“Very well.”
The Python picked up a telephone and handed it to The Shadow, who called the Legrand Hotel. He stated that he was Louis Revoort, and would like to talk to Mr. Vincent. There was a pause while Harry Vincent was being paged. Finally came the announcement that Mr. Vincent was in the lobby, and would soon be on the wire. The Shadow gave this information to The Python.
“Hello…” The Shadow was speaking to Harry Vincent. “Hello… Yes, this is Revoort. I have instructions for you, regarding the trunk… Yes. Here they are. I’ll repeat them…”
The Shadow looked over the top of the telephone, toward The Python. He spoke slowly, so the pretended Ramorez would hear his exact statements, as he talked to Harry Vincent.
“Do not inform anyone of my arrival… The police must not know that Louis Revoort is in town… Bring the trunk to my room at the Legrand… You can have the truckmen help you. Pay them and get the money from me tomorrow…
“Whoever you meet tonight is to be there by my order… Do not wait for me to come… Call me yourself tomorrow… I can announce myself then because there will be no need of any great secrecy… There will be no danger to my plans after tomorrow…”
A brief acknowledgment came over the wire. The Shadow hung up the receiver, placed the telephone on the table and resumed his chair. His glance at The Python told him that the disguised crook had not caught slight emphasis on certain words. Harry Vincent alone had noted their import.
Those stressed words had borne this message:
“Inform the police Louis Revoort is at the Legrand. Have them get whoever is there. Do not come yourself because of great danger.”
The emphasized words nullified all else. Harry Vincent would stay away; the Cuban treasure would not be delivered. Instead, the law would appear to investigate Louis Revoort’s odd reappearance. Not finding Revoort, the police would hold and question whoever might be in his place, providing that Harry Vincent made the situation seem strong enough.
“Whoever is there—”
So had The Shadow ordered; and by “whoever,” he had meant The Python. Already, the pretended Ramorez was donning hat and coat, ready to fare forth in quest of the missing wealth.
“Make yourself comfortable, Revoort,” he was purring. “Sit right where you are, in that chair by the window. Good-by, my friend. When you hear the ring of the telephone, be sure to answer. It will be myself, telling you that the work is finished!”
WITH this assurance, The Python swung to the door and went out into the corridor. The Shadow leaned back in his chair. He had caught the double significance of The Python’s words. The crook had addressed his hidden Coil members, telling them that when the telephone rang, they were to eliminate The Shadow.
Though The Python had not suspected The Shadow’s clever ruse, he wanted to be sure of holding the treasure before he ordered the doom of the person who controlled it. The Shadow had foreseen that The Python would act in such fashion.
The Shadow’s part was to keep on with his pretence. He had taken off his hat and coat; rising from his chair, he lighted a cigarette and strolled over by the window. The farther he kept away from the outer door, the more would the waiting assassins be lulled in their vigil. Without The Python to combat him, The Shadow might find some chance for a break. He wanted time to consider opportunities.
Meanwhile, he had given The Python some coming troubles of his own. Leaving The Shadow in an air-tight trap, the master crook was faring forth on a quest that would result in his own ensnarement. This was better than a stalemate.
The Shadow, however, was not thinking further of The Python. He was watching his own actions, avoiding any false step that might start lurking hair-triggers into a barrage from under cover.
While minutes passed, The Shadow lingered, smoking by the window. Across low, squalid buildings, he saw a blackened structure where blue lights shone from one high upper story. As he watched, The Shadow saw those neon bulbs quiver. They blinked from corners; paused; then wavered anew.
No change came on The Shadow’s disguised countenance. Yet in those flashes, six minutes after The Python’s departure, he saw significant meaning. The Shadow, though still a prisoner hoping for escape, had spied The Python’s signal room and had guessed the purpose which it served.
CHAPTER XVII
DEATH UNCOVERED
THOSE blue lights of The Python’s secret tower were visible in many portions of Manhattan. Yet the luminous quiver passed, unnoticed even by persons who would have reason to investigate the mysterious flickers.
The lights were visible, for instance, to the two occupants of a small police car, speeding northward. Neither man, however, chanced to glance in the direction of the tremulous glare.
Perhaps this pair could not be blamed for their lack of observation. They were concerned with their own business; and it promised odd developments. For one occupant of the red roadster was a police sergeant named Markham; while the other was Clyde Burke. Markham was grunting in noncommittal fashion while the reporter quizzed him.
“Why all the mystery, Markham?” questioned Clyde, as the car lost its view of the unnoticed blue light. “Frankly, I don’t get it. You flag me when I’m coming out of the Classic office and tell me to hop aboard. Then you start driving places, without telling me where or why.”
“Joe Cardona will talk to you,” returned Markham, gruffly. “He’s acting inspector in charge of this case.”
“That’s something to know, Markham,” commented Clyde. “So I’m going to have the inside track on a story Joe dug up for me. That’s good for a starter.”
“Maybe not so good,” remarked Markham, cryptically. “Maybe you’ll be due to do some talking of your own, Burke. Wait and see.”
The car swung left. It rolled along a secluded street, made another series of turns and finally pulled up in front of a large building. For the first time, Clyde recognized the exact neighborhood.
“Get out,” ordered Markham. “This is where Cardona is waiting.”
“It — it’s the Hotel Bragelonne,” stammered Clyde. “Say, Markham — I know a fellow who lives here. I–I came up here this evening—”
“We know all that, Burke. Come along with me; we’re going in.”
Uniformed officers were in the lobby, a policeman was in the elevator. Clyde wondered as he saw these changes. He entered the lift with Markham; the car stopped at the sixth floor. Even then, Clyde was still bewildered.
Markham urged him to the open door of Suite 602. They entered Jurrice’s living room. Joe Cardona, stocky, swarthy detective, was waiting to receive them. Ace of New York sleuths, Cardona had been appointed as acting inspector.
“Hello, Burke,” greeted Cardona. “Come on in the next room. Something there I want you to see.”
THEY entered the bedroom. Clyde stopped short. Across the room, near the opened door of a closet, lay an outstretched body. Beside the corpse stood a police surgeon. Clyde, however, was scarcely conscious of the physician’s presence. His eyes were focused on the body; and as he gazed, Clyde gasped.
“Jurrice!” was the reporter’s ejaculation. “Craig Jurrice! Murdered! Who — who did it, Joe?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” retorted the ace, “and you’re here to help us, Burke. As far as we know, you were the last person to talk with him. Is that right?”
Clyde nodded.
“I met Jurrice shortly before seven o’clock,” stated the reporter. “We went out together and took a cab. He was coming with me to the Classic office; but he must have changed his mind. He left the cab to make a telephone call and did not return.”