NOT long afterward, George Clarendon appeared at the Hotel Thermon. He inquired for the key to Room 1128 — the room next to the one occupied by Thaddeus Westcott, which was 1124.
Clarendon did not go upstairs immediately. He stopped to glance at the shipping page of a morning newspaper. His keen eyes noted that the steamship Balvaro was due from South America at noon.
Clarendon tossed the newspaper in a wastebasket and went to the elevator.
Five minutes afterward, the telephone buzzed in Room 1122. A quiet-faced man arose from a desk and answered it. He recognized the voice that came over the wire.
“Hello, Burbank,” it said. “All right?”
“Yes,” replied the quiet-faced man.
“I just came in,” said the voice in a low tone. “I thought I’d call to see if you were still up.”
“I’m going to bed now,” replied Burbank.
“All right, I’ll call you to-morrow.”
Burbank laid down the telephone and turned out the light. He had been on watch, in this room reserved for him, while The Shadow had been engaged on other enterprises. His brief comment had indicated that no one had disturbed the repose of Thaddeus Westcott.
Burbank’s vigil was ended. Another man had assumed the duty.
Burbank held no doubts regarding the safety of the elderly man in the next room. Thaddeus Westcott would leave for his Southern trip to-morrow, even though the hordes of gangland might attempt to prevent him. For The Shadow was now on the watch.
CHAPTER XVI
BOB MADDOX — falsely known as Bob Galvin — was sitting at the big, flat-topped desk which had become his accustomed place.
Bob’s brow was furrowed, and his lips were twitching impatiently. He looked up as Briggs entered. The big man appeared none too pleasant.
“It’s getting on my nerves, Briggs,” growled Bob.
Briggs shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve always stood by the Chief,” added Bob, “but this time I think he’s making a mistake. Here we are, ready for final action, and he’s holding up the works. I know he’s got good reasons. But we can’t wait forever.”
“There hasn’t been any trouble yet,” said Briggs. “This is a gloomy old joint, but I’ve seen worse. But I don’t blame you for being tired of it. You haven’t been out for four days.”
“That’s just it,” declared Bob. “I know what the Chief is after. He’s not worried about the cops, and so far there’s been no trouble with any inquiries for the girl.
“He’s up against The Shadow — at least he thinks he is — and he’s waiting to pull one over on that guy.”
“Why doesn’t he do it then?”
“It’s all arranged,” said Bob. “But the Chief doesn’t want a slip-up. He wants to be sure — or nearly sure that The Shadow is on the job. So far, he’s had no indication. That’s why he’s waiting.
“I wish something would happen to make him spring the trap. I’m tired of waiting. Getting nervous, for the first time. Itching to get going.”
Briggs nodded. He had not talked with Bob about the contemplated plans. Briggs was content to wait for orders. Theoretically, he held a position equal to Bob’s; but his value lay in the fact that he could follow instructions.
Briggs never cared to know too much. He had found it profitable to attend only to details that were set for him. He knew that he was to play a part in the coming enterprise, and he was ready.
Bob stared about the gloomy room and became thoughtful. Briggs sat down and began to read a newspaper.
It was late in the afternoon. Darkness had fallen outside. Briggs expected another long evening of waiting.
Ten minutes passed. Bob began to drum restlessly upon the flat-topped desk. He picked up a sheet of paper and began to trace cryptic characters upon it.
He was marking the symbols of the strange code which only he and Hiram Mallory had seen — unless Thaddeus Westcott could be counted. It was improbable that Westcott had kept a copy of the paper which had been given to him by Theodore Galvin.
THE thought of Thaddeus Westcott bothered Bob. Only two others had known of the paper. Theodore Galvin and Reynold Barker. Both were dead.
It would be better if Westcott were dead, too. Then it would be only Mallory and Bob. No — he was wrong there. Briggs had seen it; but, of course, Briggs was all right. Bob spoke to the man.
“Say, Briggs,” he questioned, “you remember that — the article you took from R. B.?”
“Who?”
“Barker,” said Bob impatiently.
“Oh, yes,” replied Briggs, indifferently. “The hunk of paper. I gave it to you for the Chief. What about it?”
“Do you remember what was on it?”
“No. Some funny-looking signs was all I saw. I knew it was what Barker was after, so I got it.”
Bob looked at Briggs half wondering, half admiring. The big fellow was dense in some ways; in others, he was clever. He was a man of action.
Bob half closed his eyes and tried to picture Briggs entering this very room, catlike in stealth, approaching the unsuspecting man who had found the object which he had traveled far to obtain.
Briggs had taken it by force. He had covered his tracks. He had left a sign, which even Bob did not understand — the turned-down corner of a rug — and the matter had been ended. So far as Briggs was concerned, it was forgotten entirely.
Bob looked at the characters which he had traced. He was not sure that he had them correct except the last two, which were alike.
He wrote the letter “s” upon the sheet of paper and repeated it. He crossed out the letters. He wrote “t” twice, and again crossed out the marks. He wrote the letter “l” two times.
He picked up the sheet of paper and tore it. He ignited the pieces and watched them burn in an ash tray. He even destroyed the ashes, as though piqued at his own folly in considering those cryptic signs.
HE opened a drawer in the desk. From it he removed an address book which had belonged to Theodore Galvin. The book contained more than one hundred names.
Bob ran through the list mechanically. He paused a moment at the letter “M.” He continued to the end of the book.
Not a single name in the little volume bore even a check mark. Yet Bob seemed satisfied.
“One more,” he said thoughtfully. “Only one more — unless our guess is altogether wrong. This is something The Shadow missed — if he really was here that night the girl came in. But then — how could he know?”
Bob smiled. He looked toward Briggs indulgently. The big man was still reading the newspaper, his lips moving as he perused the words.
Bob put the address book back into the drawer. At that moment, the deep tone of the doorbell was heard. Briggs looked up. Bob nodded. The big man went out.
When Briggs returned, he had a puzzled look upon his face. Bob detected it and raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“A man named Vincent,” said Briggs, handing Bob a card. “Comes from South Africa.”
“Is he supposed to know me?”
“No. He was sort of apologetic about disturbing you. He knows a friend of yours in a place called Durban. A diamond dealer named Young—”
“Hm-m-m,” observed Bob. “I know who he means. Those papers in young Galvin’s trunk are coming in handy. Glad I read them.
“Show this fellow in, Briggs. Do it right. Understand?”
The big man nodded as he left the room. He returned with a young man who was well dressed and who wore a pleasant smile. Bob arose to greet the newcomer.
“You will pardon me, Mr. Galvin,” said the stranger. “My name is Harry Vincent. I just arrived in New York. Our mutual friend, Mr. Young, suggested that I call upon you. I live in Durban, you know—”