FIVE minutes went by. A taxicab halted on the avenue, near the corner. A tall, stooped figure alighted; a cane clicked on the sidewalk. A corner light showed the hobbling form of Montague Rayne. Traveling by subway; then by cab, this searcher had arrived near his new destination.
Rayne followed the side street; his keen eyes sighted the number above the door of the lodging house wherein Myram had been murdered.
Montague Rayne approached and rang the doorbell. There was no response; he rang again and waited.
After a third attempt, he was rewarded by an answer. A sallow man in shirtsleeves opened the door and stared at the withered face of the visitor.
“Who do you want?” quizzed the lodger. “This ain’t no private home. There’s roomers here.”
“So I understand,” crackled Rayne. “I wish to see a gentleman named Myram. Where can I find him?”
“Third floor, back.” The sallow-faced man noted the visitor’s cane. “Maybe it would be tough for you, going up them steep stairs. If it’s worth two bits, I’ll roust the guy out for you.”
“Two bits?”
“Yeah. A quarter. To go up and tell Myram you’re here.”
“Here is one dollar. But I shall come up also. You may summon Myram while I am on the way.”
The sallow lodger took the dollar bill eagerly. He hurried up the stairs and reached the third floor. He was rapping at Myram’s door when he heard Rayne’s cane clicking on the stairs. The old man had made good progress following.
“Myram don’t answer,” informed the lodger. “Guess you was just too late to catch him. His light’s still burning. He must have just went out.”
“Yet he left the light on,” quavered Rayne. “That should mean that he is in.”
“Maybe he’s used up pretty near two-bits’ worth of gas. Sometimes fellows leave it burning when it’s about through. Then they sock another quarter in the meter when they come back. Say — do you want me to tell Myram you were here?”
“No. That is unnecessary. I shall return to-morrow morning.”
Rayne descended, with the lodger following. The old man hobbled from the house, back toward the avenue, apparently on his way to an elevated station. The lodger lounged back into the house; it was another man who noticed Rayne upon the street.
MOE SHREVNITZ had arrived at the corner of the avenue. Driving at swift speed, the hackie had made a record trip from the Bronx. Leaning into the back of his cab, Moe spoke to a hunched passenger who was seated on the floor.
“There goes Rayne,” informed the cab driver. “Slide after him, Hawkeye. I’ll stick here.”
A crafty-faced little man sidled from the cab. He was “Hawkeye,” another of The Shadow’s agents, who had met Moe at this spot. A clever trailer, Hawkeye had few equals at the art of sticking to a trail, once given.
He spotted Montague Rayne halfway down the block. With a grin, he decided to give the old fellow more leeway.
When Hawkeye finally slid off in pursuit, he spotted Rayne ascending the steps of an elevated station on the downtown side. Looking over his shoulder, the little spotter spied the lights of a train a few blocks back. An approaching rumble warned him that Rayne would be in time to catch the arriving local.
Hawkeye jogged swiftly on his way. He dashed up the steps, reached the upstairs station as the train was coming in and shoved a nickel in the turnstile. He reached the platform and took a quick look for Rayne.
The old man was nowhere in sight.
As the train pulled out, an uptown local stopped on the other track. A sudden light dawned on Hawkeye.
He hurried out through the station and down a dozen steps, to arrive at a low bridge that crossed the street just beneath the tracks. He realized then that the old man must have been going uptown; he had come up the steps, crossed the bridge and reached the opposite platform in time to catch the other train.
Chagrined, Hawkeye hunched his shoulder and started back toward Moe’s corner.
BEFORE Hawkeye reached the parked cab, another figure had arrived there. From darkness, Moe had heard a whispered voice: the tone of The Shadow, requesting a report. Though he could not see his questioner in the gloom beside the cab, Moe spoke, knowing positively that it was his chief. He told of seeing Rayne; and added that Hawkeye was on the trail. The Shadow moved away.
There was an alleyway in back of the old lodging house. Several minutes later, a motion occurred in the darkness of that narrow passage. Keen eyes looked upward from the depths. They spied a light burning in the rear room of the third floor. The Shadow paused to study that unceasing glow.
Then he began an upward course. His task was not difficult, for the rear wall of the crumbling building offered easy holds. Past darkened windows, gripping projecting ledges, The Shadow neared his goal. At last he arrived at Myram’s window. The sash was loose; easing it upward, The Shadow swung into the lighted room.
Tall, spectral in his cloak, the weird arrival moved to the corner near the closet. His keen gaze told him that there had been commotion here. The bed pushed back — the table askew — the bureau drawer jammed shut at an angle— these were the only indications that The Shadow needed.
He spied the closet door, approached and opened it. The glow of the gaslight showed a huddled form within.
Stepping back, The Shadow stooped and studied the face of the murdered man. He recognized that the victim must be Myram. The Shadow studied the bloodstained, bullet-riddled vest. He saw a thin bit of green cardboard projecting from the dead man’s pocket.
Drawing the card into view, The Shadow found it to be a pawn ticket, bearing the address of the place around the corner.
Further inspection gained nothing. Myram had eleven dollars in his pocket; money that Dopey had been too excited to think about. The Shadow looked elsewhere for evidence of robbery: namely, in the bureau drawer. He saw the vacant corner, the rumpled shirt. Examining the shirt beneath, he saw a square mark on its surface.
The Shadow had found where Myram had hidden the ebony box. That casket gone, he had no reason to linger further. Moving to the door of the room, he unlocked it softly with a pick; then stepped out into the hall and locked the door behind him.
Gliding down the stairs, The Shadow reached the front door and went out to the darkened street. With him, he had brought one clue: that pawn ticket that he had found in Myram’s pocket. There had been no others; evidently Myram had destroyed all that he had gained in the past. Any valuables with which that servant had parted would surely have been goods that he did not care to reclaim.
Reaching Moe’s cab, The Shadow gave a whispered order. The taxi pulled away, with Hawkeye again huddled in the back seat. He had already reported his failure to Burbank. The Shadow had ordered Moe to move at once; Hawkeye had gained no chance to tell of his lost trail.
DOUBLING to the street in back of the lodging house, The Shadow reached Lamont Cranston’s parked limousine. The big car had been parked there since quarter past six; for Stanley had received a call to come there. It was shortly after six when Stanley had gained the order; he had come promptly, and had been waiting patiently for his master to arrive.
Stanley had fancied that his master had approached the car a dozen minutes ago; but he had waited vainly for an order to leave, hence he had imagined that his guess was incorrect. This time, however, Stanley’s sudden hunch that the car had an occupant proved true. The voice of Lamont Cranston came through the speaking tube, giving the chauffeur an order to depart.
The big car rolled away; it turned up the avenue and passed the darkened pawnshop. A whispered laugh sounded within the rear of the car. Again that repressed mirth carried prophecy. The Shadow had been balked to-night, thwarted — he knew — by chance crime. But he had gained a clue that would lead him to Myram’s murderer.