WHILE the baffled men of crime lingered in their stronghold, a trim coupe rolled to a stop on a side street near Times Square. Black-gloved hands came from darkness. They showed in the dim glow from the sidewalk.
Keen eyes surveyed a packet that rested between those hands. It was the stack of crinkly bills that The Shadow had taken from Rowdy Kirshing. The eyes now saw the strange marking that adorned the paper strip about the packet.
A black feather! This was the only symbol of the person who had paid Rowdy Kirshing, big shot racketeer, a price for service. That marking, as yet, was the single clew to the man behind some insidious game of crime.
A soft, echoing laugh came from hidden lips as the eyes of The Shadow identified the species of the plume. That bit of evidence denoted a bird of prey.
It was the feather of a falcon — dyed black!
CHAPTER III
CRIME FOREWARNED
A BLACK feather!
Such was the trophy that The Shadow had brought from the secret stronghold on Tenth Avenue. Unaided, the master fighter had raided the palatial club where big shots met. Departing unscathed, he had left death lying in his wake.
Rowdy Kirshing had died in an attempt to slay The Shadow. Before his death, the big shot had blurted his connection with “Velvet” Laffrey. There lay another link. The police — so rumor had it — were looking for Laffrey in connection with the disappearance of Hubert Apprison, prominent New York banker.
Gangland rumors are usually backed by truth. Such was the case with this one. Less than half an hour after the echoes of The Shadow’s shots had ended within the confines of the Tenth Avenue club, a swarthy, stocky man stepped from a subway entrance near the corner of Thirty-third Street.
This individual walked along at a steady pace until he arrived at the entrance of an apartment house. He rode upstairs in an automatic elevator and knocked at the door of an apartment. The door opened to show a small anteroom. A short man, of military bearing, stepped back to admit the arrival.
“Good evening, Detective Cardona,” he said, “The commissioner is waiting to see you. Step in.”
The servant conducted the detective into a living room. He led him through to a hallway beyond and paused to knock on a closed door. A brusque voice responded from the other side of the barrier.
“What is it, Kempton?”
“Detective Cardona is here, sir,” replied the servant.
“All right,” came the voice. “Have him enter.”
The servant opened the door and ushered the detective into a small, lighted office. A desk occupied the middle of the room; beyond it was seated a firm-faced man who was going over a stack of papers.
Cardona seated himself in a chair on the nearer side of the desk. He waited for several minutes until the police commissioner laid the papers aside, rested back in the chair and eyed his visitor.
There was a marked contrast between these two men who represented the law. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston was of a powerful, executive type. His strong face, his steady lips with pointed mustache above them, showed him to be a man who believed in action and demanded it.
Detective Joe Cardona, with keen, dark eyes and solemn visage, was one who could follow instructions that were given. His impassiveness was the sign of his ability to observe. Long experience in hunting down perpetrators of crime had gained him recognition as an ace among sleuths.
IT was Cardona’s practice, when he visited Weston, to let the commissioner begin the conversation. Cardona had learned that his superior was both impulsive and impatient. When Weston had questions, he asked them. Cardona had become wise enough to govern his replies along lines that were close to the commissioner’s train of thought.
Thus Cardona waited for a full minute while Weston stared in his direction. The detective knew that a question was coming. He wanted to hear it. At length the commissioner snapped his inquiry.
“Anything new on Apprison?”
“Nothing since my last report,” replied Cardona.
Weston fingered a sheaf of papers on his desk. He nodded slowly as he considered Cardona’s noncommittal answer. Then, with his characteristic brusqueness, he gave an order.
“Let me have the details to date,” he said.
Joe Cardona repressed a smile. This was an old trick of the commissioner’s. Weston had a habit of digesting every detail of a written report; then demanding a verbal resume. He was quick to catch any variance that might occur. Cardona’s way of meeting this was to make verbal reports concise.
“At eight o’clock last Wednesday night,” declared the detective, “Hubert Apprison was in the study of his home on Seventy-fifth Street. With him was his secretary, Jonathan Blossom. Mrs. Apprison was entertaining guests downstairs.
“Shots were heard. The guests hurried upstairs. They found Jonathan Blossom lying dead, on the floor of the study. In his grasp was the top portion of a letter addressed to Hubert Apprison. It bore a date — Tuesday — and Apprison’s name and address with the words ‘Dear Sir.’
“Hubert Apprison was gone. Evidently intruders had entered by the back stairs, had seized Apprison and carried him away. The letter which Apprison had received was probably important, for most of it had been torn from Blossom’s grasp.
“The important evidence was the presence of thumb and finger prints upon the portion of the letter that Blossom held. These have been examined” — Cardona paused to bring photostatic copies from his pocket — “and have proved to be the impressions of a former confidence man named Peter Laffrey — known as Velvet Laffrey.”
Again the police commissioner nodded. He waited quietly. Cardona’s eyes narrowed momentarily; then the detective added a short statement.
“Two theories,” he said. “One that Apprison killed Blossom and made a get-away. The other that Velvet Laffrey headed a crew that carried off Apprison. I am working on the last named.”
Cardona eyed the commissioner upon the completion of this statement. He expected a criticism. He was ready for it when it arrived.
“Why,” questioned Weston, “do you reject the possibility that Apprison may have slain his secretary?”
“I do not reject it,” returned the detective, with a steady smile. “My job is to find Hubert Apprison. Once he is quizzed, we will have a lead on whether he or some one else was responsible for Blossom’s death.”
“So you are trying to locate Velvet Laffrey—”
“As a step to finding Apprison. We have evidence that Laffrey was present when Apprison disappeared.”
COMMISSIONER WESTON arose from his desk. He paced across the room while Joe Cardona watched him. At last the commissioner turned and faced the detective.
“Cardona,” he declared, “you are using commendable tactics. I want to compliment you upon your keenness. You have learned to combine theory and practice. It is an ability which you did not fully possess when I first knew you.”
The compliment was something of a back-handed one. Commissioner Weston seemed to take upon himself some of the approval that he was extending to the detective. That, however, did not curb Joe Cardona’s secret elation. The detective was used to Commissioner Weston’s brusque, egotistical manner. He knew that Weston was pleased. Cardona retained his flickering smile as he gazed at his superior officer.
Weston paced a while longer. His face clouded. He stopped short and snapped a question at his subordinate.
“Why have you not traced Velvet Laffrey?”
“We’re using the dragnet,” returned Cardona calmly. “If Laffrey is in New York, we’ll get him.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused the commissioner. “I see your point. Velvet Laffrey may have left town. Quite likely. Meanwhile, of course, a search is being made for Hubert Apprison.”