A coupe pulled up across the street. Its lights went out, then on, then off the second time.
A simple signal. The Shadow glided noiselessly to the side of the car. His hand thrust an object through the crevice of the window. The driver looked up suddenly as a piece of paper fluttered to his lap.
On came the dash light. The features of Clyde Burke, New York Classic reporter, appeared in the fringe of illumination. Clyde had come here to wait instructions, responding to a call which he had received from Burbank. He unfolded the sheet of paper. It contained a brief inked note, in The Shadow’s code:
Prepare to follow first car that stops at house opposite.
Obey the whispered signal.
The writing faded. Clyde extinguished the dash light and waited in darkness. He knew that some important trail was to be followed. If all went well, The Shadow would follow it himself. Clyde, however, would be there in case of emergency.
Another fifteen minutes. A limousine drew up in front of the house. Its lights went dim. Just as that flicker occurred, Clyde fancied that he saw a batlike shape move toward the wall of the Edkins house. Clyde could not see who stepped from the limousine. The Shadow — for he had merged with the front of the house — did see.
IT was not Eric Veldon who alighted. The Shadow knew that fact, although he had never seen the master fiend. The person who alighted was a stocky individual who stalked up the steps with the regular motion of an automatic figure.
The Shadow glided to the side of the house. He reached the bay window. Lifting his body, he pressed the sash of the window three inches upward. Peering through the narrow space, he saw the servant entering to speak to Holbrook Edkins.
“The man has come for the antique clock, sir,” said the servant. “You know the one, sir — it was delivered here by mistake, and they promised to call for it.”
“Oh, yes,” recalled Edkins. “Of course. It is on the mantelpiece in my den. Show him up to get it.”
The servant pointed out the way to a man who appeared in the hall. Holbrook Edkins caught only a flash of the fellow’s face. He was startled by the fixed, waxen expression. Footsteps tramped on the stairs.
Edkins lighted a cigarette. He was thinking of the clock. It had been delivered here; some time ago — on the occasion of Eric Veldon’s last visit. There had been no return address. A telephone call had come, stating the mistake. A man had promised to come for it.
Eric Veldon, Edkins remembered, had admired the old clock, and had set it on the mantelpiece. Edkins, who seldom disturbed the arrangements of his den, had left it there.
A few minutes passed. Thumping footsteps resounded from the stairs. Clock in arms, the messenger was departing. Edkins strolled to the hall to see the fellow out. Again, he noted the cadaverous physiognomy of the messenger.
The Shadow’s eyes disappeared from the window. As the man with the clock stumped from the house, a fleeting figure passed across the street. Just as the limousine was about to move forward, Clyde Burke, at the wheel of the coupe, heard a single whispered word, so sinister in tone that he could not tell from what spot it had been uttered.
“Follow!”
The street was a one-way thoroughfare. The limousine moved ahead. Clyde Burke eased off to follow the trail. A clever driver, a keen observer because of his newspaper experience, Clyde had a simple task of keeping the pliable coupe on the track of the cumbersome limousine.
Eric Veldon had not yet arrived. Had the murderer come and departed, The Shadow himself would have taken up the trail. But The Shadow had recognized that this mechanical-moving visitor must be no more than a minion of the superfiend. He had dispatched his agent on the trail. He, himself, had a task before him that kept him here at the house.
The trail had begun. One of Veldon’s automatic henchmen was returning to the lair. The purpose of his visit was as yet unknown, but it was obvious to The Shadow that the driver of the limousine was unprotected against followers, because of the simplicity of his errand.
While Clyde Burke followed on the trail, The Shadow’s figure blended amid blackness, underwent a change. It came to view upon the front steps of the house, but it was the shape of The Shadow no more.
A tall man, dressed in evening clothes, was ringing the doorbell at the residence. Lamont Cranston had arrived to call upon Holbrook Edkins. He had — for an important purpose — arranged his visit ahead of Eric Veldon.
CHAPTER XX. CRANSTON EXPLAINS
A SERVANT opened the front door to admit Lamont Cranston. As he heard the visitor’s name, he bowed and ushered the multi-millionaire toward the stairs.
“Mr. Edkins has just gone up to his den, sir,” was the announcement. “He asked that you come up there upon your arrival.”
“I know the way,” remarked Cranston quietly.
With incredible swiftness, the tall man ascended the steps. There seemed to be no effort in his pace, yet he covered the distance in a few scant seconds.
The door of the den was ajar. Cranston entered so suddenly that Holbrook Edkins, standing by the fireplace, turned with an expression of alarm.
Edkins smiled as he recognized his visitor. Holding his half-smoked cigarette in his left hand, he extended his right to Cranston. After the handshake, Cranston quietly seated himself in an easy-chair, while Edkins remained standing.
“This visit is a surprise,” remarked Edkins, “and a welcome one. I had not expected you, Mr. Cranston. It is most fortunate. I am expecting Eric Veldon — the promoter whose name you agreed not to reveal.”
“Indeed,” returned Cranston. “I understood that you called me at the Cobalt Club. They said that Mr. Edkins had asked me to drop in this evening.”
“No,” said Edkins, “I did not call.”
“It must have been old Hoskins,” remarked Cranston. “He’s been bothering me for some time. He insists that I must see his collection of Malay weapons. He claims to have picked them up in the East. I doubt it. I am glad that I came here instead.”
“The sentiment is mutual,” laughed Edkins.
All during the conversation, Cranston’s sparkling eyes had been studying the setting of the room. There was vacancy on the mantelpiece where the clock had been. Nothing else, however, seemed out of place.
Cranston had retained a photographic impression of this den.
As Holbrook Edkins was taking a last long draw on his cigarette, Cranston’s steely gaze went directly beyond the heavy form of the bluff-faced millionaire. It was then that Cranston acted in a swift, yet natural, manner — so timely that Edkins never noticed it.
AN open box of cigarettes was lying on the table at Cranston’s left. Long white fingers — upon one of which shone a sparkling fire opal, plucked a cigarette from the box. Cranston, his eyes upon Edkins, arose at the same moment. With two long, easy strides, he stepped toward his host just as Edkins drew back the screen from the fireplace to toss his finished cigarette butt into the ashes.
Cranston’s cigarette was in his mouth. His left hand shot forward. Its swift motion came to a gentle stop as it caught Edkins by the right wrist, just as the big man was about to release the cigarette from his grasp.
The motion of Cranston’s right hand explained the action. Easily, his right fingers look the lighted butt from Edkins. Cranston used the glowing end to light his own cigarette.
“Thanks,” he said, with a quiet smile, as he turned back toward his chair.
To Edkins the occurrence was purely incidental. The big man did not notice that Cranston, after obtaining his light, extinguished the cigarette butt in an ash stand, instead of tossing it into the fireplace. Throwing cigarettes among the ashes was simply a habit with Edkins; his visitors did not always duplicate it. Edkins took a fresh cigarette, and ignited it with the electric lighter.