Moving through the darkness of his room, Drayson found the telephone. He waited until an answer came from the clerk below; then he gave a number:
“Carmody five — nine — two — one — three.”
Minutes passed. Then came word from the desk:
“No answer, sir.”
Lester Drayson muttered to himself as he returned to the window. Then his tone changed to a short, grunted laugh. Lighting a cigar, the man who called himself Martin Hyslop sat beside the window and stared out into darkness.
ELSEWHERE in Manhattan, a figure had arrived within the walls of a darkened room. A swish amid blackness; then came the click of a light. A bluish incandescent threw its focused rays upon a polished table. The Shadow had reached his sanctum.
White hands appeared beneath the light. They stretched forward and obtained earphones. A voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.” It was The Shadow’s whisper.
“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “All quiet at Shakes Niefan’s old hideout. Much discussion about the gun fight that took place. Marsland does not think that Niefan will return.”
“Report received.”
A whispered laugh came from the darkness as The Shadow thrust the earphones to the wall. The hands produced pen and paper. They began to make notations:
Method One.
Find the plotter.
Police searching for Lester Drayson.
The hand paused. Blue ink dried. The words began to vanish. Such was the way with the ink that The Shadow used. This fluid vanished after drying unless sealed within an envelope. The Shadow used it for communications with his agents. He also employed the special ink for inscribing the thoughts that gripped him when he planned his ways to counter crime.
The hand wrote once more:
Method Two.
Find the killer.
Shakes Niefan has not returned to hideout.
Police search will eventually point to him.
Another wait. The ink vanished, word by word. There was significance in the soft laugh that The Shadow uttered. It seemed to indicate a change of policy. The Shadow had left the first method to the police while he pursued the second. Now that the law had followed The Shadow’s lead, the master sleuth was planning another course.
Again the hand inscribed:
Third Method.
Find the next victim.
This time a new laugh throbbed within the black-walled sanctum. The Shadow had chosen a more startling course. Yet it was one that offered high reward should it succeed.
Two men had been slain since Strangler Hunn had murdered MacAvoy Crane. Had The Shadow possessed a clew to lead him to Jerome Neville or Hiram Engliss, he could have saved the lives of those unfortunate victims.
Did new murder lie ahead? The Shadow could combat it by learning who Shakes Niefan planned to slay.
The Shadow’s task was a grim one; yet this master had a faculty for turning past and present into a foresight of the future!
Jerome Neville.
Hiram Engliss.
These were the names that The Shadow wrote. The names vanished while hidden eyes studied them.
Next came addresses. Finally, telephone numbers.
Here The Shadow paused. When the writing faded, he repeated the inscription.
FROM the facts that Clyde Burke had furnished, The Shadow had found a meager clew. Taking two sheets of paper, he wrote the name and telephone number of Jerome Neville on one.
Upon the other sheet, he placed the same data concerning Hiram Engliss.
The papers read:
Jerome Neville, Quadrangle 2-4138
Hiram. Engliss, Midtown 9-1362
As each sheet dried, The Shadow inserted it in an envelope before the ink had time to vanish. Then, upon a larger sheet of paper, he inscribed a coded message. He folded this, placed it in the envelope and closed the flap. On the face of the envelope, he wrote the name of Clyde Burke.
This envelope went into a larger one. Using another pen, with a blacker ink, The Shadow addressed the outer envelope to Rutledge Mann, Badger Building, New York City. The inscription dried. It did not fade.
A soft laugh sounded in darkness as the light clicked out. The weird mockery rose to a sinister tone; then faded into shuddering reverberations.
Two deaths — both the work of Shakes Niefan — had given The Shadow opportunity for a chance comparison. Between now and the next night, The Shadow was sure that he would gain facts to aid him in pursuance of his clew.
CHAPTER XV. CARDONA TAKES A TIP
AT nine o’clock the next morning, a chubby-faced man was staring from the window of an office high above Broadway. He seemed to have no interest other than his view of the Manhattan skyline.
This was Rutledge Mann, a prosperous investment broker who had his suite of offices in the towering Badger Building. Leisurely in manner, Mann seemed to have no concern other than the fluctuations of the stock market.
Mann’s business, however, was twofold. His brokerage activities, though they brought him comfortable profit, were not his most important job. This office was actually a blind. Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow.
Useful in research, Mann also served as a contact agent between The Shadow and his active operatives.
The investment broker delivered important written instructions; he also received elaborate reports which he delivered to The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann turned as he heard a rap at the door. It was the stenographer, coming to announce a visitor.
“Mr. Burke is here,” stated the girl.
“Show him in,” ordered Mann.
When Clyde Burke had arrived, Mann reached into a desk drawer and produced a sealed envelope.
This was the inner packet that had come from The Shadow. Clyde Burke’s name had faded from the face of the envelope after Mann had read it.
Clyde received the envelope. He tore it open. Out came a folded sheet of paper; with it, two small slips.
Clyde noted the slips first. Then, as their writing faded, he unfolded the paper and perused its coded lines.
Clyde began to nod as he finished reading. His lips formed a slight smile. Rutledge Mann watched the slips go in the wastebasket. The folded paper followed. Its coded message had also disappeared.
“All right,” announced Clyde. “I’ll be back later in the morning.”
LEAVING the Badger Building, Clyde called a taxi. The Shadow’s agent ordered the driver to take him to detective headquarters. Arriving at his destination, Clyde went directly to Joe Cardona’s office.
“Hello, Burke,” growled the detective, as he looked up from a batch of papers. “Nothing new on the Engliss case. I’ll let you know when any word comes in.
Clyde smiled as he saw Cardona cover a photograph with a paper. The Shadow’s agent knew that a heavy search was due for an unknown killer. It was evident that Cardona did not want the newspapers to know too much at present.
“I’m not looking for a story, Joe,” announced Clyde. “That is, I’m not asking you to give me one. I’ve got an idea — a long shot — and I’ll slip it to you if you’re willing to go through with it.”
“On these murders?”
“Yes.”
“Spill it.”
“Wait a minute.” Clyde was working for effect. “You may think I’m crazy, Joe. But I’m not. I’ve got a real bet for you; it may mean a lot of trouble; but I’ve got a real hunch that it may bring a big result.”
“I like hunches,” nodded Cardona. “Go ahead, Burke. I’ll be frank with you — we’re ready to take any lead that looks good.”
“All right, Joe.” Clyde considered. “First of all, there’s something funny about these two murders. The same killer got Jerome Neville and Hiram Engliss. That’s bad enough; but why should he want to murder either one of them?”