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“A good idea, commissioner.”

“Call me Mr. Weston after Barth arrives.”

“All right, commissioner.”

Weston chuckled. Cardona grinned. A real friendship had sprung up between these two men. It had begun under trying circumstances. Weston, haughty and domineering, had driven Cardona almost with a goad. Cardona, blunt and persistent, had resented the commissioner’s authority.

Yet Weston had gained tact when he had recognized Cardona’s abilities; and Joe had found himself dependent upon this man of driving action. Gradually, they had come to thorough understanding until Weston’s commendation for Cardona was equaled only by the detective’s loyalty to his chief.

“Be tactful with Barth,” suggested Weston. “He will be hard at first, Cardona. He will annoy you, with his highbrow theories. He is a man of experience; but he has his own idea of criminals.”

Cardona started to say something and thought better. Weston noted this and smiled.

“He has ideas like I had,” went on Weston. “I think he will get over them. I have thrashed out many points with him. But there is one on which we did not agree.”

“What is that, commissioner?”

“The Shadow. Barth thinks The Shadow is a myth. He wants nothing to do with a black-garbed bugaboo that frightens dope-crazed petty thieves.”

“Is that what he said The Shadow was?”

“Practically.”

“Well” — Cardona was drumming on the desk — “that isn’t going to help. At the same time, commissioner, you had that very idea yourself. But you changed it.”

“Not for some time,” reminded Weston. “It took actual experience to alter my opinion. That is why you must be cautious on the subject. Barth will be more difficult to convince than I was.”

Cardona’s face became glum, for good reason. In his long experience as a sleuth, Joe had learned that The Shadow was a force beyond all measure. Time and again, unsolvable crimes had yielded to the persistent power of the unseen master.

JOE’S life had been saved by The Shadow. Rampant evil had been checked; fiends had been destroyed; crooks had been driven cowering to bay by The Shadow’s lone hand.

Like Cardona, Commissioner Weston also owed his life to The Shadow’s keen aid. These two men knew that the very elusiveness of The Shadow was the greatest proof of his existence.

“Wainwright Barth is a skeptic,” remarked Weston, voicing the very thoughts that were in Cardona’s mind. “Like all doubters, he wants to be convinced. He will not understand The Shadow’s way of fading into oblivion, letting credit go to others.”

“That’s The Shadow’s best stunt,” put in Cardona. “You wised to it, commissioner. Say — if The Shadow came around to get medals pinned on him, where would he be afterward? The reason the crooks are dead afraid of him is because they never can get a trace of him.”

“Precisely. But you cannot drive that idea through the brain of Wainwright Barth. It is best not to try. Cover up all mention of The Shadow in your reports. Well, Cardona, our new commissioner is due. I must make ready for our trip to the pier.”

WESTON’S anticipation proved correct. Hardly had the ex-commissioner completed his final arrangements for departure before Wainwright Barth was announced. Weston motioned to Cardona.

Together, they went out into the living room to meet the new police commissioner.

Joe Cardona grunted as he glimpsed his new chief. Tall and stoop-shouldered, Wainwright Barth had the face and beak of a bald eagle. His head seemed to project upward and forward from his body. His eyes glistened through the lenses of pince-nez spectacles. His bald pate shone from above a fringe of gray hair.

Weston shook hands with the new commissioner and introduced Cardona. Barth eyed the ace detective in a manner that was half critical, half approving. In the short conversation that followed, Joe Cardona played the part of listener. He heard a few of Barth’s comments on crime conditions and his poor opinion of the new commissioner became worse.

Weston’s servant arrived with hat, coat and cane. The ex-commissioner donned the garments and hung his Malacca walking stick on his left forearm.

“All ready for the boat,” he said. Then, turning to Barth: “I invited Detective Cardona to ride down to the pier with us. Quite all right, Barth?”

“Hum — hum” — coughed the new commissioner as he removed his pince-nez from his nose — “certainly, Weston. Certainly. Hum” — he paused to place the spectacles in a case and snap the cover sharply shut — “quite all right. I shall be glad to have Detective Cardona with us.”

They rode to the pier in Weston’s limousine. On the way, Barth ignored Cardona completely. Talking with Weston, the new commissioner voiced his opinions on the matter of the Garaucan bond swindle.

“I shall investigate through banking circles,” promised Barth. “My former banking connections will serve me well. You may rest assured, Weston, that I shall bring stern justice against those who may have financed that outrageous scheme.”

“You are talking like a judge, Barth,” remarked Weston. “Remember, you are a police commissioner. Get your man; let the courts manage the rest.”

“No effort of the law will be spared,” assured Barth. “I shall, however, make this a matter of personal inquiry and I shall employ agents of my own choice to examine into banking activities.”

Half blustering, half high-toned, Barth persisted along this channel until the limousine reached a large hotel. There they stopped to pick up Marinez Corlaza. The car continued on and reached the pier.

A small cluster of friends were waiting. They greeted Weston and went aboard ship with the ex-commissioner. The Steamship Equinox, pride of the Equatorial Line, boasted accommodations that equaled those of a transAtlantic liner. Weston stared with high pleasure as he viewed the furnishings of his suite.

“The best accommodations aboard, senor,” purred Marinez Corlaza. “Your visit to Garauca will be one that you will never forget.”

“Beginning with the voyage, eh?” smiled Weston. “Thanks, Corlaza. This is regal splendor.”

The commissioner placed his Malacca cane in a corner of the living room. He placed his hat and coat upon a couch and others followed suit. Then the group held an informal levee. A dozen in all, these friends were genuinely sorry at Weston’s departure.

Joe Cardona was standing alone. Marinez Corlaza approached, nodded pleasantly and began to chat about the case of Sigby Rund. The detective remarked that Rund’s suicide had ended his importance.

“Maybe the commissioner — I mean Mr. Weston — can learn something down in your country,” said Cardona. “Like tracing clear through to the fellows who were in back of Rund. But it looks kind of tough.”

“Of course,” agreed Corlaza. “Rund visited Garauca alone. No, I am afraid Senor Weston will gain nothing of use in New York. He will have much to do for us in Garauca, however.”

A NEW visitor appeared. It was Lamont Cranston. The globe-trotter was carrying his topcoat over his arm as he entered the door of the suite. He nodded to Marinez Corlaza, who watched him narrowly.

Looking about, Cranston noted that the couch was well covered with coats and hats. Spying a chair in the corner, he strolled in that direction and hung his hat, still folded, so that it dangled from the back of the chair.

He came back and joined the levee. Weston and his friends continued their conversation; Cardona looked on; and all the while Corlaza eyed Cranston. The arrival of the globe-trotter had produced an immediate effect upon the South American.