Hence Carleton, this evening, was inclined to listen to Zubian’s sage words. He realized that Zubian held Gats Hackett in great contempt, despite his tact in not revealing the opinion to Gats himself. In fact, Zubian’s words subtly indicated displeasure with the methods of the boastful gang leader.
“Last night,” remarked Zubian, “I heard Gats Hackett belittle The Shadow’s agents. He spoke of their inability — of their comparative usefulness. Yet Gats failed to notice the obvious proof of the statements that he made.”
“What did the statements prove?” queried Carleton.
“That the strength of The Shadow’s organization is centralized in one man only,” responded Zubian. “That man is The Shadow himself. His agents are merely tools in his capable hands; and no tool, no matter how useful, can be compared with the man who uses it.”
Carleton nodded his head in agreement. He felt that this discussion with Zubian would prove fruitful.
“When you obtained my services for your contemplated enterprise,” resumed Zubian quietly, “you gained the cooperation of a strategist. I do not speak boastfully — as Gats Hackett does — I merely cite a simple, self-evident fact.
“My past record, known only to myself, is one that should inspire confidence. Scores of gangsters have warred against this man they call The Shadow. All have failed through their own clumsiness.
“You learned of me, Carleton, when you were in Europe. You heard my name; yet you failed to find me, until the word was passed from agent to agent that you wished to see me. Then I arranged a meeting and accepted your terms. I came to America to aid affairs over here.
“Like The Shadow, I employ the services of capable tools. Like The Shadow, I can work alone. To ascertain the identity of such a man as The Shadow is the work for which I am suited. In a great many ways, his career parallels my own. In fact, I believe that on certain occasions — long ago — The Shadow crossed my path.”
“You do?” exclaimed Carleton. “You think you know The Shadow?”
“No,” responded Zubian thoughtfully, “I merely believe that I may know something of his past. My nationality” — Zubian smiled — “has always been a matter of policy. Once, originally, I was an American. During the Great War, I found it more profitable to act in behalf of another government. I was excellently fitted for espionage.”
Carleton nodded. The admission of treachery that Zubian had made only served to increase his opinion of the man. For Carleton, like Zubian, was a rascal of the first water.
“DURING the War,” continued Zubian, “I learned of the existence of a most remarkable person — one who was presumably an aviator in the air forces of the United States. I heard him called The Black Eagle, because of his penchant for flying at night.
“On one occasion, The Black Eagle was shot down. His role immediately changed; instead of an aviator, he became a secret agent within the enemy lines. His final coup came when he located and mapped an enemy air base, escaping at the last moment in a plane of the German air squadron, flying in safety back to the American lines.
“After the war, The Black Eagle was still alive. I have often wondered what became of him. Now, I believe I know. He, the victor of a hundred strange encounters on land and in the air, has taken on a new identity. He is known as The Shadow.”
“This is amazing!” blurted Carleton. “If The Shadow—”
Zubian held up his hand for silence. Carleton listened breathlessly, as the self-admitted traitor expanded his remarkable theory.
“I have often thought of The Black Eagle,” declared Zubian. “I have often wanted to meet him; to trace him in his devious ways; to wreak vengeance upon him because of the difficulties he afforded me in the past. I have given great consideration to the probable ways and methods that such a man would utilize. Now, I feel convinced that The Shadow is the man whom I have sought.”
“There is no way of tracing him?”
“I have traced him to-night.”
Zubian’s words came like a bomb-shell to Carleton. The young man stared in astonishment at this new revelation.
“I have traced him,” resumed Zubian, “from the spot where Squint Freston has failed. I played a long shot, and I won. To-night, I was at the building which Squint has been watching on Twenty-third Street.”
“And you saw The Shadow?”
“I saw a shadow. That was all. I lost it; I saw it again. I followed it. I lost it.”
“Then you have failed,” said Carleton, in a disappointed tone.
“Perhaps,” said Zubian calmly. “On the contrary, I may have succeeded. I believe that I have traced The Shadow to his own environment. There, I may be able to watch him and still escape observation.”
“What environment do you think he chooses?”
“An environment such as this,” said Zubian, looking about him with a smile. “This club is one of the most exclusive in New York, is it not?”
“It is considered by many to be the most exclusive,” returned Carleton.
“Then,” declared Zubian, “it would prove quite attractive to a person such as The Shadow.
“Consider the matter sensibly, Carleton. The Shadow fights with gangsters. Does that make him a gangster? Not a bit of it. Intelligent generals wage campaigns against savages; that does not make them savages.
“The Shadow, apparently, spends much of his time in New York, although he has, on critical occasions, appeared abroad. Criminals have tried to find him in the underworld. They have failed.
“You and I are criminals” — Zubian stated the fact with unfeigned pride — “yet we are not associating with crooks at present. The Shadow is undoubtedly of a caliber superior to our own. So we may assume that he, too, would choose an environment such as the Cobalt Club.”
ZUBIAN paused to light a cigarette. His eyes turned toward Carleton with a knowing glow. In a low, impressive tone, he added remarks to support his theory concerning The Shadow.
“Two agents of The Shadow have been discovered,” stated Zubian. “One of them — Vincent, by name — appears to be a man of leisure, living at the Metrolite Hotel. The other — Rutledge Mann — is an investment broker. Only a man of discrimination would choose such agents.
“After Zipper Marsh entered the Grayson home, The Shadow deprived him of a valuable mass of spoils. No one could possibly have traced the stolen articles. Yet they were restored, intact, by The Shadow.
“The possession of those goods did not change The Shadow’s purpose. Therefore, we may safely say that The Shadow is a man who is already wealthy.”
“You are right,” agreed Carleton, in admiration. “Yes, you are right, beyond a doubt.”
“Now,” continued Zubian, “we must begin to trace The Shadow. If he were a crook — or a detective — that might be extremely difficult. But he is neither. He appears to be unique. He is a man on the border line. He chooses to support the law; yet he invokes the methods used by the criminals whom he fights. Therefore, we must look for a wealthy man who is above suspicion, yet whose normal operations are few and scattered.”
“Where will we find such a man?”
“Here, perhaps,” smiled Zubian. “Somewhere else, possibly. It may take time to uncover him. Therefore, I shall require your cooperation — and I shall expect Gats Hackett to keep entirely out of the affair. His work will come later, after we have located The Shadow. Now that I have explained my purpose, we can discuss other matters.”
“One moment,” interposed Carleton. “You have no idea how long it will require to trace The Shadow? This intrigues me—”