“In the meantime, I’m going on the assumption that there is a Peter Greerson — a man who claimed to be an inventor — who lived in this apartment. He’s the man we want.”
“For the murder of Harlew,” returned the commissioner.
“Yes,” decided Cardona. “The trail is broken. But I’ll pick it up, and at the end of it, I’ll find the murderer. Peter Greerson is the man I’m after right now!”
“Sound theory, Cardona,” commended Weston. “I must compliment you, Cardona, upon the effective way in which you have followed the trail this far. Continue the good work, until you locate Peter Greerson.”
With Lamont Cranston, the police commissioner descended the stairs. On the way down, Weston added to the comments which he had made in Cardona’s presence.
“Cardona is the best man at headquarters,” he said, in a confidential tone. “He has a natural aptitude for rejecting the useless and keeping the useful. He gets to the point of crime. Sometimes he makes mistakes — he is intuitive, you know — but tonight, he has been at his best.
“It is obvious that Peter Greerson took to flight one hour before we arrived. The bird has flown the nest. Cardona will do his best to restore the broken trail. When Greerson is located, we shall have the murderer.”
“Exactly,” agreed Cranston.
There was a subtle note in the millionaire’s remark. Weston did not catch it. He did not sense the sarcastic touch. He did not know that through the mighty brain which lay behind the masking countenance of Lamont Cranston was running a train of subtle thought.
THE SHADOW was thinking of the words in Schuyler Harlew’s note: “Death has been the lot of others… Death will continue… I have aided a monster in his schemes of death… Midnight is the hour which the monster chooses…”
Why had Schuyler Harlew emphasized those points? The Shadow knew the answer. The enemy whom Harlew feared was a man far more powerful than the missing Peter Greerson.
Commissioner Weston and Joe Cardona had rejected the message to The Shadow. That note, however, had reached its desired destination. In the guise of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had read every word of its scrawled lines.
He could plainly see the connection between Schuyler Harlew and Peter Greerson. The threat of death hung over others; Peter Greerson was doubtless one. The inventor had hurried away with packed bags and folded plans.
He was on his way, unsuspecting, to meet the master plotter who planned his doom!
A watch showed in Lamont Cranston’s hand as the tall millionaire stepped into his limousine. Its dial showed twenty minutes before the midnight hour. A bitter smile appeared upon the thin lips — a smile that seemed to show keen regret.
For The Shadow knew the penalty of this broken trail. It meant that Peter Greerson had passed beyond the zone of safety. Somewhere — his present location unknown — the missing inventor was reaching a rendezvous from which he would not return.
Greerson had not escaped the police. He had merely eluded the protection of The Shadow. It was too late to save him. But there would be others, perhaps, whose plight would prove equal if intervention did not come their way. It would be The Shadow’s task to save them.
Mox!
The name rested on The Shadow’s silent lips. There was the villain whom The Shadow must uncover. Murder dotted the past career of Mox. Even now, the fiend was about to commit murder unmolested.
The finding of Peter Greerson would uncover the murderer, but the murderer would not be Peter Greerson. This was The Shadow’s finding. Rarely was the master forced to bide his time while murder was in the making. Tonight, however, such was the case.
As the limousine pulled up at the Cobalt Club, Commissioner Weston alighted. Lamont Cranston paused before he followed. Within the restricting confines of the car, a soft, ominous laugh whispered forth.
It was the laugh of The Shadow; a laugh that foreboded a struggle between this powerful avenger and the fiend who called himself Mox. Peter Greerson would keep his appointment with death. The midnight hour was too close to be thwarted.
But Mox, the slayer of Schuyler Harlew, the murderer of victims to whose list Peter Greerson would be added tonight, would pay for his temerity. Wherever he might be, no matter how strong his citadel, The Shadow would seek him out.
At midnight, a final victim would be added to the roll that Mox was keeping. Before his fiendish will could again find its outlet, the hand of The Shadow would intervene.
The laugh of The Shadow died. Lamont Cranston, striding toward the entrance of the Cobalt Club, overtook Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
Together, they entered, The Shadow and the official who did not believe that The Shadow existed!
CHAPTER V
THE STROKE OF TWELVE
THE fading laugh of The Shadow! That sinister sound had its echo many miles from Manhattan. It came in the form of a dying hiss as the locomotive of a heavy train stopped at the darkened platform of a station.
One man alighted from the train. He was carrying two suitcases and a roll of long cardboard underneath his arm. He looked upward at the station sign, barely visible from the lights of car windows. He saw the name “Darport.”
The train puffed from the station. As its rear lights glided past, a heavy-set man stepped into the feeble glow and accosted the arrival who was on the platform.
“Mr. Greerson?”
“Yes.”
“I have come to take you to Mox. The car is waiting.”
Taking the bags, the heavy man led Greerson to a parked automobile. The inventor entered the rear of the car; the heavy man took the wheel. The car swung away from the darkened platform.
The town of Darport, as Peter Greerson viewed it from the window of the sedan, was a fair-sized community. The station was away from the center of the town. The course which the driver was taking did not pass through the business district. It was close enough, however, for Greerson to observe the lights, which were still shining as the midnight hour approached.
The car took a broad, tree-lined avenue. It turned into a side street. It swung up a driveway. Peering from the window, Greerson saw that they were in the shelter of a huge, ramshackle house. The driver alighted and opened the door. Greerson stepped forth. The driver led him to the house, where a side door opened and Greerson was greeted by a tall, bulky servant.
The inventor felt a slight shudder as the door closed behind him. There was something about the servant’s manner — coupled with the man’s ugly face — that made Greerson sense a danger. His fears ended as the servant spoke.
“You have your note?”
Greerson drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket. The servant read it. He uttered a hoarse call; another servant appeared, as ungainly a fellow as the first. He received the paper, and stalked away along a gloomy corridor. Greerson could hear his footsteps ascending a stairway.
Long minutes passed as the inventor waited with the first servant. Then came the trudge of footsteps. The messenger had returned. In solemn tones, he announced:
“Mox will see you.”
THE man picked up Greerson’s bags. The inventor carried the cardboard roll. With the servant leading, the two started through the hallway and up a pair of creaky stairs that made a long, winding course.
They passed through a corridor on the second floor. It terminated in a comfortable sitting room, where a fire was burning in the hearth. Greerson removed his hat and coat. He looked about the room, and observed a dog that was resting in the corner.