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“That’s what I expected,” growled Cardona.

“Burke is downstairs,” added Markham. “He wants to see you. Shall I tell him to come up?”

“All right.”

Joe Cardona rested his chin in his right hand. The detective was recalling the conference at Roscoe Wimbledon’s. He remembered the statements which had been made by Lamont Cranston.

Had MacAvoy Crane’s death been but the first in a series of plotted murders? Was it connected with this killing of Jerome Neville? These were questions that perplexed the sleuth.

“Men thirteen,” mumbled Cardona, half aloud. “Thirteen men. Maybe Crane was one; Neville is two—”

“What’s that, Joe?” inquired Klein.

“Just an idea, inspector,” returned Cardona. “I was thinking.” He paused; then stared toward the door.

“Hello, there, Burke. Later than usual tonight, eh?”

“I wouldn’t be,” retorted the reporter, “if that dumb cop hadn’t stopped me downstairs. He wouldn’t even send a message up to you. What’s the story, Joe?”

“An unknown killer,” stated the detective, “entered here and shot Jerome Neville. The victim was a refrigerator salesman.”

“Any motive?”

“None apparent. The killer made away with some papers belonging to Neville. He ransacked the place before he left.”

CARDONA looked narrowly at Burke. The detective wanted to see what the reporter’s response would be. Cardona nodded grimly as Burke made comment.

“Something like the Crane murder, eh?” quizzed the reporter. “Any link between the two deaths?”

“None,” decided Cardona. “That is, none except the circumstances. Go easy on it, Burke.”

“All right, Joe. Say” — Clyde’s eyes turned toward a telephone on the table — “were there any calls out of the place?”

“None,” returned Cardona. “We received a report from the telephone company. We’ve still got to get a final statement. But it looks like there were no calls.”

Clyde Burke put further questions. All pertained to the simple facts of the case. Joe Cardona gave the required data. While this was going on, the telephone bell rang. Inspector Klein answered.

“Chief operator?” he questioned. “Yes… This is Quadrangle two — four — one — three — eight… Inspector Klein is speaking. Yes, from headquarters… Final check-up, eh? Thank you.”

The inspector hung up. He turned to Joe Cardona with the announcement:

“No calls reported on this wire since last night.”

Cardona made the notation for his report. He put down the number: Quadrangle 2-4138. Then he turned to Clyde Burke.

“We don’t know who the killer was, Burke,” stated the detective. “But it’s a cinch he wasn’t an amateur. One shot was all he needed to drill Neville through the heart. He wounded the patrolman at long range. He knows his business — this killer.”

“As well as Strangler Hunn?” questioned Clyde.

“I wouldn’t say that,” growled Cardona. “Forget that Crane death, Burke. This is another story. Well — we’ve got all there is to get. How about it, inspector?”

“I guess you’re right, Joe,” agreed Klein, in a rueful tone. “We might as well be going.”

The three men left. Clyde Burke separated from Klein and Cardona after they had reached the street.

The newspaper man went to look for a telephone — presumably to call the Classic office.

SOME time afterward, a figure appeared upon the street opposite the old house in which Jerome Neville had died. A policeman was standing by the front steps. The officer did not see the form that had arrived on the other sidewalk.

For the watching shape was one of blackness — that of a creature who possessed a pair of burning eyes; beyond that, no features which were discernible. When the officer turned to pace a few rods toward the corner, the watching being glided in phantom fashion. Crossing the street, the weird prowler gained the darkness of a space beneath the high stone steps.

The policeman paced by. Silently, the hidden personage began to work upon a basement door. A lock yielded with a slight click. When the policeman paused upon the steps, the low door opened without a squeak. It closed. The dark form was no longer in front of it.

Minutes passed. Into the gloom of Jerome Neville’s living room crept a weird, amazing visitor. The table lamp was still burning; its partly shaded rays made the arrival appear as a shrouded creature from the tomb.

The Shadow had come to inspect these premises. He was repeating his previous procedure; the one that he had used at MacAvoy Crane’s. First: a report from Clyde Burke, telling what Joe Cardona had discovered. Second: a search by The Shadow himself.

Burning eyes turned toward the table. They spied marks in the dust. Joe Cardona had seen those traces.

The detective, however, had passed them up because they showed no hand or finger impressions.

To The Shadow, however, those marks were important. A flashlight gleamed to increase the illumination.

It showed blurred marks that faded toward the edges. The Shadow’s left fist closed; its black-gloved outline poised above the traces in the dust.

The Shadow’s hand began to quiver. It was simulating the action that would have necessarily caused the marks upon the table. A gloved hand — a shaky hand — such was the hand that had rested here.

A soft laugh crept through the room. The Shadow had found the clew he needed. The Shadow knew that Shakes Niefan was back in New York; The Shadow was looking for the slayer who had been a pal of Strangler Hunn.

Here was Shakes Niefan’s imprint. The murderer who steadied when crime demanded was the slayer whom The Shadow wanted. Shakes Niefan — no one else — was the murderer of Jerome Neville.

The motive? A hidden plotter? A coming victim? These were questions that could be answered by a swift and direct plan. Shakes Niefan must be found. That was The Shadow’s mission.

THE flashlight went out. The phantom shape moved from the living room. The tiny bulb blinked as The Shadow searched the remainder of the apartment. At last, the blinking ceased.

Stealthily The Shadow descended the stairs and passed through the silent house. He chose a rear window as an exit. He merged into thick darkness. His purpose here was finished.

Tonight, The Shadow had found a clew that Joe Cardona had missed. The Shadow no longer followed.

He was leading in the race to frustrate crime. Yet still, The Shadow was handicapped. Of the two clews — one at Crane’s, the other at Neville’s — Joe Cardona had found the most important one.

The cryptic message on the torn bit of paper. Its lettered inscription — MEN 13 — still remained unsolved.

That was the clew which The Shadow needed. Until he learned of its existence, the master sleuth would be working under disadvantage.

His one course now was to uncover Shakes Niefan. The odds were against a speedy gaining of that goal.

In the meantime, new deaths threatened — stark murder which Joe Cardona alone could prevent, yet which the detective could not discern.

Only the keen brain of The Shadow could have spotted the meaning of that cryptic fragment which Joe Cardona was holding unused!

CHAPTER XI. AGAIN THE KILLER

THICK, misty night had descended upon Manhattan. Swirls of fog clung to the pillars of the elevated structure where if cut its way through a shoddy district of the East Side.

Dull blares of steamship whistles came in eerie basso through the drizzly blackness. Close to the river, this district seemed to seep in the waters of the bridge-spanned channel between Manhattan and Long Island.