THURNEY’S visualization was a bit belated. Warthrope had already reached his third-floor room in Danton Califax’s home. He was stooping in the corner, lifting the false radio cover from his dictograph receiver. Voices came to the servant’s ears. The conference had begun in the study below.
“We are most interested in The Python,” Commissioner Weston was saying. “If either of you gentlemen have any idea who he may be, tell us that fact before you state others.”
“I believe I know who he is.” Warthrope recognized Bornick’s tone. “I think that Mr. Califax will agree with me. I refer to a young man named Albert Thurney. Remember, Califax? You asked me about him.”
“I did.” Califax was replying. “But you doubted my suspicion, Bornick.”
“I have changed my opinion. I have seen Thurney since. I strongly suspect him as the criminal, for reasons which I shall state later.”
“You have Thurney’s address?” inquired Weston. Apparently, Bornick must have nodded a reply, for the commissioner added: “Write it down, Cardona. Then call headquarters and tell them to arrest Albert Thurney.”
Darkness was creeping in upon Warthrope. The servant did not realize it as he stooped above the dictograph receiver in the dimly lighted corner. Warthrope had heard news that he knew might come.
It was his cue to take to flight; to pass the word along to Thurney and Warring, before the police could reach the apartment. Warthrope arose and started to replace the cover of his fake radio.
It was then that approaching darkness took living form. From the blackness that edged the room, a cloaked figure swooped forward upon the spy. Warthrope heard a swish; he tried to blurt a cry as he wheeled around to encounter an attacker who had come upon him like a shrouded ghost.
“The Shadow!”
WARTHROPE could only gurgle his recognition of this formidable antagonist. The cloaked attacker clutched his throat with choking hands and pinned the treacherous underling to the floor. As Warthrope lay gasping, gloved hands bound his wrists with thongs; then tied his ankles. A gag was jammed between Warthrope’s lips.
The Shadow lifted the shell from the listening apparatus. He clicked a button; again voices came from the room below. Stooped by the floor The Shadow had become the silent listener to the conference in Danton Califax’s study.
While he heard, The Shadow watched. From Warthrope’s window, he could see that signal tower where Burbank still held control, to relay any of The Python’s messages. No longer did blue light flicker. The Shadow knew that The Python’s plans remained unchanged.
Moving in from darkness, The Shadow had first captured the signal room, the heart of The Python’s insidious system. His present step had been to gain Warthrope’s listening post, a spot that might later prove of vital import.
Meanwhile, between those strokes, The Shadow had thrust plans upon Joe Cardona — orders which the ace sleuth had accepted. And as a final touch, by his elimination of Warthrope, he had prevented the flight of Albert Thurney, who — uninformed of happenings — would remain at his apartment, to be captured by the law.
The Python’s Coils were tightening; but no victory lay within their grasp. Soon they would be writhing, gripped within the power of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XXIII
HALF PAST TEN
WITHIN Danton Califax’s study, three men were listening to one. Danton Califax himself was the speaker. Stooped wearily behind his desk, he had finished his account of his dealings with Craig Jurrice. While others eyed him, Califax drew a silk handkerchief and mopped his bald brow.
“I knew of Revoort through Jurrice,” summarized Califax. “I knew also of a Cuban — a friend of Revoort’s — but I had never heard the name Ramorez. I realize, commissioner, that I should have spoken sooner. I wanted to speak, immediately after the news about the Tropical; but Jurrice protested. Moreover, Mr. Bornick advised me not to do so.”
“Rather poor advice, Mr. Bornick,” remarked Weston, testily. “Rather poor advice.”
“I don’t agree with you, commissioner,” retorted Bornick. “My advice was entirely justified, from the legal standpoint. My connection with Califax was that of counselor.”
Joe Cardona was listening mechanically to the dispute. Joe was tense. Through his brain were flashing recollections of those imprinted orders from The Shadow.
“Half past ten — the blue light signal—”
The second reference had puzzled Cardona. The Shadow had spoken of blue lights in a loft building; lights that would be visible from the river and also from a parking space near empty tenement buildings behind the Califax home. Those lights — so Cardona had promised — would not be molested by the law. Their flash would, in fact, be the final order for police to move.
Staring beyond Danton Califax, Cardona could see blue lights through the window. A clock on the mantel gave the time as half past ten. Small wonder that Joe Cardona had become tense. Time had been moving at tortoise speed during the past dozen minutes.
“Very well, commissioner,” Bornick, his long arms folded, was speaking again. “I shall accept your criticism. In return, you must commend me for naming Albert Thurney as The Python. Any moment now, you will probably receive a telephone call, telling of his capture.
“My client, Mr. Califax, has unburdened his troubled mind. I am glad of that; for he has lived in fear of robbery. With The Python trapped, he need have no further dread. Cardona’s call to headquarters settled that matter.
“While we wait to hear of Thurney’s capture, I shall tell you how I came to suspect the fellow. When and how he arrived in New York, I do not know. I first received a call from him, asking me to call at his apartment. I went there one evening to discuss the matter of some stock certificates. While I was there—”
Bornick paused abruptly. He was staring past Califax; he, like Cardona, could see blue lights begin to flicker. Weston and Califax showed puzzled expressions when Bornick stopped speaking; but Joe Cardona did not. Instead, the detective tugged his right hand from his pocket and flashed a revolver into view.
“While I was at Thurney’s,” added Bornick, quickly, “I saw—”
He stopped again at sight of Cardona’s gun. The detective had arisen to jab the weapon squarely in front of Bornick’s face, cutting off the lawyer’s view of the blue lights. Weston, amazed, leaped to his feet, while Califax sat limply.
“Joe Cardona!” ejaculated Weston. “What does this mean? Why have you done—”
“It means,” chortled Joe, “that I have trapped The Python. Look him over, commissioner.”
UPSTAIRS, The Shadow had heard Cardona’s statement; the proof that the ace had acted when the blue lights flickered. There were sounds, however, that brought immediate interruption. The rattle of gunfire was breaking loose outside of Califax’s house. The Shadow sprang to the rear window and hurled it open.
His angled view of the river showed a tugboat nosing in against the river bank, toward an old pier at the rear of Califax’s house. From the tug’s deck, guns were spurting, opening fire on another craft that was speeding inward.
A siren swelled. A searchlight swept the tugboat, to show Lem Hurdy and a gun-shooting crew. Then came answering shots; the rattle of machine guns. The craft with the searchlight was a police boat, speeding in to doom Lem and his crime crew.
From the rear tenement house, a flood of skulkers were springing into view, headed for the back door of Califax’s home. Guns ripped from across the avenue; crooks stopped to answer another fire. Bluecoats and plain-clothesmen came driving forward in a sudden surge.