Roy Selbrig.
Then, with definite deliberation, Mullrick drove a line directly through the name. That line was an indication that Roy Selbrig was dead. He was the first man on the list that Luis Santo had given Mullrick.
As he had told Santo, Mullrick was keeping those names in mind. But with one gone — off the list forever — Mullrick seemed better able to concentrate when he had marked the fact.
Thoughtfully, Mullrick folded the sheet of paper. He was about to tear it up when he changed his mind. There were some books lying on the table; they were large volumes that dealt with Mexico. Between the leaves of one of these, a book entitled “The Conquest of the Aztecs,” Mullrick placed the folded sheet of paper that bore Roy Selbrig’s name.
“La comida, senor?” questioned Pascual, from an inner door of the living room.
“Dinner?” responded Mullrick. “No, Pascual, I am not hungry. I shall dine later — after I go out.”
Going to a table drawer, Mullrick produced the folded map of Mexico. He opened it and ran his finger from point to point. Burton Blissip had spoken of a map. This was an excellent one. Mullrick placed a finger upon the State of Sinaloa, bordering, a narrow strip, upon the Pacific on a line with the tip of the Lower California peninsula.
He traced his course eastward to the state of Durango. There, reflectively, Mullrick marked the spot that was in his mind. He was debating with himself regarding Burton Blissip, the second of the four.
MILLIONS in mineral wealth — there in the lost mines of Durango! With the knowledge that he already possessed, Harland Mullrick was confident that he could find the chosen spot within the option limit of six months.
Yet Burton Blissip, like Roy Selbrig, could either make or mar the game. Blissip had come to New York in response to Mullrick’s second letter. Mullrick folded the map. What if he should ignore the man from Buffalo, who now occupied Room 1378 at the Goliath Hotel?
If Blissip were ignorant of what Mullrick wanted — and Mullrick’s letter had been a cagey one — Blissip might prove to be of no consequence in this affair. Yet the middle course did not appeal to Harland Mullrick. He opened the Aztec volume and brought out the folded paper. He studied the crossed-off name of Roy Selbrig.
Burton Blissip, if he would accept an offer, would give surety to Mullrick’s option even though Blissip’s demand might be exorbitant. Burton Blissip, if he were dead, like Roy Selbrig, could do naught to interfere with Mullrick’s search for the lost mines.
Nervously, Mullrick folded the paper and thrust it back into the big book. He clenched his fists feverishly, as though inspired by hideous worry.
Then, seeing Pascual watching him, Mullrick laughed. His calm came back. Cool and calculating, he sat down in a large chair and lighted a cigarette.
“Dinner,” he mused aloud. “It is not a bad idea, Pascual. I shall rest a little while, then go out to dinner, alone, at some good hotel. After that, Pascual, I shall meet Senor Herston. I am worried a bit tonight. Restless, Pascual. Tomorrow, I shall feel more at ease — perhaps—”
UPSTAIRS, Burbank, at the ear phones, was recording what Mullrick had said. A clock on the table showed half past seven. A soft whisper sounded through the room. Burbank pointed to the torn paper that lay beside him. He did not turn.
Burbank knew that the hidden eyes of The Shadow were studying that memorandum which Harland Mullrick thought had been destroyed and scattered. A gloved hand reached forward and picked up the shorthand notes which Burbank had taken.
One statement by Mullrick, when he had spoken over the phone, caught The Shadow’s keen attention. It consisted of the words: “A good hotel.”
The figures on the torn slip of paper formed the number 1378.
A coincidence — that number written while Mullrick had been speaking about a hotel. The Shadow knew the answer. The man who had called Mullrick must be registered at some hotel in New York, occupying Room 1378.
The Shadow also noted other statements, particularly Mullrick’s reference to a map. But his main thought was directed to the matter of the hotel. New York, a city with hundreds of hotels, presented a tremendous problem to one who might attempt to locate an individual through his room number alone.
The Shadow spoke to Burbank. His whisper was an order, given in two words:
“Hotel data.”
Burbank reached beside his table. He opened a suitcase which proved to be a portable filing cabinet with two divisions. From the letter “H” he brought out a folder marked “Hotels.” He placed it on the table. The Shadow carried it away.
Beneath a shaded lamp in another room, The Shadow began a quick survey of the information. A soft laugh sounded by the lamp. The Shadow had found a quick solution to the problem. The number of the hotel room was the key.
With ungloved finger, The Shadow was tracing through the tabulated statistics of hotels in Manhattan. These reference sheets, which Burbank always had available as information for The Shadow’s agents, was proving useful. The Shadow was looking at the name of each hotel that had a thirteenth floor!
Oddly, the list was decidedly limited. The Shadow knew that such would be the case. The older hotels, those erected more than two decades ago, were large structures, but not high ones. They were eliminated because they did not reach a height of thirteen stories.
The modern hotels — many in number — reached to greater elevations. Here, however, the statistics showed another point. In the great majority of such hotels, no thirteenth floor existed, by number. To avoid complications with superstitious guests, the modern hotel owners had long since adopted the practice of numbering the floor above the twelfth as fourteen!
Commerce had yielded to superstition.
The peculiar custom was serving The Shadow. One by one, with quick rapidity, he eliminated the newest of Manhattan hotels, until only a scattering few remained which were tall enough to have thirteen floors, and whose proprietors were bold enough to give the thirteenth story its proper number!
Another fact served The Shadow. Of the hotels in the restricted list, there were some of limited floor space. These would not have rooms numbered as high as 78. The Shadow was looking for a large hotel, a modern one, that had introduced the number 13 in its list of stories, in defiance of the accepted custom. It must also be a hotel with ample floor space.
The Shadow’s hand inscribed the names of four hotels. In this final list was the Goliath. It remained only for the black-garbed investigator to visit those four, and learn facts regarding the occupant of Room 1378. With that quest fulfilled, he would know the man who had phoned Harland Mullrick.
Burbank, at his ear phones, had no cognizance of what The Shadow was doing. There were no further sounds from the apartment below — at least no sounds which were distinguishable. Pacing feet, closing doors: these might have been tokens of Pascual as much as Mullrick.
OUTSIDE, Harry Vincent was again watching the apartment house. Piqued at his failure to trail Mullrick on a previous evening, The Shadow’s agent was determined to do his best tonight. He waited across the street. Suddenly, he saw Harland Mullrick appear in front of the Belisarius Arms.
The man who had come from Mexico cast quick, short glances up and down the street. Carelessly tilting his gray fedora, he strolled along; then, suddenly, hailed a passing cab and stepped aboard. Harry leaped into his coupe, parked near by. He took up the chase.
The cab gained as it neared Times Square. It swerved into a side street, and pulled up in front of the Hotel Goliath. Harry, sliding his car into a parking space fifty feet behind, caught a glimpse of Harland Mullrick entering the hotel. He hurried after the man.
Someone accidentally blocked Harry at the revolving door. The delay was short, but it proved fatal to Harry’s chase. When he reached the hotel lobby, Harry could see no sign of Harland Mullrick. He suspected that his quarry had entered one of the many elevators. There was no chance to find him.