“Yes, commissioner.”
With that, he hung up the dead receiver. He motioned Markham toward the door with one hand while he reached for pad and pencil with the other.
“Call the car for me, Markham,” ordered Cardona.
AS soon as the detective sergeant was gone, Cardona began to mumble almost incoherent phrases. Mechanically, he was writing down notations.
“Danton Califax — so that’s the fellow we’re going to see, whoever Danton Califax is. This lawyer — the commissioner spoke about one — his name is Bornick. Lester Bornick. The Python — he knows about it — and he’s getting set for us—”
The telephone bell rang while Cardona was muttering. Picking up the receiver, Joe responded. Again, he heard the voice of Commissioner Weston; this time, however, the tones did not change.
“You’re ready, commissioner?” queried Joe. “All right, sir… Meet you, shall I? Very well… At the residence of Danton Califax… Versailles Place… By the East River…
“By the way, commissioner. What was the name of that lawyer? Yes… The man who’s taking you there… I see. Lester Bornick… I just wanted to know who he was, since you’re all ready to start out with him…”
Hanging up, Cardona stared at the wall. His head was nodding mechanically as he mumbled once more.
“It was The Shadow,” affirmed Joe, aloud. “The Shadow, right enough. He had it all straight. Califax — Bornick — the place. Since he’s right on that, there’s something to the rest—”
Cardona’s speculation ended. With the pencil he began to write out instructions on the paper; orders that were indelibly pressed upon his mind. Cardona had received The Shadow’s aid before; and less than ten minutes ago, he had made a promise to his mysterious caller. Convinced after Weston’s call, Cardona was going through with the duty that The Shadow had commanded.
“Car’s ready, inspector.”
It was Markham, at the door. Cardona kept on writing, giving an order as he worked.
“Call Inspectors Lavin and Bray,” he told Markham. “You come in with them. I want all three of you to hear what I have to say.”
Markham went to deliver the order. Cardona kept on writing, murmuring to himself:
“Ten-thirty — East River — empty tenements — side lawn — back door — The Python—”
Lavin and Bray arrived, Markham with them. Cardona showed them his penciled papers.
“Read these over,” he ordered. “Instructions from the commissioner. Follow them to the letter. Not one slip-up. Understand?”
The men nodded their heads. Cardona strode from the office, his swarthy face grim. He had taken chances, giving those orders as if they had been the commissioner’s. The instructions were not even Cardona’s own. They were The Shadow’s.
Yet Cardona realized that if the future proved the worth of those instructions, no explanations would be needed. If, on the contrary, expected trouble did not come, he could merely claim later that he had taken certain precautions.
WHILE Cardona was realizing thus, two men were holding conversation elsewhere. The gist of their remarks was proof that The Shadow’s message carried import. The two men were Coilmasters of The Python. Luke Duronne and Albert Thurney, standing by the window of the latter’s apartment.
“Half past nine,” Duronne was saying. He looked across the city. “The flash-backs quit more than half an hour ago. Well — everyone must have gotten his orders.”
“Everyone has,” assured Thurney.
The suavity of the one made Duronne stare. Tugging at his mustache, the crook who had escaped the Tropical made a significant remark.
“You seem to know a lot about it, Thurney.”
“I do,” agreed Thurney. “What’s more, Duronne, I have a few things to tell you. My instructions, that I received tonight, were very illuminating.”
“Did The Python tell you who he is?”
“No. I wouldn’t know him if I saw him.”
“That wouldn’t be good policy.”
“Quite true. But let us be serious, Duronne. The Python has lost out on that treasure that Revoort was bringing to Ramorez. What’s more, all this newspaper howl has placed him in a tight spot. The Python — murderer of Jurrice and Ramorez — maybe he’s killed Revoort, too.
“We both know the trouble, Duronne. The Shadow managed to keep in the game. He has the swag. All that The Python can do is close out — for the present, anyway. So he’s doing it in a big way.”
“By going after Califax’s gems?” queried Duronne. “Say — they’re not worth more than fifty grand!”
“That isn’t what counts,” declared Thurney. “The Python already has more than a million in swag that he took from those last jobs. He can afford to close up shop for a while. He wants to scatter his outfits, making it look like he pulled a last stab and is through.”
“That’s logical, Thurney. Well — the getaway on tonight’s job will be a cinch. The whole thing is made to order. We’ll all duck under cover. The only trouble is, we won’t be bringing the Califax swag back to New York, so The Python can get it. Of course, it’s small change to him.”
“He wants it kept intact, Duronne. You received that order yourself. You and I are the ones to keep it. You were told that, too. There’s a chance, though, that I won’t be with you. In that case, you’re to hold the swag alone.”
DURONNE looked puzzled.
“Here’s the low-down,” stated Thurney. “I’m the man who tipped off The Python to the fact that Califax had gems. One of my Coils — fellow named Warthrope — is a servant at Califax’s. He listens in on conferences.”
“He does, eh? Say — Warthrope must be the fellow who learned that the commissioner would be at Califax’s tonight?”
“Probably he was,” replied Thurney. “Warthrope, however, makes contact direct through Laxley; he was lucky enough to get a room that opens toward the tower. But here’s the rub, Duronne. Califax knows me, because I used to call on his niece. Califax’s lawyer — Bornick — knows me, too, because I had him up here to talk about some stocks; and I’ve been to his office since then.”
“You think they may name you to the police?”
“One of them may. It’s obvious that someone must have been watching Jurrice. Califax — or Bornick for that matter — may think it’s me.”
“Well, what if—”
“What if I’m named?” Thurney chuckled. “Warthrope will tip me off, if I am. He and Warring will clear out; and I’ll go my own way. Which won’t be the direction that the police will trail. That’s all fixed.”
“Say — that means—”
“That I’ll be listed as The Python. Which is exactly what The Python wants. He’s playing for that bet tonight. That’s why I may not join you, Duronne.”
“That’s a sweet stunt, Thurney. They trail you; they can’t find you. You’re The Python — so they’ll think — and even The Shadow won’t get wise. I get my part in the play. Leave it to me to wait for word from The Python. But say — shouldn’t you be getting a head start?”
“I don’t need one. What’s more, I’d be a sap to blow if my name’s not mentioned. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get the low-down from Warthrope.”
Duronne nodded; his gesture was commendation of The Python’s craftiness. Warring came in from the other room and announced:
“Nearly ten o’clock, sir.”
“Time for me to be joining up,” decided Duronne. “So long, Thurney.”
Albert Thurney remained by the window. Staring eastward, he watched unblinking lights of blue; then spoke to his valet.
“Nearly ten o’clock, Warring,” remarked Thurney. “I can picture Warthrope, sneaking upstairs to that room of his. With the back door open, ready to scram if the game gets hot.”