“I cite these facts, commissioner, to impress you with a point that you have not considered. You are dealing with these crimes from the wrong angle. You are accepting what appears to be the obvious. That is a mistake.”
The level tones were impressive. Yet they made Weston boil. The commissioner came to his feet, his face red with anger. Then he delivered a challenging demand.
“I am going to ask you some direct questions, Cranston,” barked Weston. “Will you answer them yes or no — with none of these twisting changes that lead nowhere?”
“Certainly,” returned The Shadow, calmly. “Except in those cases where I can give no answer.”
“All right. First of all, we have the goods on Dave Callard. He ducked Cardona and Markham at the dock. He lied to Mallikan about the ship that brought him here. Callard said he came in on the Zoroaster. We know that he was aboard the Tamalpais. We know also that he intended to go to Ralgood’s immediately upon his arrival. His letter from China, the one we found at Ralgood’s, was proof of it.”
WESTON paused; he had forgotten his questions temporarily. Since he was hearing no objections, he continued with his present subject.
“Dave Callard could have murdered both Ralgood and Basslett. He could have taken Ralgood’s revolver. We know that the old gun was used to kill Shurrick. Dolver’s description of the murderer tallies with that of Callard. We know also that Shurrick’s locket was stolen; that Callard had the knowledge and ability to truss up Dolver as we found him.”
Another pause. Weston remembered his questions. He put the first one:
“Do you believe that Callard is still in New York?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe that we shall eventually find him?”
“Yes.”
Weston smiled. The definite answers seemed to please him. He started to ask a question; then checked himself. When he spoke, he did so carefully.
“I was going to ask your opinion about Callard as the murderer,” said the commissioner, with a note of sarcasm. “But in your present mood, Cranston, you would probably start a roundabout argument by doubting Callard’s guilt on the ground that the evidence against him is somewhat circumstantial.
“So to avoid such argument, I shall speak impersonally. We will refer merely to the murderer. You say these cases are complicated. Very well, do you think that one man murdered all three victims: Ralgood, Basslett and Shurrick?”
Weston paused, waiting impatiently for the answer. The Shadow spoke deliberately.
“Yes,” he replied, his tone one of conviction. “I believe that a single murderer was responsible.”
“And that he trussed up Dolver?” questioned the commissioner, quickly. “After he killed Shurrick?”
“Yes,” returned The Shadow. “The murderer was responsible for Dolver’s bonds as well as for the deaths.”
“Do you believe he had accomplices to aid him?”
“No. He needed no accomplices.”
“Very good,” chuckled Weston. “Well, Cranston, we agree on some points at least. Particularly the last one. Without your advice” — there was a tinge of sarcasm in the commissioner’s tone — “I have ordered the release of the witnesses. The clerk and the elevator man are going back on duty. I have stationed officers at the apartment house, to watch the screen of crime.
“Timothy Lattan and Courtney Dolver are back in their own apartments; of course I have placed men on the twelfth floor for tonight. Lattan intends to remain in the apartment house; Dolver is going out to his Long Island residence tomorrow. Meanwhile we shall continue our search for Dave Callard.”
THE SHADOW was rising with Weston. Together, they walked from the grillroom, up to the lobby, where they shook hands at the door. It was then that The Shadow put a quiet statement; one that made the commissioner start.
“You did not ask me,” observed The Shadow, “where crime is next due to strike.”
“You mean,” gasped Weston, “that Callard will be bold enough to come out of cover?”
“I do,” replied The Shadow. “I also believe that a new murder may be attempted!”
“What is your basis for such a theory?”
“There may be more men at large who knew Milton Callard. Men who might prove to be important factors in the matter of his missing millions.”
“You think that is the issue at stake?”
“It is the issue!”
Weston spluttered. The thought of further tragedy appalled him. While the commissioner stood in his dumfoundment, The Shadow nodded good night and strolled leisurely toward a limousine that had pulled up from across the street. The waiting chauffeur had recognized the figure of Lamont Cranston.
“Home, Stanley,” ordered The Shadow.
As the tail-light swung the near corner, Weston uttered a half contemptuous snort; then chewed his lips as he walked off in the opposite direction. Despite his bravado, the commissioner was troubled.
Not alone by the statements from the lips of his friend Lamont Cranston. After that had come a sound that had made the commissioner wonder. It had reached his ears as the whispered echo of a trailing laugh.
Another man might have believed himself the victim of delusion. Not so with Commissioner Ralph Weston. For he had vague recollections of having heard that laugh before. The laugh of The Shadow.
CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW’S PLAN
“STOP here, Stanley.”
The quiet tone came through the speaking tube of Lamont Cranston’s limousine. The chauffeur pulled over to a darkened curb beneath the gloomy structure of an elevated. The car had reached a spot downtown, near where Stanley usually veered over to the Holland Tube, en route to his master’s New Jersey residence.
Stanley was not surprised at the order that had come in Cranston’s voice. He was trained to do his master’s bidding. Frequently he was instructed to stop and wait in isolated districts. Stolidly, Stanley stared ahead. He did not see the rear door open; nor did he see the figure that emerged.
The fringes of the darkened street obscured The Shadow’s glide. His phantom course was untraceable as he reached a side street and moved from the avenue.
The Shadow reached a darkened, curving street. As he passed a bend, a glow of lights flashed into view, a half block ahead. The Shadow was approaching a quarter where brightness reigned; where many passers-by were present. He was on the outskirts of New York’s Chinatown. Half a block more would bring him into the glare of that bizarre district.
The Shadow stopped short of the lights. Little shops fringed this side street; they had closed earlier than those in the glittering area. The Shadow chose one doorway; stepping into its blackened recesses, he gripped the brass knob of an obscure door.
Twisting with gloved hand, he unscrewed the knob; then pressed a lever beneath it. The latch clicked; the door opened inward. The Shadow stepped into the darkness of the Oriental shop. Deftly he screwed the knob back into place and let the door swing shut to a silent stop.
A tiny flashlight glimmered. Picking his way through the deserted store, The Shadow found a paneled recess. He pressed a hidden catch; the panel slid open, then shut automatically after the visitor passed.
Using his light, The Shadow found another barrier. He opened this sliding door in the same fashion as the first. He stepped into a lighted passage.
A spectral shape, looming large in the dull illumination, The Shadow began a mazelike course. He descended steps; the passage became musty. Low lights showed the way; new passages appeared.
The Shadow chose varied routes, picking his way through an underground labyrinth. There were new barriers; The Shadow understood their combinations. There were junction points, where The Shadow paused to listen to the tramp of distant guards, underground denizens of these catacombs.