers regarding the death of Maurice Bewkel. The man was wealthy. His demise had commanded more space than had the death of Dustin Cruett.
Then came further data from Clyde Burke and Rutledge Mann. Among these notations, The Shadow discovered a statement which Mann, the investment broker, had included.
Mann had heard that Maurice Bewkel was a purchaser of the original Electro Oceanic stock. He had learned this indirectly. To The Shadow, it was a pointed reference. Until now, the Electro Oceanic connection had been but a suspicion. Now it was a definite clew.
What was the riddle of these deaths? Would others follow? Those were the questions which must be answered. The cause, perhaps, was in South Shoreview. The effect, however, lay in Manhattan.
A tiny light glimmered from the wall beyond the table. The Shadow’s hands stretched forward and brought earphones into view. They placed the instruments upon the head that was shrouded in the darkness on the near side of the bluish light. The Shadow’s whisper sounded in the gloom.
“Burbank speaking,” came a reply.
The voice was a quiet one. Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. Stationed in a special location, he could be reached by the other agents. He, alone, had access to the wire that led to The Shadow’s Sanctum. It was Burbank’s duty to relay messages to The Shadow.
“Report,” came The Shadow’s whisper.
“Report from Mann,” informed Burbank. “Telegram received just as he was closing office. Report from Vincent.”
“Report.”
“Vincent arrived in South Shoreview. Electro Oceanic plant is closed except for skeleton force. No opportunity to investigate until tomorrow.”
“Report received.”
Ear phones clattered to the wall. The bluish light went out. A whispered laugh sounded in the sanctum. Echoes followed. Silence pervaded.
TWO hours later, Detective Joe Cardona was standing near a corner of Seventh Avenue. Hopelessly, the sleuth was watching the passing throng. A man in a soft-drink stand was shouting out the merits of a drink called “Chromo” with a monotony that set Cardona’s nerves on edge.
A tall, calm-faced individual strolled by. Joe Cardona stared as he noticed a hawklike profile. He caught a sudden glint in a pair of eyes that turned in his direction. The calm-faced personage merged with the throng.
A sudden recollection struck Joe Cardona. In his many exploits, Cardona had more than once encountered a weird personage called The Shadow. In fact, Cardona could owe his life to The Shadow’s prowess in emergencies.
A being garbed in black. Such was The Shadow as Cardona knew him. But though The Shadow’s face had been masked, Cardona could remember blazing eyes that had peered from beneath the down-turned brim of a slouch hat. Those eyes could not be forgotten — the eyes of The Shadow!
Cardona had seen them again, tonight. Here, in the thick throngs of Times Square, he had caught The Shadow’s gaze! The black garb gone, he had viewed The Shadow as a chance passer!
Recovered from his bewilderment, the detective set off through the throng. His thoughts were a confusion of ideas.
Why was The Shadow in this vicinity? Did he, too, suspect foul play in the deaths of Dustin Cruett and Maurice Bewkel?
Cardona jostled hurriedly along the block. He reached the next corner and continued, staring at every face he saw. Yet he failed to catch another glance of that steady, aquiline visage.
There was a reason. Cardona was just a few seconds too late. As he had reached the corner one square from the Chromo stand, the tall personage had turned into a side street, while Cardona had kept on.
For once, Joe Cardona had failed to follow a hunch. He had gained a sudden belief that The Shadow might be investigating the deaths that had occurred near Times Square. Had he followed it, he would have gone to trace the scene of the most recent death — that of Maurice Bewkel.
For it was in that direction that the tall personage had turned. While Joe Cardona was giving up the search, the owner of the hawklike countenance was passing the spot where workmen were busy with their drills.
Foot by foot, The Shadow was retracing the route that Maurice Bewkel had followed from the Merrimac Club. It was not long before he arrived at the club itself. He entered there. The man within the door bowed.
“Good evening, Mr. Arnaud.”
A short nod was the reply. The Shadow, in the character of Henry Arnaud, was a member of this club. A master of impersonation, he chose the faces that he wished. His visit here was a brief one.
WHEN Henry Arnaud left the Merrimac Club, he followed the exact route that he had taken before. Back toward Times Square, along the course followed by Maurice Bewkel on his journey of death.