In the first supposition, there was the question of Legira’s delay. In the second, there was the problem of possibility. On a forty-minute run, five minutes might have been cut off.
The Shadow checked the first comment on Legira: “8.15 — 9.30.” After the tabulation, the hand wrote the words:
Delay in meeting Desmond and Francisco.
Thus, with keen intuition, did The Shadow account for the extra thirty minutes — a half hour which Alvarez Legira would scarcely have spent in idleness, with ten million dollars awaiting him.
Now came the consideration of Ballou’s schedule. This man could have gone from Hendrix’s apartment to the Hotel Oriental in twenty minutes. The trip would have been average if he had left the place two or three minutes before the arrival of The Shadow.
If Ballou had left the room of death at ten minutes of nine — the approximate time of the murder — he would have reached the hotel with twenty-four minutes to spare.
The point of the pencil rested upon the statement:
Ballou: 9.14 — 9.34.
It crossed out “9.14” and substituted “9.10.”
Now came a soft laugh from the dark. The Shadow, in his contemplation of the figure was considering a factor which even Joe Cardona had overlooked. The time of the murders had been set as eight fifty, for that was when the alarm had come from central. Yet the struggle — the evidence of which The Shadow had seen — indicated clearly that time had elapsed between the shots that had caused the killings.
The light clicked out. Usually, that was the sign for the departure of The Shadow. Tonight the man of mystery was waiting. Complete silence dominated the room, for a time. Then came a scarcely audible sound. The Shadow was writing in the dark.
THE noise ceased. Another lulling spell of silence. A tiny light shone through the darkness. Burbank was calling. The earphones clicked as they were carried across the table. The Shadow spoke.
“Report,” was his word.
The Shadow listened as Burbank relayed information from Harry Vincent, the operative who was watching Pete Ballou. When Burbank had concluded the report, the light clicked on above the desk. There, perfectly inscribed upon the sheet of paper, were the words which The Shadow had written.
“Orders.” The Shadow’s command was terse. “Have Marsland join with Burke and Vincent tomorrow. Duty on Long Island. Place indicated in next order. Vincent to maintain contact. Relieve until summoned.”
Burbank’s response denoted that the order had been checked.
“Listen for radio signals,” came the next order. “Yacht Cordova off Long Island. Code.”
Another click through the earphones. “Cover Legira home as usual,” was The Shadow’s final order. “Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
Out went the light. The instruments clicked as they were placed across the table. Then, through the pitch darkness of the room came the tones of a long, mocking laugh. It was a shuddering laugh that was scarcely louder than a whisper; yet the very blackness of the room seemed to quiver with the sound and the walls hurled back ghoulish echoes that might have come from corridors of space.
The Shadow had planned new work. Burbank would remain at his post of duty. The active operatives were relieved from duty until the following day.
“Vincent to drop Ballou immediately. Relieved.”
There was a deep significance in that order. There was only one man to take the relief. That man was The Shadow. He was to carry on where Harry Vincent had left off. While his agents slept, awaiting the task of tomorrow, The Shadow would maintain the vigil.
The Shadow was a man who never slept when important events were developing. Unwearied by the adventure of this evening, he had set a new task for himself to perform. In Pete Ballou he had discovered a key to vicious plots that were reaching their culmination. Another mission called The Shadow now.
Again, the ghostly laugh crept through the inky room. Long, weird, and sinister, it clung to crevices that shouted back their strange reverberations as though a host of imps had cried with gibing mirth.
When the last sounds of that eerie peal had ended, deep silence pervaded The Shadow’s sanctuary — the silence that told the absence of a living being.
The Shadow had departed.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MAN HIGHER UP
Two men were seated in a lavishly furnished hotel room. One was Pete Ballou, stocky and shrewd-faced. The other was a man past middle age, a dark-visaged individual.
There was no smile on Ballou’s face tonight. On the contrary, he looked worried. He regarded his companion with apprehension. It was quite evident that Ballou stood in awe of the man whom he was visiting.
The dark-faced man turned in his chair and his features were clearly reflected by the light of a lamp beside the chair. The sallow face showed harsh and grim. Two blackish eyes glowed sharply beneath heavy, coal-hued eyebrows. A sneering smile rested upon the cruel, puffy lips.
“Bah!” Ballou’s host spat the exclamation. “You have been a fool, Ballou. Do you know that?”
Ballou nodded slowly. Then he spoke in an apologetic tone.
“I can’t figure consequences the way you can,” he said. “You’ve got the brains behind this work.”
“I have the brains?” The speaker arose as he spoke and his squat, chunky form seemed menacing. “Of course I have the brains. That is the difference between us. Rodriguez Zelva has brains. Pete Ballou has no brains.”
“I’ll admit I made a boner tonight,” said Ballou, ruefully. “Just the same, it looked like the only way out. That’s what you’ve always told me to do, Zelva. Act when I’m in a jam — leave the rest to you. That’s what I did tonight.”
“I expected you to act with sense!” retorted Zelva. “I did not want you to play the fool. You have made it more difficult, now. It is bad, too, because you have come here.”
“I had to come here,” protested Ballou. “I couldn’t give you details over the phone. I waited until after two o’clock.”
“Listen, Ballou.” Zelva’s tone was low but emphatic. “You have worked for me very long. You knew well that I stay apart from those who work for me. That is why no one has ever been able to say that Rodriguez Zelva is engaged in crime.
“You have been but one of a dozen who have served me. I picked you for this work. Why? Because you were the one best suited to arrange affairs in New York. Pesano, Salati, Ellsdorff — I considered all of them, as well as others. But they were not suited for New York as you are suited.
“I placed you here to watch Legira; to deal with him craftily. I told you to avoid those who might suspect. Until tonight, you played the game well. But now — ah, you are one fool! One great fool! To make things so that you would have to come here at this time—”
As Zelva broke off his sentence, Pete Ballou tried to ease the situation by a prompt remark.
“There’s no danger in my coming here,” he said. “I haven’t been here since this job started. This is really the first time. What can Legira do? He’s bottled up—”
“That makes no difference!” exclaimed Zelva. “I have my ways, Ballou. I keep to them. I use every precaution.
“This room — I have chosen it because it is secluded. I live here alone — ah, yes — but those two doors on either side of the hallway — Pesano and Ellsdorff are always there. They never recognize me when they meet me. That is their only work — to watch.
“Look from this window” — Zelva strode across the room and Ballou followed him — “you see this little balcony? From here I can see below — to all sides — everywhere. Fourteen stories to the street below. Who can come here to find me, in this room of the Goliath Hotel? I am safe, yes — but not alone because I am secluded. I am safe because I am wise and make no mistakes except” — his tone was ironical — “except when I choose men who have no brains.”