“Enough to know that fifty thousand dollars wasn’t much to Uncle Milton.”
“Why not look up Basslett then?”
“Perhaps I shall. I came to see you first; that was all. I thought that because of our old acquaintanceship, Uncle Milton might have confided in you.”
Dave Callard had again seated himself. It was Mallikan who had now arisen. The shipping man was pacing toward the window. He stopped there to watch the boats in the bay. Mallikan shook his head as he heard Callard’s remark.
“I received no confidence from your uncle,” he asserted. “When he stated that he intended to disinherit you, I considered the matter closed. As for Basslett, I never met him; and I have no idea where you could find him.”
“I can find him,” returned Callard. “I know where” — he paused as he eyed Mallikan’s profile at the window — “that is, I think I know where he might be. I’ll look him up later on.”
“You arrived last night?” queried Mallikan, still staring from the window. “Aboard the Tamalpais?”
Callard started to speak; then caught himself.
“I came in on the Zoroaster,” he replied, in a casual tone. “Docked this morning.”
“The Zoroaster?” queried Mallikan, swinging in from the window. “That ship came from Pernambuco.”
“I shipped on at Trinidad,” explained Callard, rising from his chair. “Stopped over there for a week or so. Well, Mallikan” — the young man extended his hand — “you have a busy day ahead. I won’t occupy any more of your time.”
Dave Callard departed. Roger Mallikan’s keen features showed a frozen smile as the shipping man stared at the door through which his visitor had left.
Mallikan went back to his desk and began to busy himself with details. An hour passed; a stenographer entered to announce another visitor.
“A gentleman named Burke,” stated the girl. “He says he’s a reporter from the New York Classic.”
“Show him in,” ordered Mallikan.
A WIRY, friendly-faced young man was ushered into the private office. This was Clyde Burke, on the staff of the New York Classic, one of Manhattan’s tabloid journals. As a roving reporter, Clyde did double duty.
He was more than a newspaperman; he was secretly an agent of The Shadow. It was in behalf of his hidden chief that Clyde had come to interview Roger Mallikan; but he intended to camouflage the visit under his guise of newspaperman.
“Good morning, sir,” said Clyde, briskly. “I’m from the Classic; we’re after a story on a young fellow named Dave Callard.”
“Why come to me?” queried Mallikan, dryly.
“I looked up Callard’s name in the newspaper morgue,” replied Clyde. “Found that he shipped abroad a few years ago on a boat that your company controlled. We just learned that young Callard came into New York last night aboard the Steamship Tamalpais. Thought maybe you’d heard from him.”
“The Tamalpais?” demanded Mallikan. “You’re sure of that? Dave Callard was aboard that boat?”
“Certainly,” replied Clyde. He drew a folded newspaper from beneath his arm; but did not open it “A couple of detectives saw him at the dock—”
“Dave lied to me!” exclaimed Mallikan. “He told me that he came in on the Zoroaster, this morning. I doubted his statement at the time.”
“When was that?”
“This morning. An hour ago.”
“He was here in this office?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
CLYDE BURKE unfolded the newspaper. It was the first edition of an evening tabloid. Mallikan stared at the headline to which the reporter pointed. It told of double murder; the deaths of Ralgood and Basslett.
“The police received an anonymous tip-off,” explained Clyde. “After midnight. It brought them to Luther Ralgood’s residence They found the bodies there; and they discovered a letter from Dave Callard to Luther Ralgood.”
“My word!” gasped Mallikan, settling back in his chair. His eyes flashed as he stared at the reporter. “Dave Callard mentioned Basslett here this morning. He said that he intended to hunt up his uncle’s secretary.”
“He knew where Basslett was,” remarked Clyde. “Dave’s letter to Ralgood was proof of that fact. Basslett had written Dave in China.”
“And Basslett was in the employ of Ralgood?”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m here after a story on Dave Callard.”
“You’ll get one, young fellow.” Mallikan reached for the telephone. “Stay right here and listen. I am calling the police. I am going to tell them all that Dave Callard said when he was here this morning. He deliberately lied to me after he found out that I knew nothing about his uncle’s fortune.”
Clyde Burke smiled in satisfaction as Roger Mallikan put in the call. The reporter felt that he had scored a ten-strike. At The Shadow’s order, Clyde had gone through files at the Classic office; in them he had made the discovery of Dave Callard’s former acquaintanceship with Roger Mallikan.
Those headlines in the evening newspaper blared forth the fact that Dave Callard was being sought for murder. While the police were hunting blindly, Clyde had gained a lead.
That thought, however, was not the real cause for Clyde’s elation. The reporter was pleased because he had performed an even greater duty. Clyde Burke was prepared to pass this news of Dave Callard’s most recent whereabouts straight to his hidden chief.
The Shadow, like the law, would have another trail in the coming search for Dave Callard.
CHAPTER VI. IN THE EVENING
DARKNESS had settled over Manhattan. Newsboys were shouting out the last editions of the evening journals when a tall, stoop-shouldered man hobbled into the lobby of an uptown apartment house.
This arrival was an elderly man; except for his limp, he still had a strong physique. The tight clutch that he retained about the head of a heavy cane was proof of his latent strength.
The stoop-shouldered man stopped by the window of a little office. His glance was nervous as he eyed the clerk who was seated there, reading a newspaper. The stooped man coughed; the clerk bobbed about and came to his feet.
“Good evening, Mr. Shurrick,” he said with a nod. Then, glancing to a row of pigeonholes beyond the desk: “No messages for you, sir.”
Shurrick nodded and used his cane to hobble to the elevator. The clerk returned to the desk and picked up the newspaper. He resumed his reading of the details that concerned double murder. A police hunt had been on all day. So far, it had brought no new traces of Dave Callard.
The elevator arrived back at the ground floor. The operator strolled over to the window and looked toward the clerk. The man at the desk turned about and tapped the newspaper.
“This is a hot case, Jerry,” he told the operator. “They can’t locate this young Callard. Funny, ain’t it? A guy gets back from China; bumps off two blokes and dives out of sight. You’d think he’d have trouble getting a hideout, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” growled the operator. “It does sound sort of goofy. There’s a stack of dough mixed up in it, ain’t there, Bill?”
“That’s what the police think. They say that anybody who knew anything about old Milton Callard would have known that there must be some gravy somewhere.”
THE clerk flourished the newspaper and began to mark different passages with his forefinger. The elevator man leaned over the window counter to listen.
“The police have got the layout pretty straight,” explained Bill. “Old Milton Callard was a wealthy gazebo who kept his business affairs to himself. He had a lot of friends; but they were all big money men like himself. They didn’t know each other even.