It was a strange business for an investment broker, this task of going over newspaper clippings and obtaining unprinted information through a reporter on the 'Classic'. Even more strange was the visit of Rutledge Mann to the squalid building on Twenty-third Street.
What dealings did the fastidious investment broker have with a man named Jonas, who inhabited one of the most obscure and decrepit offices in New York?
That was a fact known to a very few. Those who understood were sworn to secrecy. For Rutledge Mann and Clyde Burke were members of a small and obscure company. They were agents of the mysterious man called The Shadow — that strange figure whose name had become the terror of the underworld.
Clyde Burke had assembled material for Rutledge Mann. The investment broker had revised the data which the reporter had given him. Now the final reports were waiting in the mail chute for the man who had ordered them.
To all New York, the death of Clark Murdock might have been accepted as a misadventure. But to The Shadow, it must have a greater significance. For he had instructed Mann, through a mysterious message, to obtain information from Clyde Burke.
The calm activities of The Shadow's agents were the forerunners of approaching storm.
When The Shadow began such work, it meant doom to fiends of crime!
Chapter V — The Shadow Begins
A circle of light upon the smooth surface of a polished table. Long, slender fingers, moving like detached creatures of life. A resplendent fire opal, glimmering from its golden setting. The hands of The Shadow were at work!
Who was The Shadow?
That was a question none could answer.
Unknown even to his own operatives, The Shadow was a man of mystery. His very identity was a subject of unanswered speculation. To the hordes of the underworld, the very mention of The Shadow brought apprehension and terror.
Time and again, this dread figure had arrived from nowhere, to strike the foes of justice.
Brutal mobsters had died, with the name of The Shadow on their trembling lips. Men who called themselves masterminds of crime had quailed before an avenging figure clad in black, knowing him to be The Shadow. The police, too, knew of The Shadow, although they tactfully avoided mention of his existence. The Shadow, when he struck, did not remain to claim the glory.
Time and again, some shrewd detective had received credit for the capture of a desperate crook, with no one to dispute the honor. Experienced sleuths seldom talked of The Shadow.
There was a definite reason why The Shadow ignored publicity. His strength lay in the shroud of mystery that enveloped him.
It was true that his voice was heard over the radio, in a program over a national broadcasting chain. That also served The Shadow's purpose. The tones of his mysterious voice were recognized by all who heard them. Yet all the efforts of the underworld to learn the identity of the broadcaster had come to no avail. The Shadow spoke from a soundproof room, boxed with black curtains. His method of entrance and exit from the place was a mystery that had never been solved — not even by those connected with the broadcasting studio.
The Shadow's mission was war on crime. At night he stalked the streets of New York, ready to thwart the plans of evildoers. He was everywhere — yet nowhere. A champion of law and order, this man of the night hunted criminals as an explorer might scour the jungle in search of man-eating tigers. When unsolved crimes occurred, The Shadow became a master of detection.
His marvelous brain had developed the power of deduction to a miraculous degree. Clews bobbed up from nowhere, that the police might follow in the wake of The Shadow's findings.
Yet these faculties were not the greatest that The Shadow possessed. He had one power that was beyond all others. In this he surpassed all sleuths of fact or fiction. The Shadow's greatest work was the discovery of crime. In cases which the police passed over; in instances where even the craftiest schemers of the underworld saw nothing amiss, The Shadow appeared to disclose deep designs beneath unruffled surfaces.
A master of disguise, The Shadow could appear in any company unsuspected. But when he stepped from the night to appear as a power of vengeance, his chosen part was that of a tall figure garbed in black. His cry of triumph was a mocking laugh that chilled the ears of hearers.
The symbol of The Shadow was the gem upon his finger; that fire opal, known as a girasol — a stone unmatched in all the world. Few knew of its significance. But when The Shadow was at work, that sparkling jewel shone upon his hand, like a living eye.
Tonight, beneath the rays of a green shaded lamp, the girasol was glowing with ever-changing hues. From deep crimson it became rich purple; then it changed again to a shade of darkened blue. The hands of The Shadow opened an envelope. Out fell the papers that Rutledge Mann had assembled that afternoon. One by one, the pages fluttered aside, until only two of the reports remained. One bore the name of Lamont Cranston; the other that of Doctor Gerald Savette. The laugh of The Shadow echoed softly through the shrouded room, and returned in ringing mockery, as though from the walls of a tomb. The long pointed fingers spread over the sheet that told the history of Doctor Savette. A hand moved into the darkness; it returned with a pencil, and checked this paragraph:
The only victim of the fire in Savette's sanitarium at Garland, Long Island was Austin Bellamy, who perished in spite of Savette's vain effort to reach the room where he lay helpless.
Now the hand progressed to a pasted strip at the bottom of the page. It checked these words:
Austin Bellamy's sole heir was his stepbrother, Harold Sharrock, who is now living in Paris. Bellamy's estate was valued at approximately three million dollars.
On the margin beside the pasted paragraph, the hand marked this notation:
Send Vincent
There was a long, silent pause, while invisible eyes from the dark scanned the other references concerning Doctor Savette. The fingers picked up a small envelope that had come within the large one, and drew forth a dozen small clippings that told of different crimes. These were spread across the table. The left hand, with its gleaming gem, moved across them and poised above a single clipping. With uncanny precision, it picked that solitary item from the rest.
The clipping was a brief paragraph that told of the finding of a young man's body on a vacant lot in the Bronx. The hand placed the clipping upon the typed report.
Now another envelope came into view. From it the hands extracted a folded clipping.
That item would have interested Rutledge Mann, for it concerned the strange disappearance of Professor Pierre Rachaud. Mann had supplied the clipping to The Shadow, but had received no further orders concerning the case. With great precision, the hands set the Rachaud clipping in the center of the table. Below it, they placed the newspaper account of Clark Murdock's death. A space remained below. It was unfilled. There was significance in that blank area of polished table surface. It indicated that something was to follow.
The laugh of The Shadow was a whispered tone as the long right hand placed the tip of the pencil upon a sheet of blank paper. It wrote these words in column form, pausing momentarily between each one:
Money.
Television.
Atomic Energy.
Aeronautics.
Money.
After the word at the top of the column, the hand of The Shadow inscribed the name Bellamy. Next on the list came Rachaud. Third was Murdock. The two final words received no names. The list and the clippings were pushed aside. Once more the hand ran over the report on Doctor Savette. It found the statement: