“The license suspension covers that, your honor,” prompted Chief Yates. “We can close them up tight on complaint. We’ve done it quick enough, when we’ve been told to. The only trouble” — his face became grim — “is, that we’ve been kept off too much.”
“That was during the past administration,” declared Cruikshank coldly. “I can assure you, chief — and all others present — that such circumstances shall not exist while I am in office.”
“What about hotels?”
The question came from a sallow, suave-faced man. Graham Hurley was the owner and manager of the luxurious Hotel Pavilion, in which this meeting was being held. He was frank in his question, seeming to admit that it applied to his own interests.
“We don’t bother the hotels,” responded Yates, “unless a lot of trouble breaks out. Then they generally call us in before it gets bad. They’ve got to keep their business right. That’s the way it works out.”
“Gentlemen” — Rufus Cruikshank’s cold voice was stern — “we are going to administer Seaview City so that it will become the greatest resort in this country!”
“It’s that already!” interposed one of the committeemen.
“In order to do so,” continued Cruikshank severely, “we must pursue a wise course. A resort that is tight shut may be as bad as one that is wide open, so far as progress is concerned.
“Nevertheless, I shall not hesitate to impose curbing regulations. I feel convinced that our existing ordinances are sufficient, if properly enforced. Do you agree?”
“Let me make a suggestion,” said Hurley, the hotel owner. “This establishment of mine represents a tremendous investment. I intend to make it a credit to Seaview City. Bad places hurt good places. I don’t want to see any bad places.
“The chief made a vital statement when he said that people come here to enjoy themselves. Let them do so. Be ready with strict enforcement, and begin it with the cheap, undesirable places. They cause the real trouble. Eliminate them, and you eliminate complaints.”
Murmurs of agreement followed. Rufus Cruikshank studied his companions closely, as though anxious to determine their sincerity. At last he nodded thoughtfully, and the others appeared relieved by his reluctant agreement.
“We have the matter of open crime,” he said. “My investigation shows that it is not prevalent in Seaview City. Am I correct, chief?”
“We can handle crooks,” declared Yates emphatically. “We bottle them up when they float in here. They’re all small fry that think they’re going to get easy pickings. Leave them to me. They don’t amount to much.”
“Is your force adequate?”
“Sure, the way things have been going. We don’t get organized crime here. If we did, I could shift the squads that watch the other places.”
“Seaview City has doubled in population in two years,” observed Cruikshank. “There has been no increase in the size of the police force.”
“Well, I could use more men.”
Louis Helwig was quick with an objection, and Coates sustained him.
“The area of the city has not increased,” he said. “We have ample police coverage. More officers would mean a new appropriation—”
“Which we are anxious to avoid — ” came from Coates.
“Because of the appropriations for the extending of the board walk,” added some one, “and also the fund for the completion of the municipal auditorium.”
These were persuasive arguments which Mayor Cruikshank could not ignore. He had been elected on the crest of a reform wave, but the promise of Seaview’s development had been an important plank in his political platform.
“I’ve got enough men,” interposed Chief Yates hastily. “We can always use more, but I won’t need them—”
“Then we are equipped against crime,” declared Cruikshank.
“Absolutely!” said Yates.
“It is agreed, then,” questioned Cruikshank deliberately, “that we shall retain the present maximum of our police force?”
Affirmative expressions came from all.
“Are there any other comments?” asked Cruikshank.
COMPLETE silence followed the question. The ornate clock in the corner chimed the half hour. Men began to rise from the table.
Then came a sudden, chilling moment that ended all motion. The members of the committee were aghast as they heard an awe-inspiring sound.
Through the room crept the weird mockery of a whispered laugh. Rising to an eerie crescendo, it broke like a huge breaker in the surf. Its myriad echoes murmured a dying response.
Into this room — seemingly from nowhere — had come the laugh of The Shadow!
No one stirred. Every man realized that the laugh would be the precursor of some more startling event. Seconds ticked by as they waited breathlessly.
Their faces were startled; even the police chief’s bluff countenance paled. Only Rufus Cruikshank, stern and dignified, retained his composure.
Now a voice swept through the room. A sardonic, whispered voice, it carried the same penetrating tones that had characterized the dreadful laugh.
“Prepare for crime!” declared the voice. “It will strike soon. Be ready! That is my warning.”
A pause, while the men stared, wondering, scarcely believing that this sinister voice could be that of a living man.
“While you are departing” — the voice was ominous — “others are gathering. They plot crime. They are close by you at this very moment. Prepare to meet them. Heed my warning!”
Men were clawing at their faces. Others were slumped in their chairs. Some, half standing, were trembling. Of the dozen present, not one was unperturbed. Only Rufus Cruikshank upheld his dignity; yet his fingers were tapping nervously upon the table.
Again came the fear-stirring laugh. Its tremolo ended with a gruesome dwindling that seemed to repeat itself upon the ears that heard it. The silence that followed was incredible. Roused imaginations still fancied that they sensed the token of some weird presence.
“Who — who — what is it?”
The stammered question came from Louis Helwig. He turned from man to man, as though seeking an explanation. At last his gaze rested upon Graham Hurley, the hotel proprietor.
Hurley shook his head slowly. He, too, was seeking an explanation, but saw only blankness when he looked toward Police Chief Yates. He was met with a cold, inquiring stare when he encountered Mayor Cruikshank. At last, realizing that this strange event had taken place in his own hotel, Hurley knew that the answer rested with him.
AMID the intense silence that followed the final ripples of the awesome laugh, Hurley had a sudden inspiration. His eye lighted upon a switch on the wall, where a plug was jammed into a socket. Going to that spot, Hurley removed the connection and slumped into a chair beside the wall.
“It must have been the radio,” he said, in a trembling voice.
“The radio!” The words were echoed by Raymond Coates. “I’ve heard that voice over the air! It’s the voice of The Shadow! But these words were no part of a radio program!”
“Gentlemen,” announced Mayor Rufus Cruikshank, in a self-possessed voice, “we may be the victims of a hoax. I consider this to be some prank which our defeated opponents have arranged to worry us.”
Tense silence followed. Every one expected to hear again the shuddering tones of The Shadow’s voice. But no word came.
Graham Hurley, examining the radio socket, turned to the others, and announced that this must have been the cause of the uncanny sounds.
“Can you trace the connection?” questioned Rufus Cruikshank.
“No,” said Hurley, shaking his head. “Some one has evidently tapped the wiring from somewhere in the wall. It would mean a great deal of trouble, and probably no result.”
“Then we shall forget it,” declared Cruikshank firmly.