"There is nothing remarkable about it," replied Bronlon, in a somewhat modest tone.
"First, I have my own plant and other business as an index. We are employing more men than ever at the canning factory. Up there, we have had but one difficulty in the past. Strikes." Several persons nodded their heads reminiscently.
"Strikes, gentlemen," continued the manufacturer, "threatened the progress of Middletown in the past. It was not until I solved that problem that this community became assured of the prosperity it now enjoys. My bonus system was the solution."
"The workers are satisfied now?" someone inquired.
"Satisfied and loyal," asserted Bronlon. "Within the next few months, a large annual bonus is due them, by agreement. I hope to please them by declaring it in advance."
All present knew that Harvey Bronlon was speaking correctly. The number of employees at his large factory had increased to more than three thousand, all residents of Middletown and the surrounding villages. He had large interests in other enterprises. He had established the bonus system in some of these.
Moreover, Bronlon, due to his position in the canning industry, furnished the outlet for farm products throughout the entire region. He was coming to that very point in his discussion.
"Middletown," he said, "is the natural center for this region. I saw its possibilities when my business was developing. We have a key city here, and I have done my best to make it thrive. Middletown's population is not large, compared with other cities. But its importance is tremendous, when you consider it the center of a definite area."
All nodded in agreement. Harvey Bronlon had painted a striking picture of the conditions that existed here. He had neglected the negative side of his story, however.
Other towns, which had formerly shared laurels with Middletown, had been stifled in their growth. They, like the rural sections, were dependent entirely upon the key city. Harvey Bronlon had assumed the position of a feudal lord, holding sway over an extensive region.
The dinner had drawn to a close. Bronlon arose and shook hands with Judge. He announced that he had an appointment for the evening, and left.
Judge accompanied him to the door, Bronlon walking heavily and leaning on a stout cane. A chauffeur, stationed outside, saw his bulk in the doorway, and pulled up in the limousine. Without the officious industrialist, the party at Judge's home had paled. Most of the guests were men who sought to curry favor with Harvey Bronlon. They had come because of him; they were leaving now because he had gone.
Judge, beaming in a friendly manner, shook hands one by one. As a man in good standing with Bronlon, he was also a figure of importance in Middletown. But he, alone, could not hold the throng. At last, all that remained were Judge, Major, Butcher, and Ferret. Deacon was absent.
The new undertaker in Middletown had not yet gained sufficient prestige to be a guest at one of the bank president's exclusive dinners.
There was nothing to excite comment in the sight of a bank president conducting three of his employees to a study in his home. Once there, Judge eyed them calmly.
"We begin tonight," he said quietly.
"Tonight?" asked Major.
"Yes," said Judge with a smile. "I begin. Perhaps you begin also. Not just as you have expected."
"What's up?" questioned Butcher.
"Delmar is coming here within an hour!"
They were surprised at Judge's statement. Roland Delmar was the head of the County National — the largest bank in Middletown. The Middletown Trust Company was a small institution compared with the County National.
"What's he coming here for?" asked Butcher.
"You will see," said Judge.
Major alone nodded. He looked at Judge and smiled. Perhaps if Deacon had been present, the solemn-faced man would have smiled, too — although Deacon was sparing with smiles.
"Do you see that door?" asked Major. "When we hear the bell ring, the three of you go in there. You can listen. Then I won't have to tell you so much afterward."
"It means we're going to—" began Butcher.
Judge stopped him.
"Yes," he said. "Deacon and Major have been doing night work. Some that you expected; other that may surprise you. That is all you need to know just now, Butcher. Let the rest come — from Delmar." The topic changed. Ferret listened keenly, and his shrewd eyes looked from one man to another. Tonight was to be the beginning. For the others, perhaps, but not for Ferret. He dated the beginning of his new career with that night in New York.
Ferret's eyes gleamed as he smiled. None of his companions had spoken of the death of Daniel Antrim. The case had not been mentioned in recent New York newspapers that Ferret had bought. No one, Ferret thought, could know one iota of his connection with the death of the crooked lawyer. Police and gangs alike were in ignorance. Who else mattered?
Ferret did not know of The Shadow!
The Shadow knew!
Chapter VII — The Shadow Pounders
At the very moment when Ferret, in Middletown, was fancying that the affairs of Joel Hawkins were of little interest elsewhere, a brain in uptown New York was thinking of Ferret.
The scene was a windowless room, furnished with bookcases, filing cabinets, a desk, and a single chair. There were lights in the room, but each was centered on a different object. A green-shaded bulb threw a circle of light upon the desk. Other smaller incandescents glimmered their rays upon the cabinets and the bookcases.
The center of the room was dark and spectral. Only the edges were illuminated. The floor was heavily carpeted in jet black. The walls showed no opening. Despite the fringing lights, not even a shadow could be seen upon the sable floor.
Yet there, in that weird gloom, some one stood. The sole occupant of the mysterious abode was an invisible being who seemed a part of the thick blackness in the center. For this was The Shadow's secret place of consultation. The books in the shelves were funds of information that covered the specific subjects which intrigued The Shadow. The filing cases contained full, cross-indexed information on persons and events which had concerned him. One portion of a bookcase was closed by a metal panel. Its smooth surface bore no lock; yet only The Shadow could open it.
Behind that sheet of steel were special books that The Shadow guarded beyond all else.
They were his secret archives — amazing volumes from which his annals were prepared. The presence of The Shadow manifested itself when a long black arm reached out as though from space. A white hand opened the drawer of a filing cabinet. Another hand came into view. Upon one tapering finger shone a strange, mystic gem — the girasol, or fire opal, which was The Shadow's only jewel. The girasol glimmered with deep crimson that sparkled and changed to a rich purple as the hand of The Shadow stopped upon a file that bore the letter "A." The hands disappeared, carrying a paper into the darkness. They reappeared by the table.
Here the unseen eyes of The Shadow began a study of important data in the case of Daniel Antrim. It was not the first time that this subject had gained The Shadow's interest. His delving into the affairs of the defunct lawyer had been a laborious process.
The morning after the affray at Antrim's, Harry Vincent had awakened to find himself in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. He had sent a complete report of the event to The Shadow. It had begun with Harry's observation of an unknown man creeping down the hall. It had ended with the blow that Harry had received from Solly.
This had given The Shadow an inkling of the affair. Yet, until now, the man in black had not possessed the fund of knowledge necessary to draw conclusions in the case.
The reports on Daniel Antrim had been assembled tediously by The Shadow's agents. All data had reached headquarters, in this room.