So far his actions had been very leisurely, but as he spread the paper between his chubby hands, he began to read with great rapidity. The words had been printed by hand, and they would have been meaningless to the average reader, for they were composed of jumbled letters that were unpronounceable.
A cryptogram! The code to the cryptogram likely was simple, for Claude Fellows read it without difficulty. Evidently the letter was designed to perplex anyone for whom it was not intended, yet the make-up of the words was doubtless of the variety of cipher that would not be difficult to solve in an hour’s time.
Fellows finished the document very quickly. At the bottom of it was a number - 58. He opened a drawer in the desk and brought out a card which bore numbers from 1 to 100. Every number had been crossed out, up to and including 57. He made a pencil mark through number 58, and replaced the card in the drawer.
Fellows drew a cigar from his pocket, and lighted it. While he puffed contentedly and gazed toward the ceiling, he softly repeated the information that he had received in the message.
While he was thus engaged, the letter lay spread on the desk before him. Slowly, as though eradicated by an invisible hand, the words of the cryptogram disappeared until nothing remained but a blank sheet of paper!
“Laidlow murder,” mused Fellows. “This was not anticipated. Will require immediate attention. Scanlon murder at Metrolite Hotel. Important. May have been observed by Harry Vincent, our new operative. He will call today. Question him. Notify me if he has information. If he has, hold him for further instructions.”
The chubby-faced man remained silent for several minutes as though pondering upon the message. Then, apparently satisfied that he would not forget its details, he picked up the blank sheet of paper, crumpled it in a ball, and tossed it to the wastebasket.
Having regained his leisurely composure, Fellows pressed a buzzer. His stenographer entered a moment later. Fellows opened the other letters that were on the desk, read them in an offhanded manner, and began to dictate replies, all of which obviously referred to matters having to do with his insurance business.
While Fellows was occupied in this work - which required considerable time because of his leisurely way - Harry Vincent entered the outer office. Finding no one there, he sat in a chair to wait. He could hear a man talking in the inner office, and he paid very little attention to the dull, monotonous voice speaking of insurance policies and kindred matters.
The stenographer came into the outer office a few minutes later. Finding Vincent there, she asked for his name. This she reported to Fellows in the inner office, and Vincent was ushered into the private sanctum.
“See that I am not disturbed, Miss Carrington,” said the insurance broker. “Please close my door as you go out.”
When the door had closed behind the stenographer, Fellows motioned Vincent to a chair at the opposite side of the desk. Then he removed his spectacles and studied Vincent with a calm gaze that was neither inquisitive nor too friendly.
Vincent, in turn, was interested in the man across the desk. He knew immediately that Fellows was not the shadowy stranger of the bridge and the imported limousine, but he realized that there was a definite connection between the two.
Fellows’ face was impenetrable. It was the face of a staid, methodical business man. It revealed nothing else to the man who inspected it.
“You are Mr. Vincent,” said Fellows slowly.
Vincent nodded.
“You were told to report to me,” resumed Fellows.
“Yes.”
“Before you begin, Mr. Vincent, let me assure you that you are quite safe here. You were posted at the Metrolite Hotel to watch a man named Scanlon. He was murdered last night. You were in the hotel at the time. What do you know about it?”
Vincent hesitated. Was this a trap? Did the police suspect that he knew more than he had told in his meager testimony? Could this prosperous-looking insurance broker be a detective?
Fellows seemed to fathom his suspicions.
“Let me reassure you,” he said. “I can tell you why you were at the Metrolite Hotel. Two nights ago, you were about to commit suicide, which a stranger saw fit to prevent. Following that, you agreed to perform whatever service this stranger required from you. I represent the one to whom you made that promise.”
“You mean The Shadow?” blurted Vincent, without thinking of giving the name that had formed in his mind.
The faint trace of a smile spread over the chubby face of the insurance broker.
“The Shadow,” he repeated. “That is what I call him. I see the name occurred to you, also.”
“Yes,” admitted Vincent. “I can only describe him as a shadow - that came from nowhere and vanished into nothingness.”
The insurance broker nodded thoughtfully.
“That is all I know about him, too,” he replied. “Like you, I have certain duties to perform. My duty is to learn what you have done. So tell me everything.”
Convinced by the man’s words, Vincent lost no time in giving the details of his recent adventures.
Fellows listened blandly. He evidenced no surprise whatever when he heard of the finding of the Chinese disk which Vincent handed to him.
When Vincent’s story was completed, the insurance broker drew a sheet of paper from the desk drawer, and thrust a pen in a bottle of light-blue ink. He wrote a short note with calm deliberation, folded the paper and sealed it carefully in an envelope. He addressed the envelope and buzzed for the stenographer, to whom he gave the letter.
When the girl had gone, he spoke to Vincent again.
“There will be a reply before noon,” said Fellows. “It may interest you to know that the letter I have just sent is to a man named Jonas, whom I have never seen. He has an office in an old building on Twenty-third Street.
“When I first began to receive instructions from this man we call The Shadow, I was curious - just as you are now. I used to investigate a bit, in the same way that you quizzed the chauffeur of the limousine which took you to the Metrolite.
“So when I was told to send letters to Jonas, I took the trouble to visit his office. I found it closed, with a letter chute in the doorway, bearing the sign, ‘Leave Mail Here.’ I questioned people in the building, and learned that no one there had ever seen the man named Jonas; that his office is always shut, and never lighted.
“What happens to the letters that go in that mail chute is a mystery to me. But I know that we will receive a reply within one hour.”
Vincent stared wonderingly at the speaker, and Fellows added a further explanation.
“I have told you this with a purpose, Vincent. The methods of the man we call The Shadow are unfathomable. He is entirely unconcerned about any methods you, I, or any one else may use in an attempt to discover his identity. To him, we are no more than children. I discovered that some time ago; I am giving you the information to save you further useless effort.”
Vincent stroked his chin in speculation.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Mr. Fellows?”
“Ask me any question you wish,” replied the insurance broker.
“Have you ever seen The Shadow?” quizzed Vincent.
“I don’t know.”
“Does he live here in New York?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is his purpose in life?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he a crook?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he on the side of the law?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent laughed, and even Fellows indulged in a serious smile.
“You see, Vincent,” said the insurance broker, in an affable tone, “I know very little. I receive messages from The Shadow, and I reply to them. What he writes to me and what I write to him is all forgotten. Remember the answer I have given to your questions. Those three words, ‘I don’t know,’ are often useful.”