“If fortune favors me,” stated Zubian, “I may trace him to-night — with your cooperation.”
“With my cooperation?”
“Yes. Come with me.”
As Carleton arose, Zubian was speaking to him in a low tone. Carleton nodded, scarcely understanding the import of the words, yet realizing fully what was expected of him.
“We are going to stroll through the club,” said Zubian. “There are comparatively few members here at present. I want you to tell me what you know about any of whom I might ask you.”
The men walked along together. They passed through the lobby. They entered the library. They reached a corner of the room where a tall man dressed in evening clothes was seated at a reading desk.
Zubian stopped; then caught himself and continued on. It was not the sight of the man that had made him hesitate; it was the shadow that he had seen upon the floor. There — a jet-black spot — lay a silhouette that closely resembled the one Zubian had seen on Twenty-third Street!
Regaining his composure, Zubian threw a quiet glance toward the man at the reading desk. The face of the man impressed him. It was a firm, chiseled countenance that was almost masklike in appearance.
In that steady glance, Zubian could gain no idea of the man’s age. Zubian noticed the eyes of the man at the desk. They were sharp and piercing, flashing as they peered, like living lights, from that inscrutable visage.
Outside the library, Zubian urged Carleton back toward the grillroom, questioning him as they walked along.
“That man at the desk,” whispered Zubian, “in the corner. Who is he?”
“His name is Lamont Cranston,” answered Carleton. “He is a multimillionaire — a great traveler. Says very little. No one knows where he has been, or how long he has been away. He seems concerned only with himself.”
Felix Zubian was smiling when they reached the grillroom. Carleton, sitting opposite him, could not understand.
“Lamont Cranston” — Zubian pronounced the name softly — “Lamont Cranston. So that is the name of the man we saw in the library. You are sure his name is Lamont Cranston?”
“Of course,” exclaimed Carleton. “He is Lamont Cranston—”
“You mean,” interposed Zubian, “that he calls himself Lamont Cranston.”
“Calls himself Lamont Cranston?” questioned Carleton. “If he is not Lamont Cranston, who is he?”
“He is The Shadow!” returned Felix Zubian, with a glistening smile of exultation. “He is The Shadow — and I have become his shadow! Fortune has favored me to-night!”
CHAPTER XII
THE SHADOWING
ON the following day, Felix Zubian began a task that was greatly to his liking. He became The Shadow’s shadow. He took up this work under ideal conditions; for it was no longer necessary for him to trail a phantom of the night. Instead, he was tracking a man who made no efforts to avoid observation.
In shadowing The Shadow, Zubian was extremely careful. He knew that it would be unwise to stay too close to the man who posed under the identity of Lamont Cranston; so he decided to use the Cobalt Club as his base of operations. Douglas Carleton facilitated matters by introducing Zubian as a guest member of the club.
Lamont Cranston lunched at the club at noon. When he left the place, Zubian was standing outside the revolving door. He heard Cranston give the doorman the address of a building on a side street near Times Square. That address was repeated to a cab driver who had pulled up.
After Cranston had left, Zubian headed for the spot. He found the address to be that of an old building. Zubian entered the place and ascended a flight of dilapidated stairs. He studied each floor as he went up, intending to make a more careful inspection on the way down.
On the hallway of the fifth floor, Zubian noticed only one occupied office. As he passed it, the door began to open. Without hesitating, Zubian continued on and fumbled with the door of an office beyond. Peering cautiously, he saw Cranston’s tall form heading for the stairway. Zubian smiled, realizing that he had escaped detection.
After Cranston’s departure, Zubian hastened from the building and went back to the Cobalt Club. Cranston had not returned; so Zubian decided to make some quiet investigations. By casual questioning of employees of the club, he learned a few facts concerning the multimillionaire.
Lamont Cranston lived in a palatial home in New Jersey, and went there every night. He was unquestionably an eccentric sort of man. This, together with the information that Carleton had given, brought Zubian to the conclusion that the identity of Cranston was one which The Shadow had assumed merely as a convenient cloak.
Lamont Cranston was noted as a traveler and a hunter of big game. His affairs, Zubian learned, were so arranged that they moved along while he was out of the country.
Zubian knew, from his contact with gangland, that The Shadow was always close to New York. Yet these expeditions which Cranston undertook were certainly bona fide. What, then, was the solution?
The answer came. There must be a real Lamont Cranston — a man now absent from the United States — and The Shadow must pose as him during his absence. A clever scheme, indeed, thought Zubian.
WHEN Cranston dined at the club that evening, Zubian watched again. The millionaire left in a taxi — his destination a theater. Zubian went to the same playhouse.
He saw Cranston in the lobby, and watched him. He noted that Cranston went to a telephone booth in the lounge, between each act. But Zubian could not approach close enough to overhear the conversation.
After the show, Cranston returned to the club. There, Zubian saw him depart in a limousine.
Calling a cab, The Shadow’s shadow traced the car. It went downtown, passed through the Holland Tunnel, and headed west in New Jersey. Zubian followed no farther.
The second day, Zubian was again watching for Cranston. He saw the millionaire arrive for luncheon at the club. Once again, Cranston visited the building near Times Square. This time, Zubian went there, but did not enter. He took it for granted that The Shadow — for Zubian had no doubt as to the man’s identity — had gone to that office on the fifth floor.
Cranston came out, and Zubian entered the building. He went up to the fifth floor and boldly knocked at the door of the office. A wheedling voice invited him to come in. Entering, Zubian discovered an old man.
“You would like to see some of my curios?” questioned this individual.
“Ah, yes,” responded Zubian. “Not to-day, but later, Mr.” — he paused, as though trying to recall a name — “ah, I have forgotten—”
“Crayle is my name,” interposed the old man. “Hawthorne Crayle. A very unusual name.”
“I remember it now,” said Zubian, with a smile. “Some one told me to come here and get acquainted. I am interested in curios, you know.”
The old man became loquacious. He talked of his unique business, hardly allowing Zubian a chance to interpose a word.
When Zubian left, he felt that he had followed a blind trail. It was obvious that Cranston came here only to look over the old man’s wares. Crayle had mentioned that certain wealthy men were interested in the goods he had to offer. Cranston was probably but one of them.
Shortly before six o’clock, Zubian, back at the Cobalt Club, saw Cranston enter. The millionaire made a telephone call. That fact was important. Zubian recalled that Cranston had made a similar call the day before.
After dinner, Zubian began another shadowing of The Shadow. It led to a theater; but there Cranston merely purchased tickets for a future show, and went back to the club, where he spent the evening in leisure.
FELIX ZUBIAN was disgruntled as he sat in the grillroom. In all his shadowing, he had discovered nothing. There was no visit to Twenty-third Street; no action against gangsters; no contact — unless by telephone — with Rutledge Mann or Harry Vincent.