“I’ll get somewhere, after tomorrow,” said Cardona gruffly.
“See that you do,” said the commissioner dryly. “If you find facts, follow them. If you gain theories, substantiate them.”
There was a long pause; then the commissioner spoke again, his voice still hard in tone.
“I admire good theory, Cardona,” he said. “It clears the way to fact.”
“If it’s on the level,” responded Cardona.
The commissioner winced. For a moment, he appeared angry; then a thin smile crept beneath his trimmed mustache. He knew the meaning of Cardona’s subtle thrust. Once the commissioner had teamed the detective with a professor who had claimed great ability in the theories of crime. The professor had turned out to be a criminal himself!
Cardona was sorry that he had spoken; for the thought of the past pricked the detective’s conscience. In the case to which Cardona referred, the detective had received credit for the death of the supercriminal.
In reality, Cardona had been aided by a master mind who warred on crime — a strange being known only as The Shadow. In Commissioner Weston’s mind, The Shadow was a myth. Cardona could tell by Weston’s smile that reference to that fact was coming:
“AH, yes,” observed the commissioner. “I recall that I made a mistake upon one occasion — a very serious mistake — in my handling of crime theory. We all make mistakes, Cardona. By the way, have you heard anything more of a certain person called The Shadow?”
“I haven’t mentioned such a name in any of my reports,” declared Cardona cautiously.
“Then we may eliminate all thought of such an absurd person,” said Weston, looking straight into Cardona’s eyes. “The Shadow — some one dressed in black— a hidden face — a mysterious being who can be used very conveniently to fill a gap in reports that would otherwise be incomplete.
“The Shadow, as I remembered the accounts concerning him, had a penchant for bringing criminals to bay. But he did it in his own way— independent of the law. Such a person — if he exist — would be quite dangerous, Cardona. He might even turn crook himself.
“Perhaps — with the two mysterious deaths on the Suburban trains — The Shadow might be testing out his ability as a crime maker.”
Commissioner Weston shook his head thoughtfully.
“I must desist from these thoughts,” he said, in a sorrowful tone. “I am stepping into your error, Cardona. Theory without substantiation. So let us forget The Shadow — and let him remain forgotten. In the meantime” — Weston shrugged his shoulders — “go ahead as you are. Keep working on these deaths and see what you can learn tomorrow. I shall reserve further opinion until then.”
The interview was ended. Joe Cardona left the office and departed from the building.
He threaded his way between mammoth skyscrapers. A few belated newsboys were still crying out their wares in terms of death unexplained; but Cardona did not notice the occasional shouts.
The ace detective was deep in thought. The reference to The Shadow had aroused old memories. To Cardona, The Shadow was an identity — a supersleuth who could fight crime as effectively as he could trace it — who never knew failure.
Death unexplained!
That was the lure that would bring The Shadow. These mysterious killings aboard the Suburban trains were the very type of crime that The Shadow had so often met and unraveled.
Perhaps tomorrow’s investigation would bring a clew to the mystery. If so, Cardona would rise to his zenith. If not, the detective could see no possible way of tracing the unusual deaths, unless The Shadow should enter into their discovery.
The Shadow!
Who was he?
Where was he?
Cardona had never managed to trace the whereabouts of the mysterious stranger. There was no reason, at present, why The Shadow should even be in New York. But somehow Cardona, walking through the gloom of that later afternoon, gained a new hunch for his collection. He seemed to see the hand of The Shadow entering into a new perplexing mystery, of which these deaths were the forerunner. If it were only so!
Cardona was still thoughtful as he made his way to headquarters. He was wondering if, somewhere in great Manhattan, The Shadow was at work. The question persisted, even after he had reached his office.
WHILE Cardona sat at his battered desk, speculatively drumming with his finger tips, another man in a different part of Manhattan was also considering the Suburban train deaths in terms that included The Shadow.
In the inner office of his suite in the towering Badger Building, a chubby-faced investment broker named Rutledge Mann was carefully clipping items from a stack of evening newspapers. The columns which he chose were ones which referred to the strange killings at Felswood.
The windows of adjacent buildings were glimmering amid the dusk when Rutledge Mann slipped his accumulated clippings into a large envelope. Pocketing the packet, the investment broker left his office.
He rode by cab to Twenty-third Street, entered a dilapidated building, and went to the second floor. He stopped before a door which bore a name upon its smudgy glass paneclass="underline" B. JONAS
Rutledge Mann had never seen the interior of that office. His occasional visits terminated at the door.
Here, Mann produced the envelope and dropped it in a letter slot. His work of the afternoon was complete.
An agent of The Shadow, it was Mann’s duty to bring items on unsolved crimes to this particular place.
Deposited there, such data reached The Shadow.
Whether or not The Shadow was in New York; whether or not The Shadow would display an interest in these reports — these were factors which did not concern Rutledge Mann.
The agent had performed his appointed task. The details of crime had been accumulated for use. Action now lay with The Shadow himself.
CHAPTER II. THE THIRD TRAGEDY
DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA stood upon the platform of the station at Felswood. His sharp, dark eyes were scanning the roadbed toward the curve near the station. The time was thirty five minutes past eight.
To all appearances, Cardona was merely one of the dozen or more commuters who thronged the station platform. But the detective was there with a more important purpose than that of a morning ride into Manhattan. He was the captain of a crew of able men who were here to study every detail that occurred when the eight thirty-eight arrived upon its westward journey.
A trackwalker was loitering on the curve. Standing aside, as though to await the train, the man was part of Cardona’s scheme. The supposed trackwalker was a detective.
Cardona turned idly and glanced in the opposite direction. Another pretended trackwalker was strolling along the tracks, slowly nearing the station platform.
As Cardona swung and faced the parking lot, he saw a pair of men engaged in conversation. One was at the wheel of a roadster; the other was alongside. Both were detectives, studying the situation as it existed there.
Another car drove up while Cardona watched. It was an old sedan, and the driver parked it in the ample space, drawing it alongside the other cars which rested parallel with the railroad track. A nervous commuter hurried from the car and walked rapidly toward the platform.
This man, Cardona decided, would be about the last to catch the train. These electrics ran close to schedule, and less than a minute remained.
The commuter was a well-dressed individual — a man of middle age, with trim Vandyke beard and broad fedora hat.
His face lightened as he saw the waiting crowd. The man appeared to be relieved because he was in time for the train. Joe Cardona laughed softly. A great worry — that of making the eight thirty-eight! Probably all that concerned these commuters in the morning!