“Seth Brophy’s, perhaps,” commented The Shadow, in the easy tone of Cranston.
“What’s that, Cranston?” quizzed Weston. “You think—”
“Merely an idea, commissioner. Brophy has not been heard from. I would advise a more thorough search of his house.”
“A good suggestion. It shall be done tonight. What about this swami, Cardona? Who is he?”
“Gyp Tangoli. Markham landed a clue. We followed it.”
“And he planted the machine?”
“I don’t think so. This fellow — we’ve identified him as Cuyler Willington — looks like the bet. Riddled with bullets. The Q-ray couldn’t get him.”
“Where is Tangoli?”
“He made a get away. I caught a glimpse of the fellow. I think was him. Togged up in the swami robes we found in the back room.”
“Tangoli was dark?”
“Yes. But he was far enough away, maybe, to escape the ray. He fired at us; we had to duck.”
A thin smile appeared upon the masklike lips of Lamont Cranston. Joe Cardona had made no mention of The Shadow. Joe knew that again the cloaked fighter had saved his life.
“We had the place surrounded,” declared Cardona. “But that wouldn’t have prevented Gyp Tangoli from ducking up or down. There was some funny business out on the fire escape. Somebody used Markham’s name down by the front passage on the side of the house.
“It wasn’t Markham. It might have been Tangoli. We’re searched this apartment house from top to bottom. There’s no sign of the fellow. An old lady on the third floor. A man in each apartment on the fourth.”
“Neither of the men answer Tangoli’s description?”
“No. Nowhere near it. The landlord’s due here to identify them, though. Markham went to get him.”
Weston remembered Cranston’s suggestion. He arranged for detectives to go to Brophy’s house. He specified a thorough search — walls and floors as well as the rooms themselves.
When Weston had finished these instructions, Markham appeared, accompanied by a genial German.
“This is Mr. Einhorn,” announced Markham. “Owner of this building.”
THE proprietor nodded.
Cardona led the way upstairs to the fourth floor. They entered the front apartment. Two policemen were on guard. A haggard-faced man was seated in a chair.
“Know him?” questioned Cardona.
“Sure,” replied Einhorn. “Good tenant” — he chuckled — “when he’s not too much behind with the rent. How do, Mr. Tobin?”
“His name is Tobin?” asked Cardona. “Hector Tobin?”
“Sure.” nodded Einhorn. “Didn’t he tell you so?”
“He did. How long has he resided here?”
“About two years.”
“All right.”
Cardona led the way to the rear apartment, with the others following. Two more policemen were on duty. Their charge was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in shirtsleeves. His face was pasty and solemn; his eyes dull.
“Know this fellow?” questioned Cardona.
“Sure,” replied Einhorn. “He is Mr. Dolke. George Dolke. Don’t see you often, Mr. Dolke. Still traveling?”
Dolke nodded.
“How long has he lived here?” quizzed Joe.
“About one year,” returned Einhorn. “He goes in; he goes out. Always the rent by the first of the month — regular.”
“All right.”
Cardona spoke to the officers. They followed as the group descended. The other pair of policemen came along at Cardona’s bidding. Weston offered no objection. It was obvious that neither of these tenants tallied with Gyp Tangoli.
“I shall leave you in charge, Cardona,” stated Weston, when they reached the street. “Keep a few men at this house until the morning. Meanwhile, start the dragnet. We must trap Gyp Tangoli at any cost.” He turned. “Coming with me, Cranston?”
“Sorry, commissioner,” replied The Shadow, in his calm tone. “I have an appointment further uptown. I shall take a cab.”
“Don’t pick the driver you had before,” laughed Weston.
A thin smile showed on Cranston’s lips. His tall form strolled along the street. A block and a half away, Weston’s friend stepped aboard a cab. He spoke an order from the rear seat.
Moe Shrevnitz responded. He had been waiting at this spot.
The cab rolled away. It doubled the next corner and turned back along Fifty-ninth Street, passing occasional policemen who were still searching the neighborhood. The cab stopped within the next block.
This time it was blackness that emerged. The Shadow, again a cloaked creature of darkness, was faring forth upon a new and important quest.
CHAPTER XXII. A MATTER OF IDENTITY
JOE CARDONA had returned to the fourth floor of the old house. Detective Sergeant Markham was with him. They were making a final round. Joe rapped at the door of the front apartment. Tobin opened it.
“Good night,” said Joe. “Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Tobin. If you hear anybody around here tonight, notify the officers downstairs.”
“How long will they be here?” questioned Tobin, in a nervous tone.
“Until the morning,” replied Cardona.
The detective rapped at the door of the rear apartment. Dolke answered; a weak smile appeared upon his wan face.
“Good night,” said Joe. “If there’s any trouble, report downstairs. Officers here until morning, Mr. Dolke.”
“All right,” grunted Dolke. “They would pick one of the nights when I was in town. Well, I got some excitement for a change.”
Cardona and Markham descended. On the way, Joe spoke to the detective sergeant.
“I’m going over to Brophy’s in a little while,” said the ace. “I’ve got a hunch that’s where the machine came from. Come along if you want.”
“How soon?” queried Markham. “My duty’s over.”
“In about ten minutes,” replied Joe. “As soon as the wagon comes for that death machine. We’re sending it down to the Universal Electric laboratories so they can demolish it like they did the other.”
“All right,” agreed Markham. They were at the front door when he spoke. “Say — look who’s here.”
It was Clyde Burke. The Classic reporter was hot on the trail of a story. Cardona began to furnish details while they waited for the wagon. He also invited the reporter to go along to Brophy’s.
Clyde grunted when he heard the facts concerning the Q-ray. Cardona chuckled at the reporter’s annoyance.
“You had it in the bag, Burke,” said the detective. “You wrote up that Q-ray machine. But you missed the big point of it.”
“And I thought it was gas,” admitted Clyde. “That mess up at the Club Cadiz.”
Again Cardona chuckled. Clyde repressed a smile. He had long since learned the details of the Q-ray, through orders received from Rutledge Mann. Like other agents of The Shadow, Clyde knew how to play a part.
Up on the fourth floor, Tokin had strolled in to talk with Dole. Of the two, Tokin, haggard and sickly-looking, was the more nervous. Dole managed to smile a bit. He advised Tobin to get some sleep.
The haggard man went out. Dolke closed the door. He walked across the room. He stood before a bureau and studied his features in the mirror. He smiled. The expression was curious.
In smiling, Dolke kept his lips together, and it gave his face a sour, halfhearted look. Still watching his own expression, Dolke smiled again. This time he opened his lips. Gold teeth glittered from the mirror.
The smile broadened to a vicious leer. Dolke retained it. His eyes were steady for a moment; suddenly, they began to bulge. Dolke was looking past his own reflection, toward the door that he had closed.
Quickly, the man wheeled about. He leaped for a coat that was hanging on the back of a chair. He thrust his hand into a pocket. He stopped short as the door swung wide. His gaze was fixed upon a figure that came from the gloomy hall.