“Yes.”
“I’ll be around to see you later. Routine — that’s all.”
The stranger in evening clothes was standing close by. His keen eyes noted the open door through which Duffy Bagland had come. His gaze fell upon the short-barreled revolver which Joe Cardona held.
Where had Duffy Bagland gained that weapon? This observer — The Shadow, in a conventional guise — knew well that the gang leader would not have carried so small a weapon. The open door — the revolver — both were evidence of some one in this picture; some one who had paved the way for Bagland’s mob; some one who might have carried that revolver beneath the cover of a dress coat.
“Kendall was talking to the Englishman,” The Shadow heard a witness say. “You know who I mean — that fellow Elverton, from London. The gangster made a grab for Elverton first; Kendall broke in, and did the good work. I saw it as I came along the corridor.”
“Where’s Elverton?” some one asked.
“Guess he was scared,” came the laughing reply. “He looked that way. I don’t blame him, though.”
Elverton!
The tall listener considered the name. Firm lips remained expressionless. The Shadow walked slowly along the corridor, and reached the deserted room past the coat-and-hat booth. He went to the telephone and spoke in a calm, steady voice.
“Mr. Elverton’s room, please.”
“Mr. Ronald Elverton?” was the operator’s question, “Wait a few moments, sir… Mr. Ronald Elverton has gone. He has checked out.”
“Where can I communicate with him?”
“I shall inquire, sir. Hold the line.”
A pause of half a minute; then the operator’s voice came back.
“He is sailing for England tonight, sir.”
“What steamship?”
“Mr. Elverton did not say, sir.”
The Shadow left the telephone. He entered an elevator, and stepped off at a lower floor. From then on, his course became obscure.
IT was not until nearly an hour afterward that a mysterious presence appeared in a black-walled room, where the sudden illumination of a blue light revealed a pair of long white hands.
The right hand wrote. Its fingers traced a diagram of the ballroom floor at the Gargantuan Hotel. Names appeared; they were those of Duffy Bagland, Foulkrod Kendall, and Ronald Elverton.
Duffy Bagland, hardened gang leader; Foulkrod Kendall, millionaire manufacturer. They had met tonight in combat. The gang leader had been slain. A strange outcome!
There must be an explanation for this event. What was the link between? Had the revolver actually belonged to Foulkrod Kendall? No; the millionaire would probably have admitted it. Whose was it? How did Kendall gain it?
The hand of The Shadow underlined the name of Elverton. There was the unknown quantity. An Englishman — so it was said — who had lost no time in leaving after tonight’s events.
Elverton — the gun.
To The Shadow, the connection was obvious. Had Elverton given the weapon to Kendall? Had the millionaire picked it up after Elverton had dropped it?
Between the names of Bagland and Elverton, The Shadow drew a line. They were linked. Elverton — particularly in the pose of an Englishman at this typically American convention — might well have been Bagland’s confederate.
The hand drew another line, this time between the names of Elverton and Kendall. The millionaire had been talking to Kendall when Bagland had appeared. Both men had been involved in the fight. Bagland had been slain.
The names began to fade. Hastily, the hand of The Shadow traced over the letters in two names, so that they alone remained. Foulkrod Kendall — Ronald Elverton. They were the living pair. Duffy Bagland’s name had passed from view, obliterated, like the man himself.
A whispered laugh spread through the sanctum. The Shadow had met one crook tonight — Duffy Bagland. He had not, however, encountered the hidden person to whom Bagland had spoken over the telephone. That man, Silk Elverton, could have been traced through the dead gang leader.
He must be traced now; but not through the man who was dead. Through a living person — Foulkrod Kendall — The Shadow could find this smooth plotter who had played so great a part in tonight’s attempted crime.
The light went out. The laugh again reverberated through the sanctum. Its weird mirth died amid empty walls. The Shadow had departed.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER VII
MARQUETTE STRIKES A TRAIL
THE following morning found two men in a small room of a Manhattan hotel. One, a stocky, heavy-set individual, was shaving at a mirror by a washstand. The other, a languid, lanky sort, was seated in a chair, reading a newspaper.
“Nice doings at the Gargantuan, Vic,” observed the seated man. “Bunch of crooks shot up trying to grab off a pile of valuable tableware. Solid gold — solid silver — stuff from the old Winter Palace of the Czar.”
“Doesn’t interest me, Carl,” returned the man who was shaving himself. “I’m interested in phony metals — not the real stuff.”
The seated man laughed.
“Guess you’re right, Vic,” he commented. “If you bothered with all the troubles of the New York police, you’d only be putting yourself to a lot of useless trouble.”
The shaving continued; the man in the chair resumed his reading.
These two formed a singular pair. It would have been difficult for a stranger to have analyzed them. They might have passed for traveling salesmen. One would scarcely have taken them for professional detectives.
There was a reason. The work in which these men were engaged was one which required a capability in masked identity. In this hotel, which they had chosen as their New York residence, both had been living in inconspicuous fashion.
They had reputations, but they did not boast of their accomplishments. The man in the chair was Carl Dolband; the man at the mirror was Vic Marquette. Together, they represented as fine a pair of operatives as any who had served with the United States secret service.
While Dolband continued to read the newspaper, Marquette went on with his shaving, uttering occasional grunts as the blade of the safety razor pulled. After a few minutes, the newspaper rustled as Dolband cast it to the floor. The seated man made another comment.
“Well, Vic,” he said, “I’m off for Frisco at noon. I’ll drop you a line after I get there.”
Marquette grunted.
“More excitement out there,” continued Dolband. “Say, Vic; this has been a vacation. I don’t know how you stand it around here. There’s plenty of queer money in Manhattan, but it comes in from the outside.”
Marquette smiled. He reached for his vest, had extracted something from the lower pocket on the right. He tossed it to his companion. Dolband found himself holding a five-cent piece.
“How does that look?” queried Vic.
“Say” — Dolband laughed — “you are not telling me this is phony! Since when have you been chasing bum nickels, Vic?”
“Look it over,” was Marquette’s reply.
CARL DOLBAND studied the coin. He rang it; he tested its weight. He compared it with another nickel that he took from his own pocket. Minutes went by while Vic Marquette was donning tie, vest, and coat. Suddenly Dolband uttered a sharp exclamation.
“The date!” were his words.
“That’s it,” commented Marquette.
“It’s a 1922,” continued Dolband. “Say, Vic, there were no nickels coined in that year.”
“You’re telling me?” laughed Vic. “You know the old gag, Carl — that a coin collector will give you a hundred dollars for a 1922 nickel. A hoax, because there’s no such animal. Well, I’ve proved different, haven’t I? Here — look at these.” He tossed three more five-cent pieces to Dolband.