One look at the body. Joe Cardona nodded. He turned toward the door and measured the distance. He strode to that spot and turned to face the desk.
“The killer knew how to handle a gun,” declared Cardona, firmly. “Three bullets, doctor, every one a real hit. The man we want will turn out to be a professional with the rod.”
Some one was approaching in the hall. Cardona turned to face a wiry, friendly-faced chap. He recognized Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic. Cardona scowled; then laughed.
“On the job already, eh?” questioned the detective. “I suppose you heard what I said? Well — you can put it in your sheet. The killer didn’t try to cover up what he was. We’d be dumb if we didn’t pick him as a regular thug.”
That was all. Joe Cardona walked to the desk. His keen eyes spied the newspaper that Hugo Verbeck had been reading. They wandered to the telephone book that had spread out when it reached the floor.
“All right,” announced Cardona, suddenly. “That’s all. We’ll look for the killer.”
Clyde Burke had watched Cardona’s eyes. The reporter saw Cardona’s glance at the newspaper; then at the telephone book. Clyde realized that the detective had gained a hunch. Clyde, himself, had caught an inkling of it.
Joe Cardona was wondering if a connection existed between the latest news sensation and the murder of Hugo Verbeck. Clyde Burke, a keen journalist, had naturally asked himself the same question. Clyde had caught the train of Cardona’s thoughts.
“I’m going down to headquarters,” announced the detective. “There’s nothing else, Burke. You’ll have to see me later. Tomorrow—”
“All right, Joe.”
Cardona lingered in the office, to gather routine data. Clyde Burke departed. When he reached the street, the reporter was smiling. He stopped in a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
Clyde Burke began to talk. He was an agent of The Shadow. He was reciting facts concerning crimes to The Shadow’s contact man.
“Report received,” came Burbank’s quiet announcement, when Clyde had finished his remarks. “Instructions: keep close to Joe Cardona. Report all new developments promptly.”
Clyde Burke left the telephone booth. He was confident that The Shadow would have a real beginning in the game of tracking crime. Clyde was sure that his report was already being forwarded by Burbank. Perhaps it had already reached The Shadow.
For Clyde Burke had no inkling that The Shadow was not in New York. He did not know that Burbank was temporarily in charge of the active agents. Only Burbank knew the truth concerning The Shadow’s whereabouts.
The contact man, stationed at a hidden post where Clyde and other active agents could report, was the only person who had the facts. Burbank alone knew that The Shadow was far away — a passenger aboard the Southern Star which tonight was steaming into Bridgetown, the principal harbor of Barbados!
CHAPTER VIII
THE MAN WHO FEARED
LATE the following afternoon, a chubby-faced man was seated at a desk by the window of an office high in the towering Badger Building. Complacent, leisurely in action, he was studying an evening newspaper which was spread on the desk before him.
A ring at the telephone. The chubby-faced fellow stretched out his hand and took the instrument. He spoke in a voice that was almost a drawclass="underline"
“Rutledge Mann speaking… Yes, Rutledge Mann, investments… Ah, yes, Mr. Brooks. I have arranged for the purchase of the securities that you require… Yes, they will be here at my office… Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
The receiver clicked. Mann returned to his study of the newspaper. He seemed well suited to his chosen business. As an investment broker, Mann had an easy, unruffled manner that gained the confidence of his clients.
Early lights were twinkling in the dusk outside the window. Mann needed none, for his office, facing to the west, was still well illuminated by the setting sun. Apparently, Mann’s work was finished for the day; but the investment broker showed no signs of leaving, nor did he look toward the window, to view the twinkling lights that were appearing in Manhattan’s towers.
Drawing a pair of scissors from his pocket, Mann began to clip items from the evening newspaper. Certain paragraphs referred to Torrence Dilgin; others to Edwin Berlett; more, however, concerned the murder of Hugo Verbeck. Mann laid the clippings on his desk. He opened a drawer. From it, he produced other clippings. He placed the entire batch in an envelope.
From another drawer, Mann produced two yellow papers. One was a radiogram from the Steamship Southern Star; the other, a cable from Barbados, where the liner had docked this very day. Both messages referred to investments; both were signed Lamont Cranston.
Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow. Serving in that secret capacity, he was a useful cog in The Shadow’s anti-crime machine. Yet there was a puzzled look on Mann’s face as the investment broker studied the yellow messages. Mann himself did not know their meaning!
RUTLEDGE MANN had received messages from The Shadow. Ordinarily, he would have supposed these to be such. But the securities mentioned were ones that Mann did not recognize. Hence he supposed that the messages were for The Shadow — not from him. Even to such trusted agents as Mann, The Shadow remained a mystery.
Mann placed the messages in the envelope that held the clippings. Sealing the container, he arose from his desk. He left the office and descended to Broadway. There he hailed a cab and rode to Twenty-third Street. Strolling along the old-fashioned thoroughfare, Mann paused at the entrance of a dilapidated building. He entered.
Ascending a creaky stairway, Mann stopped before an isolated door that bore a name up its grimy glass panel. The title on the frosting read:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped his envelope in a mail slit. He left the door and descended to the street. His work was done. It was Mann’s duty to forward clippings, messages and written reports to The Shadow. Mann had never seen any one enter the office that bore the name of Jonas. Yet he knew that envelopes deposited there invariably reached The Shadow.
Minutes passed outside of the office with the grimy pane. The little hallway was illuminated by a flickering gas jet. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have remained deserted; for The Shadow used a secret entrance when he paid his visits to this secluded spot. Present circumstances, however, were not ordinary. The Shadow, despite Mann’s belief to the contrary, was absent from New York.
Light footsteps sounded in the hall. A man appeared. He was of medium height. His features were obscured, not by design, but merely because the light jet was behind his head. The arrival drew a key from his pocket. He inserted it in the door marked “B. Jonas.” The lock grated. The door whined as it opened inward. Cobwebs were wrenched from their moorings.
Rutledge Mann’s envelope was lying on the floor just inside the door. The newcomer picked up the packet, retired to the hall and locked the door behind him. His face was again obscure as he departed, for he was looking at the envelope which he had gained. He thrust the packet in his pocket as he descended the stairs.
Dusk had settled when the man with the envelope reached the street. His countenance was still obscure in the intermittent light of street lamps as he walked rapidly toward an avenue. Following the structure of an elevated, the man reached a quiet side street. He entered an old house and paused in the darkness of the vestibule. He bolted the door behind him.