“Since you played the part of Jenks,” he decided, “I shall don the guise of Revoort. There is danger in New York; yet your appointment with Ramorez must be kept.”
“You mean,” inquired Revoort, puzzled, “that it would be unsafe for me to register at the Hotel Legrand?”
“I do. Therefore, I shall go there in your place. I shall keep the appointment with Ramorez.”
“But he will know that you are someone other than myself—”
“He will not. I shall use a disguise that will amaze you, Revoort. When I have completed it, I shall be your double.”
“But what — how—”
Revoort stammered helplessly.
“My part,” explained The Shadow, “is to offset crime. An evil enemy has backed the game to gain your treasure. He will learn that he has been thwarted. He is in New York; he is my foe as well as yours.
“Who I really am is something that we can discuss later. It is sufficient for you to know that I shall protect both you and your wealth. When we reach New York, I shall be Louis Revoort. You will remain in seclusion, at my home in New Jersey. Your treasure will be safe there with you, until after I — as you — have arranged matters with Carl Ramorez.”
“What of Jurrice?”
“Precautions have already been arranged for his safety. At present, however, he is in no danger. You will see Craig Jurrice later.”
Louis Revoort sank back with a sigh. He believed in this new friend. Facts had amazed him; he was willing to rely on these astounding promises and to obey all orders. One last iota of doubt still gripped him, however.
“If the Tropical reaches New York this evening,” declared Revoort, “I should be there — that is, you should be there — at about the same time. Yet we are hundreds of miles south; both of us, I suppose are penniless—”
“Within three hours,” interposed The Shadow, “an autogyro will land outside this cottage. We shall both go aboard; the return trip will enable us to reach Newark airport by early evening. You will go from there to my home; I shall go to the Hotel Legrand. I arranged for the plane when I made my long-distance call.
“Here, in this cottage, before we start our trip, we shall become doubles. New clothes and my required make-up will arrive aboard the autogyro. In the meantime, I should like to view your signature. I shall have to copy it when I register at the Hotel Legrand.”
LOUIS REVOORT was nodding in final bewilderment. He had learned the strength of hidden foes; now he had gained knowledge of a friend whose might seemed greater.
Confidence gripped Revoort as he visioned the immediate future. He realized that his rescuer was one who handled every detail; whose plans could not be balked by either time or space.
Revoort’s nod was his agreement. His trust was complete. In giving full privilege to The Shadow, he had chosen the one wise course. Beset by many enemies, Revoort had placed his cause in The Shadow’s hands. His secret would be kept while he and his treasure gained protection.
The Shadow, too, had attained a mighty purpose. Back from the dead, he was free for his new struggle. Master of vengeance, The Shadow was returning to deal — at equal odds — with his hidden foe, The Python!
CHAPTER XIII
MOVES AT DUSK
THAT same afternoon found Albert Thurney standing at the window of his fourteenth-floor apartment. It was after five o’clock; a clouded, sultry day had brought haziness to Manhattan. Through the gloom of approaching dusk, Thurney could see the glow of blue lights in the distant loft building.
Neon bulbs were wavering. Straining, Thurney caught the signal. A smile showed on his light-complexioned face. So intent was Thurney that he did not hear the approach of footsteps from an inner room of his apartment. He started suddenly when a voice spoke beside him.
“Pardon, Mr. Thurney.” The speaker was a droop-faced man who walked with a catlike tread. “I did not wish to disturb you while you watched the lights.”
“It’s all right, Warring,” approved Thurney, stepping back from the window. “The signals are working now that darkness has arrived. It’s time they were moving.”
“Quite so, Mr. Thurney. If I might venture to say so, sir, I would suggest that the one weakness in the system is the signal method. Contact is limited only to nighttime—”
“The Python has no weakness, Warring,” interrupted Thurney, his tone disapproving. “Moreover, it is not your business, as my valet, to criticize or make undue comment.”
“Pardon again,” bowed Warring. “I was worried, sir, because of the telegram that you received from Norfolk.”
“Duronne’s wire?” laughed Thurney. “The one that passed me the news about the phony swag? Well, Warring, the very fact that Duronne communicated with me is proof that contacts can be made without the lights. Moreover, I made a telephoned report regarding the telegram. The flash-backs from the signal tower have begun. The Python knows everything, Warring.”
“I do believe he does, sir.”
There was profound admiration in Warring’s tone as the valet eyed his master. Thurney, apparently, did not notice it. He was placing a cigarette in its holder.
“Work for me, Warring,” he remarked. “You stay here while I am out. There may be other telegrams — perhaps a call from Warthrope. You see, Warring” — Thurney nudged his thumb toward the window — “those signals were for me. They mean a job that can’t wait too long.”
LEAVING his apartment, Thurney hailed a taxi and gave an address on Sixth Avenue, not many squares north of Forty-second Street. He alighted at the entrance of a towering skyscraper and rode by an express elevator to the fortieth floor. He walked to a corner office and read the elaborate legend on the door:
FROTHINGHAM, SYBOLD,
BORNICK AND HAVELDORN
COUNSELORS-AT-LAW
Entering the outer office, Thurney found a lone stenographer. He asked the girl if Mr. Bornick happened to be in his office. The stenographer nodded. Thurney took a chair while the girl went along an inner corridor.
Only one of several small offices was lighted; its door was ajar. The stenographer rapped and entered. Lester Bornick was seated at a huge mahogany desk, staring from the window, which had an eastern exposure.
In his hand, the lawyer held a pad. On it, he was jotting dots and dashes while he watched the slight flicker of distant blue lights.
Suddenly sensing the girl’s arrival, Bornick swung quickly in his swivel chair. For a moment, his lips seemed about to deliver an angry outburst; then Bornick quickly regained his calm. He tossed the pad into an open drawer of the desk.
“Mr. Thurney is here, sir,” stated the stenographer. “Does he have an appointment with you?”
“Thurney?” queried Bornick. “Albert Thurney? Ah, yes — I recall him. Young chap, isn’t he? Light-complexioned?”
The girl nodded.
“Humph.” Bornick stroked his chin. “I promised to see him at his apartment again; I suppose he was tired of waiting to hear from me. Very well — show him in.”
The stenographer went out and told Thurney he could enter Bornick’s office. Alone at her desk, she pondered over the notes that Bornick had been making. This was the second time that she had surprised the lawyer in such an action. Although she had not noticed the blue lights, the stenographer felt sure that Bornick must have been watching something from the window.
Moreover, the girl wondered why Bornick had been remaining so late in his office. Her duty ended at six o’clock; for the past week, Bornick had stayed after she had gone.