“It’s not rival mobs, commissioner” — Cardona leaned forward with the air of a card player delivering a trump — “because what I’ve told you goes. Rook Hollister runs the works. Crooks aren’t fighting him — but The Shadow is.”
BARTH almost glared as he heard Cardona’s comment. The commissioner leaned back in his chair and removed his pince-nez. Tilting his head forward, he peered upward, rebukingly, as he began to polish the lenses of his spectacles.
“Your statement is an absurdity,” declared Barth. “Coming from one of your reputed ability, Cardona, it is almost unbelievable. This matter of The Shadow has always been your pet mania.”
“But you yourself have evidence of The Shadow’s work—”
“I know that an unidentified person has occasionally appeared masked in black, to participate in action against crime. But his appearances have been few, not legion. Furthermore, they have been lone ventures. The Shadow, in my opinion, acts but seldom. And invariably on his own.”
“That’s just it commissioner,” blurted Cardona. “Don’t you see what The Shadow’s doing? He’s crossing the dope. Making it look like mobs are smearing mobs. Damaging Rook Hollister’s rep. It’s time we stepped into it, commissioner. The Shadow can’t be everywhere. He’s put crooks on the run; it’s our job to follow it up!”
“Your trouble, inspector” — Barth’s tone assumed a kindliness — “is that you are overzealous. You chafe at inactivity, and are apt to act unwisely when idleness is forced upon you. So to keep you occupied” — Barth reached into a desk drawer and produced a file of papers — “I shall ask you to conduct a different sort of investigation. These documents have been presented to me by certain motion picture exhibitors. They have raised an objection to the conduct of a contest which is being operated by a man named Fergus Waylock.
“You will find the address of Waylock’s office in this file. Go there and investigate his business. If the man is a swindler we must certainly apprehend him. Bring me a prompt report upon this case.”
CARDONA took the file. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the commissioner’s office.
He was fuming, muttering to himself as he passed through a corridor and descended a flight of stairs.
When he had reached the street Joe’s mumbles had become a growl. They ended suddenly as someone clapped him on the shoulder.
Cardona swung about angrily; then delivered a reluctant grin as he recognized Clyde Burke, a reporter from the New York Classic.
“Hello, Joe!” greeted Clyde cheerily. “Looks like you’ve been up to see his nibs. Well, what’s his verdict this time? Handing out more lollipops?”
“That’s about the size of it,” grumbled Joe. “You know what I’ve been after, Burke. I want to take a slam at these racketeers. I know they’ll welsh if we put the screws on them.”
“But Barth says ‘Tut Tut’?”
“That’s it. Says to lay back except when I find a chance to smear a mob that’s on the move. You know what that means. I’ll need tipoffs — and good ones. Well, I haven’t been getting them and it don’t look like I will be.”
Clyde grinned sympathetically; then he noted the file that Cardona was carrying. Joe saw that the reporter had observed the documents that were protruding from the edges of the folder.
“This is something else,” stated the detective. “Barth’s put me on a good old gumshoe job. Cracking down a phony movie contest. Come along with me if you want and you’ll find out Barth’s idea of big-time crime.”
“Going to make a pinch?” queried Clyde.
“I might,” vouchsafed Cardona. “In fact I guess I will just to make Barth feel good. Sometimes you can get somewhere with that bird by playing in with his crack-pot notions.”
Clyde Burke decided to come along. He had every reason to accompany Joe Cardona. Clyde was more than a reporter; he was a secret agent of The Shadow. While The Shadow worked elsewhere, Burke had been assigned to the duty of finding out just what moves the law might be planning.
Detective and reporter started on their way. Both thought that they were following a trail far distant from any which might concern Rook Hollister and his regime of crime. Neither had the slightest inkling that they were bound toward a goal that had much to do with the big shot’s coming schemes.
CHAPTER VI. THE MISSED TRAIL
FERGUS WAYLOCK’S office was distant from the police commissioner’s headquarters. It was located on the second floor of a narrow dilapidated building that stood on a side street close to Broadway. The frosted-glass panel in the office door bore the legend:
FERGUS WAYLOCK
HOLLYWOOD SYSTEM INC.
The office beyond the door was plainly furnished. It contained a desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet.
The floor was uncarpeted, and it was evident that the office served chiefly as a headquarters for a mail order enterprise.
At the very time when Joe Cardona and Clyde Burke were starting on their journey, two men were beginning a conference in Waylock’s office. One was Fergus Waylock himself, a wizened man of middle age whose face though crafty appeared troubled. The other occupant of the office was Bart Koplin the private dick.
“He hasn’t shown up yet, Bart,” Waylock was saying in a troubled tone. “There was a dozen of them came in yesterday and about eight more this morning; but Manthell wasn’t one of the bunch.”
“You say he’s coming in from Ohio?” queried Bart.
Waylock nodded.
“Then I’ll wait around a while,” decided Bart. “The sooner I see Manthell the better. I can slip him a good stall about representing Enterprise Exhibitors. I had a theft case that I handled for them recently and I know everybody over there.”
“I’ve got these fellows registering when they come in,” declared Waylock, “but I’ve been remembering what you told me about keeping Manthell’s name off the list. The whole thing has got me worried though, Bart.”
“Why should it?” queried the dick. “You’re to pick a winner for this contest aren’t you? That reminds me” — he reached into his pocket — “here’s the five grand that you’ve got to have. It’ll cover the money for the prizes and the transportation for the hicks when you ship them to Hollywood.”
“That don’t help me, Bart,” returned Waylock, as he took the cash. “It looks like I may be in for it, if some of these exhibitors go through with their threat. They don’t like this mail-order contest that I’ve been running. I’ve stalled off too long picking the male movie stars from those thousands of photographs that they sent in. The worst of it is that if the exhibitors get tough they can land me coming or going.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, I’ve promised prize money and railroad tickets to the winners. If I don’t pay it to them, I’ll be pinched for fraud. Of course, I’ve known that all along but I knew you’ll come through with the mazuma, so I thought I had the laugh on the exhibitors.
“But now I’ve heard that they’ve got another gag up their sleeve. If I do pay out the cash they can grab me for running a lottery. That’s why I’ve been steering these hick contestants out to hotels. I want to keep them waiting until I decide what to do.”
“The five grand is yours, Waylock,” assured Bart. “I don’t care what you do with it. If you want to take it on the lam that’s up to you. All I want is to get hold of this fellow Donald Manthell, once he lands in New York.”
“He’s on his way,” declared Waylock. “I sent him a telegram along with the rest. He ought to be here—”
The telephone bell began to ring. The phone itself was on the floor beside the desk. Waylock grabbed the instrument and placed the receiver to his ear. He held a short, hasty conversation. Finished, he stared at Bart Koplin.