“This gang raided the home of Caleb Wilcox, the radio millionaire. They beat it when the servants sneaked up on them and opened fire. Then they ran into the trap which I had put out for them.”
“Did they get anything?” queried Burke.
“No,” returned Cardona. “If they had, we’d have grabbed it from them. We didn’t know where they were bound tonight — we only got a tip-off that they were going to transfer to another car through the alley.”
“Where’s the other car?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Cardona. “We laid low so it could come up — but it never got here. The tip-off may have something to do with it, Burke. It looks like a double cross.”
“How?”
“Maybe one of the birds that was to have been in the other car had a grudge for Punch Baxton. Maybe they figured it would be better for us to be here than them. Yeah — that’s probably it — a double cross.”
“See you later, Joe,” said Clyde. “I’m calling the office to give them the story.”
When the reporter reached a telephone, he did not call the Classic office. Instead, he dialed Burbank’s number.
A few minutes later, Burke was reporting the fact that Possum Quill had failed to appear within the zone of watching policemen and detectives.
BURBANK, in his sequestered room, received Clyde Burke’s report with his usual calmness. Still seated with his back to the light, untiring in his continued vigil, the contact man made telephonic connection to The Shadow’s sanctum. A whispered voice indicated that the master had returned to his secret abode.
“Burbank speaking,” said the contact man.
“Report,” came The Shadow’s tone.
“Report from Burke,” informed Burbank. “Punch Baxton and mobsmen dead after battle with detectives. No trace of Possum Quill. His car did not appear.”
“Further report from Vincent,” came the voice of The Shadow.
“None,” declared Burbank. “He is stationed a the Hotel Slater. Awaiting instructions. Final report in readiness.”
“All agents off duty,” was The Shadow’s order.
This meant that Burbank’s vigil would be ended as soon as he received later calls. Clyde Burke and Cliff Marsland would telephone in from wherever they might be. In the meantime, Burbank plugged in and called the Hotel Slater.
Harry Vincent, still stationed in his room, was pleased to hear Burbank’s instructions. The young man placed an envelope upon the table, and packed the ear phones in a bag which lay beside the bed. Off duty meant that he could go over to the Metrolite Hotel for the night, returning for his bag early in the morning. Harry had a permanent room at the Metrolite, and preferred it to these temporary quarters in an inferior hotel.
NOT long after Harry’s departure a key grated softly in the lock of the door. The barrier opened, then closed. The tiny rays of a flashlight flickered. The light went out. A hand pulled the cord of a floor lamp.
The tall figure of The Shadow appeared in the shaded illumination.
Gloved hands picked up the envelope which Harry had left. The hands opened the message. The keen eyes of The Shadow studied the blue-inked report. By the time that the reader was scanning the bottom of the first page, the words at the top began to fade away.
All special messages to The Shadow were penned in this disappearing fluid. Moreover, the written words were in a simple but effective code. To The Shadow, the statements were plain; to another, they would not have been understandable; and they would have vanished before the reader could have gained an inkling of the message.
Harry Vincent’s report included important statements which had come over the dictograph. To The Shadow, the remarks made after eleven o’clock carried unusual significance. Possum Quill’s reference to Zach Telvin, the escaped convict — the arrival of a visitor whose name had not been mentioned — the remarks at the time of departure — all were important.
The Shadow, tall and obscure, his black cloak hiding his lithe form, and the hat brim shading his features, laughed softly as he read Harry’s mention of the sound of crinkling paper. A description of Possum’s visitor brought another soft echo of mirth. Also, the mention of the bag which Lefty Hotz had carried.
The floor lamp clicked out. The door opened. The Shadow appeared in the corridor. The black cloak swished; it gave a momentary flash of a crimson lining, as The Shadow stooped before the door of Possum Quill’s room. The door opened in response to a master key. The black-clad investigator entered the room which the crook had so recently occupied.
The Shadow’s purpose was one of sinister portent. To the master of darkness, no victory was satisfactory unless it proved complete. Tonight, The Shadow had shattered an invading horde of mobsters. He had spelled doom to a gang whose forays were famed throughout the bad lands.
In letting Punch Baxton elude his toils, The Shadow had done so that Possum Quill might be implicated when the police captured Punch. Somehow, Possum had managed to keep from the danger zone.
Possum, a regular worker for Punch when getaways were necessary, was scarcely more than a minor figure in the crimes committed by the Baxton mob; nevertheless, The Shadow’s net should have enmeshed this lesser crook.
What was the explanation of Possum Quill’s absence? The Shadow sought the answer in this place. With Punch Baxton dead, Possum would take for cover. The Shadow intended to locate him, wherever he might be.
Possum Quill had received a visitor shortly before eleven thirty. Harry Vincent had seen no definite link between that individual and the man whose name Possum had casually mentioned earlier — Zach Telvin.
To The Shadow, however, Harry’s report carried a coincidental thought.
The crumpled newspaper in the corner! Keen eyes saw it as The Shadow turned on the light in Possum’s room. This was the paper that Possum had crushed while making a jocular remark to his unidentified companion.
The Shadow picked up the newspaper and spread it open. He saw the picture of the penitentiary, and noted the tear running inward from the margin of the sheet.
The Shadow laughed softly. He had suspected the identity of Possum’s visitor. This told him who the man was.
Zach Telvin, escaped convict, had come to visit Possum Quill!
Why?
If the fleeing man had sought only shelter, he would not have made the long and dangerous trip to New York. The Shadow knew that there was some other reason for Possum’s arrival here. Keenly, The Shadow linked that reason with Possum’s failure to keep the rendezvous with Punch Baxton.
One thousand dollars: that was the price which Punch was to pay for Possum’s services. For Possum to be absent, as he had been, meant that hope of greater gain had lured the crafty crook. It also signified that Possum had departed from Manhattan. New York would not be a safe place for Possum Quill to remain after pulling a trick on Punch Baxton.
Where had Possum gone?
THE SHADOW sought the answer. His tall form, vague in the muffling folds of the black cloak, moved into the little room where Possum had conferred with Zach Telvin. A light came on; The Shadow’s piercing gaze sought everywhere. The sharp eyes spied fragments of paper in the wastebasket.
Possum Quill had torn Zach Telvin’s rough chart into many pieces. Putting those bits of paper back together was a difficult task, yet The Shadow began it with amazing swiftness.
Ungloved, The Shadow’s hands worked upon the table beneath the light of a side bracket. The girasol glittered and cast its shimmering sparks. In the simple work that lay before him, The Shadow exerted the same skill and precision that he used in other enterprises. The fingers made no false moves. They planted the paper fragments piece by piece, until Zach Telvin’s crude chart once more lay complete.