Even those who had seen Cranston most often knew very little about him. The man was a great traveler. A trip around the world was a mere jaunt for him, and he would set out on a long journey in a moment’s preparation.
He had a large mansion in New Jersey, where he entertained on rare occasions. He came and went as he pleased. When he was away, no one — not even the servants at his pretentious home — knew where he was.
Thus Lamont Cranston was a puzzling personage, and most of his acquaintances considered him a mystery. But none had ever fathomed the amazing secret that shrouded his identity.
It was one that surpassed belief — so incredible that even Cranston’s own servants did not suspect it.
There were two Lamont Cranstons: one, the genuine; the other, an impostor, who boldly appeared as the multimillionaire whenever he so chose.
The real Cranston was a traveler, indeed. At the present time, he was in India. The false Cranston was a man unknown — The Shadow!
Here, in the Cobalt Club, in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow spent hours of leisure, his mighty mind at work, his very identity concealed.
Tonight, he was reading the details of a case that involved himself; and, as usual, his purpose in that affair had not been fathomed.
He was reading the latest reports on the tragic death of James Throckmorton, the fourth victim of an unseen hand.
Joe Cardona, in accordance with his determined policy, had let the facts of the case be known.
James Throckmorton had been asphyxiated by illuminating gas. The leak had been discovered. It might have been caused by accident.
There was no evidence to prove that the hose had been loosened by a murderer’s hand. But mystery had hovered in that top-story room last night.
Some one had been seen in Throckmorton’s secluded sanctum. The sinister figure had escaped by the skylight; it was probable that he had entered by the same route.
The police were investigating. That was the same old story. They had investigated other cases before this one, and they had been balked.
The link between this tragedy and three other well-timed deaths was admitted. There was every reason to expect another killing tomorrow night — perhaps more after that!
The only factor that saved Detective Cardona from a merciless grilling by the newspapers was his willingness to give information to the reporters.
In return, there was a tendency to soft-pedal belittling thrusts at Cardona’s capability. One tabloid journal indulged in condemnation, but the other sheets withheld their scorn.
There was nothing in James Throckmorton’s career to class him as a marked man. He had possessed wealth, but much of it had been expended in his hobbies.
He was a harmless person, whose chief weakness was ornithology. On various occasions, the members of the Falcon Society had visited his home.
These men were interested in the study of birds. It was mentioned, in the reports of the society, that Throckmorton had completed his book on ornithology a few months before. He had shown the manuscript to the members of the society at that time.
Not even the most painstaking reporter had been interested in the minutes of that meeting.
Birds and murder did not seem closely related. But to The Shadow, those minutes were of importance.
They would be recorded, in all probability, in the Avifauna Journal — a small publication of limited circulation which went to keen students of bird life.
Laying the newspaper aside, the man who appeared to be Lamont Cranston strolled to a corner of the extensive library.
The Cobalt Club subscribed to all sorts of unusual publications. These were kept on file until ready for binding.
Hanging from an obscure rack, the searcher discovered back numbers of the Avifauna Journal.
It was not long before a tapering finger rested upon the account of the meeting which had been held at Throckmorton’s home a few months previously.
The report of the Falcon Society was dry and dull. But included with it was a list of those who had been there, both members and friends.
The pointing finger rested upon a name that was included in the latter group.
SHORTLY afterward, Lamont Cranston’s limousine rolled northward from the Cobalt Club. The man in the back seat was invisible. Only the moving glow of a cigarette betrayed his presence.
He alighted from the car near the home of James Throckmorton and ordered the chauffeur back to the club.
The Shadow had hastened twenty-four hours ago into Throckmorton’s home. Tonight, he entered stealthily. He crept easily up the stairs and reached the room with the broken door.
There was something about that room which The Shadow had noticed — for no facts of consequence ever escaped his eagle eye.
He had observed the partly opened door of a closet, with piles of loose-leafed notebooks stowed within.
It was in that closet that The Shadow sought. One by one, volumes were removed — some large, some small. Most of them were records that pertained to James Throckmorton’s hobbies.
Among them, The Shadow discovered a few dusty volumes that appeared to be diaries. These were the books The Shadow placed upon the desk.
By the light of that same gas lamp, The Shadow began his search. His gloved thumb left no imprint as it ran through page after page with surprising rapidity.
The eyes that watched did not stop to read. They were looking for a written name.
James Throckmorton had been copious in his notations. If that name entered into his life, it should be here.
The moving thumb stopped. There, on a page dated nearly two years ago, was this written statement:
Discussed inventions with Silas Harshaw at his home. Told him my decision was final. Unwise to invest money in so doubtful an undertaking.
Harshaw seemed piqued and erratic. Said I was like others. We would all see, some day. He talked about people stealing his inventions. Seemed to consider me as a suspect. He is a very queer old man.
The black-gloved thumb dog-leaved the pages. The various volumes were put back in the closet. But the diaries were now on top, instead of beneath the other books.
This one volume lay closest at hand. In fact, it was leaning from the top of the stack when The Shadow closed the door.
Then the room of death was once more deserted. The Shadow had gone — not by the skylight, however. He had taken to the stairs, moving silently downward through the darkness.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT MAYHEW was still on duty at the Redan Hotel. Tonight, the vigil seemed hopeless. The plainclothes men had been withdrawn.
It was a ruse; for they would be back tomorrow — the night when a fourth note was due to be mailed. The forty-eight-hour interval was now recognized.
The Shadow smiled as he glided up the stairs of the Redan Hotel.
He knew that Cardona’s men were gone. He knew that the detective was right in his assumption that there would be no note tonight. For The Shadow knew the source of those mysterious billets. He also knew when the next would be on its way.
The shadowy form reached Harshaw’s apartment and entered with accustomed ease. The flashlight glimmered while The Shadow worked.
Tonight, he did not visit the death spot by the window. Instead, he pried into the little cache where muffled clockwork ticked.
With careful touch, The Shadow removed the letter from the clips that held it. From beneath his robe, he drew a vial of liquid.
With a tiny brush, he forced the fluid beneath the flap of the envelope. The flap peeled back. The message was removed by a gloved hand.
With a pen, The Shadow wrote four words across the typed lines. He refolded the message and put it back into the envelope, which, in turn, he replaced between the clips.