The servant left. A minute later the visitor entered. Caleb Myland arose to shake hands with Ralph Weston, police commissioner of New York City.
RALPH WESTON was a heavily built man of military bearing. His face was a firm one; a pointed mustache added to its commanding appearance. A man of middle age, Weston had the vigor of youth and a dynamic personality that befitted his official position.
At the same time, his expression was a troubled one, and his eyebrows narrowed as he noted the newspaper spread on Caleb Myland’s table. Weston’s first action, after seating himself, was to indicate the journals with his hand.
“You’ve been reading that stuff, Myland?” he questioned.
“Yes,” returned the gray-haired host. “From what you told me over the telephone, Weston, I assumed that the news reports would have some bearing on your visit here. I was looking for information, I found very little.”
Weston helped himself to a cigar from a box which Myland placed beside him. The gray-haired man had taken his chair beyond the table. There was something in his manner that gave him the appearance of a counselor. Weston noted it. The commissioner’s troubled look faded to some degree.
“Myland,” said Weston, seriously, “you have given me excellent advice on occasions in the past. I need your help at present.”
“Regarding this?” Myland indicated the newspapers.
“Yes,” admitted Weston. “Something is going on in the underworld — something more baffling than any phase of crime we have ever known. You, Myland, are a criminologist of international repute. Your books on crime have formed a foundation for the study of the criminal mind. I want your opinions — and your advice.”
“You shall receive it.”
“Good. I want to ask you a question to begin with. Did you ever hear of a person called The Shadow?”
Caleb Myland stared solemnly. He made no reply for a moment; then nodded slowly.
“Who is he?” demanded Weston.
“I do not know,” declared Myland. “In a sense, The Shadow is a myth. He is supposed to be a master who battles crime, yet no one has ever traced him—”
“Exactly!” interposed Weston. “That is why, Myland, I officially labeled The Shadow as a non-existent factor. His name — or title — was to be kept out of all police reports.”
“Until you could establish the identity of someone who passed as The Shadow!”
“Yes, I had a lot of trouble with my best detective — Joe Cardona. He insisted upon working The Shadow into his reports. He finally dropped that policy until now. Cardona is working on these mysterious deaths that have occurred in the underworld. Yesterday, he came to me with the astounding statement that he could not proceed unless allowed to consider an unknown person as a definite entity.”
“You mean The Shadow?”
“Yes — and more. I put that very question to Cardona and he came back with a most astounding answer. He wants it to be conceded that The Shadow is a figure who enters the affairs of the underworld; more than that, he wants me to accept the fact that there is another crime fighter of equal mystery — a new fighter who calls himself The Cobra.”
“The Cobra?” questioned Myland. “I have heard talk of The Shadow — but never of The Cobra. This is indeed amazing.”
“Either amazing or insane,” corrected Weston. “Cardona had his nerve to bring up the matter of The Shadow. When he added to that by introducing The Cobra, his boldness passed all belief.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I asked for his resignation.”
“And he gave it?”
“No. He requested a chance to convince me. He said that all the underworld is talking of The Cobra; that Deek Hundell was killed by The Cobra in the presence of half a dozen mobsmen. He added that The Shadow was seen in the same vicinity; that the sanguinary fray which followed Hundell’s death was a fight between the mobsters and The Shadow.”
“And he has proof—”
“He is bringing a man to testify in his behalf. For several years, Myland, we have used the services of undercover investigators who represent a higher group than stool pigeons. One of these is a man called Crawler Gorgan.”
“Gorgan.” Myland was thoughtful. “Ah, yes — he used to run a small pawn shop. He sold out his business after he became a dope addict. He deals in petty crime, spends all his money on dope, and is regarded with pity even by those in the underworld.”
“How do you know all this?” quizzed Weston.
“From my files,” returned the criminologist, with a smile. “In studying crooks, I have gained sketches of many characters in the underworld. Crawler Gorgan is one; I happened to remember his story as it looked like an unusual case. It is news to me, however, to learn that Gorgan has served as a police agent. I suppose that his reputation as a dope addict is a false one.”
“It is,” assured Weston. “Gorgan has played an excellent part. Always undercover, he forms contact only with certain men from headquarters. Joe Cardona is one. Gorgan has given us some excellent reports, which I’ve commended.
“Hence when Cardona told me that Gorgan could substantiate his statements concerning The Shadow and The Cobra, I told him to bring Gorgan to me in person. That is why I arranged for them to come here tonight.”
“Here?” Caleb Myland raised his brushy gray eyebrows in anticipation.
“Here,” repeated Weston. “Myland” — the commissioner leaned forward and brought his heavy fist emphatically to the table — “I want to settle this matter. No detective — not even Joe Cardona — has the real insight into gangland. They all go by what stool pigeons tell them; by what they force out of small-fry crooks. If Gorgan can amplify Cardona’s statements, I can count on them. If not — well — Cardona can turn in his resignation.”
“A valuable man, Cardona,” observed Caleb Myland. “I have heard much about his work. But why, Weston” — Myland was smiling dryly — “did you arrange to have the interview here? You told me merely that you wished to call and to discuss crime activities.”
“I’m not sure of anything, Myland,” returned Weston, soberly. “I’ve fought against these rumors concerning The Shadow, but I must admit that things have happened which made me believe that such a personage might exist.
“So long as the efforts of this being — mythical or otherwise — were a retarding influence to crime, I felt that the matter could pass. Imagine it, Myland! A weird creature crook-hunting in the underworld, terrifying wolves of crime! It passed belief; that was why I tried to reject it.
“Now there are two! The Shadow and The Cobra! Crooks have been put on the spot. The underworld is in a furor. Can I, as the highest police official in New York, stand by and view this turmoil as a mystery?”
“No,” returned Myland, quietly. “You cannot afford to do so, Weston. You are wise to have arranged this meeting here. I take it that you want my opinions on what Cardona and Gorgan have to say?”
“Precisely.”
“Very well. I shall aid you. I can promise you that my analysis will prove of value. If—”
Myland paused to look toward the door. Babson was standing there. At Myland’s wave, the servant entered, and handed his master an envelope.
“For Commissioner Weston, sir,” said Babson, “Two gentlemen are here to see him.”
Weston opened the envelope and read words scrawled on a card within. He nodded as he turned to Myland.
“They are here,” he remarked.
“Babson,” ordered Myland, “usher the gentlemen in at once.”
As Babson left, Commissioner Weston settled back in his chair. Caleb Myland copied the motion. Their faces showed intense interest as they waited the entry of Joe Cardona and “Crawler” Gorgan.