Their work will be unsuccessful. The only way to reach The Red Blot
is to find his headquarters secretly. There, his arrival must be
awaited. His plans must be foiled at their inception.
The words remained in view for a short while; then, like fleeting thoughts, they began to disappear. One by one, in the order of their writing, the words vanished and left the pure blank sheet. Again, the whispered laugh of The Shadow sounded ominously in that black-walled room.
The hand inscribed a new paragraph:
The Red Blot has many henchmen. Their ways are hidden. There are
avenues of escape which they can follow. These must be discovered.
Lives are at stake; villains are at large. The innocent must be
protected; the guilty must pay the penalty.
The words vanished as The Shadow again indulged in a burst of sinister mockery that came back in vague echoes from the weird hangings of the walls.
Another envelope was opened by the hands. It contained a report sheet, written in coded words. The Shadow read the message as quickly as if it had been in ordinary writing. The blue-inked inscription disappeared.
That was the way with The Shadow’s messages. By use of a special fluid, the ink, after drying, vanished from contact with the air. This was a note from Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s agents.
OLD clippings were handy with the message. They referred to one event: the strange disappearance of Hubert Craft, prominent architect, whose upset boat had been discovered in Long Island Sound some weeks ago.
Harry Vincent, investigating, had learned nothing. Craft frequently went to his Long Island boathouse and set forth upon the Sound. One night the boat had gone out. It had not returned. Craft had been in New York during the evening. He had not been seen since that time.
What had become of Hubert Craft?
The Shadow answered the question in enigmatic fashion. His hand appeared with a pen, and the fingers, with a quick shake, sent a blob of crimson ink upon a blank sheet of paper. The ominous fluid spread in grotesque form, and shone amid the light from above.
The Red Blot!
The disappearance of Hubert Craft had preceded the appearance of that insidious symbol. The discovery of The Red Blot, himself, would answer the other question. Hubert Craft and The Red Blot! There was an indelible link between them!
What did The Shadow intend to do?
Mystery had thickened; five million dollars was at stake. Two men had been abducted: Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary, Crozer. This meeting at the conference room of the Amalgamated Builders might hold the secret of the riddle. Would The Shadow be there?
The hand wrote with the blue-inked pen. But the thoughts which it inscribed were in direct opposition to what might well have been expected. There was no mention of the meeting to be held tonight. The duty of watching that event could rest with the police.
Instead, The Shadow announced his secret intention of investigating a spot where he had been before; of going back upon a trail which the law had now abandoned. In carefully shaped characters, the hand inscribed this decision:
Tonight. The Club Janeiro.
The writing remained while silence persisted. The inked lines faded. The girasol sparkled as the left hand alone remained upon the table. The bluish light clicked out.
Amid the thick gloom of heavy darkness came a long, eerie laugh. The Shadow’s mockery sounded with its note of sinister understanding. It was a token of the unexpected; the cry of one who prepared a thrust into the weakest sector of the enemy’s lines.
Grim echoes caught up the awesome mirth and lisped the sound in sobbing whispers that persisted long. When the last touch of merriment had died, deep, solemn silence reigned undisturbed.
The Shadow, man of the night, had gone. From the depths of this mysterious abode — his unknown sanctum — he had set forth upon a new adventure.
While others chose to meet the menace of The Red Blot face to face, The Shadow planned a different course. Where The Red Blot least expected serious difficulty, there would The Shadow be!
Ominous had been the Shadow’s laugh. The tomblike stillness of the deserted sanctum carried a touch as sinister. A weird lull lay within this room. The weird presence of The Shadow had left its mystic spell.
CHAPTER XVII
THE PRELUDE
IT was after two o’clock when Dobson Pringle returned to the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. The girl in the anteroom informed him that a man had called, and left without giving his name; but that bit of news was not regarded as important by Pringle. The girl made another announcement, that was much more vital; namely that Felix Cushman and a friend were waiting Pringle’s return in the president’s office.
Hurrying across the floor, Pringle reached his own room, and found Cushman there. The man with the chief director was one whom Pringle immediately recognized — Detective Merton Hembroke, from headquarters.
As soon as Pringle had closed the door, Cushman motioned him to his desk and began to speak in a tense tone.
“I have brought Hembroke here,” he announced. “by arrangement with Commissioner Weston. Hembroke is the principal detective on this case; and he suggested that it would be well to make an inside inspection of these premises prior to tonight’s meeting.”
“An excellent idea,” agreed Pringle. “You mean that Hembroke will remain here after the office is empty?”
“For a short while,” returned Cushman cannily. “Every one will be gone by six o’clock. Hembroke can stay for an hour longer. But I would not deem it advisable for him to remain after seven o’clock.”
“Why not?”
“Because we must adhere closely to the terms of the demand. I am convinced, Pringle, that an emissary is coming from The Red Blot. As the hour for the meeting approaches, everything must be clear.”
“I can see no harm in Hembroke staying, “declared Pringle, in opposition to the director’s statement. “Nevertheless, my opinions seems to be considered of little weight.”
“The funds are arriving at half past eight,” resumed Cushman, summarily ignoring Pringle’s objection. “We must all be here by then — you and I and the directors. Right there is where we have scored against this criminal with whom we are dealing. If his spies are watching outside of this building, we shall be able to completely delude them.”
“How?” questioned Pringle.
“Commissioner Weston figured it out,” broke in Hembroke. “He has a great idea, Mr. Pringle—”
“Which is partly your suggestion, Hembroke,” interrupted Cushman in a commending tone.
“Credit belongs to the commissioner,” declared Hembroke. “I was there to talk it over with him — that’s all. Figure it this way, Mr. Pringle. How would anyone transport five million dollars?”
“Under police guard, of course.”
“That’s it. Well, the cash is coming up — in an armored bank truck. There’ll be police all around the place. As soon as the dough is in — away they’ll go. That will leave nearly one hour before the scheduled time.”
“But we aren’t all going, see? There’ll be me and Joe Cardona and a dozen other detectives all around this floor. That’s why I want to look over the layout. So I can arrange the posts.”
“Do you understand, Pringle?” questioned Cushman. “Our directors’ meeting will be in the conference room. No police in there at all. Everything in accordance with The Red Blot’s terms. But unless we get Selfridge Woodstock — there will be no negotiations completed. The agent will walk into a trap. The money will be bait. All will look fair; but we will be ready to snare him.”
“Well planned, Cushman,” stated Pringle. “Nevertheless, I still persist in my final decision of last night. Mark my words, Cushman; and I call you, Detective Hembroke, to be witness. We are placing five million dollars in jeopardy. We may lose all, and gain nothing.”