The man ascended a darkened flight of steps. He reached a room on the second floor. Drawn shades made the place totally dark. Closing the door behind him, the man groped his way to a chair, and seated himself. He pulled a cord; a lamp light glowed above his head, behind his back.
The man was seated at a little table. In front of him was a switchboard. Beside him was a filing cabinet. A light was glowing on the switchboard; the man plugged in hastily and spoke in a quiet tone:
“Burbank speaking.”
This was Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow! He, alone, knew that the chief was not in New York. Following complete instructions, this trusted operative was directing activities of other agents until The Shadow might return.
CLYDE BURKE’S voice came over the wire, in response to Burbank’s statement of identity. This telephone was hooked up with a regular unlisted number. The Shadow’s agents knew its number; it was through Burbank that they made their calls to be relayed to The Shadow.
“Report,” ordered Burbank.
“Just left headquarters,” informed Clyde. “Talking with Cardona when he got a call from the police commissioner. Cardona talked cagey because I was around. But he’s leaving in half an hour and he’s going to meet the commissioner somewhere.”
“Report received,” returned Burbank.
The contact man pulled the plug from the switchboard. He waited; then formed a new connection. He dialed. A voice responded:
“Hotel Metrolite.”
“Room 1412,” ordered Burbank.
A few moments later, a man’s voice came over the wire. Quietly, Burbank questioned:
“Is this Mr. Sully?”
“No,” came the response. “This is Mr. Vincent — Room 1412—”
“Sorry,” apologized Burbank. “My mistake.”
In that call, Burbank had delivered a double message. He had actually wanted Room 1412 at the Metrolite, for that was the room occupied by Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. But Burbank had not wanted to give instructions over a wire on which an operator might be listening in.
Harry had recognized Burbank’s tones. The giving of a false name was merely a signal that he was to call back to Burbank. There was a further significance, however. The name Sully began with the letter S. That meant that Harry should proceed southward from the Metrolite while on his way to make the return call. Thus Burbank was automatically heading Harry in the direction which he must later take.
Five minutes passed. During the interim, Burbank had drawn Mann’s envelope from his pocket. He was reading the radiogram and the cable. Burbank’s head was in front of the lamp; his face still remained hazy. But the messages that he was reading were lying in an illuminated spot.
Turning to the filing cabinet, Burbank drew out a folder. It proved to be a book of coded names. With its aid, Burbank was ready to decipher the messages that had come from The Shadow. Before he was able to start, a light glowed on the switchboard.
It was Harry Vincent. The active agent was calling from a pay station five blocks below the Metrolite. Burbank was terse in his instructions.
“Cover headquarters,” he ordered. “Cardona leaving in less than twenty-five minutes. Report where he goes.”
“Instructions received,” came Harry’s response.
The light went out. Ten minutes passed, while Burbank decoded the messages from the Southern Star and Barbados. The contact man was making penciled notations when a glow came from the switchboard.
“Burbank speaking,” announced the contact man, as he plugged in.
“Marsland,” came a steady voice over the wire. “Still out at the airport. The plane is late. Not expected for another hour. Thought I’d better send in word.”
“Report received,” returned Burbank.
THE contact man returned to his deciphering. These were not the only messages that he had received through Rutledge Mann. Previous radiograms had come from the Southern Star, bearing terse, condensed messages. But the code words used were parts of a remarkably complicated system. Orders to buy shares; to wait for fractional point risings; dates and names of securities — all formed a part in this cipher that permitted thousands of variations.
Men of wealth like Lamont Cranston frequently kept in touch with their investment brokers while inbound to New York. These messages could not possibly have excited suspicions. Burbank had sent one reply back through Mann. No more would be necessary. The cablegram from Barbados told that The Shadow was coming in by plane.
Thirty minutes — forty — the time passed while Burbank sat stolidly at his post. The contact man was slowly chewing on a stick of gum.
To Burbank, long, lone vigils were nothing. He was not a man of action; he was one of endurance. Prompt, precise and always dependable, Burbank had served The Shadow well. His post was the connecting link between The Shadow and the agents in the field. When emergency demanded, Burbank served as he now was serving. Instead of making calls to the deserted sanctum, he was issuing orders in The Shadow’s stead.
The light showed on the switchboard. Burbank plugged in and spoke. It was Harry Vincent, announcing that he had trailed Joe Cardona, using taxis to follow the detective’s car. Joe had gone in an ordinary machine, not in a police automobile.
The trail had led to an old house in the Nineties. Joe’s car had parked alongside a limousine that Harry had recognized as belonging to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. Harry was reporting the address.
The report received, Burbank turned to the files. He obtained a listing of telephones arranged according to street addresses. He found the one he wanted; with it was the name of Kelwood Markin.
Taking an ordinary telephone book, Burbank checked by finding Kelwood Markin’s name in the big volume. But Burbank did not stop there. He ran down the list of Markins — which was a short one — and found this listing at the bottom:
Markin & Tharxell… attys… Bushkill Bldg… DUblin 6-9438
There was no Markin listed as an attorney, under his own name. In the book, however, Burbank found the name of George Tharxell, listed as an attorney, in the Bushkill Building. Burbank made a penciled notation. Presumably, Kelwood Markin was the onetime senior of the firm, now no longer engaged in active work. Burbank filed this supposition for investigation on the morrow.
HARRY VINCENT’S trail had ended at the old house in the Nineties. Burbank had gone further; he had gained some useful data concerning the person who resided in that house. Between them, The Shadow’s agents had learned much about the man whom Cardona and the police commissioner were visiting. But they had not been able to penetrate to the actual scene within Markin’s house. Only The Shadow could have done such work as that.
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Acting Inspector Joe Cardona were seated in a comfortable living room, which seemed hushed by its dark-papered walls and heavy curtains. Before them was a stooped-shouldered man, whose eyes were keen despite the age that showed upon his withered face.
There was pleading in Kelwood Markin’s eyes. His thin hands trembling as they clutched a small table before his chair, the old man was speaking earnestly.
“I am an attorney,” he was announcing. “I know the law, commissioner. I know that it is impossible to arrest a murderer without actual evidence against him. But this man is a double killer.
“Two persons have gone to their deaths at his order. I am sure of it, commissioner. It was he who designed the killing of Edwin Berlett. He is responsible for the murder of Hugo Verbeck.
“But that is not all. This fiend” — Markin’s lips quivered with the pronouncement — “will be sure to murder others. How many, I do not know; but I can promise you that one, at least, is marked for death.”