While the old man leaned back and chuckled in delight, like some child pleased with a new toy, Luke Froy continued reading:
“—unless Joe Cardona can trace the source of the Double Z messages before to-morrow midnight, a new detective will be assigned to the case. It is well known that Cardona’s failure has jeopardized his job.
Those in the know state emphatically that the colorful sleuth’s career has reached its end.”
A new outburst of merriment came from old Zachary Shellmann. He made his attendant read and reread the passage that had pleased him so much. At last the wizened madman gained control of himself.
Luke Froy turned his head aside to keep the old man from seeing the look of pathos that had come over his features.
“There is one bad thing,” said Shellmann. “Somewhere in the paper I read that the secret service is investigating. They did that before. I do not like them, Luke.”
“They can do nothing,” said the Chinaman.
“I suppose not.” The old man stared from the window. “You mail each letter from a different post box, Luke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That one package you received some time ago. The poison from Loy Rook. You did not mail that, did you?”
“No, sir. I told you all about it at the time. I left the box of li-shun on the doorstep of the empty house on Ninety-eighth Street and came back here immediately, as you instructed me.”
“I recall it now, Luke,” said the old man. His tone suddenly changed. “So poor Loy Rook is dead. He was a good friend to me, Luke. I knew him in Shanghai thirty years ago. At the time I adopted you, Luke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He helped me, Luke, when times were hard two years ago. Then that day you came back from his place — ah! That was the beginning of this wonderful life!”
“Yes, sir.”
“When I say ‘Kill!’—men die! Ha-ha-ha-ha—” The voice of the old man trailed away, and once again he gave way to a spasm of convulsive, mad laughter. At last he regained control of himself. He became solemn again.
“That last letter, Luke. You mailed it to police headquarters.”
“I did, sir.”
“What will this absurd detective say when he reads it?”
Luke Froy shrugged his shoulders.
“He will be afraid to show it to any one! He will be afraid to keep it hidden! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha—”
WHEN the old man’s outburst had ended, he became very serious. He went to a corner of the room, where a pair of earphones and a mouthpiece rested. He donned the earphones and held the mouthpiece before him. He glanced at the clock and waited. Luke Froy was speaking. The old man saw his lips move and removed the earphones.
“What is it, Luke?” he demanded querulously. “Do not interrupt—”
“You expect no message to-day, sir. Don’t you recall—”
“Ah, yes. You remember everything, Luke. By the way” — the old man became suddenly apprehensive — “are you sure that all is well? You are careful when you come and go? You are sure no—”
“I use the utmost caution, sir. I went to Loy Rook’s that one night, as you ordered. I am watchful when I mail the letters.”
“Very good,” said the old man. “You are faithful, Luke. You have always been faithful.”
“You have been very good to me, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Perhaps. But you are faithful. You have helped me in my great work. You have helped me wonderfully. You bring every letter that comes to me. You mail all that I give you. Every envelope is destroyed.
“That one I just burned — had you noticed it, it would not have been on my desk. I am forgetful, Luke. I am getting old. I was young once. I saw much. In China, when you were a little boy.”
“You saw my father die.”
“Yes. I looked on without moving while he was beheaded with twenty others. Then I took you, Luke. Everywhere with me. I have been a father to you, Luke.”
“You have, sir.”
“Luke” — a serious expression came over the old man’s face — “Luke, you must not stay here. Go back and see that all is well. The steel door in your room. It must be barred. Keep it that way always.”
The Chinaman bowed and walked to the wall. The old man pressed the button while his attendant walked through the opening. The wall closed. The old man stared from the window.
Dusk was gathering. Lights were glimmering on the Harlem. Shellmann crept across the room and drew the shade of the single window. He turned on a small wall light. He drew a loaded revolver from the desk drawer. He sat with the gun poised.
“Tonight,” he muttered happily. “Tonight — two more! They die — like those heads dropped off in Shanghai! But I must watch. Danger comes after dark. I can depend on Luke—”
His voice trailed away. His head began to nod. The hand that held the revolver was lowered to the desk.
The gray head rested on the arm. The old man slept.
AT headquarters, Joe Cardona paced back and forth, smiting each fist alternately against the opposite palm.
“Double Z!” he growled. “If they’d only give me a chance! This business tonight — well, I’m guarding the place. Men inside the house. No one suspects this last letter — it’s only natural that I might have men up at Wade’s!
“They think Wade’s dead! If I told them different, it would save my skin. But what if I do tell? Then he’s prey for Double Z. I’ve got one chance to get the man himself. ‘To die by my own hand.’”
Cardona was repeating words that he could not forget. He brought his fist against his palm and cried aloud:
“If I could only pull something now! Only how” — he walked back and forth a full minute, then repeated — “if I could only find out where those letters come from—”
He paused to stare at a man who had entered the office. It was the man who had come there one time before — Terry Blake, of the secret-service.
“Perhaps I can help you,” said the new arrival.
“To find the source of the Double Z letters?” quizzed Cardona.
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I can take you there.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“How many men will I need?”
“Bring two.”
Cardona reached grimly for his hat.
“One moment,” said Blake. “Has anything new developed?”
Cardona thought quickly. He remembered that Tim Malloy had wondered that Terry Blake was in town.
Joe’s face was turned away. He assumed a calm expression, so that his face would not betray the fact that he did know something which might be of interest to Terry Blake.
“Nothing has come up,” he said quietly as he faced the secret-service man. “Why?”
“I thought some business might be more pressing than this which I suggest.”
“Nothing could be more important than that.”
Joe Cardona seized the phone and called for two detectives. They arrived promptly. The four men hurried into a police car.
“Where to?” asked Cardona.
Blake gave a destination in the Bronx.
As the car sped northward, Joe Cardona began to wonder about Terry Blake. The man’s manner reminded him of some one. Here, in the dark, the resemblance was most pronounced. Who was it, thought Cardona — a man whom he had met at night — a man whom—
Before Cardona’s mind had caught the resemblance, Blake spoke. In another second Cardona might have realized that Blake reminded him of The Shadow. But the interruption turned his thoughts.
“My men have been watching this place,” explained the speaker — without adding who his men were. “I have been in there myself. I have fixed it for our entrance. But it isn’t my job. I’m working independently. The pinch belongs to you, Cardona.”