“It worked great, Bowser,” Goldy was saying. “I pulled the stall about some tough guys being after me. Cardona fell for it. So did that news hound, Burke.”
“You ought to knock off that bimbo,” asserted Bowser.
“Burke doesn’t mean anything now,” returned Goldy, “Let him ride. Say, Bowser, when Curry was all rigged up and showed his grin, he was a dead ringer for me. Here’s another laugh. Cardona has put a dumb dick on Curry’s train — to make sure that I get to Florida.”
“That’s good,” laughed Bowser. “Meanwhile, you ducked out through the service elevator. But say — what was the good of having Cardona send the dick along?”
“I’ll tell you,” growled Goldy. “There was a second dictograph hook-up in my living room — under the radiator. It’s lucky I didn’t make any phone calls lately. I’m going to make one right now, though.”
“There’s a big job right ahead, and I’ll be in on this one, Bowser. You’ll be with me. I’m not taking any chances. I was glad to pay that bonehead’s expenses for a soft trip down to Florida along with Curry.
“That dick will be an alibi, Bowser! Whatever happens, I won’t be known in it. Those dictographs have got me worried. We’re up against some foxy game. So I’m playing it safe; and if Mr. Cardona is in back of some smart plan to trap me, he won’t get anywhere. He thinks I’m yellow, Bowser! Let him think that — let him have me trailed to Florida!”
Glistening gold teeth reflected the glare of a traffic light. The cab stopped. Goldy and Bowser alighted and went into a dingy hotel not far from the corner where their trip had ended.
“I’m going to make some phone calls,” remarked Goldy. “Stick here. Bowser. I’m taking a room upstairs. Hang around the lobby until I join you again.”
GOLDY TANCRED was gloating over his own cleverness. Just as Joe Cardona had laughed at what he thought was the big shot’s departure, so did Goldy chuckle over the sleuth’s mistake. No one, Goldy thought, could possibly have suspected Curry’s make-up.
But there was another observer at the station, a man whose presence none of the others had noticed. A tall personage, whose keen eyes gleamed from either side of a hawk-like nose, had witnessed the entire scene.
Merely one of various persons clustered by the gate, this shrewd spectator had gained a close look at the face which Joe Cardona and the others had mistaken for Goldy Tancred’s. The tall personage’s observant eyes had spotted a strained expression in the flashing smile that had come from the peaks of the overcoat collar.
This observer was The Shadow. Guised as a chance visitor to the railroad terminal, he had followed up the report relayed to him by Burbank. He, like the trio headed by Cardona, had come to witness Goldy Tancred’s departure.
The Shadow knew what the others did not know. An impostor had left in the big shot’s stead. The disguise of the masquerading Curry had deceived other eyes, but not those of The Shadow.
Goldy Tancred was still in New York. The big shot had gone into cover. With Ping Slatterly no longer alive to perform desired missions, Goldy was taking up the work himself. New crime was impending, and with it, the insidious menace of the black hush.
A soft, weird whisper came from the lips of that observer who now stood alone by the deserted train gate. The laugh of The Shadow, it betokened grim warfare against the menace that still existed.
The Shadow had one mission now, that was to meet the minds of crime with a method that they did not expect, to locate the source of the black hush.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XXI. THE MAN WHO FEARED
HARRY VINCENT was standing beside the living room window of a comfortable apartment. Before him, stretched awkwardly in an easy chair, was the man whom he had come to see — Don Chalvers.
It was nearing midnight. Harry Vincent, deciding that it would be unwise to sound out Chalvers on his first visit, resolved to forgo a discussion that might lead to some word regarding Roland Furness.
Chalvers seemed too restless; perhaps it was because of his carousing on the preceding night. Harry noted that the man was weary.
“Think I’ll be leaving you,” remarked Harry, as he stepped away from the window. “When can we get together again? Tomorrow night?”
“Busy tomorrow night,” responded Chalvers. “But don’t go yet, Vincent. Don’t go!”
There was a pleading note in the final tone. Harry could not withhold a sharp look toward his companion.
He noticed that Chalvers was pale.
“What’s the matter? ” questioned Harry. “You don’t look well, Chalvers.”
“I don’t feel well,” the man complained. “I haven’t been feeling well. Wait. If you’re leaving, I’ll go downstairs with you, and do a turn around the block.”
Harry agreed.
THE pair left the apartment and descended by the automatic elevator, six stories to the street. As they strolled along together, Chalvers gripped Harry’s arm in the darkness.
“Vincent,” he said suddenly. “Come back up to my apartment, will you? I want to talk to you. I have to talk to you. I’m worried — terribly worried — and I must talk to someone.”
Harry glanced at his watch. They were standing by the light of a drugstore. After the short consideration, Harry expressed willingness to return to the apartment.
“I’ll have to make a telephone call,” he remarked. “There may be a message for me at the hotel. I’ll go right here in the drugstore.”
“Call from the apartment—”
Chalvers made the statement too late. Harry had already reached the door. Chalvers followed him and watched him enter a booth. While the engineer was buying some cigarettes, Harry made a quick call to Burbank.
“Vincent reporting,” he announced. “Chalvers may be going to talk. I’m going back to his apartment. We’re in the drugstore now.”
“All well?” queried Burbank.
“Absolutely,” returned Harry. “No possible chance of danger. I’ll report through Mann tomorrow morning unless I learn something of great consequence.”
With this statement, Harry concluded his call and joined Chalvers by the door of the drugstore. Together, they strolled back and ascended in the elevator.
Chalvers was taciturn now; Harry, however, knew that the man was holding his conversation until they reached the living room.
Back in the apartment, Chalvers flung his hat upon a table. Restlessly, he drew Harry to a chair and began to express his troubles in a breathless voice. All the pent-up worry of the man seemed to break loose at once in a flood of emotion.
“Vincent,” confided Chalvers, “I’m terribly afraid. Don’t ask me whom I fear. It’s what I fear that counts. I’m afraid for my life. Maybe you can help me.”
“Tell me the trouble.”
“It all goes back to when I was in college” — Chalvers was speaking less hastily, while Harry listened without betraying undue interest — “and it involves a friend of mine. My best friend, he was, but he’s dead now. Poor Roland!”
“Roland?”
“Yes. Roland Furness. Do you remember, Vincent, that two men were murdered not long ago at the Olympia Hotel? Two electrical engineers — the newspapers were filled with accounts of the crime.”
“I think I did read something of the sort.”
Don Chalvers rubbed his hands in worried fashion. He stared toward Harry, and his face displayed an expression that betokened a nervous, hunted man. Harry Vincent remained serene. He was sure that he was about to gain clues that would be of value to The Shadow.
“When I was in college,” confided Chalvers, “Roland Furness was my roommate. He and I used to indulge in unusual experiments. We made a discovery, Vincent — a wonderful discovery. I… I don’t need to go into the details now. But it was more than a discovery; it was an invention. It was a ray—”