A poor photograph. An old one that had not reproduced well. It gave Murson an idea. He drew a small case from his pocket and extracted a pair of pince-nez spectacles that he seldom used. Adjusting the glasses to his nose, Murson felt that they might help him as a temporary disguise.
Drawing the newspaper from his pocket the broker held it in front of him and tried to read. He noted that the police were searching for him — according to the account; that he had presumably left for Washington the day before.
Dimly, Murson recalled an incident this morning: police at the Union Station in Washington, watching people going through a train gate. But they had been watching southern-bound passengers. Murson realized why. No one would have suspected that he, Adolph Murson, would be coming back to New York.
Murson realized something else. In Washington, he had not stopped at a hotel. Instead, he had stayed over night with a friend in Arlington. He had left by taxicab to catch his train. Had his friend read the newspapers and informed the police that he had left for New York? Murson hoped not.
The bus had started; passing through the terminal, it rolled aboard a ferryboat. Murson continued his reading. He was nervous. He expected that police would be on the other side. He was tempted to leave the bus; but the presence of the other passengers deterred him.
Across the aisle was the young man whom Murson had seen in the club car of the train. This chap was reading a magazine, not a newspaper. Murson felt at ease on that score. Here, at least, was one who would not recognize him.
The ferry reached the Manhattan slip. Big wheels spun; chains clattered; gates were opened. The bus moved forward through a tunnellike passage. It stopped as it reached the street.
Murson groaned. He saw a policeman coming over toward the bus.
Then came a break. Another bus, one bringing passengers to the depot, rolled up from the opposite direction. The policeman turned and began to look through the windows of the arriving vehicle. He was interested more in people who were leaving New York, rather than those coming into town.
MURSON’S bus rolled northward. As it sped along a broad avenue, Murson felt a sickening-sensation.
He had intended to ride to the bus depot on Forty-second Street, opposite the Grand Central Terminal.
He realized that there would be officers at that spot.
Fumbling for a time-table, Murson read the names of places where the bus stopped en route. A weak smile came to his lips. He clenched and unclenched his hands, rustling the newspaper with the action.
Then, as the bus crossed a broad street, he arose and stepped forward to the driver.
“I want the Zenith Hotel,” he said. “You stop near there, don’t you?”
“Next stop,” informed the driver.
Murson held to the handle of a seat, staring through the front window. The bus rolled along another block; then, swerved and pulled up beside the entrance of a hotel. Murson stepped out when the driver opened the door. An attendant put his bag off at the back.
Not waiting for the hotel porter to pick up the bag, Murson headed through the revolving door and reached the lobby of the Zenith Hotel. He had seen a patrolman strolling down the street. In his haste to avoid the officer, he did not learn that another passenger had followed him from the bus.
It was the young man with the magazine. He arrived at the desk in the lobby while Murson was registering under the name of John Dyler, giving his home city as Baltimore.
The young man heard the clerk give Murson Room 912. Then, as Murson turned about, the young man strolled away toward a magazine stand, unnoticed by the broker.
Murson entered an elevator, a bell hop carrying his bag. The young man went directly to a telephone booth and dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Vincent calling,” acknowledged the young man.
“Report,” came Burbank’s order.
The young man spoke in detail. He told of Adolph Murson’s trip from the ferry. He gave the broker’s false name and room number.
The call completed, the young man strolled from the booth and left the hotel. Harry Vincent, active agent of The Shadow, had reported to the contact man, Burbank.
UP in Room 912, Murson was fumbling with a phone book The bell boy had gone. Finding a number, Murson put in a call. He asked for Mr. Dobbs. He was informed that Mr. Dobbs was out. Murson hung up and paced the room.
Ten minutes later, he repeated the call — with the same result. Mr. Dobbs was still out. The girl at the other end of the wire wanted Murson’s name. Murson stammered incoherently; then hung up.
The broker’s back was to the door. Hence Murson did not see a motion of the barrier. Though he had locked it, the door was opening inward.
Murson swung about. A cry came from his lips.
Standing in the room was a personage dressed in a dark, well-fitted suit. The intruder’s face was a calm one, a moulded visage that seemed almost masklike. There was something hawkish in his countenance; and his eyes were burning orbs that gleamed upon the hapless broker.
Murson sank gasping into a chair. He babbled weakly, incoherently; then buried his head in his hand.
The tall intruder’s thin lips formed a smile; from them came the faint whisper of a mirthless laugh.
The arrival was The Shadow. Guised as a chance visitor, he had come here to find Adolph Murson.
Within a half hour after Murson’s arrival in New York, The Shadow had uncovered the hunted man for whom the police were searching everywhere in vain.
CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW ADVISES
“You — you are a detective?” The gasped question came from Murson, as the hunted man looked up. “You have come — come to arrest me?”
“I am a friend,” spoke The Shadow in a steady, even tone. “I have come to talk to you.”
Murson looked bewildered. He had never seen this person before. He could not understand.
“You were calling an attorney.” The Shadow’s statement was a monotone. “But you learned that he was out.”
“I was calling Egbert Dobbs,” acknowledged Adolph Murson. “He is my lawyer—”
“Mr. Dobbs is keeping an appointment,” informed The Shadow. “One that was arranged on your account. So that you would not talk to him.”
“Why — why shouldn’t I talk to Dobbs?”
“Because he would advise you to give yourself up to the police.”
Murson groaned.
“A proper course for an innocent man,” added The Shadow. “But one that brings great difficulties. I should not advise it for the present.”
Hope gleamed in Murson’s eyes. He realized that this amazing stranger was actually a friend. Finding relief, he blurted:
“How did you discover me here?”
“Quite simply,” stated The Shadow, a slight smile on his lips. “Knowing that you were innocent, I believed that you had gone to Washington as you stated. Something that the police doubted.”
“But — but my coming here—”
“You had an appointment for this morning. At your office. But you changed it to one-thirty this afternoon.”
“Yes. I intended to keep it—”
“By coming in on a train that would reach New York about one o’clock. There are two such trains from Washington. On different railroads.”
Murson nodded.
“I might have come by Pennsylvania,” he admitted. “But I decided to take the Baltimore and Ohio.”
“Two persons went to Philadelphia this morning,” stated The Shadow. He was referring to Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent. “One boarded the Pennsylvania train; the other took the Baltimore and Ohio. Both were looking for you.”
“And they had seen my printed picture—”