The earphones went back to the wall. The Shadow’s gleaming eyes still lingered on the markings which lay before him. A falcon feather; the crossed-out name of Rowdy Kirshing; the uncrossed name of Terry Rukes — these formed a trio in The Shadow’s plans to reach the plotter who had seized Hubert Apprison.
Long minutes went by. The Shadow’s hands made cryptic notations; then obliterated them with quickly penned lines. Intuitively, The Shadow could sense that crime was brewing. He was not content to wait until the kidnaper of Hubert Apprison chose to move.
Once again, the light showed on the wall. This time the voice of Burbank brought a new announcement, as The Shadow gave the word: “Report.”
“Report from Burke,” was Burbank’s statement. “Cardona called to conference with Weston.”
A soft laugh sounded in the gloom as the earphones clicked back to the wall. This was news. Clyde Burke, agent of The Shadow, was a newspaper reporter on the staff of the New York Classic. Burke was a frequent visitor to detective headquarters.
The Shadow knew that Joe Cardona was working on the Apprison case. The fact that the detective had gone to see the police commissioner indicated that some evidence might have reached the law.
The hands moved from the table. The light clicked out. A whispering laugh rose weirdly through the room. It reached a strange crescendo; then ended abruptly. Ghoulish echoes responded from the blackness. Silence followed. The sanctum was empty.
NOT long afterward, a tall man in evening clothes strolled into the lobby of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed as the visitor passed. He had recognized the solemn face of Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter.
An important member of the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston was regarded as a cryptic individual. It was known that he traveled to many foreign lands and never announced his plans to any one.
The only proof that Cranston was residing in his New Jersey home was found when he made his occasional visits to the Cobalt Club. Yet even then, the persons who saw him were not always correct in their belief that Lamont Cranston was back at home.
Little did they suspect that a strange, sinister being of mystery had adopted the guise of Lamont Cranston as a convenient personality to use on certain occasions. This tall, immaculate personage whose face was almost masklike, was a masquerader who had chosen a part that would not be questioned. The arrival at the Cobalt Club was none other than The Shadow.
Strolling through the lounge, The Shadow passed through a doorway and approached a group of telephone booths. There, with the leisurely manner of the man whose part he was playing, he entered a booth and gave a number. A few moments later, a voice came over the wire.
“Commissioner Weston’s apartment.”
“Hello,” The Shadow’s voice was a quiet, deliberate one. “Is that Kempton?… Ah, yes… This is Mr. Cranston… Yes, the friend of Commissioner Weston. Is the commissioner there?”
A pause; then the quiet voice resumed. “He is out? Where could I reach him?… I see… I see… You have instructions that he is not to be called… Of course; of course… I understand. You are to inform no one.”
A smile appeared upon the calm features of Lamont Cranston as the tall figure appeared from the phone booth. Still playing the part of the millionaire, The Shadow strolled through the lounge and took a chair. A thin smile appeared upon his lips as he pressed a cigarette between them.
Completing his smoke, this personage who played the role of Cranston, arose and returned to the phone booth. He dialed the same number that he had called before. Kempton’s voice came over the wire.
THIS time, The Shadow, although he still appeared as Cranston, did not use the voice of the millionaire. Instead, his tone was brusque. It was a perfect representation of the voice of Commissioner Weston.
“Is that you, Kempton?” queried The Shadow. “Were there any calls for me?… I see… Cranston. You told him where to reach me, of course…”
A pause; then, still in the tone of Weston, The Shadow delivered an angry outburst.
“Sometimes you lack sense, Kempton!.. Of course… Yes, of course I told you not to inform any one where I had gone… Once in a while, though, you can use good judgment… Yes, Lamont Cranston is an exceptional case.”
Kempton was apologizing in a profuse tone. The Shadow listened; then responded in mollified fashion, exactly as the police commissioner would have spoken.
“All right, Kempton… Yes, perhaps Cranston would call again. Tell him where I am, if he does. By the way” — The Shadow was adopting the sarcastic touch of which Weston was capable — “you haven’t forgotten where I am, have you?… Yes, that’s right… Visiting Elias Carthers, on Long Island…”
The Shadow hung up the receiver as Kempton completed an apology. Rising, he strolled in Cranston fashion from the club. Reaching the street, he signaled to the doorman, who, in turn, hailed a limousine parked down the street. The pretended Lamont Cranston entered the car when it arrived.
“Long Island, Stanley,” he said to the uniformed chauffeur. “Out to the home of Mr. Carthers.”
A soft laugh came from Lamont Cranston’s thin lips as the limousine rolled eastward. It was the whispered laugh of The Shadow; the laugh that denoted the mysterious and subtle nature of its utterer.
In feigning the voice of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, The Shadow had paved the way for another call by Lamont Cranston. At the same time, he had made the extra call unnecessary; by feigning the commissioner’s sarcastic tone, he had drawn from Kempton the information that he wanted.
Yet there was another reason for the soft laugh. The Shadow was thinking of the destination to which he had ordered Stanley.
Lamont Cranston was a friend of Elias Carthers. He would be welcome at the tobacco magnate’s home. In fact an unanswered invitation to this very reception lay on a table in Lamont Cranston’s New Jersey residence.
The Shadow had cause for mirth. He sensed why Commissioner Weston had gone to visit Elias Carthers. It was probable that Weston had Cardona with him; the fact that Weston had given orders to Kempton not to name his destination added to that conjecture.
The Shadow knew that the dual presence of Weston and Cardona could mean but one thing. Danger or crime — an aftermath of Hubert Apprison’s abduction — must be threatening the Long Island mansion.
The Shadow, in addition to watching men of crime, kept in touch with the activities of the police. The policy had served him well tonight.
The Shadow had made his move. He, like Weston and Cardona, had the thwarting of The Black Falcon as his objective!
CHAPTER VI
THE BLACK FALCON
IT was quarter after ten. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston was seated in a mahogany-furnished room that served as the study of Elias Carthers. On the other side of the table was the tobacco magnate. The third occupant of the room was a tall, pale-faced man whose tortoise-shell glasses gave him an owlish expression.
This room formed a quiet, detached portion of the Carthers mansion. Weston had chosen it as the best place to confer with Elias Carthers, particularly as the tobacco king had arranged for the police commissioner to meet him here.
“You believe then,” Carthers was questioning, “that it would be unwise to inform my guests of the danger which may be lurking here?”
“Yes, exceedingly unwise,” expressed Weston firmly. “This kidnaper has made no specific statement in reference to his plans. I have picked this reception as the likely spot at which he will act — before midnight.”
“And if the guests knew of this fact—”
“They would talk among themselves. The criminal would be warned. He would avoid trouble here.”