The Shadow had already gained the blackness of a passage just beyond the exit. His laugh sounded a final taunt as the foiled knife thrower dropped away from the break in the door.
The secret panel slid shut automatically. Another slant-eyed hostile Celestial peered from the hall to see the exit close. Singsong voices babbled en masse. The Chinaman battered at the door and rammed it from its hinges.
A thwarted horde surged into the empty room. A big Chinaman reopened the secret panel so that his companions could give pursuit to the cloaked warrior who had eluded them.
THE chase was too late. Already The Shadow had found a lower exit. The next manifestation of his presence came when Moe and Hawkeye heard a whispered voice beside the parked cab. “Report,” came The Shadow’s intoned order.
Hawkeye had already given his information through Burbank. It was Moe who spoke while Hawkeye stared across the street to view two patrolmen who were entering the Chinese restaurant.
Faint sounds of revolver shots had reached the street at the beginning of the fray. Hawkeye heard Moe state that Dave Callard’s original destination as the address in Talleyrand Place.
A radio-patrol car was whining from two blocks away. That siren meant the advent of more police. The Shadow gave an order; Moe pressed the starter; the cab shot away from the curb. Agents were departing at The Shadow’s bidding. A guarded laugh sounded as a cloaked form melted into darkness.
Too late to take up the pursuit of Dave Callard and Leng Doy, The Shadow had found a new goal. He was on his way to that uptown house that Dave Callard had first intended to visit after his arrival in Manhattan.
CHAPTER III. DEATH STRIKES TWICE
TALLEYRAND PLACE was far from the neighborhood of the Wuhu Cafe. Situated close to the East River, it constituted one of Manhattan’s most exclusive districts. Here houses formed a miniature block about an inner courtyard. Lights above doorways threw a soft glow upon a tinkling fountain that gave the place an atmosphere of an Italian garden.
Only a few of these close-walled houses were occupied. The others had not been completed; and number twenty-eight stood in semi-isolation at a deep corner of the court. A light was burning above the front door; the house seemed to extend a welcome to some expected visitor.
Inside the house, an elderly man was seated in a comfortable living room. The antiquated furniture was of one design. Obviously it had been brought here from some older residence. Serene in his surroundings, the old gentleman was thumbing through typewritten pages. He looked up as a tall, pasty-faced man entered the room.
“Who was on the telephone, Basslett?” questioned the elderly man. “Was it David Callard?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Basslett, with a nod. “He was detained, sir. I–I think we can expect him shortly. Very shortly, Mr. Ralgood.”
“You are nervous, Basslett,” remarked Ralgood, eyeing the pale-faced fellow sharply. “Come, come, my man. Why should you be so troubled? You have shown signs of nervousness ever since I told you that I expected young Callard this evening.”
“It’s made me think of the old master, sir,” explained Basslett. The man’s pale lips twitched as he spoke.
“You see, sir, old Mr. Callard was none too friendly with his nephew. I have dreaded this meeting a bit — this meeting with young Mr. David, sir.”
“That is odd, Basslett. All was well between Milton Callard and his nephew when the young man departed for China a few years ago. That was the time when you last saw David.”
“I know, sir. But old Mr. Callard was quite incensed when David encountered that trouble in the Orient. He spoke harshly about David, sir; and wrote him a very indignant letter, sir.”
“You saw the letter, Basslett?”
“No, sir. But old Mr. Callard told me that he had reprimanded his nephew.”
RALGOOD nodded thoughtfully. He pointed Basslett to a chair. The tall man sat down and shifted uneasily. Slowly, Ralgood dipped his left hand into his coat pocket; he brought forth a folded letter.
Carefully, he produced a pair of spectacles, opened his eyes and adjusted the glasses to his nose.
“Basslett,” stated Ralgood, “when my friend, Milton Callard, died a few months ago, no one was surprised at his demise. All of us who knew him were convinced that his death was near. He was suffering from an incurable ailment. But I, for one, was astonished when I received this letter.”
“I understand, sir,” nodded Basslett.
“You should,” declared Ralgood, with a dry smile. “You were Milton Callard’s secretary. This letter was in your handwriting; for Milton Callard dictated it to you.”
Basslett nodded. Ralgood was glancing at the letter. Suddenly, the gray-haired man thrust the paper across to Basslett. The secretary received it with puzzled stare.
“Read it aloud,” suggested Ralgood. “Refresh your memory, Basslett.”
“‘Dear Luther,’” began Basslett, his voice quavering slightly. “‘Knowing that I am on my death bed, I am entrusting a mission of importance to you. Within this letter I am enclosing a bit of ribbon. I shall ask you to guard it from all eyes.’”
“Go on,” ordered Ralgood, as Basslett paused.
“‘On the fifth of December next,’” proceeded Basslett, as he read from the letter, “‘you will go to the office of Roger Mallikan, New York representative of the Indo-China Shipping Bureau. Be there at eleven o’clock sharp; show the ribbon to Mallikan and wait for others to appear. After three have arrived; Mallikan will realize what is to be done. Signed: Milton Callard.’”
Ralgood was nodding as Basslett ceased. Wisely, the old man peered toward Basslett.
“You wrote two other letters for Milton Callard?” questioned Ralgood. “Two others identical with this one?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Basslett, huskily. “Two others.”
“You saw the pieces of ribbon that went into the letters?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Milton Callard inserted the ribbons himself?”
“Yes, sir. He was too weak to write. His hands were almost paralyzed.”
“Who posted the letters? You or Milton Callard?”
“Mr. Callard, sir.”
Slowly, Ralgood reached into his pocket and produced a wallet. From it, he extracted a folded square of blue ribbon; a tiny object that measured no more than an inch in either direction. He held the ribbon in the light, but did not unfold it.
“THIS is my secret, Basslett,” declared Ralgood, solemnly. “I cannot show you what is on this ribbon; but in turn, I do not expect you to tell me the names of the men to whom Milton Callard mailed two other fragments. Is that plain?”
Basslett nodded in agreement.
“It is not yet December,” reminded Ralgood. “Therefore, I must wait to carry out Milton Callard’s instructions. But this matter is important even now. It is because of this letter and the ribbon that I insisted that you become my secretary shortly after Milton Callard’s death. I wanted to do my utmost to aid in the preservation of the secret.”
“I–I have been keeping the secret, sir,” blurted Basslett. “Old Mr. Callard told me to say nothing. Truly, Mr. Ralgood — truly—”
“You wrote to David Callard while he was imprisoned in China,” remarked Ralgood. “You admitted that yourself, Basslett.”
“Only because of his uncle’s death, sir,” pleaded Basslett. “That was necessary, sir. I told Mr. David nothing — nothing except that I would be in your employ afterward.”
Basslett’s tone had become one of marked sincerity. A flicker of doubt passed from Ralgood’s face. The gray-haired man nodded.