“On the society robberies?” questioned Clyde Burke.
“Yes,” replied Cardona, gruffly. “We’re going to block that smart bunch of crooks. They’ve gotten away with too much already.”
“You don’t know where they get their information?”
“About the places to crack? No. But it’s a sure bet somebody tips them off to the good lays. They found the hidden wall safe in Dobson’s house on Long Island so quickly that you might have thought they were the people who put it in there for the old man.”
The gypsy had loitered to look at the body. He seemed to have a morbid curiosity. He turned as Cardona finished speaking. He started for the stairs.
CARDONA did not see the man’s dark visage. The departing gypsy wore a knowing smile that the detective would have challenged had he observed it. His lips, half scornful, seemed to denote a double knowledge.
It was apparent that the gypsy had recognized the dead Spaniard. It was also evident that Cardona’s mention of the society robberies had excited the man’s interest.
Had Cardona and Markham known it, both would have learned much concerning their respective cases, had they held that gypsy for a quiz. But neither sleuth caught a last glimpse of the man’s face.
Simultaneously, they allowed a valuable informant to depart while they looked on!
It was Holson, of the Sphere, who made reference to the dark-skinned man who wore the ear-rings. The reporter’s comment was one that had nothing to do with murder or robbery.
“Odd bird, that gypsy,” remarked Holson, just as the man disappeared from view upon the stairs. “What was all that chatter he handed out — Rom — gago — gaje—”
“The gypsies call themselves the Rom,” explained Cardona. “It means gypsy man. A gajo is a gentile. That’s why he said he was Rom, but this stiff” — Cardona waved his hand toward the corpse — “was gajo.”
With that, the detective turned and strolled toward the stairway that the gypsy had taken. When Cardona reached the upstairs corridor, he found it empty. He knew that the gypsy must have left the building.
THIS simple assumption was correct. The dark-skinned man was already pacing along the sidewalk, away from the morgue. His face, showing by a lamp light, still wore its gleaming smile. It showed a strange expression of satisfaction.
The gypsy glanced over his shoulder as he turned the corner. Joe Cardona had not yet appeared from the doorway. The gypsy laughed as he continued his steady pace.
One block — two — each time that the gypsy passed a lighted spot, he glanced back over his shoulder. On each occasion, he saw no sign of a follower. Yet each time that he stared ahead, an odd phenomenon took place.
On these occasions, blackness moved into the spot of light which the dark-skinned man had passed.
Some flitting shade of night was on the trail of the man who had left the morgue!
The gypsy entered a subway station. Obscure in the crowded car of a local, he rode uptown. He left the train and walked eastward along a secluded street. No longer did he glance behind him.
Yet the phantom shape still trailed. A passing silhouette that glided on the sidewalk, it kept on until the gypsy entered a short alleyway that led to the side door of a darkened house.
A figure appeared in hazy outline after the gypsy’s clicking footsteps had ended. A shape of blackness — a cloaked form topped by a broad-brimmed slouch hat — this was the revelation of the being that had trailed the gypsy to his home.
The figure faded into the darkness of the street. A soft laugh sounded near the silent house. A whispered burst of suppressed mirth, its tone brooked keen and subtle understanding.
The weird shape; the eerie laugh — these were tokens of a sinister identity. They were signs before which the bravest man of crime would quail. They were the symbols that signified the presence of The Shadow!
Relentless enemy of crime, The Shadow was a being who had become the scourge of evil-doers. Though he moved with ghostly tread, his physical manifestation was that of a superfighter whose automatics could thunder doom to those who plotted crime.
Tonight, two detectives, each on a different case, had failed to pick a dark-skinned gypsy as the man who held clues to crimes. But where the law had failed, The Shadow had been in readiness.
The master sleuth was at work. His actions showed that this was not the first step in his campaign. Crime had struck; coming crime loomed. The Shadow was in readiness!
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW PREPARES
WHEN The Shadow, swift fighter of the darkness, moved against crime, he employed the services of certain agents to aid him in his work. To maintain continued touch with his operatives, The Shadow had chosen Burbank as a contact man.
Though lacking in action. Burbank possessed a remarkable power of endurance. He could remain at his post for days when occasion demanded it. Here at the switchboard, he relayed instructions. All The Shadow’s agents could reach him by regular telephone. So could The Shadow; when the master sleuth was in action. Burbank, however, also controlled a special wire that led to The Shadow’s sanctum.
Hence, through Burbank, The Shadow could direct his agents from that hidden, unknown spot where he planned his campaigns against crime.
“BURBANK speaking.”
The announcement came from a man who was seated in front of a small switchboard. The sole occupant of a single-lamped room, this individual was doing operator’s duty. A pair of earphones was clamped to his head.
Clicks came across the wire. Low monotoned replies from Burbank. The man changed plugs at the switchboard. Again his voice sounded:
“Burbank speaking.”
The earphones were clicking. Burbank was talking with The Shadow. The contact man repeated messages that he had received.
“Report from Vincent,” announced Burbank. “He is on his way to watch the gypsy house. Will keep watch from the vacant house across the street, as ordered.”
A pause. The Shadow was confirming Burbank’s statement.
“Report from Burke,” came Burbank’s next announcement. “He watched the gypsy at the morgue. He thinks the man recognized the dead Spaniard. No one else noticed that fact.”
Another short pause; then Burbank spoke in conclusion:
“Report from Marsland. Still watching the home of Brandley Croman. No sign of marauders. Awaiting further instructions.”
A final wait; then after a prolonged clicking of the earphones, Burbank made the statement:
“Instructions received.”
Methodically, the contact man switched plugs. Burbank had received The Shadow’s orders. Back from his trailing of the gypsy, with Harry Vincent, a trusted agent, watching the house where the man had gone, The Shadow was ready to deal with another matter scheduled for this night.
A STALWART young man was standing near the telephone booths in a West Side drug store. Powerful of physique, a steady expression upon his chiseled face, Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was awaiting a reply from Burbank.
A telephone rang in one of the booths Cliff entered and picked up the receiver. He had called from this pay telephone; he had given the number to Burbank. In a steady voice, Cliff gave affirmative replies to the relayed orders. Hanging up the receiver, he left the booth, went from the store and strolled along a quiet side street.
Cliff stopped as he came to an old house with brown stone steps. He glanced along the street, then moved behind the steps and crouched in the gloom. Directly across the street, he watched a space between two old buildings. The one on the left was the home of Brandley Croman.