“It was a new idea of mine, Mr. Cranston. Somehow” — he paused speculatively — “somehow I have tired of ordinary charities. They are too impersonal. Such as this Talleyrand Hospital Fund. A meritorious undertaking; but a cut-and-dried affair.”
“How so?”
“We ask for funds. We get them. We deliver them. The recipients have no contact with their benefactors.”
“You are chairman of the fund?”
“No. I am the secretary. It is only one of my many philanthropic connections. That reminds me” — Delhugh looked glum — “the fund is going to be short twenty thousand dollars. Well” — he shrugged his shoulders and smiled — “I can make up for that with a contribution of my own.”
“Twenty thousand dollars short?” came The Shadow’s inquiry, in Cranston’s easy inflection.
Delhugh nodded.
“You read of the death of Theobald Luftus?” he questioned. “The murder in the penthouse?”
A nod from The Shadow.
“Luftus had promised us twenty thousand dollars. We were to hear from him to-day. Unfortunately, Theobald Luftus is no longer with us.”
“He was robbed of the funds intended for you?”
“Yes. And possibly of a great deal more. Luftus wrote me a letter saying that he would give us some securities of his own selection. So I fancy that he had other funds on hand.”
“Did you inform the police of this?”
“No. I thought of doing so but after reading tonight’s newspapers, I decided that it would be unnecessary. The police commissioner has stated” — Delhugh referred to a journal on his desk — “that the criminals who rifled the dead man’s safe must have gained at least a hundred thousand dollars.”
“So you would be telling the police something that they already know.”
“Precisely! Moreover” — Delhugh shook his head seriously — “it would be a great mistake to make public the fact that some of those funds were being held for a gift. Many contributors to worthy causes are persons who have hoarded wealth.
“The death of Luftus, as reported, is apt to make hoarders decide to loose their miserly stores. You would be astonished, Mr. Cranston, to learn how often timid people — misers by nature — became philanthropic after they hear of robberies.”
“Quite a logical phenomenon.”
“It is. That is why mention of the hospital funds would have an adverse psychological effect. As far as I see it, nothing can be accomplished in the Luftus case until the police apprehend the missing broker, Adolph Murson.”
“He probably knows the extent of the dead man’s resources.”
“Very probably. And evidence points to Murson as the perpetrator of the crime.”
There was a pause while Delhugh and his visitor puffed at their cigars. Then The Shadow, in leisurely Cranston fashion, came back to the subject of his visit.
“IT occurred to me,” he stated, “that I might try some individual philanthropies of my own. That is why I have come to you. I assume that you must have lists of persons who are deserving of aid.”
“I have lists and records,” smiled Delhugh. “A whole room lined with filing cabinets. Names by thousands, with details pertaining to their histories and circumstances.”
“Could you give me access to those lists?”
“Yes. But the task of going through them would be tremendous. You would find it most burdensome. My secretary, Benzig, could begin on it. But his time it almost completely occupied.”
“Suppose I turned it over to a secretary of my own?”
“You have a man available?”
“Yes. A young chap named Vincent. He has a job at present; but he would be glad of the opportunity to do evening work. Would it be possible for him to come here?”
“Certainly. There is a desk in the filing room. He could make his headquarters there. Benzig could show him the best lists. How soon would he begin?”
“At once. Say to-morrow night.”
“Very good. Just what kind of cases will he search for?”
A smile showed on Cranston’s lips.
“Deserving cases,” stated The Shadow. “I shall have Vincent pick those which he thinks are best. Say two hundred names. From those— with their records — I shall select the ten that most appeal to me.”
“And make them gifts?”
“Yes. Five thousand dollars to each of the ten persons. Anonymous gifts, dropping from the sky.”
“Like manna to the hungry.”
“Or rain to the thirsty.”
Delhugh nodded his approval. He arose from the desk, noting that his visitor seemed ready to leave.
“Commendable. Mr. Cranston,” declared the philanthropist, extending his hand to The Shadow. “This is the type of giving that I approve. Donations that bring dividends in happiness. To the donor as well as to the recipient.
“Ordinary welfare funds are necessary. Charitable enterprises must be supported. But many who contribute to them do so to gain public acclaim. Or to satisfy their consciences because they have, in the past, been grasping.
“This plan of yours is different, however. I shall be pleased to see how it works out. Just as I am looking forward to the fruits of my own experiments. Have your man Vincent come here to-morrow night. Benzig will start him on his task.”
Delhugh rang for his secretary. Benzig appeared and ushered the visitor downstairs. He saw Cranston’s tall form step aboard a limousine. An order to the chauffeur; the car pulled away.
IN the rear seat of the limousine, encased by soundproof glass, the being who posed as Lamont Cranston indulged in a soft, prophetic laugh. Another step had been made toward balking men of crime.
Here, at the home of Perry Delhugh, lay new opportunity to thwart coming evil. Jack Targon had been here tonight; that was proof that Steve Zurk would also be a visitor. From now on, Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, would be implanted at a spot that was strategically important.
For The Shadow, following Murson’s tip, had divined that the leak might have come from Delhugh’s. The Shadow had learned from Delhugh’s own statement, that the philanthropist had held correspondence with Theobald Luftus.
One chance for crime had been snapped from that source. New opportunities would be in the making.
Crooks would gain them; The Shadow, through Harry Vincent, would learn of the opportunities that might come to men of crime.
He, too, would use the knowledge that lay at Delhugh’s. With it, The Shadow would see chances to thwart the thrusts of murderous fiends.
CHAPTER XIV. WEDNESDAY NIGHT
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since The Shadow’s visit to Delhugh’s home. Manhattan’s East Side lay beneath the blanket of night. A strolling man, erect of shoulder and steady in gait, went past a patrolman who was pacing near the steps of an elevated station.
The stroller kept on, unchallenged. A disdainful snort came from his lips. This fellow had no fear of cops.
To Lucky Ortz, a policeman was a dumb flatfoot. For this strolling man was Lucky himself, en route to Beak Latzo’s new hideout.
On a secluded street, Lucky took a darkened doorway to the left of a shoemaker’s shop. He unlocked the door, entered and went upstairs. He rapped five times at a door that stood in darkness.
The barrier opened. Lucky entered to greet Beak Latzo.
“Anything new from Dangler?” came Beak’s query.
“Sure,” chuckled Lucky. “This. Another note from Steve.”
Beak ripped open the envelope. He read Steve’s scrawl; then applied a match to note and envelope and dropped them, flaming, in a metal wastebasket.
“What’s doing?” quizzed Lucky.
“Nothing yet,” replied Beak. “Steve says to lay low and wait.”