An attendant entered the reading room. He approached the seated figure of Lamont Cranston; that worthy laid aside his newspaper. The attendant spoke in a whisper: Mr. Cranston was wanted on the telephone.
With a nod, the hawk-faced personage arose and strolled from the reading room. He arrived at a telephone booth where a receiver was off the book. Entering, he closed the door of the booth and spoke a calm hello. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
The tone was no longer Cranston’s. It was a strange, eerie whisper that carried a strong command. It was the voice of The Shadow, master of mystery, who used the disguise of Lamont Cranston as a cover for his true identity. Foe of crime, The Shadow was gaining word from his contact agent, Burbank.
“Report from Burke,” came Burbank’s methodical statement. “He is leaving for the Doyd mansion. Clavelock finally agreed to make an exception in Burke’s case. His story to be subject to Clavelock’s approval.”
“Report received.”
REVERTING to the languid manner of Lamont Cranston, The Shadow hung up and strolled from the telephone booth. He did not return to the reading room; instead, he stopped at the cloakroom, where he donned a hat and tossed a coat over his arm.
After that, he strolled from the club and nodded to the doorman who stood beneath the outside canopy.
The doorman signaled. A big limousine wheeled from across the street. The Shadow stepped aboard and spoke an order through the speaking tube. The car rolled away with its passenger; the chauffeur headed cross-town to a broad avenue, then drove northward.
While the limousine was traveling, The Shadow opened a suitcase that lay on the back seat. Discarding his hat and overcoat, he donned black garments from the bag. His tall figure faded into obscurity, just as the limousine turned right into a one-way street and came to a stop in a chance parking space by the curb.
The rear door opened. From it emerged a blackened form. Silently, the door closed. Unseen by the chauffeur, The Shadow reached the sidewalk and traced a path back toward the avenue.
A street lamp glimmered momentarily upon his passing figure; it showed a shrouded shape, cloaked in black. Face and eyes were hidden beneath the broad brim of a slouch hat. Then the fleeting image had passed. Again obscured by darkness, The Shadow reached the avenue.
Buildings on the near side were dark. Silently, The Shadow discovered a gloomy doorway. His shape edged into blackness. His keen eyes gazed streetward. Across the avenue, The Shadow saw the front of a huge mansion. A relic of the nineteenth century, that building was the pretentious home that had once been the residence of Bigelow Doyd.
The Doyd mansion was already occupied. Lights from the interior proved that fact. As The Shadow watched, new arrivals appeared. First came an old-fashioned automobile, a landaulet. An old lady stepped from the car; the chauffeur helped her up the steps. She was admitted to the house; the chauffeur returned to the car and parked further down the street.
A coupe arrived a few minutes later. From it stepped a young man, who wore a tuxedo and carried a coat over one arm, walking stick in the other hand. He nodded to the driver; the coupe rolled away. The young man entered the house.
Almost immediately, a taxicab pulled into the emptied space. Two men alighted. One was an old fellow, stooped and dry-faced. A light above the front steps revealed him as plainly as it had the others. The Shadow knew that this must be Tobias Clavelock, the lawyer. Clavelock’s companion was evidently the lawyer’s secretary, for he was carrying a large briefcase under his arm. The Shadow did not glimpse this man’s face, for the fellow merely followed the lawyer up the steps.
Three minutes passed after this pair had been admitted. Then another taxicab arrived; a young man jumped out and hurriedly paid the driver.
The Shadow caught sight of a keen, wise face above a wiry body. He watched the new arrival ascend the steps of the house. Like the others, the wiry man was admitted by a liveried servant. The Shadow waited; minutes passed. The young man did not reappear.
SOFTLY, The Shadow whispered a laugh. That last arrival was Clyde Burke, reporter of the New York Classic.
Secretly, Clyde was an agent of The Shadow. Keenly interested in the affairs of the Doyd estate, The Shadow had himself planned to witness to-night’s meeting if other alternatives failed. Clyde Burke, however, had managed to arrange matters with Tobias Clavelock.
Arriving later than Clavelock, Clyde had gained admittance through the lawyer’s intercession. The taboo against reporters had been lifted in his case. The fact that Clyde had not reappeared was proof that he was going to stay. As an agent of The Shadow, Clyde would bring back a report of all that happened within the portals of that ancient residence.
There was a lull in traffic on the avenue. Ghostlike, The Shadow moved from his hiding spot and glided across the broad thoroughfare. He edged away from the lighted front of the Doyd house, found a passage at the side of the building and entered it. He passed beneath the gloom of dully-lighted windows.
Near the back of the house, The Shadow paused; he noted a side door that led into the old mansion.
Satisfied with his survey, The Shadow retraced his course. He clung to the darkness at the front of the passage until there was another break in the intermittent traffic of the avenue. Then The Shadow crossed, picked the darkness of building fronts and made his way back to the limousine.
The chauffeur, dozing at the wheel, did not sense his return until The Shadow used the speaking tube to give instructions in the quiet tone of Cranston.
“New Jersey, Stanley.”
The chauffeur nodded. That was the order to return home, via the Holland Tube, for Lamont Cranston maintained a pretentious residence in New Jersey.
The car pulled away; Stanley did not even speculate on why his master had ordered this brief stop on a side street of New York. Stanley had long since ceased to wonder about the eccentricities of his millionaire master.
A soft laugh crept through the interior of the big limousine as the car rolled southward. That whispered mirth denoted The Shadow’s satisfaction. He knew that certain heirs were already present; two had arrived while he was watching. Then Clavelock, with his secretary; after that, Clyde Burke. With the reporter there, The Shadow had decided that no preliminary survey of his own would be necessary. He could rely on Clyde Burke.
For once The Shadow was mistaken. Strange facts were due to break to-night. Clyde was to learn of surface troubles and bring back his version of them. But already, events were brewing beneath the surface, events which only The Shadow himself could have discerned.
A dilemma was due to perplex the heirs of Bigelow Doyd. The simple settlement of an estate was destined to become a troublesome problem. So Clyde Burke would learn; and through him, The Shadow would gain important facts with which to begin a campaign of adventure. The Shadow had foreseen that the affairs of the Doyd estate might lead to cross-purposes; he had been wise in his decision to gain firsthand facts.
But just as Carning, posing as Clavelock’s secretary, had managed to slip The Shadow’s notice, so would The Creeper, hidden master of crime, keep his devices under cover, so far as Clyde Burke was concerned. Already the menace of that supercrook hovered above the affairs of the Doyd heirs.
The Shadow had foreseen complications that were actually due. To The Shadow, those complexities would offer opportunity for keen solution, a work that intrigued The Shadow always. But those same complications would give The Creeper opportunity also. The eventual result would be a conflict of two mighty brains. The Shadow versus The Creeper!