After Cranston had again departed for his New Jersey home, Zubian realized that he was dealing with a shrewd antagonist. Somehow, Cranston must have surmised that enemies were present; or else he was merely playing a waiting game until crime developed that would demand the presence of The Shadow.
When the third day arrived, Zubian planned a visit to New Jersey, should nothing else develop. He saw Cranston arrive at the club in his limousine. Zubian had learned the name of the chauffeur — Stanley. That was his only contact with Cranston’s home affairs.
Once again, Cranston left in a cab for the building near Times Square. This seemed to be a habit with him; yet Zubian saw no significance.
He trailed Cranston after the man left the place. To Zubian’s chagrin, Cranston merely visited a motion-picture matinee. That, Zubian decided, would be an opportunity to pay a quick visit to Cranston’s home in New Jersey. Zubian called Gats Hackett, and soon afterward met a gangster-driven sedan. He rode to the Holland Tunnel, through the tube, and into New Jersey.
It was then that Zubian became impatient. His impatience brought sudden inspiration. He ordered the gangster to return to New York. On the trip, Zubian became intensely active. He chuckled as his car rolled through the tunnel. He began making notations as he rode up Seventh Avenue.
Reaching a spot near Gats Hackett’s hotel, Zubian alighted and entered a telephone booth. He called the Devaux home, and was fortunate enough to find Carleton there. Zubian quickly stated the purpose of his call.
“I want to see Gats Hackett,” he told Carleton. “Get in touch with him right away. Tell him to take orders from me, to-night. I have a plan.”
Carleton’s acquiescence came across the wire. Zubian waited a short while; then strolled up to see the gang leader. Their conference was a brief but important one. When Zubian again appeared upon the street, he wore a suave smile.
Outside of the theater where Cranston had gone, Zubian waited at an inconspicuous spot, and picked up the millionaire’s trail when the man appeared. Cranston went directly to the Cobalt Club, and Zubian followed. There, at six o’clock, Cranston made the inevitable telephone call.
Zubian was not at all annoyed when he discovered that Cranston was evidently intending to spend the evening at the club. Instead, Zubian kept out of Cranston’s sight for the time, and put in another call to Douglas Carleton. He told the young clubman to stop at the club after he left Devaux’s. This was to be Carleton’s first visit there since Zubian had discovered the identity of The Shadow, and had so effectively become The Shadow’s shadow.
Dining late, Zubian thought of what he had planned for to-night. Shadowing The Shadow had brought him a solution for the pressing problem — the elimination of The Shadow. That was the purpose which to-night intrigued Felix Zubian, The Shadow’s shadow.
CHAPTER XIII
DEATH TO THE SHADOW
LATER that night, Felix Zubian was seated in the library of the Cobalt Club. Quiet and unassuming, he had masked his usual personality with remarkable skill.
Zubian was quietly confident. He had played the role of spy to perfection. Convinced now that the pretended Lamont Cranston was The Shadow, Zubian had worked with exceptional stealth. Not once had he given any trace that might have led the false Cranston to suspect his presence.
As he read a newspaper, Zubian kept a watchful eye on Cranston, who was seated in another part of the room. At this game of observation, Zubian had never met an equal. Well did he know and respect the capability of the man with whom he was dealing; but at the same time, Zubian possessed the faculty of recognizing facts. All of his past ability was serving him, and he was sure that Cranston did not suspect that he was being watched.
It was nearly midnight. Zubian watched as Cranston arose and walked slowly toward the door. From the spot where Zubian was sitting, it was quite possible to observe what took place in the outside lobby; there, Zubian saw Cranston speak to an attendant. A few moments later, the tall, dignified millionaire went toward the door that led to the street.
This was Zubian’s cue. It was the moment that he had been awaiting. With catlike stride he left the library and entered a telephone booth. He gave a number, uttered a few cryptic words to the man at the other end; then left the booth and sauntered to the grillroom. Here he found Douglas Carleton seated at a table.
“You have been waiting here long?” questioned Zubian, with a smile.
“About fifteen minutes,” responded Carleton. “Tell me — has anything developed?”
“I shall come to that,” said Zubian, still smiling. “What do you have to report?”
“Nothing,” replied Carleton wearily. “Another evening up at Devaux’s.”
“Was Milbrook there?”
“Yes — for a while. Still trying to sell diamonds to Devaux; but it will be a long while before that goes through.”
“And the girl?”
“Virginia? She has a crush on Milbrook. That doesn’t matter for the time. She will find out that it won’t work. There are lots of ways of dealing with that fellow. I think we can take care of him when we are ready.”
“Very easily,” smiled Zubian. “We must allow nothing to interfere with Douglas Carleton becoming the son-in-law of Stanford Devaux. That will prove of the utmost value in the future. I must congratulate you, Carleton, upon planning such an excellent arrangement.”
A SHORT pause followed; then Zubian quietly turned to a subject in which Carleton seemed to be intensely interested; namely, the recent departure of Lamont Cranston from the Cobalt Club.
“The end is plainly in sight,” were Zubian’s opening words. “Everything has worked perfectly. I have just talked to Gats Hackett by telephone.”
“Ah! He is ready?”
“Not only ready — he is on his way, with plenty of time to spare.”
“You are sure your method will work?”
“I do not see how it can fail,” stated Zubian proudly. “It is well-founded upon careful observation. When I told you that I wanted to give instructions directly to Gats Hackett, it was very wise of you to permit me to do so. I also appreciate your willingness to wait until all was under way before learning of my operations.”
“You wanted it that way,” responded Carleton. “I decided you must know what you were about. After all, it was good policy for us to say little to each other. But now—”
“Now,” announced Zubian, “I shall tell you all. I have been watching this man who calls himself Lamont Cranston; but I have not been watching him too closely. Therein lies the merit of my plan. I discovered one particular fact. Every night, when Cranston leaves the club, he goes directly home to New Jersey, driven in his limousine by a chauffeur named Stanley.
“There are various avenues which Cranston’s car might follow; but there is one channel which it is sure to take. That passage, I decided, should be the base of our operations.”
“The Holland Tunnel!”
“Exactly. I have studied it carefully. With my plans completely arranged, I gave instructions to Gats Hackett. He added a few suggestions of his own. As a result, we are prepared to-night — prepared with a method of attack that Cranston cannot possibly suspect.
“In his career as The Shadow, our friend Cranston has met with some difficult situations; but I fancy that in every such instance he has been garbed in the black costume which he prizes so highly. As Lamont Cranston, he lives a prosaic existence, free from the unexpected. That condition will be altered to-night. It is in the course of alteration now.”
“Good!” exclaimed Carleton. “Then you think—”