The letter was in code. The Shadow read it rapidly, and as he finished, the inky lines began to disappear. The paper became a total blank. Such was the procedure with all of the messages that passed between The Shadow and his agents. Prepared with a special chemical, the ink was designed to vanish after its perusal.
A whispered laugh sounded in the gloom. It was The Shadow’s token of keen interest in a matter which had attracted his attention. This message was from Cliff Marsland, one of The Shadow’s active agents. It had come through Rutledge Mann, a contact man who posed as a conservative investment broker.
Cliff Marsland was quartered in the underworld. There, reputed to be a mobster of prowess, Cliff had the faculty of learning when crime impended. His messages to The Shadow frequently carried information that enabled the master fighter to spring from nowhere and attack dangerous crooks unaware.
To-night, however, Cliff had reported total failure. He was engaged upon a mission in The Shadow’s behalf, and so far he had gained no results. The job to which Cliff had been deputed was that of learning the whereabouts of Seth Cowry, a missing racketeer.
THERE was a reason why The Shadow wanted to know what had become of Cowry. Until a few months ago, the man had been engaged in various enterprises that had branded him as a shady customer. Yet no one had ever been able to pin the goods on Cowry. The police had been watching him. So had The Shadow. Now, for no apparent cause, the man had disappeared.
Had Seth Cowry been put on the spot?
Cliff Marsland suspected so. Nevertheless, Cliff’s coded report had given no assurance. Cliff had learned simply that Cowry was missing. Any one of a dozen mob leaders might have arranged for him to get the works. At the same time, Cowry’s underworld connections had all been in perfect order.
It was unusual for a racketeer of Cowry’s water to leave New York. Cowry’s record had been getting better and better. If he had been planning some clever scheme, Cowry should certainly not have departed from Manhattan. That action, in itself, would be sufficient to bring the police upon his trail.
To The Shadow, this was obvious. Seth Cowry, dead or alive, must certainly have been engaged in some peculiar enterprise. To trace it, The Shadow sought news regarding Seth Cowry. More than that, The Shadow knew that Detective Joe Cardona was interested in what might have become of the missing racketeer. That, too, was of significance.
The failure of his agent, Cliff Marsland, had been the cause of The Shadow’s hollow laugh. When Cliff encountered difficulties, it was a sure sign that mystery lay within the confines of the bad lands. The Shadow’s hand, resting upon the polished table, raised a pen and inscribed the name in bright-blue writing on a sheet of white paper.
Seth Cowry.
The name faded from view. The memory of it remained with The Shadow’s brain. It foreboded action on The Shadow’s part. Until now, the master sleuth had entrusted the work to an agent. With mystery still enshrouding Cowry’s disappearance, it was time for The Shadow, himself, to visit the haunts which the missing racketeer had frequented.
A tiny light gleamed from blackness across the table. A white hand reached forward and produced a pair of ear phones. The instruments disappeared into the darkness on the nearer side of the light. The Shadow’s voice was an uncanny whisper. It brought a quiet response over the wire.
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” came The Shadow’s whispered order.
“Report from Burke,” came Burbank’s steady-toned response. “At detective headquarters. Cardona is leaving to visit a man named Worth Varden. It concerns the disappearance of Seth Cowry.”
“Report received.”
Silence. The ear phones slid across the table. Then, from darkness crept an eerie laugh. Mocking tones resounded through the blackened room.
THROUGH Clyde Burke, another agent, The Shadow, had gained a clew which Cliff Marsland had failed to obtain. Clyde was a newspaper reporter, on the staff of the New York Classic. He spent much time at detective headquarters, and was on the best of terms with Joe Cardona.
Evidently Cardona had received a call from a man named Worth Varden. The informant must have mentioned the name of Seth Cowry. Cardona, perhaps inadvertently, had let these facts slip in Clyde Burke’s presence. The newspaper reporter had put through a call to Burbank.
This was in line with his duty to The Shadow. At night, when Rutledge Mann was not in his office, or on occasions when emergency commanded, the active agents put in their calls to Burbank, who had a special room not far from The Shadow’s sanctum. Over a private wire, connected with the sanctum, Burbank relayed such messages.
“Cardona is leaving—”
Such had been the word from Burke. It meant that the detective was probably on his way to keep an appointment with Worth Varden. This was The Shadow’s opportunity. That meeting was one which he desired to witness.
The bluish light clicked out. A swish sounded in the darkness. Then came the tones of an eerie, rising scale of mockery that broke with shuddering merriment. Gibing echoes came back with ghoulish taunts. Blackened walls seemed to hide a horde of gnomes that cried in answer to their master’s mirth.
When the sobbing reverberations had died to feeble, fading whispers, complete silence again pervaded the inkiness of The Shadow’s sanctum. The room was empty.
The Shadow had departed on his quest.
CHAPTER III
MEN IN THE DARK
SPLOTCHES of lamplight glow were visible on the street in front of Worth Varden’s home. The entrance to the side alleyway beside the importer’s house was blank and black. Though not far from the heart of Manhattan, this location formed a silent spot. On avenues, the current of New York’s traffic flooded; but little of it floated down this lone side street.
The figure of a man appeared close to a lamp. The stroller moved onward and stopped just past the glare. A spot of light — the cigar that he was smoking — seemed to give a momentary trace of his identity. The man was Ruggles Preston.
Not more than a dozen minutes had elapsed since the lawyer had walked away along this very street. His prompt return could mean only that he had performed a simple but definite mission. Preston had gone to a drug store on the avenue to make a telephone call. That done, he had returned.
Preston moved back into the fronting darkness of a building across the street. He was watching the alleyway beside Varden’s home. His cigar tip moved nervously downward; then upward. It glowed as the lawyer puffed.
Minutes passed. The arrival of Detective Joe Cardona was becoming imminent. Why was Preston lurking here? He had told Varden that he would be at his home. It was obvious that Preston had some purpose all his own, otherwise he would not have returned to this spot.
An automobile swished down the side street. It came to a sudden stop beside the entrance to the alleyway. Ruggles Preston strained his eyes. He watched as he saw the faint outline of a man who was leaving the car. He thought he caught the murmur of subdued voices. Preston waited.
A man had stepped from that car. He was walking into the alleyway, heading for the obscure door at the side of Varden’s house. The token of his arrival came in guarded knocks that tattooed on the barrier which Varden had told Joe Cardona to enter.
In his study, Varden, seated at his desk, became suddenly alert. He caught the sound of the raps. He arose from his desk and went through the corridor. He softly opened the outer door. He noted that a man was standing there.