Fritz’s tall, bent figure showed a weird silhouette as the janitor moved crablike through a gloomy, deserted corridor. Fritz reached an obscure spot where light was almost absent. He opened a locker. Overalls went into the locker; mop and pail were deposited beside the wall.
Dark cloth rippled as Fritz drew garments from the locker. Long folds of black descended upon the janitor’s form. A soft, ghostly laugh rippled from unseen lips. The changed form turned; two spots like blazing eyes were all that showed until the figure stepped forward.
Had Inspector Timothy Klein or Detective Joe Cardona been there to view that transformation, they would have gaped in amazement. Instead of Fritz, the janitor, a tall shape in black was now apparent.
A being clad in a cloak that shrouded form and shoulders. A personage whose visage was concealed by the turned-down brim of a slouch hat. A weird creature whose very presence was awe inspiring.
Fritz, the janitor, had become The Shadow!
AN amazing specter who roamed Manhattan, The Shadow was a mystery to all. Though he had shown his hand on definite occasions; though it had been proven that his power sided with the law against men of crime, neither the police nor the underworld had gained a tangible clew to the identity of this phantom being.
A supersleuth as well as a fighter who dealt in action, The Shadow used many ruses which had escaped all knowledge. His impersonation of Fritz, the janitor, was one. Through this device, The Shadow had access to detective headquarters. There, he could obtain evidence to certain crime cases that could be gained in no other way.
Moving stealthily through a deserted corridor, The Shadow now appeared as a black-garbed apparition. His very course was scarcely discernible. His tall form reached a side door. The barrier seemed to open of its own accord. A few moments later, a thing of blackness descended stone steps. Merging with the darkness of a wall, The Shadow moved forth upon an untraceable course.
Fleeting blackness beneath a lamp light, a block from headquarters. A whispered laugh that came with an eerie shudder — a peculiar strain of mockery that seemed to cling with sighing echoes. These were the tokens of The Shadow’s strange departure.
Where Joe Cardona had had a hunch, The Shadow had gained a clew. With him, this phantom of blackness was carrying the one bit of evidence that pointed to the sudden death of Dustin Cruett.
The circle of death had taken its first victim. Tonight, twenty-four hours after Cruett’s demise, The Shadow had gained the evidence!
Master who battled crime, The Shadow was embarking upon one of the most difficult episodes that had ever marked his strange career.
Death was due to strike again before The Shadow could solve the riddle that hovered about Times Square!
CHAPTER IV
MEN OF MONEY
WHILE The Shadow was making his spectral departure from the neighborhood near police headquarters, a tall gray-haired man was walking through the lighted district that forms Manhattan’s Rialto.
A man of dignity, proud in bearing from his stride to the gold-headed cane that he carried, this individual seemed bound on an errand of importance. Turning along a side street, he entered the lobby of a tall, but narrow building — the Hotel Delavan.
The visitor said nothing as he joined a group of passengers in a waiting elevator. It was not until the last of this group had stepped forth on the twentieth floor that the operator glanced curiously at the passenger with the cane.
“The penthouse,” informed the dignified man.
The operator hesitated; then seemed to remember instructions. He nodded and drove the car upward. It stopped at the top of the shaft. The operator opened the door, and the visitor stepped into a room that resembled a patio.
Everything denoted luxury. A tinkling fountain sprayed in a basin in the middle of the tiled floor. Lights of changing hues played upon the spreading water. The visitor gazed in admiration. He looked up suddenly to see a young man who had come from the door beyond.
This chap had a sly, crafty look in his eye. He was studying the visitor. The expression changed as the gray-haired man met the other’s gaze. The young man bowed.
“You are Mr. Bewkel?” he questioned.
“Yes,” returned the visitor, in a haughty tone. “I have come to see Mr. Felix Tressler — by appointment.”
As he spoke, the gray-haired man proffered a card. It bore the name:
MAURICE BEWKEL
“Mr. Tressler will see you at once, sir,” informed the young man. “He has been awaiting your arrival. This way, please.”
BEWKEL looked about him as he followed his guide through the penthouse. Lavishly furnished rooms showed wherever doors were open. Other doors were closed. Finally, the guide led the guest out through a wide doorway to a roof. Rows of plants showed at intervals. Indirect lights provided a mellow illumination.
“Ah! Bewkel!”
A man was rising to greet the guest. Stocky and heavy of build, he seemed almost too bulky to support himself. In fact, he moved forward as though trying to avoid overexertion. He thrust out a massive paw to meet Bewkel’s handclasp.
This was Felix Tressler. Full-faced, with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, he looked like a medieval baron. A heavy, bristly black mustache added to the impression. Tressler’s clasp was firm. His tone, though rumbling, was friendly. He motioned Maurice Bewkel to a chair. Tressler took the seat that he had formerly occupied.
“A while since you have been here, Bewkel,” remarked Tressler, in his rumble. “I have changed the place a bit.”
“A great deal,” declared Bewkel. “The fountain with its patio — this open roof — both are additions to the penthouse.”
“They were being arranged when you were here last,” recalled Tressler. “My secretary, too, is a new acquisition. I decided that I would hire him in place of my valet and houseman.”
“You mean the young man who conducted me here?”
“Yes. A capable young chap. His name is Byres — Wilton Byres. I never leave the penthouse and Byres is here most of the time.”
There was a pause. Byres arrived with a box of cigars. Bewkel took one; so did Tressler. After the secretary had gone, Bewkel ended his puffs and began to speak in a quiet, confidential tone.
“I have come here,” he reminded, “to discuss this Electro Oceanic business.”
“So I supposed,” returned Tressler.
“It is a puzzling problem,” added Bewkel. “One which concerns you as well as myself, Tressler. I have invested fifty thousand dollars in it already. The question now is whether or not I shall invest a hundred and fifty thousand more.”
“My problem also.”
“I know it. The matter also concerns Channing Rightwood. All of us have had a tendency to let Electro Oceanic work out its own salvation. However, Tressler, I have, perhaps, been a little more painstaking than either you or Rightwood. That is why I have come to see you.”
“Ah! This is interesting. What about Rightwood?”
“He is out of town. I shall talk with him on his return.”
“You have data concerning Electro Oceanic?”
BEWKEL paused before replying. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Wilton Byres passing the doorway that led into the penthouse. He gripped Felix Tressler’s arm.
“Suppose,” he suggested in a tone that was half a whisper, “that we discuss this matter in a place less open?”
“Granted.” Tressler laughed in rumbling fashion. “I can understand your qualms, Bewkel. We are free from intruders here, but this roof does give the effect of openness. I have the very place. Come.”
Rising in laborious fashion, Tressler leaned on Bewkel’s arm and conducted his guest into the penthouse. He stopped at a door and unlocked it with a key that he took from his pocket. He ushered Bewkel into a small room with tiled floor. He turned on the light and closed the door behind him.