Farrow, however, had not deceived The Shadow. The tall watcher, stepping out into the street from which traffic had just moved, reached a spot beside Farrow’s new cab just as the ex-convict barked a destination to the driver. Picking his way to the far curb, The Shadow walked swiftly to the nearest avenue and took a passing cab uptown.
The Shadow’s cab pulled up at the exclusive Cobalt Club. Its tall occupant alighted. The doorman saluted.
“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” he said. “Are you going in the club, sir, or do you want your car—”
“Call my car, please.”
The doorman signaled. A big limousine pulled over from across the street. The chauffeur raised fingers to the visor of his cap as the doorman opened the door to allow Mr. Cranston to enter.
“Uptown, Stanley.” The Shadow uttered this order in a quiet tone, through the speaking tube to the driver. Then, as the limousine pulled from the curb, he added: “Take me to the Aristides Apartments on West Ninety-third Street. Park near there.”
AS the limousine swept up Park Avenue, its calm-faced occupant settled back in the cushions and lighted a cigarette. The glow from the tip showed brightly in the gathered gloom. As Lamont Cranston, multimillionaire, The Shadow was playing one of the roles that he most frequently chose when in Manhattan.
The real Lamont Cranston was a globe-trotter. He seldom visited his magnificent estate in New Jersey, although he maintained servants there during his absence. During these long periods while Cranston was away, The Shadow, master of impersonation, posed as Lamont Cranston whenever he so desired.
The Shadow had finished his cigarette long before the limousine reached Ninety-third Street. Darkness had gathered. The form in the rear of the limousine was practically invisible. Something clicked in the darkness as The Shadow opened a bag that lay on the seat beside him. A mass of blackened cloth slipped like a shroud over the shoulders of the pretended millionaire.
Stanley pulled up at the Aristides Apartments. He had made the trip in rapid time. The Shadow had experienced no delay. The door of the limousine opened. It was by a darkened portion of the sidewalk. Stanley, sitting stolidly at the driver’s seat, neither heard nor saw the phantom shape that glided forth.
The Shadow followed the darkened front of an old building as he approached the glittering marquee of the Aristides Apartments. He reached a narrow alleyway and paused there. His keen eyes saw a cab pull up in front of the apartment house. Slade Farrow stepped out. The Shadow had beaten the ex-convict to his destination.
As Farrow walked into the lobby of the apartment house, The Shadow took to the blackness of the alley. He found a side delivery door and entered it. He reached the edge of the lobby just as Farrow approached the desk, which was located near this corner.
“Apartment A-3,” informed the ex-convict. “Mr. Farrow is here.”
The clerk made a call. He nodded.
“Go right up,” he said.
Farrow turned and strolled into a waiting elevator. The door clanged. The clerk, taking his chair, picked up a copy of The Shadow Magazine and resumed his reading. Little did he realize that The Shadow himself was here!
WHILE the clerk’s eyes were fixed upon the printed pages, the tall, black-clad shape passed directly in front of the marble desk. Across the deserted lobby to the stairway; such was The Shadow’s course. He was on his way to the third floor, to find the apartment where Slade Farrow had gone.
The ex-convict, meanwhile, had reached his goal. The door marked A-3 was open. Farrow entered it and closed it behind him. He passed through a tiny, darkened anteroom past a telephone table and walked in to meet a big, bluff-faced fellow who was standing in the center of the living room.
“Hello, Dave,” greeted Farrow, with a wan smile.
“Hello!” gasped the big fellow. “Say, boss — it didn’t do you no good to be in stir—”
“Forget it, Dave,” laughed Farrow. “That was just a vacation. I had the time of my life.”
Dave shrugged his shoulders. His beefy face showed a lack of comprehension. Slade Farrow was smiling as his steady eyes studied the other man’s countenance. Then, spying an open door at the side of the living room, Farrow stepped through the opening into another room of the apartment.
Busied with their greetings, neither Farrow nor Dave had heard a slight sound at the outer door of the apartment. That door had slowly opened inward. A figure had entered from the gloom of the hallway.
Shrouded in the semidarkness of the little anteroom, The Shadow was watching and listening. He had arrived in time to see Slade Farrow enter the doorway at the side of the living room. Now he could hear the ex-convict’s chuckles as Farrow called to Dave.
“Very good, Dave,” was Farrow’s commendation. “You’ve kept everything the way I wanted it. My new suits — these traveling bags — well, well! It certainly seems like home.”
“I followed instructions, boss.” Dave was seated in an armchair, lighting a cigar. “That’s the last thing you told me. Stick here and be good until you showed up. I had a long wait, though.”
“You’re a good fellow, Dave,” came Farrow’s chuckle. “Nothing better than a crook gone straight. I knew I could rely on you. I counted on coming here after I left the pen.”
“You mean—”
“I mean that I was followed. I told the warden I was coming to New York. I figured some detectives would be on the lockout for me. My past record isn’t so good — according to their books.”
“Where did they start to trail you, boss?”
“Coming in on the Central. There was a dick on the train. Another picked up the trail in the terminal. Short, stocky fellow—”
“Joe Cardona!”
“I guess so. I gave him the slip at Fourteenth Street. Then I came here. He’s still looking for a fellow named Sam Fulwell. He’ll never find him.”
A pause followed. Farrow was dressing. Dave continued to puff his cigar. The Shadow waited. Then came Farrow’s voice again:
“I’m going to pack the suitcases, Dave. I’m leaving town at midnight.”
“Going away again, boss?” Dave’s tone was incredulous. “I thought you might be going to locate here in New York.”
“I have other plans, Dave. You may hear about them later. I want you to stay here and wait until you get word from me. Perhaps I’ll be back within a few days; if not — well, that will take care of itself.”
“All right, boss.”
A long pause. Suddenly, Farrow came from the inner room. He was carrying two large suitcases, which he placed on the floor. A grin appeared upon Dave’s lips.
SLADE FARROW was different from the furtive-faced man who had so recently arrived at this apartment. His features were the same, but they had lost their hangdog expression. His expensive attire was a marked contrast to the cheap clothing which he had worn from prison.
Shoulders erect, eyes clear and bearing one of dignity, Slade Farrow belied the statement that clothes do not make the man. From a sheepish jailbird, he had become a gentleman. Joe Cardona, had he seen Slade Farrow now, would not have suspected that this was the man he had trailed.
“Say, boss!” Dave’s tone was one of keen admiration. “You spoke plenty when you said that it didn’t do no harm to be in stir. Say — I didn’t half recognize you when you came in. Now, though, you look better than ever.”
“I wouldn’t mind dropping in on the warden,” laughed Farrow. “He would get quite a surprise to see the sudden improvement of one of his latest graduates.”
“You’re not going back there—”
“Of course not.” Farrow laughed. “I’m leaving on a midnight train, Dave — from the Grand Central. I’m not going back to the pen, but I’m picking a city not so very far from there. That’s all I want to tell you now. Do you understand?”