“There is an excellent wireless station upstairs. You installed it — for which I thank you — but you have neglected it. I find it useful in experiments.”
Lamont Cranston was too amazed to reply. The calm assurance of his mysterious visitor completely bewildered him.
“So you must leave tomorrow,” announced The Shadow. “Go before noon. Tell no one of your plans. Leave no address. Say nothing about my visit. It would not be wise for you to mention it.”
“You threaten me?” demanded the millionaire. “You have chosen the wrong person. I shall tell you my plans. I shall remain here. I shall denounce you as an impostor.”
The Shadow smiled, in perfect imitation of the millionaire. From his pocket he drew a small pad, and pencil. He wrote upon the paper, and turned it toward Lamont Cranston.
“My signature!” gasped the millionaire.
“Yes,” was the reply, “and that is not all. You have been very lax in handling the affairs of Lamont Cranston.
“There are many matters which you have forgotten. There are many securities, in safe-deposit vaults. You do not know the exact amounts. I do.
“You have some knowledge of Lamont Cranston’s family history. I doubt that you could recall the maiden names of both his grandmothers. I know them.
“Stay if you wish. Try to denounce me. But remember that I have established the personality of Lamont Cranston. Assuming that you are Lamont Cranston, I know more about you than you know about yourself!
“So use your own judgment. But I warn you in advance. If you are here when I come tomorrow, there will be but one result.
“You will be arrested as the impersonator of Lamont Cranston. I shall be the injured party. It will mean an inconvenience for me; but it will mean real difficulties for you.”
The millionaire smiled grimly. He was not yet ready to accept the dictates of this bold visitor.
“Before I last went away,” said Cranston, “I wrote a letter to a friend of mine, mentioning some very personal matters. There is one man who will know that I am really Lamont Cranston.”
The false Lamont Cranston reproduced the smile.
“I know the contents of that letter,” he said quietly. “It was mailed to Cleveland. Moreover, there was a reply to the letter. I received the reply. I wrote a second letter, answering some questions that were asked.
“Produce your friend from Cleveland. He will choose the real Lamont Cranston; and I shall be his choice.”
The man in the bed rubbed his forehead in perplexity. Then he looked at his visitor, and laughed. The humor of the situation began to appeal to him.
“Well,” he said, “a trip to Europe might not be so bad. I usually spend too much time making my own plans. It is rather pleasing to have some one do the work for me. But there is the matter of reservations—”
“That has all been arranged,” replied The Shadow. “You sail tomorrow afternoon on the Aquatic. I anticipated this a few days ago, and made all preparations.
“Your name is not published in the passenger list. So remember my warning. Say nothing to reveal your identity until you are on the ocean.”
The millionaire laughed. Then he extended his hand.
“I suppose the check was signed by Lamont Cranston,” he said. “That would be the final touch.”
“It was.”
“Well, it sounds sporty. This is a new experience for me. You have convinced me that there is no use in opposing you.
“I don’t know your purpose, or what you intend to do; but I wish you the best of luck.”
The eyes of The Shadow were piercing as they studied the face of the millionaire. They seemed to read Lamont Cranston’s thoughts; to learn that he spoke the truth, and would play his part in this unexpected game.
The Shadow grasped the millionaire’s hand. Then he stooped, and lifted his cloak and hat. The garments enveloped his form; his features of Lamont Cranston’s double were obscured.
“Remember!” came the whispered voice.
The millionaire watched the figure as it moved noiselessly toward the side of the room. It disappeared in the darkness by the window.
Then The Shadow was gone, into the night, without a single sound of his departure.
Lamont Cranston laughed nervously. A great tension had left him; but that last whispered warning seemed to live in his brain. He turned out the light, and went to sleep.
In his dreams he seemed to see a tall black figure, that whispered the single significant word:
“Remember!”
CHAPTER VIII
SPOTTER MEETS A FRIEND
A short, stooped man, with thin body and cunning, wicked face, entered that den of the underworld known as the Black Ship. His keen, beady eyes made a quick survey of every person in the room, from the man behind the bar to a drunken mobsmen who lay across a table in the corner.
“Hello, Spotter,” said the proprietor.
“H’lo,” answered the little man.
He took his place at a table, and called for a bottle and glass.
The Black Ship was a rendezvous for gangsters — a haven and a refuge for those who were seeking to avoid the law, and a meeting place for those who plotted new crimes.
“Spotter,” wily creature of the underworld, was a familiar figure at the Black Ship. He was comrade to all the crooks; he knew them all by face, by walk, and by actions.
He himself had been mixed in shady doings, but he possessed an instinctive cleverness that had always enabled him to keep from the toils of the law.
The police had hopes that they might some day get the goods on him. They wanted him as a stool pigeon. In the services of the authorities, Spotter would be a trump card.
But they had never been able to connect him with any crime, and it was rumored, among gangsters, that Spotter had twice outwitted the police when they had tried to frame him.
Spotter had been living a life of idleness. He always had a supply of money; where he obtained it was a mystery.
He was seen frequently at the Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other dives of the underworld. He seemed to be living a life of honesty — too honest to be genuine.
Tonight there was a restless look in Spotter’s cunning eyes. They betrayed the fact that he was hankering for activity; that the criminal instincts which dominated his twisted soul were anxious for an outlet.
Nevertheless, Spotter never sought crime. He waited for opportunities.
A man entered the door. Spotter blinked in sudden recognition.
The fellow came across the floor, noted Spotter, and made a slight beckoning motion with his thumb. Then he entered the inner room of the den. Spotter followed.
The new arrival was a tall man, with sallow face, and beaklike nose. He was well dressed, and his moppy red hair made its presence known beneath the gray hat which he wore. The stranger’s features were impassive.
He and Spotter were alone in the room.
“Reds Mackin!” exclaimed Spotter, softly, as he looked at the man across the table. “I thought you was in Chi.”
The other man smiled, almost imperceptibly.
“I just came back,” he replied.
“Ain’t things goin’ right?” questioned Spotter.
Mackin’s smile disappeared.
“They always go right with me, Spotter.”
“Sure they do, Reds. I ain’t questionin’ you. You’re a smooth guy. I know that. Smooth as they make ‘em.
“I ain’t never known you to get in no trouble. All you do is legit. But I didn’t expect to see you back here for another month, anyway.”
“Listen, Spotter.” “Reds” Mackin’s voice was low, and emphatic. “I’ve got a — well, I’ve got nothing; but I know of somebody that’s got a job to be done. There’s dough in it. Quick work. Pretty safe, too. But it means that one fellow’s got to croak.”