“Balderdash!” he growled. “That is what I think of your absurd ideas, Cranston. You talk in circles and you prove your incompetence by prating of an impossibility — The Shadow. I prefer to stand by this” — he waved the folded report in front of Cranston’s nose — “for these theories were propounded by men of sound experience; not by a dabbler in crime detection, as you appear to be.”
The commissioner stalked from the grill room. Lamont Cranston seated himself and lighted a cigarette.
His lips wore a thin smile as they puffed wreaths of smoke. Though he wore the visage of Lamont Cranston, this calm-faced personage was thinking with the brain of The Shadow.
The Shadow had made his thrusts against crime. He had begun a new campaign. He had gained facts and statements that he wanted. For the report that Barth had shown to Cranston was filled with useful information, such as the finding of the bodies; the news concerning Zellwood’s death; the statements made by Hildreth about the stolen funds.
The Shadow was sifting all that he had read. He was separating facts from theories. He was testing facts themselves, to decide which one might be fraudulent. In his attempt — as Cranston — to stimulate Barth’s mind, The Shadow had actually worked in his own behalf.
Questions must be answered. Seeming paradoxes must be explained. Cross-purposes needed new examination. The Shadow was summing up these problems. His mind was traveling beyond the steps that Joe Cardona and Gorton Jodelle had suggested.
The Shadow was looking for the brain. He was seeking to catch the train of thought that had caused some master mind to move into the field of crime. A soft laugh came from thin lips as Lamont Cranston was seen to stroll from the grill room of the Cobalt Club.
CHAPTER XIV. CARDONA REPORTS
ANOTHER evening had come to Manhattan. Detective Joe Cardona was glum as he turned eastward from Broadway, above Times Square. The sleuth had occasion to be morose. He had just talked over the telephone with Commissioner Wainwright Barth.
Joe had experienced a tough period when Ralph Weston had first been appointed commissioner. Driving and domineering, Weston had been a hard taskmaster. But he had at least inspired Joe. Weston’s threats had been the kind that forced a man to real action.
With Barth, it was different. He wanted the goods brought in. He gave no orders; he simply made demands. This had driven Cardona to desperation. To-night, for instance, he was to report to Barth. If he came empty-handed, it was a sure bet that the detective would be taken off the case of the Founders Trust robbery.
Not that Joe would have minded. He had begun to detest Barth. But he felt that a break was due, that he was entitled to it, not whoever might take up the job in his stead. Weston at his worst was better than Barth could ever be at his best, so Cardona decided. It was for that very reason that he intended to stick and make Barth like it.
Joe was planning a course right now — one that he never would have tried with Weston. The ex-commissioner was quick to criticize moves that proved futile. But Barth, apparently, would be ready to commend anything that savored of progress, even though it might be wrong. Joe was in a mood to experiment.
His footsteps brought him to the Antrilla Apartments. The detective entered. He went to the desk, growled his name to the clerk and said that he wanted to see Dobey Blitz. The clerk made a phone call; then nodded. Joe went up in the elevator.
A rough-faced gorilla met the detective at the door of the anteroom. Joe recognized the mug as “Growler” Gluck, an ex-mobster who had wound up his career by serving as a speakeasy bouncer in the days of prohibition. Growler was evidently the new bodyguard who had taken the place of Chunk Elward.
GROWLER led Joe across the reception room. He knocked at the further door. The barrier opened.
Dobey Blitz, a smile on his puffy lips, stood beckoning to Cardona to enter. The detective went into the private room.
“Got a new door, I see,” remarked Cardona, by way of opening conversation.
“Yeah,” returned Dobey, gruffly. “And the cops didn’t pay for it. Fine outfit you’re working with. Smash into a man’s place and let him pay the costs.”
“We didn’t start the fight here,” stated Cardona.
“You didn’t end it, either,” retorted Dobey. “The mess was bad enough without you palookas battering down the door to this room. What was the idea, anyway?”
“Just wanted to see if you were home, Dobey.”
“Yeah? Well I wasn’t.”
“So I know.”
Dobey poured himself a drink from a bottle. He shoved the liquor toward Cardona, who shook his head.
Dobey swallowed the stuff at a single gulp; then glared at the detective.
“What’s the good of stalling?” questioned Dobey, suddenly. “I know why you’re here, Joe. You’re trying to pin that bank robbery business on me, ain’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Which means yes. Well — there’s no use trying. I can prove where I was that night. Up at that new joint — the Club Samoset. Ask Dinger Jacques, the mug that runs it.”
“Not much of an alibi, Dobey.”
“It’s good enough. Besides, I don’t go in for cracking cribs. You’ve got nothing on me, Joe. Better run out and pull in a couple of pickpockets, so you can call it a day’s work. That’s all you’re good for.”
Cardona had nothing to say. He preferred to let Dobey do the talking. The big shot saw the detective’s game and laughed.
“Think I’m going to tell you something?” questioned Dobey. “Well — you’ve got another guess. I’m telling nothing because I know nothing.”
“Too bad,” remarked Cardona, “that none of those gorillas we grabbed lived to spill what they knew.”
Dobey grinned and poured himself another drink. He knew that Joe’s remark had been a lead. That was why he made no statement of his own. He paused, however, glass in hand and wagged a finger at the detective.
“This third degree business don’t bother me,” he declared. “Pinch me if you want. You’ll learn nothing. You’re after some guy that pulled that bank job. Listen: I’ll give you advice. Get evidence. You can’t move a step without it.”
“Such evidence as bullets?”
“Yeah.” Dobey paused to swallow his drink. “Smart, wasn’t it, those mugs yanking the slugs out of the cop and the watchman. You’ll never identify the gat that rubbed out those fellows. A good idea, all right — couldn’t have thought of a better one myself.”
“Bullets aren’t all that count,” observed Cardona, following a sudden inspiration. “Sometimes it’s the people concerned. When you find them in two places on the same night — like here and at the Founders Trust — you begin to wonder what’s up.”
“That don’t apply to me,” growled Dobey. “I wasn’t either place.”
“Some one was, though.”
“Who?”
“The Shadow.”
DOBEY stood motionless. Cardona fancied that the big shot paled. Mechanically, Dobey reached for bottle and glass. One clicked against the other as he poured a third drink. He downed the liquor. The jolt seemed to give him courage. Dobey laughed.
“The Shadow, eh?” he demanded.
“Sure,” said Cardona, standing by the door. “The Shadow pulled that fight here. He stopped that mob at the subway entrance. You may think you’re getting away with something, Dobey. Remember, The Shadow knows.”
For a brief moment, Dobey seemed to waver. Then his laugh came hoarsely. With a crafty grin, he delivered a thrust that caught Cardona at his weakest spot.
“The Shadow, eh?” demanded Dobey. “So he’s the link. Well, I’ll tell you what to do. Run along and spill that line to the new police commissioner. Tell him The Shadow was the big gun. See what he has to say.”