“Come in,” ordered the chubby-faced individual.
A stenographer entered, carrying a telegram. She laid the message upon the desk.
“This just arrived, Mr. Mann.”
“Very well,” replied the man at the desk. “It is getting late. We shall close the office at once.”
As soon as the stenographer had departed to the outer office, the man at the desk tore open the telegram. It bore a terse message:
RUTLEDGE MANN
BADGER BUILDING
NEW YORK CITY
GOODS RECEIVED FROM ATLANTA INSURED FOR THREE THOUSAND UNDER
NEW RATING
HARRY VINCENT
The telegram was from Chicago. It was obvious that this was a message that Rutledge Mann had been expecting, for the chubby-faced fellow arose from his desk. He tucked the telegram in an envelope and sealed it.
Mann passed through the outer office, then through the door which bore his name and title of investment broker. These offices high in the Badger Building were where Mann conducted a regular business. They were also the headquarters for his work in the service of The Shadow.
Reaching the street, Mann summoned a cab and rode to Twenty-third Street. There he dismissed the taxi and entered an old, dilapidated building. He went up a pair of stairs and came to an obscure office. A grimy glass panel bore the name:
B. JONAS
Mann shoved the envelope in a letter slit. He paused and stared at the glass panel, then departed. This office was always a puzzle to Rutledge Mann. Its cobwebbed door had apparently been closed for months. Nevertheless, the office within must sometimes have an occupant — at least so Mann reasoned to himself.
For this was the spot where Mann placed messages for The Shadow. The investment broker visited the Twenty-third Street building on numerous occasions, and whenever he left billets there, he was sure that they would reach their appointed destination.
MORE than an hour after Rutledge Mann had gone to Twenty-third Street, a light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. The envelope that Mann had placed in the mail chute fell upon the polished surface of The Shadow’s table. Long fingers opened it to draw the telegram from within.
The Shadow inscribed words upon the telegram, in blue ink, between the typescript lines. They were the translation of the coded message:
Man starting to New York leaving at eleven o’clock via Michigan Central
Harry Vincent had been sent to Chicago, through wire dispatched by Rutledge Mann. His services no longer needed in South Shoreview, Harry’s new task was to watch Channing Rightwood.
This information was all that The Shadow needed. He could learn the hour at which Rightwood’s train would reach New York. From the moment that Rightwood arrived at the Grand Central Station, he would be under The Shadow’s surveillance.
Rightwood would not arrive until tomorrow. That left freedom for tonight. Of the two men whom Bigelow Zorman had declared to be in danger, only one was within reach of the murderous men who patrolled the sinister zone near Times Square. That was Felix Tressler, whose safety lay in the hands of The Shadow’s agents.
The Shadow reached for the earphones. The little bulb burned. Burbank’s voice spoke. The Shadow’s whispered tones came in reply:
“Report.”
“No reports received,” returned Burbank. “Burke and Marsland on duty.”
“Await call.”
The earphones clicked. The bluish light went out. The Shadow knew that no reports from Clyde Burke or Cliff Marsland meant that all was quiet. Nothing had occurred at the Hotel Delavan.
WHILE The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, Felix Tressler was entering his penthouse from the roof. Wilton Byres was not in evidence. The mustached millionaire stared about with furrowed eyebrows. Satisfied that his secretary was not close by, he paused beside a locked door near the demonstration room.
Then, as an afterthought, Tressler stalked on until he reached the patio. He observed Byres opposite the fountain. The secretary was reading a magazine by a corner light.
Tressler turned, moved back toward the locked door. At the same moment, Byres rose stealthily and laid his magazine beside his chair.
Tiptoeing forward, he reached the passage and peered cautiously from the edge of the entrance. He saw Felix Tressler unlocking a door. The bulky millionaire entered a room. The door closed.
Foot by foot, Byres stole along the passage until he neared the doorway. The door bore a heavy lock. Byres scowled at sight of the closed barrier. Suddenly, a soft gasp came from his lips. Tressler had not closed the door completely. A tiny streak of light showed between the crack beside the hinges.
Byres placed his hand upon the doorknob. With utmost caution, he pressed the door inward. His actions were a strange mingling of fear and bravery. There was a tremble to his hand; yet a boldness in the deed.
A clear inch opened; the space was sufficient for Byres to view the interior of the room. The secretary suppressed another gasp at what he saw.
The opposite wall of the room bore a huge, large-scale map that projected in bas-relief. The chart was clearly recognizable by the jutting points of buildings which extended horizontally. The map represented the district about Times Square.
A huge red circle had been painted upon the map. That circle included a restricted zone of which the Hotel Delavan formed the center. At each spot where the circle touched the intersection of a street or avenue, a tiny white bulb was in evidence.
There were other bulbs within the circle. Beneath were rows of red lights. Switches showed upon the wall underneath the molded map.
Felix Tressler was viewing the huge model that showed this section of Manhattan in such realistic form. Wilton Byres heard a chuckle. He caught a momentary glimpse of Tressler’s profile. The heavy-browed millionaire wore a fiendish, gloating expression.
As Tressler’s back again turned toward the door, Byres noted a new feature of the map. Along the lines which represented streets were tubes of glass which looked like neon lights. Tressler fingered one and emitted another chuckle. This was enough.
Nervously, Wilton Byres closed the door. He let the knob turn shut. The look that appeared upon his face was one of both fright and understanding. Quivering as he hastened toward the patio, the secretary showed a pallid, twitching face.
It was evident that Byres had made a terrifying discovery. His footsteps clicked upon the paving of the patio. His hand shook as he pressed the bell beside the elevator shaft. The car arrived. Byres made an effort to display composure. He entered the elevator and descended.
BACK in the map room, Felix Tressler was standing with his eyes focused upon the door. The bulky man had detected the sound of the turning knob. He watched to see if any new activity occurred. A minute passed.
With an impatient scowl, Tressler moved to the door and wrenched it open. He stared into the passage as though expecting to see someone standing there. No one was in view. Tressler looked toward the roof. The door was shut. He turned and strode to the patio. His first glance was toward the chair where he had viewed Byres reading.
“Byres!” Tressler’s call was a gruff one. “Byres!”
There was no response. Tressler’s scowl increased. His pudgy fingers twisted at his bristling mustache.
“Byres!” bellowed the millionaire.
No answer. Angrily, Tressler strode to a telephone and raised the receiver. His voice calmed as he heard the tones of the clerk at the desk in the lobby.
“Tell me,” questioned Tressler. “Did my secretary come down stairs?… Ah, I see… You say he just went out… Never mind… Never mind… Nothing important…”