“Yes… Yes…” The millionaire was smiling. “All right, Conrad. I shall arrange it for tonight… This will be your first visit to the place. Good. You will be there to inaugurate the new beginning… Nine o’clock. You know the way.”
Kendall was thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. This was the first talk that he had held with Conrad Guyon since that eventful night when he and Tim Mecke had visited the physician.
There had been a conference that night. Guyon, now revealed as the most potent factor in the development of the silver scourge, had shrewdly hinted at the presence of a hidden enemy.
“Under no circumstances,” the physician had said, “must you talk of what has happened here. Let Mecke tell the other men that Elverton still lives; let them maintain their silence.”
The enemy? Kendall had suspected Vic Marquette. It was conceivable that the secret-service man had figured in these affairs. The matter of the governor’s pardon, however, was something that Kendall attributed directly to Hiram Landow, himself. The Governor, Kendall decided, had pretended to sign the paper without actually doing so.
Vic Marquette had remained in town until after Elverton’s execution. That had been a mere matter of detail on the part of the secret-service operative. Vic had been present at the murder of Detective Donald Cady; he had stayed to await the fulfillment of all that pertained to that case.
Kendall picked up the telephone and made another call. This time, he talked with Tim Mecke. His words represented only one end of the conversation.
“Tonight, at nine,” declared Kendall. “Yes… He will be there… Do not say a word about it… In my private office; then we will all go through to the experimental room… Yes, I know that Barbier and Cumo will be surprised.
“The governor? We’ll talk about him-to-night… Yes, I know you want revenge because he let Elverton go to the chair… You know how we can get it — but we don’t want to take it out on young Landow until later… The books are still in his safe. We’re watching them to make sure the old man doesn’t tip him off…”
The call ended, Kendall arose and walked from the room. One light still remained burning. Under its illumination, a vague shape moved inward from the window. The form of The Shadow was revealed.
NO laugh came from the hidden lips tonight. The Shadow, as he seated himself at Kendall’s desk, was strangely grim. His piercing eyes seemed to burn amid darkness, as they roved about the room.
The Shadow, on that night when he had nullified the governor’s pardon, had loosed a thunderbolt into the camp of crime. He, in effect, had sent Silk Elverton to the electric chair. That, in turn, was the deed calculated to make a final breach between Foulkrod Kendall and Tim Mecke. The Shadow had awaited developments.
Instead, Kendall and Mecke were still in accord. This could mean but one thing: that some other person had served in the capacity of mediator to bring them back in harmony.
Silk Elverton had gone to the electric chair. His death had been witnessed by two dozen men. The newspapers had been filled with descriptions of the last scene in the electrocution chamber.
The Shadow, although he had not returned to New Avalon that night, suspected quickly that Kendall and Mecke had laid their dispute before another party. The Shadow also had divined the identity of the individual in question — Doctor Conrad Guyon.
Although the physician had never appeared to be a participant in crime, his willingness to make a plea in behalf of Silk Elverton had convinced The Shadow that the physician knew more than he had evidenced.
Had Mecke squealed on Kendall, as the gangster had threatened, The Shadow’s course would have been an easy one. With the two men still friendly, The Shadow had gone into his waiting game. Watching Kendall was the surest course, for the millionaire was the intermediary of this crime. He had contact with Tim Mecke and the counterfeiters; he also was the one who would naturally communicate with Doctor Conrad Guyon.
With his new plan of action, The Shadow was waiting for crime to bud again. When the silver scourge was ready to be unloosed, then would be the time for action.
The Shadow had been counting upon the very thing which was to occur tonight: Doctor Guyon’s first visit to the hidden lair where counterfeit coin was in the course of manufacture.
Foulkrod Kendall had made two telephone calls this evening. The first had been to Doctor Guyon. Kendall had indicated specifically that Guyon would visit the silverware plant. In the second call, he had made mention to Tim Mecke that some one would be there. An ordinary listener would have presumed that Kendall meant Guyon.
But in his reference to the visitor whom Tim would meet, Kendall’s wording had been different from The Shadow’s expectations. Who, then, was the man?
Minutes passed while The Shadow remained seated in Foulkrod Kendall’s own private room. Kendall had gone upstairs. There was no chance of his immediate return. A soft, hollow laugh came from The Shadow’s lips.
This night had been expected. Kendall, Guyon, Tim, and the counterfeiters were all due at the factory. The presence of another person — some unknown factor — did not matter. Throughout the interrupted development of the silver scourge, The Shadow’s hand had played the major part; but it had always remained hidden. Tonight, it need not be shown.
A black-gloved hand lifted the receiver of the telephone. A voice — calm, but no longer sinister — gave a number in the near-by town of Hempstead. The operator put through the call. The Shadow waited.
IN two adjoining rooms of a small hotel in Hempstead, six men were lounging about in chairs. Among them was Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative was wearing a disgruntled expression as he talked to his five companions.
“Maybe I’m a goof,” declared Vic. “I brought you fellows here because I got a funny tip-off before I left New Avalon. Some person called me on the telephone, and told me to get ready for a raid. That’s why I brought you here.”
Vic’s statement showed that the other men were also of the secret service. Vic was the chief of the crew, but the others were not lacking in their criticisms.
“If you know what you’re doing, Vic,” said one, “it’s all right. But this is the third night that you’ve listened to the voice you talk about. Each time it’s told you to wait one more night. You may stay here forever at this rate.”
“Listen,” growled Marquette. “I’m after two men that I know about. Barbier and Cumo are somewhere in this locality. I traced them as far as New Avalon — after that — blank. I’m boss, and I’m going to stick it out until this voice quits calling me—”
The telephone began to ring. One of the secret-service men reached for it. Vic snatched it from his subordinate’s hands. Speaking in the mouthpiece, Vic listened for the reply. He heard it — the low, even monotone that he recognized as the voice that had called him before.
Vic could not identify that voice, yet it seemed to be a link with the past. In his career with the secret service, Vic Marquette had encountered a strange phantom who had fought and won amazing battles in the cause of justice.
The Shadow!
Vic Marquette was one of very few who had seen that weird avenger in action. This voice tonight — it was one that Vic could imagine to be the voice of The Shadow!
Steady words were coming through the receiver. Vic Marquette’s face became eager. He made short, quick replies that caused the members of his band to exchange glances among themselves. When the receiver clattered on the hook, every listener knew that Vic Marquette had gained the word he wanted.
“It’s come,” announced Vic. “I’ve got the answer now. I was too blind to see it before. Listen, men, this message fits like the pieces of a picture puzzle. It tells why that detective — Cady — was killed. It tells how Barbier and Cumo have managed to lay low.