He had narrowed the total number of potential victims to four. Two had already died: Neville and Engliss.
Two were still in danger: Hessling and Arment.
During his checking of the list, The Shadow had ordered agents on duty.
First, Harry Vincent to watch Dudley Arment, when The Shadow had selected Arment’s name. Second: Cliff Marsland to guard Clement Hessling.
Should either of these possible victims be threatened, a stalwart aid of The Shadow would be there to encounter Shakes Niefan. The Shadow had found no other possible victims, according to his survey of the list. He had decided, therefore, to participate in person.
Why had he chosen Dudley Arment in preference to Clement Hessling? Only The Shadow knew; his soft laugh came in mocking tones as his fingers picked up the torn slip of paper which he had prepared as a duplicate of Cardona’s clew.
Of two men, Dudley Arment was the one whom The Shadow intended to visit. Still planning to guard Clement Hessling, he was ordering Harry Vincent to join Cliff Marsland. Two agents would form a better guard than one.
The Shadow’s finger pointed to a spot on the map. It marked the location of the Cobalt Club. It moved to the district where Dudley Arment’s apartment was located — Tewksbury Court was the name of the big apartment house. This indicated that The Shadow would first travel to the club; then to Arment’s uptown residence.
The dialed clock was nearing the hour of nine. Hands folded the map. The light clicked out. The sanctum was in darkness. A swish; then an eerie laugh. The Shadow had departed.
DOWN in Greenwich Village, Cliff Marsland was loitering beside the only entrance to the small apartment house where Clement Hessling lived. The sound of boisterous laughter was coming from opened windows in the second story front. A party was in progress in Hessling’s apartment.
A stroller stopped his pace on the other side of the street. His right hand shook as it raised a match to light a cigarette. The flame revealed the face of Shakes Niefan. Cliff, though he glanced across the street, did not observe the countenance because of the raised hand.
As he tossed the match away, Shakes glanced toward the lighted windows of Hessling’s apartment. He heard the revelry. With a scowl, he moved along the street. He turned a corner, entered a telephone booth and made a call.
“Hello…” Shakes announced himself by his tone. “Yeah… I’m down here… The guy’s throwing a party… Listen; what about the other bird? Suppose I go up there tonight and pick this fellow tomorrow…
“You called his place, eh? I see… No answer… Well, maybe he’ll be in when I get there… Sure… If he isn’t there, I’ll come back here later on…”
Shakes left the telephone booth. He sauntered from the store and walked at a rapid pace until he neared an entrance of the Eighth Avenue subway. Shakes descended.
IN his darkened room at the Hotel Morrisette, Lester Drayson, alias Martin Hyslop, was gazing from the window. The glow of his cigar kept flickering as the smoker took quick, short puffs.
Gazing to the street, Drayson saw a limousine pull up in front of Wimbledon’s. Two men alighted. One was Commissioner Ralph Weston; the other was Detective Joe Cardona. An impatient growl came from Drayson’s throat.
The hiding man sensed danger in this new visit. Well did Drayson know that through Wimbledon he could be brought to trial and convicted for his connection with the Universal Aircraft Corporation. Wimbledon in touch with the police commissioner. This was a repeated token that time could not be lost.
Moving back into the room, Drayson picked up the telephone. He hesitated; then replaced the instrument on the table. After a few impatient paces, he again picked up the telephone and spoke to the clerk below.
“Call that number again,” he ordered. “Carmody 5-9213.”
The number of Dudley Arment’s telephone! While The Shadow and Shakes Niefan, each with a different purpose, were on their way to find if Arment had returned, Lester Drayson was choosing this method to learn if the man had returned home.
There had been a peculiar accent to Drayson’s voice, when he had spoken to the clerk. Arment, should he be at home, would not recognize that tone, even though he might know Drayson’s usual manner of speaking.
A few apologetic words — a bluff about a wrong number — these would suffice if Drayson chose to conceal his identity. But no need for such measures came. As Drayson waited, the clerk’s voice responded with the statement that the number did not answer.
TEN minutes after Lester Drayson had made this futile call, a man appeared at the nearest corner to the towering building known as Tewksbury Court. Shakes Niefan, agent of death, had arrived to seek his newest victim: Dudley Arment.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE RETURN
“THE street is blocked, Mr. Cranston.”
The statement came from the uniformed chauffeur in the front seat of Lamont Cranston’s limousine. The man was speaking through the lowered window between the front and the back.
“All right, Stanley.” The words were in Cranston’s quiet tone. “I shall leave you here. Go up to the next street and turn down the further avenue. Wait for me at the corner of this street and the avenue.”
“Very well, sir.”
As Stanley spoke, the door opened and Lamont Cranston stepped to the street. The action was performed before the chauffeur could alight. As Stanley began to back the limousine, he looked in vain for signs of his master. Lamont Cranston had disappeared upon the darkened sidewalk.
There was a reason for his remarkable departure. A small bag lay in the back seat of the limousine. It was a bag that Cranston always carried in the car. The bag was empty. Entering the limousine as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had taken cloak and hat from within that bag. In his black garb, he had alighted.
The street was under repair. An unexpected barrier had caused The Shadow to disembark a half block from his goal. This was the street in back of Tewksbury Court. The Shadow had chosen to make his entrance from this direction.
IN the lobby of Tewksbury Court, a young man was seated by a potted rubber plant. This was Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. Harry’s eyes were roving constantly between two spots; a pigeonhole behind the clerk’s desk; the clock above the desk itself.
The pigeonhole bore the number 18 M. That was the number of Dudley Arment’s apartment. Mail showed in the pigeonhole, along with a key. That was the sign that Arment had not returned.
The long hand of the clock had reached its lowest point. Half past nine had arrived. Harry’s vigil was ended. Rising, The Shadow’s agent strolled from the lobby. He had called Burbank fifteen minutes before. He was following new instructions. Harry was to join Cliff Marsland.
Harry had not seen Shakes Niefan enter. He had not been looking for the killer. Harry had been appointed to cover Dudley Arment should the man return. Harry had fulfilled that duty.
The Shadow had arranged a clockwork schedule tonight. Two unforeseen factors had interfered. One was the closed street behind the large apartment house. That had delayed The Shadow, withholding his arrival to the final minute.
The other factor was the clock above the lobby desk. It was nearly five minutes fast. Harry Vincent had neglected to check the time. Hence an interval occurred between the departure of Harry Vincent and the arrival of The Shadow.
At the very beginning of that interim, a middle-aged man walked into the lobby of Tewksbury Court. He approached the desk. The clerk nodded in greeting.
“Good evening, Mr. Arment,” he said. “A pleasant trip?”
“Yes.” Arment shifted a suitcase to the floor. “My key, please, and my mail.”
Receiving these, Arment picked up the bag and entered a waiting elevator. He was whisked to the eighteenth floor. He walked down a hallway, past the shaft of the service elevator and unlocked the door of his apartment. He entered and turned on the living room light.