The eerie atmosphere continued, awaiting a more sepulchral climax. It came. Like a being from another world, a weird visitant made his presence known.
Beneath the light where Ruggles Preston had waited while smoking his cigar, a patch of moving blackness flitted into view. The traveling splotch lay on the sidewalk. It formed a strange silhouette that denoted a living person. Yet there was no sign of human presence.
The splotch merged with the black asphalt paving. From then on, its course was untraceable. Only the soft swish of a jet-black cloak told that The Shadow had reached his destination. He, the stranger of the night, had arrived at the place which Clyde Burke had mentioned in his report to Burbank.
The darkness of the alleyway formed a perfect shroud for The Shadow. He became a part of that blackness, and not a sound told of his progress inward until The Shadow paused. Then, from invisible lips came a whispered laugh, a melody of mirth that mingled with the passing breeze and died as strangely as it had come. Upon the paving of the alleyway, The Shadow had spied the tiny glow of Ruggles Preston’s discarded cigar.
Suddenly, The Shadow’s cloak swished in the darkness. Though completely hidden, the black-garbed phantom sought a projecting portion of the house wall. In characteristic style, The Shadow had anticipated the arrival of new visitors.
A few seconds later, a car slid up to the entrance of the alleyway and came to a stop. Low voices murmured. Two men alighted. A flashlight glimmered as the arrivals picked their way into the alley.
“Want me to go in with you, Joe?”
The low voice was overheard by The Shadow as the men were passing.
“Sure thing, Markham,” came a growled reply. “This guy may be pulling something, for all I know. If he hadn’t talked about Seth Cowry, I wouldn’t have come.”
The Shadow knew the identity of the visitors. Detective Joe Cardona had arrived; with him, Detective Sergeant Markham. Together, they were entering to hold an interview with Worth Varden.
Neither Cardona nor Markham observed the cigar butt on the paving. Its glow had dwindled. Had they seen it, Cardona might have decided there was additional cause for company when entering Varden’s home. For that cigar butt told its story; namely, that some one had been in this alleyway, not many minutes before.
CARDONA turned the rays of his flashlight upon the side door of Varden’s home. He flicked off the switch and rapped cautiously. There was no response. Cardona knocked more loudly. He growled low to Markham.
“I figured that Varden would be listening for us,” he said. “I don’t want to knock too loud—”
“Try the door,” suggested Markham.
Cardona did. The barrier yielded. Together, the detectives entered the gloomy corridor. Cardona’s flashlight flickered on the door at the end. The detective turned to his companion.
“Leave the outer door open, Markham,” he said. “Then we can hear if anybody is outside.”
Cardona’s suggestion was a good one; yet it was futile. No human ear could have detected the swishing sound that had taken up the trail of the detectives. The Shadow had emerged from his hiding place, where he had taken security to avoid the glare of Cardona’s light. By the time that Cardona and Markham had reached the door of Varden’s study, The Shadow had arrived within the corridor.
A gleam of light issued forth as Cardona opened the study door. Its glare revealed a disappearing shade of darkness in the corridor as The Shadow, backing to the wall, avoided the direct beam. Neither Cardona nor Markham noted the phenomenon which had occurred behind them. Both were looking into the room which they had invaded.
Cardona seemed surprised to find the place empty. He had expected to find Worth Varden here. He shook his head as he stood beside the deserted desk.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” queried Markham.
“Funny,” returned Cardona. “This isn’t what I expected. The way that Varden talked over the phone, I thought sure he’d be here waiting for me — all excited — unless—”
“Unless?”
“Unless he had decided to do away with himself. You know, Markham, when I didn’t get any reply to my knock, I figured we might be coming in to find a corpse.”
“Did Varden talk that bad, Joe?”
“He talked rather vaguely. That was what bothered me. Guys that are going to commit suicide sometimes call up headquarters before they take the bump. Sort of gives them nerves, I suppose.”
The two men were standing by the desk. Joe Cardona, swarthy of face and stocky of build, wore a troubled look that emphasized the squareness of his heavy jaw. Markham, a man of less aggressiveness, appeared to be a bit puzzled.
EYES were peering in upon this scene, eyes that glowed from the darkness beyond the door that Cardona had left ajar. Yet neither detective noted them. The presence of The Shadow remained unknown.
“Worth Varden called me pretty nearly an hour ago,” mused Cardona. “Wanted me to come up here to-night. Talked about danger; then mentioned the name of Seth Cowry. That was what brought me.”
“You didn’t start right away, though.”
“No. I had to report to Inspector Klein about that job I was out on this afternoon. Burke was in — you know, the Classic reporter — and after that I started. I figured that if Varden really had something on his mind, a police car wouldn’t be a good bet. That’s why I picked up the coupe.”
“And stopped back at headquarters.”
“Right. To get some one to go along.”
A pause. Cardona fumbled with the desk drawer; it came open. The detective noted a folded sheet of white paper. He opened it and scanned written lines.
“Listen to this!” he exclaimed. “Say — I know why the place is empty. Varden beat it!”
“Where?”
“He doesn’t say.”
Holding the message to the light, Joe Cardona read its words aloud.
“To whom it may concern. I, Worth Varden, have decided to leave New York because of the incriminating circumstances which I have encountered through my connection with the San Salvador Importing Company. Signed,
WORTH VARDEN.”
Markham took the message from Cardona’s hand. Joe plucked the gray sheet of paper that also lay in the drawer. He looked at both sides of it, held it to the light, and let it flutter to the desk. The gray paper was blank.
From the drawer, Cardona removed a packet of papers. This was bound with a rubber band. Removing the elastic, the detective spread documents upon the desk. They consisted of old data pertaining to the San Salvador Importing Company.
“Let’s see that note,” ordered Cardona. He took the sheet which Markham held and compared it with written notations that he had discovered. “Yeah — it’s Varden’s writing sure enough — and his signature, too. It fits with this San Salvador stuff.”
“Say” — Markham’s tone was expressive of surprise — “this guy Varden must be a crook—”
“That’s something we’ve got to learn,” Joe declared. “But I’ve made a big jump already. Put one and one together, and you get two, don’t you?”
“You mean that Varden—”
“Was hooked up with Seth Cowry. He said so over the telephone. All right. I’ve been trying to figure Cowry’s racket for a long time; and I’ve been wondering why he slid out of New York. It looks like we’ve got the answer.
“Something must be phony with this importing company. Cowry may have found it out — and tried a racketeering job on Varden. Then Cowry saw the bust coming — maybe he’d got his hush money, too — and took it on the lam. That left Varden wondering what was going to happen when the San Salvador Importing Company hit the rocks.”