Fumbling, Soaker yanked open a drawer and tossed the signet on the table. He followed with odd pieces of jewelry: a scarfpin with a small emerald, a heavy antique bracelet of beaten gold.
“That’s all that’s here,” he explained. “It was Myram brought them. Dopey’s the guy who bumped him. Dopey Delvin — he lives down near the Bowery, somewhere around the Mukden Cafe — the old Chinese restaurant—”
The Shadow had plucked up the items on the counter. Soaker’s gasping tones ended; the fellow was stifled with fear. Then came a whispered laugh from hidden lips; a burst of suppressed mockery that brought new shudders to the cowering proprietor of the pawnshop.
The Shadow wheeled; with swift stride, he left by the front door.
Soaker sagged to the stool behind the counter. He stared at Hawkeye; the little spotter was crouching in the corner.
A full minute passed; then Hawkeye cringed forward. Without a word to Soaker, he sneaked toward the door and peered out. Seeing no one, he shambled out to the avenue.
Still trembling, Soaker finished closing up the shop. With lips tightly compressed, he went out and locked the door behind him. Shaky as he looked about him, he started away from his darkened shop for the corner.
He passed a parked taxi; from its front seat, Moe Shrevnitz eyed Soaker and grinned. That fellow would do no talking; of that fact, Moe was sure.
Using Hawkeye as a foil, The Shadow had worked a quick confession from Soaker’s quivering lips. A new name had been learned. Dopey Delvin was marked as the murderer of Myram. Soaker had told of the locality where Dopey lived. The Shadow had gained a new trail.
Moe, watching as a final cover-up man, had seen Soaker leave. The taxi driver jerked his cab into gear.
As he pulled into traffic, Moe no longer watched the sidewalk. Hence, as he neared the corner, he did not see a figure that had arrived there. Leaning upon his heavy cane was old Montague Rayne. His keen eyes were gleaming from his withered face. Those optics recognized the taxi driver whom they had noted in the Bronx, the day before.
Chortling to himself, Rayne hobbled away toward the elevated station. He used his cane with his right hand while his left clutched a long cardboard box, bound with heavy cord. It was plain from Rayne’s manner that his keen eyes had seen more than Moe’s cab. How much else he knew, he alone could have told.
TWENTY minutes later, agents of The Shadow were assembling for new vigil. Their location was near the Bowery, in the vicinity of the old Mukden Cafe. Hawkeye, ever alert, was on the watch for Dopey Delvin; for Hawkeye knew the sweatered crook by sight. Moe Shrevnitz had arrived near by; his cab was parked just away from the corner of the Bowery.
A third agent was present — a squarefaced, husky fellow who kept up solitary patrol. This was Cliff Marsland, one of The Shadow’s most capable workers. Cliff knew the badlands as well as Hawkeye. A cool fighter, he could serve The Shadow well, when the pinch arrived.
As yet, none of these agents had gained a tracer. They were waiting, ready to pass the word should they spot Dopey. Such had been The Shadow’s order; for he knew that the crook would be too restless to remain perpetually in his hide-out. Sooner or later, Dopey would show his nose. Meanwhile, The Shadow had another task to perform.
Clyde Burke had reported to Burbank. He had passed the word that Tobias Clavelock was going out of town — a fact that the old lawyer had mentioned over the telephone. Clavelock lived in an old house in the Seventies; The Shadow had posted Harry Vincent there to watch for the lawyer’s departure. Harry had reported that Clavelock had left.
AT precisely nine o’clock, a figure appeared near the front of Clavelock’s house. Harry, stationed across the street, was not keen enough to spy that shape; for it was the cloaked form of The Shadow.
Edging into a darkened space that led halfway to the back of the house, The Shadow raised himself to the level of a bay window. There he wedged a thin piece of steel between the portions of the sash.
The lock yielded. The window opened. The Shadow eased into a stuffy room, a first-floor parlor.
Blinking a tiny flashlight, he made his way through a hall and up a flight of stairs. He stopped on a landing; the second-floor hall was lighted and The Shadow could hear the heavy footsteps of some approaching person.
A stocky, broad-shouldered man paced by, then went into a room at the rear of the floor. Evidently the fellow was some servant whom Clavelock had left on duty, to act as watchman during his absence.
The Shadow heard a door close; he moved upward from the landing and headed forward to the front room that the man had just left.
Another glimmer of the flashlight. This room looked like an office. There was a bulky safe at the far wall.
The Shadow approached it and glimmered his light on the dial. Peeling away a black glove, he used his left hand to manipulate the dial. A fire opal gleamed as The Shadow worked; that stone — a precious girasol — was The Shadow’s talisman.
Tumblers dropped. The Shadow’s sensitive touch was winning. Three minutes after he had begun his task, the door of the safe swung open.
The contents of the interior consisted of small bundles of legal envelopes. The Shadow found one that bore the name “Doyd.” He opened it to discover the lists, with their code of Latin words.
Taking the papers of one list, The Shadow carefully separated them and set them upright along a ledge at the back of the safe. There were several papers in the list; to copy them word for word would have been a long task — one that would have meant taking a list away and returning it later. For The Shadow did not intend to keep one of the lists. Clavelock had, by now, assured himself of the exact number. A missing list would tell the lawyer that some one had opened the safe.
From beneath his cloak, The Shadow produced a long, flat object, which proved to be a camera. He propped it just within the door; then brought out a coil of wire with a switch at its center. He plugged one end of the coil into a floor plug; into the socket at the other end, he screwed a flash bulb, of the sort used by photographers. He placed this end of the coil inside the safe; then pressed the lever of the camera.
The Shadow’s tiny flashlight was out. The camera was ready for the exposure. The Shadow closed the door of the safe; only the insulated wire prevented it from shutting tightly. He clicked the wire switch; the bulb flashed inside the safe; only a momentary glimmer showed at the edge of the metal door.
Opening the safe, The Shadow again clicked the camera. Using his flashlight, he gathered the sheets that formed the code list and replaced them where they belonged. Gathering camera, coil and bulb, he placed them beneath his cloak and locked the safe. Emerging from the room, he reached the stairway.
WITHIN three minutes after he had opened the safe, The Shadow had gained his copy of the list. He had used the camera for the purpose. The plate, when developed, would give him all the prints that he required. Through this photostatic process, The Shadow had found a prompt and rapid system of gaining the code list without leaving any clue to his brief visit.
Nor had The Shadow’s speed been unnecessary. Scarcely had he reached the bottom of the stairs when Clavelock’s servant came from the rear room, to again prowl about the second floor.
The Shadow, already below, gained the window in the parlor. He left as he had arrived, remaining long enough to lock the catch with the same steel instrument that had served him in opening it.
Leaving Harry Vincent at his post, The Shadow moved away. He had assigned Harry to this new duty in case others might choose to visit Clavelock’s. For although The Shadow had not yet encountered The Creeper, he had decided to take no chances while Myram’s murderer was still at large.