A dozen feet through mid-air; but it was a drive, more than a fall. For The Shadow, by the very power of his dive, reached the soft ground of the terrace six feet above the spot where Harry stood. The rajah’s window was only a dozen feet above Harry’s head. The Shadow had fallen less than half that distance.
The long plunge would have crippled him, nevertheless, had it not been for the curtains. Sweeping those draperies before him, The Shadow landed, completely wrapped in velvet. Jarred, but uninjured, he came rolling free, just as Barkhir and Sanghar began mad shouts of angered frustration.
Then came shots from the window. The rajah had arrived; he was stabbing bullets toward the mass that he could dimly discern upon the terrace. While flashes jabbed through the fog, a tall figure unlimbered beside Harry Vincent and gloved hands caught the agent’s arm.
The Shadow had cleared in time. Lost in this lower darkness, he was dragging Harry toward the house wall. The rajah’s shots had ended. His first ire finished, he had evidently decided that it was folly to dispatch new bullets toward an outsprawled foe.
FROM somewhere close by came the shrill blast of a whistle. An answering note trilled. Some police constable had heard the shots and was signaling to a comrade.
The Shadow had whisked off his torn cloak. He was stuffing it into the briefcase, which lay close to the wall. Along went the slouch hat and the gloves. The Shadow was donning coat and fedora. He gave a warning whisper to Harry.
Footsteps clattered on paving from in front of the apartment hotel. Harry expected that The Shadow would start for the rear; instead, his chief dragged him forward, then pushed Harry up a lesser slope of the embankment. Together, they reached the projecting shelter of a widespread bush, just as a London bobby, armed with torch and truncheon, appeared on the soft ground beside the building.
Another officer had come from the rear of the apartment hotel, a fact which proved The Shadow’s wisdom in taking this middle course. The two were flicking their lights upward, calling to those above.
They could see the dim glow of the living room, now that the curtains were cleared away. It was the rajah who answered them. He gave his identity.
“Look upon the terrace,” called the rajah. “You will find the thief there. He leaped from the window. It was I who fired the revolver.”
Warily, with ready clubs, the constables moved upward. Their lights glimmered upon the curtains. They began an examination of the bullet-riddled velvet.
“No one here, your excellency,” called one constable. “Nothing here but curtains, sir. The blighter must have scrambled away somewhere.”
“He cannot have gone far,” returned the rajah.
“We shall rout him out, sir,” promised the second bobby. “Trust us to find him if he is still about.”
Each bobby started in a different direction. New whistles were sounding; they called to new constables who were arriving in the fog. To Harry Vincent, crouched by The Shadow, the officers seemed everywhere about. They were forming a cordon; and these London policemen were used to searches in the midst of fog.
None the less, The Shadow outguessed them. Rising from beside the bush, he whispered for Harry to follow. He began to thread a course through the parklike sector, changing direction with uncanny ability.
At times, The Shadow paused and held Harry back, while a searching bobby lumbered by. Then they were on their way again, unnoticed.
The Shadow took an inward course, back toward the spot where they had started; then reversed the trail. He and Harry emerged upon a sidewalk. The Shadow led the way across the street, to a narrow side thoroughfare which he located perfectly despite the fog.
Harry lost all sense of direction as he walked along with his silent companion. It was not until they reached the vicinity of St. James Square that he began to gain an inkling of their location; even then, Harry was somewhat confused.
The Shadow stopped near a street lamp. Harry viewed the features of Lamont Cranston, masklike in the mist.
HARRY had met his chief in this guise, before. He knew, of course, that The Shadow was not the actual Lamont Cranston. The real Cranston was a globetrotter, who cooperated with The Shadow by allowing the latter to assume his guise.
The Shadow had not originally asked such permission; Cranston had once balked about the matter.
Subsequent events, however, had caused the globetrotter to agree upon the procedure. The real Cranston had found it wise to accept The Shadow’s friendship.
“Facts are complete,” remarked The Shadow, quietly, to Harry. “Various persons are concerned, among them one who is playing a double game. That one is The Harvester.”
Harry nodded.
“Lionel Selbrock left London today,” resumed The Shadow, in Cranston’s level tone. “So did Jed Ranworthy. A strange change has come over Justin Craybaw. The Rajah of Delapore has no jewels of value. Instead, his gems are false. He has arranged a bogus sale that will take place tomorrow. The purchaser of the fake gems will be Dawson Canonby.”
Harry blinked in wonderment at the completeness of The Shadow’s information.
“Sometimes,” resumed The Shadow, “it is best to add new complications to those that already exist. Particularly when a new riddle may allow an opportunity to accomplish something of importance. Therefore, Lamont Cranston will disappear temporarily, before tomorrow morning.”
Harry nodded slowly.
“My absence,” added The Shadow, “will prevent me from being at the offices of Rudlow, Limited. You must go there in my stead. Wait until the morning is well advanced; then call at Rudlow’s and ask for Inspector Eric Delka.
“Tell him that you are a friend of Lamont Cranston’s; that you have learned that I am absent from London; that you are concerned over my disappearance. Use every possible pretext to remain with Delka.”
“I understand,” said Harry.
“It is most essential,” concluded The Shadow, “that Justin Craybaw should be watched. Something has occurred that concerns Craybaw; something that Delka does not fully understand. He may suspect, however; therefore it should prove unnecessary to prompt Delka. I feel confident that he will watch Craybaw of his own accord.
“Should he show signs of omitting such duty, it will be your part to inform Delka that the last you heard from me was at midnight, tonight; that I told you to pass the word to him that Craybaw, needed observation.
“Do not, at any time, express too much anxiety for my safety. Just use enough to establish yourself with Delka. No more. My instructions should be plain.”
“They are,” nodded Harry. “You can be sure that I—”
An almost inaudible whisper from The Shadow. Harry broke off his sentence. Footsteps were approaching; a friendly looking bobby loomed from the fog and stared from beneath his helmet.
“Goon evening, constable,” greeted The Shadow, in Cranston’s quiet style. “You are just the chap to aid us. We have lost ourselves in this beastly fog. I am trying to locate St. James Street; my friend wants the underground to Aldgate.”
The bobby grinned until his lips matched the curve of his chin strap.
“You are not the first wayfarers who have asked for directions,” declared the officer. “Well, sir, you have as good as found St. James Street for a beginning. You are on Charles Street, just east of St. James Square. If your friend will walk east to Haymarket, he may turn north, straight to Piccadilly Circus.”
“You can find your way to Aldgate easily enough,” remarked The Shadow to Harry. “Good night, old chap. Ring me in the morning.”