There had been a reason for Cardona’s pause. The ace detective had been about to advance the theory that The Shadow had been at Tobold’s. For Joe Cardona knew well that The Shadow was an active warrior who had frequently broken up attempts at crime.
Fritz completed his mopping shortly after Cardona and Markham had left. The janitor’s mode of action changed. From a shuffling, lethargic worker, he became a swift-moving figure. Picking up mop and bucket, he went out into the corridor.
The long hall was deserted. With long stride, Fritz followed it and turned off to a room where he stopped before a locker. Dropping his utensils, he opened the locker and drew forth black garments. Cloak folds slipped over shoulders; a slouch hat settled on Fritz’s head.
Overalls dropped from beneath the cloak. The shrouded figure stooped, picked them up and put them in the locker. A soft laugh came from hidden lips. This was not Fritz, the shuffling janitor, early on the clean-up job. This was The Shadow!
CLYDE BURKE’S chief had learned what the reporter had failed to get. The details of how the spoils from Tobold’s pawnshop had been reclaimed. The Shadow had gained the facts that Joe Cardona had learned; and from the detective’s discourse he had gleaned a unique picture that Joe had failed to grasp.
The valueless skull ring was proof of one thing only. Men of crime had been searching for wealth that lay with a skull. Homer Hothan had long been the spy of a hidden crook who was interested in old Hildrew Parchell’s affairs. After gaining a half-destroyed document from old Parchell’s bedroom, Hothan had convened with his chief.
They knew that Hildrew Parchell must have placed wealth in some safe storage place. So they had taken the most logical guess as a beginning. They had gambled that the jewelry at Tobold’s might be worth far more than its supposed value of five thousand dollars.
Hothan, covered by thugs, with his chief in the background, had gone to get the jewelry. The half-burned document must have mentioned the word “skull,” for Hothan, seeing the skull ring, had prepared to murder Tobold and take the gems.
Hothan had been frustrated. His chief had stepped in to grab the swag. Like Hothan, the unknown murderer had fallen for the lure of the skull ring.
Later, however, both had learned that the swag was comparatively valueless; that it did not represent the treasure that they had sought.
Today, oddly enough, the crooks had acted exactly as Weldon Wingate had predicted. That is, they had acted as small-fry criminals would act. But these were clever crooks; in their action, The Shadow saw keen scheming.
By pretending that they had blundered, by sending a gorilla to “Koko” Gluss, the big-shot had created the definite impression that only ordinary thugs were responsible. Joe Cardona, reasoning along the lines of Wingate’s wise statements, had fallen for the bluff. But The Shadow had not.
GLIDING forth from headquarters, The Shadow had become a phantom shape, blending with the darkness that had settled above Manhattan. His obscure course was untraceable in the dusk. Only a soft-whispered laugh announced his presence in a darkened side street.
The Shadow had guessed another point. He knew that the smart crook who ruled Homer Hothan must also have had contact with some capable mob-leader who had supplied the gorillas for the battle at Tobold’s.
Picturing that fact, The Shadow had the key to the mob leader. Logically, the rogue would be the very man whose name Cardona had rejected. No ordinary gorilla had spoken of Benny Lungo just by chance.
The thug who had taken the swag to Koko Gluss must have come from “Flick” Sherrad.
Spoils had been deliberately thrown into the hands of the law; and the law was blind to the fact. The Shadow, however, had gained another objective; one that would lead him to issue new orders the moment that he reached his sanctum.
Agents were already searching for traces of Homer Hothan; they would have another to look for now: namely, Flick Sherrad. Two underlings to find: a furtive killer and a clever mob leader. Through one or both of these henchmen, The Shadow intended to meet the master crook himself!
CHAPTER XI. MOVES IN THE NIGHT
NINE o’clock. Manhattan was aglow. From the glittering area of Times Square to the lights along the water fronts, the great metropolis presented a man-made glare that cast a huge reflection against a sullen sky.
The illumination was deceptive. Manhattan was not one mass of blazing lights. There were spots where the brilliance equaled that of daylight; there were other places where darkness lurked. The island, itself, was actually a patchwork contrast.
Night was The Shadow’s habitat. This night, also, was important to his agents. Each man had an appointed task. Some were where lights glimmered; others where blackness dominated. From Broadway to the Bowery, workers were on the job.
A young man was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. Keen of face, clean-cut of appearance, he was watching the elevators. This was Harry Vincent, returned from Ohio.
A man stepped from an elevator and approached the desk. It was Roger Parchell. Harry had been appointed to watch the man from California. He had learned Roger’s room number and had spotted him from a description sent by Burbank.
As Roger Parchell reached the desk, Harry sauntered up and waited near by. He heard the heir speak to the clerk. Roger was asking for any messages. There were none.
“I am going out,” stated Roger. “If any one calls, state that I shall be back by half past eleven.”
That word given, Roger sauntered from the lobby. Harry followed. The two joined a Broadway throng.
Harry had no difficulty in keeping close behind the man whom he was guarding. Roger Parchell was in no hurry. He stopped in front of a large motion-picture theater.
Reaching into a pocket, Roger produced a dollar bill; he stepped up to the box office and bought a ticket. Harry followed suit; by the time that he had made his purchase, Roger had walked to the entrance.
Harry followed.
This theater had no lighted, inner lobby. As Harry passed the ticket-chopper, he came directly into darkness. He saw people walking toward the aisles; it was impossible to distinguish faces.
Spying a man who looked like Roger Parchell, Harry followed him, only to discover, when closer, that he had picked the wrong man.
Harry went back to the entrance. He decided that the best plan was to remain in the theater until the program had made a complete round. The place was well filled; there would be no chance to spot Roger Parchell until the fellow went out again.
One bad point was that the theater possessed several exits, all of which were in regular use. There was no telling which way Roger would eventually go out. However, Harry decided that by staying, he might spy Roger; and by going out soon enough, he could at least reach the hotel and watch for Roger’s return at eleven thirty.
WHILE Harry Vincent was thus engaged, another of The Shadow’s agents was having more troublesome difficulties. Clyde Burke, enthroned at a telephone desk in the Classic office, was having an argument across the wire.
“What’s the matter, Burke?” inquired the assistant city editor, as Clyde hung up the receiver. “That’s the fourth call you’ve made. Missing out on something?”
“Yes,” returned Clyde. “It’s this fellow Royce. The Long Island millionaire. I made an appointment with him to go out and see his art gallery.”
“Can’t you locate him?”
“No. His club says he’s at home. His home says he’s at the club. What bothers me is that each time I call either place I get some one different on the wire. I have to explain the whole thing over — why I want to talk with Selwood Royce.”