He was here. Dip was on his way to the street; all was settled for Thursday night!
But Flash Donegan could not see beyond that closed door.
Nor could the departing Dip Riker know what was happening in the silence of that darkened hall, for Dip was now nearing the second floor.
From the blackness outside of Flash Donegan’s abode came a mirthless, quivering laugh — a gibing laugh that made very little sound, yet which awoke whispering echoes from the gloom.
The man who laughed was invisible. He could not be seen as he stood by Flash Donegan’s door. He was naught but a form of blackness as he moved along the hall toward the stairs, following the very path that Dip Riker had taken.
The sound of his mysterious mirth continued — an echoing trail that moved toward the floor below. No one was near to hear that strange, uncanny laughter, nor to seek the man who uttered it.
It was The Shadow who laughed — The Shadow, master of darkness, terror of the underworld!
His laugh was a foreboding laugh. It meant no good to the racketeers who had just discussed their affairs in private meeting. For Flash Donegan’s fears of a listener had been caused by a living presence. He had spoken only when he was sure that no one was near enough to catch his words.
But The Shadow had heard.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER V
A MAD MESSAGE
A STOOP-SHOULDERED, bearded old man tottered along the corridor of an office building. His white beard and flowing white hair gave him a patriarchal appearance. He might have been a prospector returned from a search for nuggets of gold.
He leaned heavily on a cane and seemed to find great difficulty in moving along. Yet the old man’s eyes were keen, and he had a semblance of youth that is rare in one so aged.
People in the lobby of the building had smiled when he had entered. The elevator man had grinned when the ancient personage had inquired in a crackling voice if this was really the sixteenth floor. The operator had politely pointed out the way to the office which the old man desired.
The old chap arrived at a door, and curiously examined the name that appeared upon the frosted glass. It was evident that he had difficulty in reading the inscription. A telegraph boy, coming up the corridor, stopped to help him. Leaning on his cane, the old man pointed with his free hand.
“Is this the law office of Charles Blefken?” he inquired, in quavering tones.
“This is it, pop,” said the boy, with a grin. “You want to go in here?”
“Indeed I do!” returned the old man. “This is the place my stepson told me to come. This here city is a big one, but I guess there’s not a lot of lawyers with a name like Blefken! I reckon he’s the one I want to see!”
The boy opened the door, and the old man tottered into the outer office of Blefken’s suite. It was a busy place.
Three or four stenographers at desks; three men and a woman waiting in chairs along the wall. Half a dozen doors to private offices made up the farther wall. They bore names of different attorneys.
The old man went forward and began to study each door, looking for the name of Blefken.
One of the stenographers approached him.
“Whom do you wish to see?” she questioned.
“The lawyer,” replied the old man.
“Which lawyer?”
“Charles Blefken.”
“Did you have an appointment?”
The old man looked puzzled. There were signs of repressed mirth among the other stenographers and the persons who were waiting.
“You don’t understand,” said the girl. “I mean — has Mr. Blefken arranged to see you?”
“He’ll see me, all right!” retorted the old man. “Just you tell him that John Kittinger’s stepdaddy is waiting out here. He knows Johnny, all right. They were buddies in the army, they were.”
“Sit down,” said the girl, indicating a chair.
The old man threw a triumphant glance along the row of waiting clients. He seemed to take pride in what he had just said. He was mumbling as he sat down, and he stared boldly toward the door which the girl entered.
Half a minute went by. Then the girl reappeared, a look of surprise upon her face. She approached the patriarch.
“You can go right in,” she said. “Mr. Blefken is ready to see you.”
Triumph shone in the old man’s face as he arose and hobbled toward the door of the private office. He turned, and his beard wagged as he looked back at the other people.
The girl turned the knob. The door opened, and John Kittinger’s stepfather was ushered into the private domain of Charles Blefken, the prominent corporation lawyer.
A FIRM-FACED man was seated at a desk. He was dictating a letter to a stenographer. Charles Blefken appeared about fifty years of age — a man of dynamic personality and high reputation.
He ignored his visitor until he had finished the last lines of the letter.
“That will do, Miss Smythe,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
The girl smiled as she noticed the old man, with his flowing beard and wavy hair. She pictured him as a modern “Buffalo Bill,” particularly because of the broad-brimmed hat, which he had not removed from his head.
The girl went out, closing the door behind her. The lawyer immediately went over and locked the door. He turned to his visitor as he was walking back to the desk.
“We won’t be disturbed,” he said in a low voice.
The white beard and the mass of spreading hair tumbled from the old man’s head, along with the picturesque hat. Staring at Charles Blefken was the swarthy visage of Joe Cardona, ace detective of the New York police department.
Cardona was grinning broadly. Blefken joined with a slight smile.
“Great to get rid of those moth-grabbers,” observed Cardona, in a low tone. “This Santa Claus stuff is a terrible racket.”
“When you go in for disguise, Joe,” said Blefken, “you certainly make a good job of it.”
Cardona shrugged his shoulders.
“A lot of foolishness, as a rule,” he said. “But here’s the way I figure it: I don’t care so much whether people suspect or don’t suspect. You can’t stop that. But it’s a sure bet that nobody could figure who I was under that pile of bushes.
“I also figured that you’re liable to have a lot of crazy ducks coming in here, anyway! So I made a good job of it!”
“I’m just as glad you did, Joe. Maybe it’s all foolishness on my part; but I’m worried, and I want to get it off my chest. Have a cigar” — he tendered a box — “and listen to what I’ve got to say.”
Joe Cardona lighted the perfecto and leaned back contentedly, his discarded whiskers resting in his lap.
“We’ve worked together before this, Joe,” began the attorney. “You know what I think of you. You’re not only the best detective in New York — you’re the only one in your own particular class. You look into the future — always anticipating everything.
“When you caught that fellow who was making all the trouble for the Kingsley Company, a year ago, you told me that if I ever needed you — on the quiet — there was a way I could get you. Just by calling the Harvard Printing Company and ordering a supply of letterheads on their Triple-A stock.
“I remembered that. I called them yesterday, and gave the order. Here you are. Early in the morning, too!”
“I was out of town,” interrupted Cardona. “Otherwise I would have seen you yesterday afternoon. I hope the delay hasn’t—”
“No harm at all, Joe. Let me tell you why I sent for you:
“I received a letter yesterday noon. If it was written by a sane man, there’s some mysterious danger threatening — not only threatening, but actually gripping myself and other persons so closely that it forms a virtual mesh!