“Yeah?” Cardona’s fists clenched, then opened. “Well, Burke, you’re a good egg. I asked you what you heard, and you told me. You couldn’t have heard anything else, because that’s all I said.”
“What of it, Joe?” queried Burke. “I’m a friend of yours. All I want is the story — if it’s a good one — the way you give it to me.”
“O.K., Burke,” growled Cardona. “You’re one news chaser that I can count on. Listen. I don’t want this to go out until I’ve been there. I’m going up to the Bronx, but I’m not taking you with me. If you blow in of your own accord, all right. Here’s the address; you could probably get it up at Mowry’s precinct anyway.
“But this Shadow business is out. Understand? They’re holding everything until I show up. When I give out a statement, The Shadow may be out of it. I don’t want anything getting in the Classic that I haven’t handed to you. The commissioner has been calling Inspector Klein; maybe he’ll be calling him tonight. There are some things I’ve got to be cagey about. This is one of them.”
“I understand, Joe,” nodded Burke. “Leave it to me. I won’t give the office anything until after you’ve looked over the lay. I’ll just call them and tell them I’m going to the Bronx. Count on me, Joe.”
The reporter sauntered from the office as Cardona prepared for his trip to the northern section of the city. Outside of headquarters, Burke entered a cigar store, and went into a telephone booth. He called a number.
A QUIET voice answered him. It was not the voice of the man at the city desk in the Classic office. It was a voice, however, that Burke expected to hear. Over the wire came this statement:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Burke reporting,” returned Clyde in a cautious tone. “Murder in the Bronx. Dead man left a message to The Shadow.”
“Continue with details.”
Clyde tersely told all that he had gleaned from Joe Cardona. His report finished, the young man hung up and walked from the cigar store. He headed for the nearest subway station to begin his ride to the address where murder had fallen. He intended to be there — as reporter for the Classic — when Joe Cardona arrived.
Yet Burke had another purpose. He was anxious to see that letter, even though he would not print it in the Classic. For Clyde Burke’s call to the quiet-voiced man named Burbank was of more importance than any news which might be gained for the columns of a newspaper. Clyde realized that as he walked along the street.
Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. Veiling his operations by his connection with the Classic, Clyde was always on the lookout for situations such as the one which had just arisen. Burbank, the man whom Clyde had just called, was The Shadow’s contact agent.
Through Burbank, The Shadow could be quickly reached. The mysterious master who battled crime was always in communication with Burbank. Thus Clyde Burke’s statement regarding a dead man’s message to The Shadow was already on its way to the one person who would find it most important: The Shadow, himself!
The quickness of The Shadow’s system was evidenced by activities which Clyde Burke could not witness. In a small, secluded room, a man was seated at a lighted table. He was wearing ear phones; a lighted switchboard was set before him. The man’s back was toward the darkened room. This was Burbank, contact agent for The Shadow.
Burbank pressed a switch. A light glowed. There was no response. Burbank pulled out the plug. He had just made a connection over a private wire to The Shadow’s sanctum, the mysterious abode where The Shadow spent many secret hours. The lack of response showed that The Shadow had left the sanctum.
Methodically, Burbank made a regular telephone connection and dialed a number. There was a reply. A speaker announced that this was the Cobalt Club. Burbank inquired for Mr. Lamont Cranston. Shortly afterward, an even voice came over the wire:
“Hello. This is Mr. Cranston.”
“Burbank speaking,” declared The Shadow’s agent.
“Report,” came Cranston’s voice. Burbank relayed Clyde Burke’s message. Quietly and methodically, he conveyed its entire substance. The reply was a final tone:
“Report received.”
AT the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston stepped from a telephone booth and appeared in the lobby. He was a tall man, with firm, well-chiseled features. There was something about his face — its inflexibility, perhaps — that made it appear like a mask superimposed upon the countenance beneath.
Known at the Cobalt Club as a multimillionaire globe-trotter, Lamont Cranston was a notable member. The Cobalt was one of the most exclusive clubs in New York; to hold prestige there was a sign of real social importance.
Attired in immaculate evening clothes, Lamont Cranston formed an imposing figure as he stood in silent meditation. A thin smile had appeared upon his carved lips, his eyes seemed to burn as they stared toward the outer doorway. The most remarkable feature of this distinctive person was — strangely — his shadow.
Where Cranston’s form eclipsed the light from the floor, a long shade appeared. Jet black in hue, it lay in clear-cut outline; a grotesque shape that terminated in a perfect silhouette!
That splotch of blackness was a symbol. It marked the true identity of this tall personage.
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow! Within a dozen minutes after Clyde Burke had gleaned important information for his chief, almost before Joe Cardona, in his role of acting inspector, had started for the Bronx, The Shadow was acquainted with the fact that an unknown dead man had left a message for his perusal.
In the part that he was playing — that of Lamont Cranston, gentleman of leisure — The Shadow showed none of the swiftness which so characterized his usual actions when crime was in the wind. Club members, passing through the hotel lobby, nodded in greeting to Lamont Cranston, as the tall millionaire stood puffing a cigarette in apparent unconcern. It seemed that Cranston had an appointment with some one, and intended to keep it.
A MAN of pompous bearing strode into the lobby of the Cobalt Club. His shoulders were erect, his arms were swinging in a somewhat military manner. The doorman spoke and bowed. The newcomer glanced about the lobby in a rather brusque fashion. He noted Lamont Cranston. His face lighted and a smile appeared upon his dominating face.
“Ah!” exclaimed the arrival. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cranston! I was detained at my office; in fact, I found it necessary to leave word that I could be reached here while dining with you.”
“So I supposed,” returned Cranston, with a quiet smile.
“How so?” inquired the arrival, in a tone of surprise.
“Because,” said Cranston, “there was a call for you. I answered it. I managed to get the gist of it, commissioner.”
The last word revealed the identity of the newcomer. This man, who had arrived to dine with Lamont Cranston, was none other than Police Commissioner Ralph Weston!
“A call!” interjected the commissioner. “In reference to—”
“To a murder,” interposed Cranston, in his easy manner. “It appeared to be from a police inspector — from his home — the name slips me—”
“Klein?”
“Ah, yes. Inspector Klein. He has received a report from an acting inspector — I believe the name is Cardona—”
“Yes. Cardona.” Weston was impatient.
“Cardona has started to a house in the Bronx.” Cranston drew a slip of paper from his pocket. “This address, commissioner. A man was murdered there, it appears. Cardona is going to investigate. Inspector Klein seemed anxious that you should be there also.”
Weston snatched the paper and studied it. A doubtful expression appeared upon his face. With a penchant for crime solution, he was anxious to find a way of postponing this dinner engagement with Lamont Cranston. The multimillionaire supplied the answer.