X. A supervising power of the organization. The person who visited Stanley Berger. A keen, strong mind. Overcame the suggestion under which Berger was working. Gave him new directions. Induced him to commit suicide.
The forefinger of the right hand ran down the list, carefully checking every statement which had been written. Then, with precise care, it wrote a definite summary upon another sheet of paper:
Stanley Berger worked for an unknown purpose. Therefore he was inspired by a cause not governed by personal gain. Murder was too drastic an action to merely cover up his theft. He murdered Jonathan Graham because in him he saw an enemy to his cause.
Graham had no known personal enemies. He was a millionaire, and noteworthy as a capitalist. He was an outstanding opponent of communism. This would be sufficient cause for a fanatic to kill him. Berger was a fanatic. His suicide proves it.
Volovick has connection with gangsters. But he is not identified with major activities in the underworld. He is a Russian. A logical member of a Red organization.
The members of this organization do not know one another — except when deputed to watch a former member of the group; as Volovick watched Berger.
Arlette DeLand, as an agent of the organization, did not recognize Volovick; or was not recognized by him. Hence she did not know that Vincent was under observation as a supposed enemy.
Bruce Duncan is being tracked by the organization because he was the recipient of czarist wealth. That is the only reason why he would be investigated. Arlette DeLand is working for the group, to learn more about him.
The Shadow, invisible in the darkness, had summarized his facts. Now his hand wrote the details of his future plans. They were brief and definite:
X must be traced. Two methods. First, through Volovick. Second, by warning Bruce Duncan to watch Arlette DeLand.
Find connection between Whitburn and Graham. Danger may threaten Whitburn. He must be protected.
Vincent is now in danger. His name is known to X. Two in danger are safer together. Whitburn will be reached through Vincent.
The hand paused; then it used the pencil to underscore the last sentence. The hand produced a pen, and wrote a brief note in ink. The message was quickly folded; the newspaper clipping of A. W. was dropped with it, into an envelope.
Using another pen — one which evidently contained permanent ink — The Shadow addressed the envelope to Claude H. Fellows, in the Grandville Building.
The light was turned out. Silence reigned amid the blackness. The mind of The Shadow had performed its work. Now the man had gone forth to act!
CHAPTER XII
AT THE COBALT CLUB
THE death of Jonathan Graham was no longer a matter of front-page interest; but it was still a subject of discussion at the Cobalt Club. The importer had been a prominent member of that social organization. The Cobalt Club was reputed to be the most exclusive in New York.
To-night, a small group of members were seated in the luxurious lounge, and their conversation dealt with Jonathan Graham. While they were talking, a young man entered, attired in evening clothes. He nodded to various persons in the group, but took no part in the discussion.
After a short while the group dwindled away, until only a single individual remained. He was a tall, gray-haired man, whose face was firm and dignified. Not the slightest semblance of a smile appeared upon his features.
The young man in evening clothes was still there. He was seated a short distance away, and now his eyes fell upon the one man who remained.
“Unfortunate,” observed the young man. “This death of Jonathan was most unfortunate. I knew him rather well. Splendid chap, Graham.”
The gray-haired man nodded.
“I seldom come here to the club,” he said, “although I have made rather frequent visits during the past few weeks. I had only a speaking acquaintance with Graham. He must have been highly esteemed.”
“He was quite popular,” replied the young man.
“I believe I have met you once or twice before,” observed the gray-haired man. “Your name is Cranston, is it not?”
“Lamont Cranston,” replied the other. “I have been away from town for several months; but I have seen you before that. I must confess, however, that your name has slipped my memory.”
“I am Richard Albion.”
“Oh, yes. Now I recollect. We once discussed Russia. Rather briefly, however. You told me that you had lived there, prior to the War.”
Richard Albion became thoughtful.
“I have deep remembrances of Russia,” he said. “Many of my friends belonged to the old regime. I have done much to aid them since the revolution. Some of them have come to America.
“It is a sad sight — persons of high station who have become virtually destitute through events over which they had no control.”
“Some have not been so unfortunate,” observed Lamont Cranston quietly.
“I know of none,” replied Albion. “Sometimes the past seems wholly obliterated from my mind. I wish that I could forget the present — and let my thoughts revert to days gone by.”
“That is not difficult,” said Lamont Cranston. “Through concentration we can forget the present. I have done so, often.”
“I should like to know your method.”
LAMONT CRANSTON drew his left hand from behind the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. He extended his arm toward his companion.
Albion noted the long, white, tapering fingers, and his eyes were immediately attracted to a large gem, mounted on a heavy ring.
“An unusual stone,” he said.
“Yes,” answered Cranston. “It is a girasol, or fire opal. Look at it in the light. Do you see its deep red light, glowing like the embers of a fire?”
“I do,” replied Albion. He was staring at the fire opal, as though suddenly fascinated by it.
“Focus your gaze upon it,” suggested Cranston quietly. “Concentrate. Center your mind upon its reddish light. It produces a strange mental reaction. It brings back lost memories — “
Richard Albion’s hands were twitching slightly. He seemed unconscious of their movement. He seemed lost in deep thought, as though the sight of the strange gem had awakened a great interest in his brain.
Lamont Cranston spoke slowly as he watched his companion.
“Perhaps you will recall some one who lived in Russia,” he said. “A man who had great wealth — who still retains much of it. Perhaps his name will come to you. Does it?”
“No,” answered Albion, his eyes still upon the fire opal.
“The name is in my mind,” said Cranston. “It will be in yours, if you watch the gem. Listen. I shall reveal it.”
As he ended the sentence, Cranston pressed his fingers tightly together. The fire opal sprang back upon a hinge.
Beneath it, in the base of the ring, was a gold surface, upon which was engraved a seven-pointed star.
“Prince Zuvor!” whispered Lamont Cranston.
RICHARD ALBION uttered a low exclamation. He gripped the arms of his chair, and, half rising, he cast a startled look at the man before him.
Then his eyes reverted to the ring on Lamont Cranston’s hand. The fire opal had dropped back into place. The red gem now glowed where the seven-pointed star had been.
“Do you recognize the name?” questioned Lamont Cranston, with a slight smile.
Richard Albion stared fixedly.
“Prince Zuvor,” he murmured. “I have heard of Prince Zuvor.”
“You are Prince Zuvor.”
The gray-haired man did not reply. His eyes met those of Lamont Cranston. For a few seconds the two men studied each other intently. Then Albion nodded slowly.