WHEN Horace returned fifteen minutes later, he brought four newspapers. Three were copies of the Latuna Gazette, a sizable journal, while the fourth was a thinner sheet called the Latuna Enterprise.
Mann chose the Gazette for a start. He went through each issue carefully, checking on the events of three succeeding days. He found nothing of striking interest.
The Enterprise was a more sensational sheet. Its news value appeared limited, however, until Mann reached the fourth page, where he observed an editorial in large type. As he began to read the column, a smile appeared upon Mann’s lips. The editorial bore an apt title; and its language was satiricaclass="underline"
The city of Latuna is to gain a new art treasure. Even though our uncompleted museum lacks space to exhibit the valuable collections that it owns, the donors appear to be undeterred in their efforts to make Latuna the art center of this state.
Thanks to Strafford Malden, who deeded Latuna the ground upon which the unfinished museum stands, our citizens will soon be able to gaze with awe upon the serene countenance of a genuine Egyptian sphinx.
A relic of the Eighteenth Dynasty, the Blue Sphinx has been pried from its moorings in the Libyan Desert and is now learning the comforts of modem travel aboard a flat car attached to an American fast freight.
We should like to interview the Blue Sphinx upon its arrival in Latuna. We should like to learn its present impressions as they contrast with its four-thousand-year sojourn amid the desert sands. But — unfortunately — sphinxes are famed for their silence. No sphinx would talk, even if it could.
So the Blue Sphinx will remain silent in Latuna. From its resting place in the great hall of the museum, it will wisely eye our citizenry and keep its impressions to itself. We shall learn nothing from the Blue Sphinx. But perhaps the Blue Sphinx will learn something from us. If it does, it will be happy.
For it will discover that it is not alone in Latuna. The Blue Sphinx will be pleased when it sees our Mayor Sphinx and our Police Chief Sphinx. Indeed, every day that it rests in the museum, it will be the guest of our Curator Sphinx.
Most of us will be present when the Blue Sphinx is installed. That will be a time for silence — on the part of Sphinxes. But afterward, when individuals can visit the museum quietly and alone, we may visualize a Sphinx party, wherein the Silent Ones may gather in secret conclave.
There, perhaps, our Mayor Sphinx may explain why he has not exposed the details of graft that he discovered when he house-cleaned after the demise of the previous administration. Our Police Chief Sphinx — again perhaps — may state why he still allows characters of criminal caliber to sojourn in our midst. Our Curator Sphinx — yes, perhaps — may reveal the causes for his delay in completing final plans for the new portions of the museum.
In return, perhaps, the Blue Sphinx may divulge some mighty secrets of the Nile. But we doubt that such revelations would interest its human brethren. After all, the Sphinx party may never be held.
Yet one fact remains apparent. The Blue Sphinx from Libya might be a unique possession for any city other than Latuna. But in our fair town, it will just be one more Sphinx.
When he had finished reading the editorial, Mann referred to the masthead at the top of the column and learned that the owner and editor of the Latuna Enterprise was named Harrison Knode.
Still smiling, the investment broker clipped the editorial and the information above it. He sealed the clipping in another envelope. Then he placed both sealed envelopes in a larger wrapper.
Referring to copies of the Gazette, he found mention of the mayor’s name as Quirby Rush. He also learned that the police chief was named Lawrence Grewling.
After a longer search, Mann found an item which mentioned that the Latuna Museum was open from 10 A.M. until 8 P.M. The curator’s name was given as Joseph Rubal.
Mann wrote all three names upon a sheet of paper and put it in a little envelope of his own. He added this to those in the large envelope, sealed his packet and placed it in his pocket. Then he left his office.
TWENTY minutes later, Rutledge Mann arrived at an old office building on Twenty-third Street. He entered, passed through a dingy hall and ascended a flight of creaking, tilted stairs. He reached an obscure corridor and stopped in front of an office door. The grimy, cobwebbed panel was of glass. It bore the name:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped the big envelope in a mail slot and departed. His face was quizzical when he reached the street. It was not the thought of that obscure office that made Mann seem puzzled. That office was permanently deserted, from all appearances; yet it served as The Shadow’s mail box.
Mann had given up speculation regarding how and when The Shadow entered to receive reports.
What puzzled Mann was the same problem that had troubled Hawkeye. Like the crafty spotter, the investment broker was wondering how his chief would handle Tinker Furris, yet still have a free hand when he began an investigation in the town of Latuna.
Hawkeye had supplied word that Tinker planned crime; also, that Latuna was a spot where crime impended. Mann by reference to the Latuna Gazette, had produced tangible evidence that deep waters lay ahead. Latuna must be The Shadow’s goal. Would he let Tinker Furris get away with crime in order to keep Konk Zitz lulled?
Mann decided not. Though The Shadow was a mystery, even to this contact agent, Mann, like all the other aids, knew that The Shadow allowed no spoils to evil-doers. Somehow, The Shadow would thwart Tinker’s scheme of crime, yet manage to keep from damaging his Latuna campaign.
How? Rutledge Mann was still wondering when he reached his office, and the only solution he could furnish was a head shake. Like Hawkeye, Mann had reached the conclusion that the problem was beyond all persons but The Shadow.
CHAPTER III
FROM THE SANCTUM
WHITE hands, agile and long-fingered, beneath the rays of a bluish light. The Shadow was in his sanctum, an unknown abode, secluded somewhere in Manhattan. Upon a polished table lay Mann’s messages, together with the clipping from the Latuna Enterprise.
Writing faded. Clipping was thrust aside. Hands stretched across the table and obtained a pair of earphones. A tiny signal bulb glimmered on the wall. A quiet voice came across the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
Mann — in his office, during daytime hours; Burbank — in an obscure room, at night. These were the contact agents of The Shadow. Where Mann, slow and deliberate, served in the development of preliminary plans, Burbank was ready when action called. Active agents were always ready to receive his relayed orders from The Shadow.
“Instructions to Vincent.” The Shadow’s voice came in an awesome whisper. “Insert this advertisement in the late edition of the Evening Traveler: ‘Wanted, Four Salesmen, preferably those knowing Mid-West conditions convincingly.’”
Burbank’s reply was a careful repetition of the words that The Shadow had given him. Then came another order from The Shadow.
“Instructions to Burke,” was the whisper from the unseen lips. “Arrange to accompany Cardona on nightly inspection tour of the East Side. Special story for the New York Classic.”
“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.
“Instructions to Marsland,” resumed The Shadow. “Pick up message in Shrevnitz cab one block above Cobalt Club, seven o’clock. Follow orders as given.”