With keen fingers, The Shadow went through the clippings. There was a certain conviction about The Shadow’s touch, as though he expected his probing fingers to find a slip that he required.
At last, the hands became motionless. A piece of newspaper dropped upon the table. The eyes of The Shadow were reading.
Crime had come to the peaceful town of Daltona, Georgia. There, the newspaper report stated, Perry Davenport, disinherited son of Cuthbert Davenport, had slain his father, his sister, and a servant. The surviving member of the Davenport family was Tom Rodan, son-in-law of Cuthbert Davenport.
News of the murders had been brought to Rodan at the home of Sheriff George Seaton. He had gone to the Davenport home, there to be falsely accused of crime by Perry Davenport.
The report added that Perry Davenport had been under the influence of liquor, and that his useless accusation had been immediately disproven by reliable witnesses who testified that Rodan had been in their company.
The laugh of The Shadow sounded low amid the gloom of the silent sanctum. In this single report, chosen with keen decision, The Shadow had found a clew that he desired. His hand was active now. It was inscribing names upon a sheet of paper. These names formed a column:
Earl Northrup
Harold Thurber
Thomas Rodan
The hand of The Shadow paused. Beneath the list, it added an interrogation point. Its significance was plain. The symbol indicated that the trail did not end here; that others might well be involved in this strange course of repeated crime.
Now the hand was drawing lines, one from each name, and one from the interrogation point beneath the list. These lines converged to the right of the list. They formed a circle, and in the sphere The Shadow inscribed another interrogation mark.
WITH keen intuition, The Shadow had traced the probable procedure that had aided the operations of the men involved in crime. Earl Northrup, Harold Thurber, and Thomas Rodan were fixtures — each a man established in a small community. The question mark beneath their names indicated that there might be more than these three.
But with such men as fixtures, how could the crimes be staged? The question mark at the right was the answer. It indicated the possibility of another criminal — a wandering fiend engaged in a round robin of pillage and murder!
Northrup and Thurber looked alike. What of Rodan?
That was something to be learned. If The Shadow’s suspicions were correct, Thomas Rodan, of Daltona, Georgia, would be the third in a list of identical men!
The writing had disappeared from the sheet of paper. Only blankness challenged The Shadow now. Long silence followed while the hands were resting. Then came a laugh as the hands withdrew into darkness. Out clicked the light.
The solemn, echoing mirth of The Shadow swept through the sanctum, presaging his departure. The silence of empty blackness followed. The Shadow was gone.
Later that night, a monoplane took off from an airport in New Jersey. Thrumming its way southward, the huge, man-made bird swept swiftly across the moonlit countryside. Flying low, the plane’s wings cast a swiftly moving shadow on the ground beneath.
That shadow symbolized the identity of the man who piloted the ship. The Shadow was headed for Daltona!
CHAPTER X
THE FORCED CLEW
ON the following morning, a gentleman entered the lobby of the Southern Hotel in Daltona, and approached the desk to register. The clerk noted the name that he inscribed. It was that of Lamont Cranston, from New York.
After instructing the bell boy to carry the guest’s luggage to his room, the clerk happened to glance up. Then, for the first time, he noticed the appearance of the man who had registered.
Lamont Cranston’s face was a study in impassiveness. It was a firm, chiseled countenance from which two eyes shone with burning gaze. As those eyes turned upon the clerk behind the desk, their steadiness seemed to fade. Nevertheless, the clerk experienced a peculiar magnetic attraction gripping him. It was as if he had been caught by some mysterious power, whose force had been purposely lessened by the man who controlled it.
Blinking, the clerk watched Cranston pass across the lobby. He marveled at the bearing of this mysterious guest. Tall, almost motionless in stride, Cranston formed a strange figure as he walked toward the elevator.
When he had entered the lighted lift, the clerk still stared toward him; then, suddenly, the man behind the desk found his gaze moving toward the floor. There, projecting from the doorway of the elevator, the clerk saw a most singular shadow. A long, grotesque blotch of black, its presence seemed uncanny. Glancing upward, the clerk caught a last glimpse of Cranston’s burning, hawklike eyes. Then the door was shut, and the car had gone on its upward course.
There was a reason for this amazement on the part of the observant clerk in the Southern Hotel. In viewing this man who called himself Lamont Cranston, he had encountered the personality of another personage. He had seen the eyes of The Shadow!
In his hotel room, Lamont Cranston walked to the window and stared forth over the city of Daltona. He had come here on a definite mission — the tracing of Thomas Rodan. So far, there was no conclusive connection between Rodan and such men as Earl Northrup and Harold Thurber; nevertheless, this man, known as Lamont Cranston — otherwise The Shadow — had come to test the truth of his own keen intuition.
Lamont Cranston’s first action was to consult the local telephone book. There he discovered the name of Thomas Rodan, listed as a realtor. Cranston laughed softly as he picked up the telephone, and called the number of Rodan’s office.
He was informed by the girl who answered that Mr. Rodan had not yet come to the office; but that he was expected before noon. Cranston gave his name, and announced that he had important business to discuss with Rodan. His statement that he had just arrived from New York impressed the girl.
“Mr. Rodan can find me at the Southern Hotel,” was Cranston’s final statement. “I shall be in the lobby.”
IT was shortly after twelve when Tom Rodan walked hurriedly into the hotel and approached the desk. He inquired for Mr. Cranston. The clerk pointed out a gentleman seated by the window, whose face was turned toward the street. Rodan, evidently curious as to the identity of the visitor, approached.
“Mr. Cranston?” he questioned.
The man arose and turned. Rodan shrank momentarily as he caught the glare of burning eyes. Then his courage returned as the glimmer faded. Lamont Cranston held out his hand.
“I am Mr. Cranston,” he said, in a deliberate, even voice. “I presume that you are Mr. Rodan?”
As Rodan nodded, Cranston continued:
“Suppose we lunch together, Mr. Rodan? I have some important matters to discuss with you — involving real estate.”
For a moment, Rodan was on the point of claiming that he had another appointment; but there was something in Cranston’s attitude that restrained him.
Never, in all his life, had Rodan seen a man who impressed him as did Cranston. The persuasive words, the firm face, and, moreover, the strange, hypnotic eyes, brooked no refusal of the invitation.
Inwardly, Tom Rodan was ill at ease. With that feeling, he had a definite urge to learn more concerning this mysterious stranger.
Who was this man who had suddenly appeared from New York, with some important business to discuss?
The two entered the dining room of the hotel. Rodan faced Cranston across a small table. Both men were impassive and expressionless; but where Rodan’s mind was filled with wonder, Cranston’s contained the knowledge that it sought.