A bill slipped from Cardona’s hand. It fluttered to the floor. Cranston’s hand dropped to his vest pocket.
Cranston stooped to pick up the bill. Cardona was a moment late; he did not see the card that was neatly clipped between Cranston’s first two fingers.
As he placed the bill upon the stack of papers, Cranston made another dexterous manipulation. He did not drop the card directly beneath the bill; instead, he inserted it farther down in the stack of papers.
“I have received an urgent call from the club,” he remarked. “I must run down there; I can return later, if I am needed.”
“That’s all right,” agreed Cardona. “I’ll call you there, Mr. Cranston, if it proves necessary.”
Cranston shook hands with Edkins, and left the den. His footsteps died on the stairs. Cardona, with Edkins staring over his shoulder, kept on through the stack of papers. A cry came unexpectedly from the detective. Edkins looked at the card which the sleuth had discovered.
“Here it is!” exclaimed Cardona. “Say — this is a find! Veldon’s own card — with his address on it!”
“I don’t remember him giving it to me,” said Edkins, in a puzzled tone. “I wonder if it’s the place he lives—”
“I’m finding out!” asserted Cardona. “It’s all I want. I’m starting with a raiding squad. That fellow sent another man in here tonight — the one who planted the powder when he took the clock. Maybe there’s a bunch to deal with. We’ll show them, if they’re still on deck when we get there!”
TEN minutes later, a siren sounded in the street in front of the house. Joe Cardona hurried down the steps to join four men in a police car. The siren shrieked again, as the automobile shot on its way.
Joe Cardona and his men were heading for the spot on Long Island. Their car whirled rapidly through the streets of Manhattan, heading toward an East River bridge. It passed the traffic areas, and shot along a clear highway.
Joe Cardona was following the trail. He was going to give combat to Eric Veldon, the murderer.
Yet, with all its swiftness, the police car did not overtake a powerful coupe that was burning up the road ahead.
Slashing onward at a ninety-mile clip, his firm hands gripping the wheel of his low-built car, was an intrepid driver who was certain to beat the police to their destination. Unseen in the darkness of his car, the only sign which this personage gave of his presence was a mocking laugh that sounded clearly above the roar of the motor.
Preceding Joe Cardona to the quest was the strange being who had secretly given the detective the information that he needed — the one who had actually learned the location of Eric Veldon’s abode of horror.
The Shadow, swift and formidable, was speeding onward to begin the final battle with the superfiend. It was Cardona’s turn tonight; but it was The Shadow who had called the turn!
CHAPTER XXII. WITHIN THE WALLS
“ALPHA” — Doctor Rupert Sayre was speaking firmly — “bring in the prisoner.”
Stolidly, Eric Veldon’s chief automaton obeyed. He went from the room where Sayre was located. He returned two minutes later, with Cliff Marsland.
“Alpha,” said Sayre, as the waxen-faced servitor stared solemnly, “you are one of us. With us, you will go from here. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” replied the man.
“His intelligence is increasing,” explained Sayre to Cliff. “I have stimulated it. He is ours. We can count upon him.”
“We are unarmed,” reminded Cliff.
“Alpha has a revolver,” asserted Sayre. “I can get it from him. You will be the one to use it.”
“Get it now,” suggested Cliff.
“No.” Sayre shook his head. “We must be ready to return to our rooms if the odds appear impossible. Alpha will produce the gun when I demand it. Let’s move out and see how things look.”
Cautiously, the two men went out into the corridor. Alpha followed at Sayre’s back. The trio stopped when they reached the head of the stairs. They could hear the rhythmic beat of a steady pacing sentinel.
One of Veldon’s mechanical men was on duty on the floor below.
“Listen,” whispered Cliff.
New footbeats sounded. Another sentinel had joined the first. Cliff shook his head.
“We’d better wait,” he decided. “We don’t know the way out. That’s the trouble. We can’t fight if we’re trapped. Veldon might show up.”
“Agreed,” said Sayre, although his tone was reluctant.
The men did not immediately return to their rooms. They waited, sure that they were safe from observation. Alpha stood stolidly beside them. He was obedient to Rupert Sayre.
BACK in the room which the three had left, a strange phenomenon occurred. A black mass seemed to spread upon the floor, as though projected from some outer sphere. It was a flat shape, yet it seemed imbued with life. The reason for it soon developed.
The skylight lifted in the top of the gloomily lighted room. Outer night pressed inward. The splotch upon the floor moved grotesquely. Then, from the skylight, a long form developed. A figure hung momentarily; it dropped with feline agility. Huddled from the fall, it rose again.
The Shadow, tall and sinister, had arrived within Eric Veldon’s terrible domain! Garbed in black cloak and hat, a fantastic being whose long body cast a quadruple silhouette, the master of darkness stood supreme.
Swiftly and silently, The Shadow reached the open door. His peering eyes looked down the hallway. He saw the three men standing at the stairs. He waited while minutes seemed to move in slow procession.
The rhythmic tramp of feet continued from below. The three men, Cliff Marsland, Rupert Sayre, and the creature called Alpha, still remained on vigil. Two — Cliff and the physician — were hoping for the break they wanted. Alpha remained at Sayre’s command.
The monotony was like the strange quiet that comes before a breaking whirlwind. The Shadow, his eyes burning as they watched, was expecting imminent results. The tension broke, of a sudden, as a new sound came from the floor below. Someone was pounding at an outer door! A muffled cry was heard.
Then came a blow, as something smashed against the barrier. Cliff Marsland uttered a prompt exclamation at the sound of the noise.
“Detectives!” he said to Sayre. “They have found this place!”
Footbeats ended below. Guttural cries came from Eric Veldon’s minions. The instinctively guided automatic men were starting to meet what seemed to be a mass attack.
The Shadow’s long right arm extended from the room. His hand gripped an automatic. The weapon covered Alpha. The action was timely. A bell was ringing from below. In response to the alarm, Alpha’s loyalty had turned.
With a brisk motion, the man whipped out his revolver. He turned the gun toward Cliff Marsland and Rupert Sayre as he backed away from the men whom he had been set to guard. The Shadow’s finger was upon the trigger, but it did not move.
Cliff Marsland had seen Alpha’s action. With a savage leap, he fell upon the man and hurled him to the floor. Alpha’s gun clattered away. Rupert Sayre seized it.
“Cover the stairs!” ordered Cliff. “Look out for trouble from below. I’ll hold this man; we’ll need him later!”
“He was responding to the old impulse,” exclaimed Sayre. “Keep him there. We must not kill him unless he makes trouble. He had turned to aid us.”
Alpha had ceased struggling. Under Cliff Marsland’s powerful attack, he had been rendered helpless.
The Shadow watched while Cliff Marsland dragged the man to the nearest room. Sayre, realizing the wisdom of being out of sight, followed, covering Alpha as they went along.
RESOUNDING blows of battering-ram force were breaking down the door below. The Shadow, moving with swiftness, now that the corridor was cleared, hastened to the stairway and descended. He reached the floor below just at the crucial moment.