“No,” admitted Weston. “Drayson might want to get rid of others who knew too much about him. You’re right, Cranston. The very fact that Crane dug up some information proves that there would be good reason to go after other men.”
“Associates of Lester Drayson,” stated Cranston. “Have you any idea who they might be?”
“That was the information Crane was after,” broke in Wimbledon. “Lester Drayson may have had certain men in his confidence”
“He might have had a private secretary,” suggested Cranston. “Do you know of any such man?”
“Yes,” affirmed Wimbledon, in a slow, meditative tone. “I believe that Drayson did have a confidential secretary. But I have not been able to learn the fellow’s name.”
“The province of the police” — Cranston was looking directly at Weston as he spoke — “is to prevent crime as well as to solve it. This death of MacAvoy Crane is of high interest chiefly if it presages further murder.
“From Crane’s death, we find three factors. First, a man behind the murder. Second, a hired killer. Third, a possible victim. Let us assume that new murder is being plotted. There are three ways to forestall it.
“First: to find the plotter. Second: to discover the new assassin. Third: to look for the coming victim. You have chosen the first method, commissioner. You intend to look for Lester Drayson.
“I should prefer the second method. Hired killers — like Strangler Hunn— are few and far between. The third method, namely to search for the potential victim, would involve too much time.”
Commissioner Weston was smiling. He had risen from his chair; stepping forward he clapped Lamont Cranston on the shoulder.
“You are an excellent theorist,” commended Weston, with a friendly laugh. “More than that, Cranston, you have summed this case in creditable fashion. Nevertheless, I still hold to my plan.
“I intend to use the law to uncover the plotter. I shall choose the first method that you suggested. We are going to look for Lester Drayson. He apparently has much at stake. The chances are that he is in New York.”
Lamont Cranston had also risen. Like Commissioner Weston, he was ready to depart. His lips showed a quiet smile as he made a final statement.
“If I had the power which you possess, commissioner,” he said, “I should prefer the method which I have mentioned. Look for a potential murderer. Find the man who could fill the shoes of Strangler Hunn.”
“No.” Weston shook his head emphatically. “Your method would not work, Cranston. The search is on for Lester Drayson.”
When Commissioner Ralph Weston and Lamont Cranston had left Roscoe Wimbledon’s, they parted on the sidewalk in front of the big mansion. Weston stepped into his car, accompanied by Joe Cardona.
Lamont Cranston entered a waiting limousine.
HALF an hour later, a light was shining in The Shadow’s sanctum. Papers lay upon the table, beneath the glare. These memoranda concerned the checkered career of Strangler Hunn.
The Shadow, following his belief, was looking for a second choice. He was studying the records of the band with which Strangler had been associated. He was out to find a new killer.
Searches had begun. Commissioner Ralph Weston was invoking the law to hunt for Lester Drayson. The Shadow was looking for the pals of Strangler Hunn. In one sense, both the police and The Shadow were aiming for a single goal.
It seemed possible that more lives were at stake. Men like MacAvoy Crane, men who knew too much, might already be spotted for sudden doom. Perhaps innocent persons were slated to die along with the quarry that a hidden plotter sought!
Until now, The Shadow had followed. This was the time that he had chosen to work ahead. His path had diverged from the one chosen by the law. The grim race against crime had started.
Yet all the while, the law held an advantage that The Shadow did not possess. Once more, fate had tricked the master sleuth. Murder was in the making; that fact seemed evident. Yet the only clew had been sidetracked as a matter of small moment.
The paper that rested in Joe Cardona’s pocket. What a valuable bit of evidence it would be, had The Shadow known of its existence. Those letters and figures, that formed the disjointed statement — MEN 13 — would have given The Shadow the groundwork for a perfect chance to forestall coming crime.
The Shadow had divined the future. One bit of evidence had alone escaped him. Such was the grim irony that blocked The Shadow’s course. For that fragment of an unburned paper was the key to all that lay ahead!
CHAPTER VIII. AGENTS AT WORK
FIVE days had passed. They were days that brought nights of strange activities. Man hunts were in progress. The police and The Shadow were at work upon their respective tasks.
Often had The Shadow sought in higher places while police had scoured the underworld in vain search after crime suspects. This time the situation was reversed. Commissioner Ralph Weston had belittled the suggestion made by Lamont Cranston.
Detectives were roaming through Manhattan, looking here and there for traces of Lester Drayson. They were supplied with photographs of the fugitive. Those pictures showed Drayson’s portrait — that of an elderly, gray-haired man with a placid face that showed no trace of criminal characteristics.
Meanwhile, stool pigeons were idle. The badlands were ignored by the law. It was The Shadow who was working there. The master sleuth was trying to place his finger upon some skulking messenger of coming crime.
Stalking the underworld The Shadow was at times a roving phantom. On other occasions, he appeared in notorious dives, disguised as a sweatered mobster. Frequently The Shadow had played the part of a denizen of scum-land. Yet he was not alone in his efforts.
Trusted agents were at work. Cliff Marsland, accepted by mobland as one of their ilk, was spending his time in the hangouts where crooks lingered. Harry Vincent, another capable agent, was a visitor at the flossy night clubs and old hotels which cash-possessing gangsters were wont to frequent.
Clyde Burke, roving reporter of the New York Classic, was patrolling both types of places; and at intervals, he dropped into police headquarters to chat with Detective Joe Cardona.
IT was evident to Clyde that a search was being made by the Manhattan police. Clyde knew, through The Shadow, that the dicks were after Lester Drayson. But Joe Cardona, wary and taciturn, was stingy with his information. The ace detective never once gave Clyde a tip.
The task which The Shadow had set for himself and his agents was no sinecure. The Shadow knew that any former pal of Strangler Hunn would certainly be laying low. The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, had given Ralph Weston an idea which the police commissioner had not accepted. That duty performed, The Shadow was working on his own, and his course was preferable.
Weston, had he chosen to look for companions of Strangler Hunn, would have invoked the dragnet. The slowness of The Shadow’s present search proved fully that any pal of Strangler’s would have dodged that method of capture. The Shadow’s work, unhampered by police activities, offered better possibilities.
On this night, the fifth after the conference at Roscoe Wimbledon’s, The Shadow chanced to give a fleeting trace of his mysterious presence. Like an apparition, he appeared beneath the lamp light near an obscure corner on the East Side.
No peering eyes were there to see The Shadow’s passage. Like a being of a supernatural sort, The Shadow glided toward a darkened space beside a wall. From then on, his course was indiscernible.
The next manifestation of The Shadow’s weird presence came within the blackened walls of the sanctum.
A bluish light clicked on. The hand that wore the girasol appeared beneath the vivid rays. The other hand joined it. Long fingers handled typewritten report sheets.