“You, Berlett, are going to Rio. You are to see Torrence Dilgin. You are to state our case. As president of the Dilgin Corporation, I impose this duty upon you.”
“The trip will be useless.”
“Not in my opinion.”
“It will mean a large fee if I go.”
“We shall pay it.”
Berlett shrugged his shoulders as he resumed his chair. He seemed to take Curshing’s words at discount. The president, however had won the support of the directors.
“I have cabled Torrence Dilgin,” declared Curshing, in a decisive tone. “In my message, I told him that you are on your way to Rio. You will leave today, Berlett, by plane.”
“At what time?” questioned the lawyer, indignantly.
“Two o’clock this afternoon,” returned Curshing. “I sent the cable two days ago. Remember, Berlett, this corporation holds the privilege of calling upon your entire services at any time. We are exerting that privilege right now.”
Approval came from the directors. Hearing their audible expression of unanimous agreement with Curshing, Berlett submitted. He smiled sourly as he arose from his chair.
“Very well, gentlemen,” he declared. “I must leave you and return to my office. I shall have to hurry to arrange my own affairs and prepare for my trip—”
“You will meet me here at half past twelve,” ordered Charles Curshing, as the lawyer started for the door. “It is ten o’clock now, Mr. Berlett.”
As Berlett passed out through the door, Curshing waved his arms as a signal for adjournment. Approaching Lester Dorrington, Curshing shook hands with the cadaverous lawyer and thanked him for his statement. He ushered Dorrington out through the offices of the Dilgin Refining Corporation.
AS soon as he had left Curshing, Dorrington permitted himself to smile. The twist that appeared upon his pale lips was a knowing one. It still existed, half an hour later, when Dorrington appeared in his own offices.
Standing in a private room, amid heavy, expensive furnishings of mahogany, Lester Dorrington stared from the window as he surveyed the steplike skyline of Manhattan. He was thinking of the events that had taken place at the directors’ meeting.
Moving to a corner of his office, Dorrington brought a telephone from a little cabinet. This was a private line — one that was not connected with the switchboard in Dorrington’s suite. The lawyer dialed. He heard a whiny voice across the wire.
“Hello, Squeezer,” began the cadaverous man, in a cautious tone. “This is Mr. Dorrington… Yes. From my office in the Bylend Building… Yes, a job for you… Go to 918 Hopewell Building. Trail Edwin Berlett, the lawyer… He’s going out from Newark airport at two o’clock… Right…”
Dorrington hung up the receiver. He paused thoughtfully, smiled in dry fashion, then decided to call another number. It was plain that Lester Dorrington was deeply interested in the affairs of Edwin Berlett.
THE situation, however, was mutual. While Dorrington was telephoning from his office in the Bylend Building, Edwin Berlett, seated at his desk in room 918, Hopewell Building, was also busy on the wire. Berlett had arrived at his office fifteen minutes earlier.
“Hello…” Berlett’s tone was keen. “Yes… You’ll take care of everything… That’s right… Through the proper parties. Be sure that the messages are sent. Very good, Morgan.
“When everything is done, keep an eye on Lester Dorrington, 2416 Bylend Building… That’s right… No… Nothing more. I’m all finished. Ready to leave…”
Berlett’s lips wore a hard smile as the receiver clattered on the hook. The stocky attorney was ready to leave for Rio. He had placed his affairs in order. He was starting upon a mission that Charles Curshing believed would involve half a million dollars.
Why did Lester Dorrington mistrust Edwin Berlett? Why, in turn, did the corporation attorney decide that the criminal lawyer would bear watching? What sinister factors were involved in the affairs of Torrence Dilgin?
No one could have gained an inkling of the actual suspicions from either of those poker faces. Dorrington and Berlett were cagey men, of long experience. Each had preserved complete composure during the directors’ meeting. Only when alone and apart, outside the conference room, had they shown their individual craftiness.
Half a million dollars seemed the sum at stake. It had loomed as probably the issue of Edwin Berlett’s coming trip to Rio. But the actions of the two crafty lawyers indicated that more lay in the balance.
Hidden schemes; vast sums; the lives of unsuspecting men — such were the factors in the coming game. Charles Curshing, honest president of Dilgin Corporation, had unwittingly touched the spark that was to loose a blast of evil!
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW ENTERS
NIGHT in Manhattan. The glare of the metropolis cast a flickering glow upon the walls of massive buildings. Light, reflected from the sullen sky, gave artificial dusk to silent offices that would otherwise have been filled with inky blackness.
A blackened figure was moving through the gloom of a long corridor. Like a phantom of darkness, the mysterious shape approached a door and paused, crouching. Dully, words showed upon the glass panel of the barrier:
INTERNATIONAL
IMPORT COMPANY
A soft laugh shuddered in the corridor. The phantom shade came close to the door. Soft clicks sounded as a blackened hand worked upon the lock. The barrier gave. Entering the office of the International Import Company, the gliding figure straightened as it neared the window. Momentarily, it was revealed as a form clad in flowing cloak, with head topped by a dark slouch hat.
The Shadow!
Weird prowler of the night, strange adventurer whose paths were those of danger, this sinister visitor had come with some known purpose to the office of the International Import Company. He had picked the lock of the door; his next design would soon be evident.
For The Shadow was a master who battled crime. A lone wolf amid the towers of Manhattan, a traveling, living phantom who could fade into unseen hiding places, a fierce, ready warrior who could spring into view with the same startling rapidity, The Shadow had chosen a career that meant death to crooks.
His presence in this office could mean but one thing. The Shadow had come to forestall crime. A master investigator, aided by capable agents who did his bidding, The Shadow had a remarkable ability for ferreting out the truth in evil schemes. Crookery was afoot tonight. The Shadow was ahead of it.
Gliding from the window, The Shadow reached a corner where the heavy door of a vault showed dimly in the gloom. While distant electric signs brought dull flickers to the office, The Shadow’s flashlight directed a steady beam upon the combination. His right hand held the torch; his left, ungloved, was working with a knob. A sparkling gem — The Shadow’s girasol — glittered changing hues amid the light.
THE SHADOW’S touch was uncanny. A soft laugh came from above the flashlight. The left hand slipped into its thin black glove. The same hand drew open the door of the vault. In the space of half a dozen minutes, The Shadow had solved the combination.
A locked gate showed within. The Shadow made short work of it. He found the combination of this second barrier. He stepped into the vault. The flashlight glimmered upon metal drawers set in the wall. Suddenly, the light clicked out.
Swishing toward the front of the vault, The Shadow drew the outer door shut. This done, he softly closed the metal gate. Dropping to the rear of the vault, he crouched in Stygian darkness. His keen ears had told him of approaching footsteps in the outer corridor.
The Shadow had acted with swift precision. Less than five seconds after the big door of the vault had closed, a key clicked in the office door. Two men entered. One crossed the room and drew the shades. The other then turned on the office light.