“Thanks,” said the detective. “I’ll need it. My job’s hanging by a hair right now.”
The police car was crossing the Harlem River. It stopped at a spot indicated by Terry Blake. The four men left and crept forward toward an old house. Cardona began to wonder again. The ease with which Blake moved was amazing. They came to a side door. Blake produced a key. The door opened.
“Leave the men here,” instructed Blake, “until we call them.”
Cardona followed upstairs. At a nudge from Blake, he unlimbered his automatic. They stopped before a solid door.
Cardona watched the tiny ray of a little flashlight which Blake had produced. A thin, flat piece of metal glowed in the secret-service man’s hand. Delicately Blake wedged it in the crack of the door.
Cardona repressed a gasp. A portion of the door had been cut away— evidently some time before — so neatly that the eye could not have noticed it. This was Blake’s preparation!
Cardona noted the slender white hand that handled the thin piece of metal so smoothly. Now he saw muscles quiver; the metal moved noiselessly. In miraculous fashion Blake was lifting up a latched bar on the other side of the door — yet not a sound could be heard!
THE door moved now. The flashlight went out. Beams of light came through the crack. Blake slid through. Cardona followed, but Blake had moved so rapidly that Cardona was left well behind.
Within the room the detective discovered the secret-service man, gun in hand, covering a startled Chinaman who had been sitting in a chair.
The captive was garbed in American clothes. He had risen when Blake had surprised him, and now stood half out of the chair, his hands above his head.
“Get your men,” whispered Blake.
Cardona summoned his detectives. At Blake’s order they pressed the muzzles of their guns against the Chinaman’s body.
“If he says one word,” ordered Blake, “shoot him. Not a sound — or we kill!”
The secret-service man went to the opposite wall. He ran his hands up and down from side to side. At last he found a spot that suited him. He looked at the Chinaman.
“Is it three taps or four?” he questioned.
Luke Froy did not reply.
“Come,” said Blake. “I heard you once when I was outside. It sounded like three taps” — the Chinaman’s lips curled almost imperceptibly, but Blake detected the motion as a suppressed smile — “but I’ll try four!”
He beckoned to Cardona. With the detective at his side, Blake tapped four times against the wall. There was no response. He tapped harder. Cardona was astounded as the wall slid away; then, coming to his senses, he rushed into the next room.
An old man was raising his head from a desk. As his wild eyes saw the attackers, he seized a revolver that lay before him. Blake made a headlong dive as the old man rose. His quick hand caught the wrist that held the revolver and turned it aside just as the maniac pressed the trigger.
Blake was trying to capture the man alive, but Cardona spoiled the plan. Seeing the threat, the detective fired instinctively, and his bullets crashed into Zachary Shellmann’s brain.
The old man dropped dead, his wizened body sprawled in a pitiful heap.
“Double Z!” shouted Cardona. “Double Z! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!”
The detective’s eager eyes were taking in the scene — the earphones and the mouthpiece, the pile of clippings. He forgot the body and shoved a sheet of paper into a rickety typewriter in the corner. He struck off a line of letters and studied them.
“This looks like it!” he cried.
The keen eyes of Terry Blake were noting the typed characters. A frown appeared upon his forehead; then a gleam of understanding. The letters were identical to those of the Double Z notes.
Blake swung into the other room.
“Go in there and help Cardona,” he said to the detectives. “I’ll watch this man.”
As soon as the plain-clothes men had gone, Blake spoke to Luke Froy. Curiously, the secret-service man’s words were in the Chinese native dialect that Luke Froy used. A puzzled look appeared upon his face. Then he began to plead in his native tongue. He was looking squarely into the eyes of his inquisitor, and in those eyes Luke Froy saw understanding. He made a short statement and Blake stopped him.
“What!” the secret-service man exclaimed in English. “Another letter?”
Luke Froy nodded.
“Cardona!” called Blake.
A REPLY came from the other room. Cardona’s face appeared. He saw the secret-service man covering the Chinaman with a gun.
“Did you get a Double Z letter today?”
“Yes,” admitted Cardona. This was the statement he had held back at headquarters. “Here it is. But it doesn’t mean anything now. We’ve got Double Z.”
Blake seized the paper. He read the message aloud:
“Barnaby Hotchkiss. Blaine Glover. Tonight. They are to die by my own hand.”
“See?” said Cardona. “Signed by Double Z — and we’ve got him! Just found out his name, Zachary Shellmann. There’s the Z for you—”
“Where are Hotchkiss and Glover?” asked Blake.
“At Matthew Wade’s. They’ve gone there to take care of some affairs for him. He wrote them to be there tonight. My men are watching the place, but it’s safe now. Double Z is dead.”
For an instant the detective was off his guard. In that moment Luke Froy leaped forward and seized Cardona’s gun. Blake never moved. As Cardona made a clutch forward, the Chinaman turned the automatic to his own breast and fired. Luke Froy fell, dying, to the floor.
“Too bad,” murmured Blake as Cardona stood stupefied by Luke Froy’s unexpected action. Blake leaned forward and spoke to the Chinaman. His words were low, and in Luke Froy’s native tongue.
“You did well to tell me,” was his statement.
“He is dead — my master — ” gasped Luke Froy. “He is gone — so — I can speak! I could not — before! Now — he is dead — so I die, too!”
The death rattle was in the Chinaman’s throat. Blake arose and faced Cardona.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “You’ve got the old man and his accomplice. The rest is up to you.”
He caught Cardona’s hand, which the detective proffered in thanks. Then Blake wheeled and strode from the room. He hurried down the stairs and out into the night, where he was swallowed in the blackness.
Terry Blake was Terry Blake no longer — he had become The Shadow!
But upstairs in the old house, Joe Cardona knew nothing of that. He ordered his men to carry out the bodies, while he continued his search among Zachary Shellmann’s papers. For this was Joe Cardona’s hour of triumph. He had slain Double Z!
CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW’S WORK
BEFORE the great house of Matthew Wade, detectives were still on watch. Within were other plain-clothes men. Joe Cardona, working in the Bronx, had not yet sent word for them to leave.
Only two men had been allowed to enter the building that night. They were Barnaby Hotchkiss and Blaine Glover — men of great wealth, and old friends of Matthew Wade, who was supposedly dead.
They had come there in answer to letters mailed by Wade before he had departed on his illfated flight.
They were in the smoking room, going over papers that he had instructed them to examine.
“You think there’s danger here tonight?” questioned Hotchkiss.
“Perhaps so,” said Glover warily. “That detective — Cardona — told us that he was worried for our safety. But with all these men on duty—”
“A good precaution,” was the other’s comment. “Perhaps he has some inkling that this criminal is after us, too. But this is probably the best place for us to be. We are amply protected, I feel positive!”