“I must leave,” said Zorman. “I am going over to Broadway; I intend to return to my hotel later in the evening. From there, I shall call Channing Rightwood by long distance. Once he has heard of your decision, I am sure that he will agree to make the additional purchase when he exercises his option.
“Once these options are settled I shall clean up matters at the plant. Perry Harton has run things too long. He must go. I shall expose the swindles for which I believe him to be responsible.
“More than that — I shall get to the root of this matter. Some interests may be in back of the plot to forestall the development of the new wave motor. I shall discover their identity.”
The two men had reached the door. They turned into the passage. As on the occasion of Maurice Bewkel’s visit, Wilton Byres suddenly appeared and joined them. Felix Tressler waved the secretary aside. The millionaire, himself, conducted Bigelow Zorman to the elevator.
Wilton Byres followed. His crafty eyes were watching both men. He heard the remarks that passed between his employer and the visitor.
“Where can I reach you?” questioned Tressler.
“At the Hotel Goliath,” returned Zorman, “That is where I am stopping. You will hear from me; but in the meantime—”
Felix Tressler looked quizzical as Bigelow Zorman paused. The corporation president lowered his voice.
“Heed my warning,” he declared. “Dustin Cruett died, Maurice Bewkel died. Death is in the air!”
“I am safe here,” smiled Tressler. “I never leave this penthouse.”
“Nevertheless,” warned Zorman, “I advise you to exert the utmost care. Until these options have been exercised, I see danger threatening!”
Tressler nodded as he shook hands with his departing guest. Zorman departed by the elevator. Tressler turned and walked heavily back to the penthouse roof. He resumed his big chair and lighted a panatella.
Soft footsteps padded as Wilton Byres appeared. The secretary passed behind his employer’s chair, picked up a notebook and started back into the penthouse. Over his shoulder, he glanced toward the distant sign that blazed with white lights in its corners and along its borders.
Bigelow Zorman was right. Death was in the air. Wilton Byres knew it; and his sly eyes were watching for the token that would foretell another stroke of doom!
Yet Felix Tressler remained unperturbed in his big chair. He had heard a second warning. Secure in the isolation of his penthouse roof, Tressler appeared unheeding!
CHAPTER X
WORD OF THE SHADOW
A LIGHT clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. Long white fingers appeared above the surface of the table. They opened an envelope. A yellow paper fell out. Spread, it proved to be a telegram:
RUTLEDGE MANN
BADGER BLDG
NEW YORK
GOODS SENT FROM ATLANTA SHIPPED TO WAREHOUSE TWELVE
HARRY VINCENT
A soft laugh. Long fingers opened a small, printed booklet. The Shadow’s eyes observed key words and their meaning. This telegram, despite its ordinary style, was in code. Each word had a different meaning than the one given.
Between the lines of the telegram, The Shadow inscribed these words in bluish ink:
Man gone to New York staying at Hotel Goliath
In The Shadow’s code book, each city bore the name of another; verbs and prepositions had varied meanings; hotels in every metropolis were listed as warehouses and by number.
This was important news from South Shoreview. Its delay in reaching The Shadow was evidently due to trouble which Harry Vincent had experienced in learning where Bigelow Zorman had gone.
To The Shadow, the news was vital. As the blue-inked writing faded, word by word, a soft grim laugh sounded in the darkness.
The Hotel Goliath! The mammoth building was not far from Times Square, near the spots where Dustin Cruett and Maurice Bewkel had met strange doom.
There was no further news from Vincent. Evidently the agent had learned but little. Nevertheless, this was all that The Shadow required for the present. He had traced a connection from Dustin Cruett and Maurice Bewkel to the Electro Oceanic Corporation. The president of that concern was now in Manhattan!
The sanctum light went out. Silence remained amid thick darkness. The Shadow had departed. On this night he had fared forth to follow the lead that he had gained through his distant agent.
HALF an hour later, a tall man with hawklike visage appeared at a thronged corner near Times Square. He was the same personage who Joe Cardona had viewed on the preceding night; the one who had appeared at the Hotel Merrimac as Henry Arnaud.
Inconspicuous among the throngs, Henry Arnaud entered a drug store and found a telephone booth. There, he put in a call to the Hotel Goliath. He inquired for Bigelow Zorman.
“Room 1416,” came the response. “Mr. Zorman does not answer… Expected in before eleven…”
A huge clock across Broadway showed the time as twenty minutes before the hour, when Henry Arnaud again appeared upon the crowded thoroughfare. Strolling onward, the mysterious visitant passed the corner where Joe Cardona had first noted him. This was close by the soft-drink stand where busy attendants were selling Chromo.
Henry Arnaud’s eyes seemed to miss nothing. They peered toward brilliant masses of light formed by blinking electric signs. They settled on one in particular — a sign which had solid white corners and borders of white-light lines.
Henry Arnaud was heading toward the Hotel Goliath. It required only a few minutes for him to reach his destination. He entered a glittering lobby and strolled past the desk. His keen eyes noted the rows of pigeonholes which contained room keys. Seating himself not far from the desk, Henry Arnaud extracted a cigarette from his case and applied a match.
To all appearances, this arrival at the Hotel Goliath was merely waiting in the lobby for some friend. Actually, Henry Arnaud was anticipating the appearance of a man whom he had never seen. His keen eyes — the eyes of The Shadow — could spot the key that lay in the box marked 1416.
Bigelow Zorman, when he arrived; would necessarily inquire for that key. His act would be the means by which The Shadow would identify him. Minutes alone remained until the time that Bigelow Zorman was expected to return.
The Shadow’s gaze returned at intervals to the pigeonhole. Between those times, the keen eyes roved the lobby. They were searching in their gaze, as they watched for other observers who might be awaiting Zorman’s return.
BACK near Times Square, the huge clock on Broadway was chiming discordantly as it announced the hour of eleven. Its stroke boomed above the roar of traffic. A rotund man, crossing a street close to the sign, looked up to note the hour. It was Bigelow Zorman. The president of the Electro Oceanic Corporation was returning to the Hotel Goliath.
Zorman, as he reached the other side of the street, passed the open door of a cigar store. His pudgy form was viewed by a clerk behind the counter. Turning, the salesman reached into a case against the wall and brought out a box of cigars.
Reaching to replace another case, he pressed a hidden switch behind a projecting corner. No one observed his action. Yet by that deed, the cigar-store clerk had paved another path to doom.
An agent of the death circle, this man had been on the lookout for Bigelow Zorman. He had sent the signal to headquarters. The zone of crime had awakened.
Before Bigelow Zorman had traversed another block on his way to the Hotel Goliath, signals were at work. The corners of the electric sign which served as beacon glowed green instead of white.
Borders blinked their signal. They marked the spot where Zorman had been first observed. Persons in the passing throng became alert. Eyes that belonged to men of crime were viewing that signal that all could see.