Cardona nodded. This explained why Vic had carried the slip of paper that dicks had found in his pocket.
“I telephoned here myself,” went on Releston. “That was at four o’clock, Wesdren. You had not arrived; so I left Marquette’s information for you.”
“With whom?” demanded Wesdren.
“With Craig Jollister,” replied the senator.
“Jollister!” exclaimed Wesdren. “I thought that he had gone to Washington. He was not here when I arrived.”
“He left no message for you?”
“None. But, after all, the man is an absent-minded sort. Eccentric and useless except in his particular work.”
“Who is Jollister?” inquired Cardona.
“A designer of safes and strong boxes,” replied Wesdren. “He fitted the door to my vault room; also the door to the vault itself. He is in Washington most of the time; occasionally he has business here in New York. I suppose he stayed longer than he had intended to, on this present trip.”
“Well,” declared Vic Marquette, breaking a short silence, “I ran into trouble with this fellow I was watching. Sailor Martz was no easy customer. That raid of yours came in a pinch, Cardona. I needed help. It would have worked just right, if you men had nabbed Martz.”
“It took a pair of mugs to muff it,” chafed Cardona.
“So we will have to count on Inspector Delka,” decided Vic. “I’ll meet him tomorrow. You can come along, Cardona; we might as well cooperate on the New York end of this business.”
“You will have Delka see me in Washington?” inquired Releston.
“Yes,” replied Marquette, “as I bring him there, senator.”
“When are you coming back to Washington, Wesdren?” asked Releston, turning to the black-haired executive.
“As soon as possible — tomorrow,” replied Wesdren. “I shall communicate with you, senator, after my arrival.”
“Do you think that Jollister has gone to Washington already?”
“I doubt it. He’s probably staying here in New York, somewhere. He’d probably show up in a few days. After all, I cannot find fault with him. He has practically completed his work in my vault room. His time is really his own.”
A TELEPHONE bell rang. Wesdren answered the call. He spoke a few words; then passed the instrument to Joe Cardona. The detective talked to headquarters then hung up with a sour smile.
“They’ve found Sailor Martz,” declared Cardona, “but the fellow’s dead. He got his in that fight at Dory’s joint.”
“Where did they find him?” questioned Marquette.
“In an old barge off the end of a pier,” replied Cardona. “They heard some fellow scramble away; but they couldn’t trace the man in the fog. A pal, maybe, of Sailor’s. Sailor was dead in a bunk aboard the barge.”
Marquette grunted; then Cardona added a comment in a tone that spoke of finality.
“It’s a lost trail,” decided the ace. “One that nobody will follow further, now that Sailor Martz is dead.”
“You’re right,” agreed Marquette. “Whatever Martz knew died with him.”
Ross Releston and Caleb Wesdren nodded their glum accord. The trail was lost; the only course was to await a new one, after the arrival of Inspector Eric Delka.
Four men had guessed the same; their unanimous conjecture was wrong. The trail that Sailor Martz had furnished was not one barren of results. The Shadow had gained facts when he had tracked the dying man.
Already, The Shadow was taking measures to follow up the word that he had learned. Craftily had The Shadow tracked the lost trail. On his own, that master who countered crime was preparing new action.
Hidden facts remained; cross-currents lay beneath the smooth surface that covered crime. The Shadow, himself, had taken it upon himself to enter a game already in the making.
CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK
INCOMING fog had completed its conquest of Manhattan. The city lay almost at a standstill, awaiting the faint relief that grayish dawn would bring. Black gloom had swallowed The Shadow; even he, the master of darkness, had held no welcome for this shrouding mist.
Night, alone, was sufficient cover for The Shadow. He had set out upon a daring quest; and the fog was a handicap that threatened his purpose. He was gambling much upon the hope that the in-rolling fog would lessen elsewhere; for The Shadow had chosen a quick departure from New York. His next thrust against crime would involve a new objective.
Out at sea, the sky showed glimmering starlight, for the fog banks were rolling into shore. There, a great ship was plowing slowly shoreward, through waters streaked with remnants of the mist. The liner was the Doranic, on the last leg of a rapid schedule. The captain had chosen to let the fog roll in ahead; it would be noon before he brought the massive ship in through the lower bay.
Though midnight was long past, passengers were still about, for they had learned that the liner was to lie offshore. That gave opportunity for prolonged merrymaking; and it was rumored that Captain Joseph Murgin, grizzled commander of the Doranic, would drop in to observe the festivities.
The rumor was correct. Captain Murgin had left the bridge; but he was making a brief stop on his way to the main saloon. He had reached the door of a first-class cabin that bore the number 646.
A cautious voice had replied to the captain’s knock. Murgin had announced his identity. Someone within was opening the door. Observant eyes had spied Captain Murgin’s arrival. They were peering from the door of an adjoining cabin, no. 644.
As soon as the captain had entered 646, this watcher closed his door. Through darkness, he crossed Cabin 644 and listened at a door to the adjoining cabin. Cautious, chuckled breathing told that he could catch the words of a conversation.
CABIN 646 was dark. Within its gloom, Captain Murgin was talking to the man who had so secretly received him.
“I have come here, Mr. Knight—”
“You may call me by my right name, captain.” The interrupting voice was quiet. “I am Jarvis Knight to other passengers; but you, of course, have known that I am actually Eric Delka, inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Murgin. “I was informed of that fact when you came aboard. But tonight is the first time that I received a request to call on Mr. Jarvis Knight.”
“I had no problems previously. But tomorrow, I shall be confronted by one. I am anxious to go ashore unobserved. Can you arrange it, captain, when we dock in New York?”
A pause. Captain Murgin was deciding upon a plan.
“It can he arranged,” was his verdict. “Simply remain in this cabin, Inspector Delka. I shall tell Third Officer Donaghy to come here and ask for Mr. Knight. Answer to that name and he will conduct you ashore.”
“My luggage is in the hold,” remarked Delka. “The purser has the number of the locker which contains my trunks. Can you have them go through a customs inspection; then be sent directly to the Hotel Goliath, in New York?”
“Do they contain anything dutiable?”
“No. Of course, they hold papers of a semiconfidential nature—”
“Those will help me explain matters to the customs officials. Shall I have the trunks sent to the hotel under the name of Jarvis Knight?”
“Absolutely. I have reserved Suite 3612 under that incognito.”
Delka struck a match and lighted a cigarette. The captain glimpsed the Scotland Yard man’s face. He recognized it plainly in the glow.
“I have seen you before, inspector,” remarked Murgin. “I was visiting aboard The P.O. liner Canopus when you took passage to Bombay.”