“Where were you, Mr. Cranston?” quizzed Cardona.
“Standing by,” rejoined the calm-faced millionaire.
“Were you covering Pug Hoffler?” asked the detective.
“Not exactly,” stated Cranston. “I could have shot him before he had an opportunity to fire at Satruff.”
“Where were you?” This time Cardona was addressing Okum.
“Near the gangster,” replied the secretary. “I had a revolver which I had picked up from the floor.”
“I saw Okum’s gun,” broke in Doctor Harlow. “I thought that he was going to shoot the gangster on the floor. Now that I remember it, Okum’s action influenced me. Okum was unsteady. I was afraid that he would miss.”
Joe Cardona jotted down these final statements. Ignoring all others, he turned to Doctor Harlow.
“You killed Pug Hoffler,” the detective told the physician. “It appears to have been a hasty action; nevertheless, you will probably receive credit for it. The man was an ex-convict. He was here to burgle Mr. Satruff’s strong-room. He was the fellow I came after, Pug was. I’d like to have brought in Pug alive, but it can’t be helped now.
“I’d like to have you come along to headquarters with me. We can ride down in your car. Hang on to that permit that you’ve got. Suppose you meet me downstairs. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I want to talk with Mr. Satruff— alone.”
DOCTOR HARLOW arose. Lamont Cranston copied his example. With Okum and Riggs following, the two guests went down the stairway. Joe Cardona moved toward the door and closed it.
“Just a minute, Mr. Satruff.” The detective’s voice was low-pitched. “There’s something about this mess that I want you to know. It’s bad that Pug Hoffler was killed.”
“Because of the fact he was about to talk?”
“Yes. He was going to name some one. There must have been some reason why Pug picked this place.”
“You mean—”
“That he may have had a tip to come here.”
Folsom Satruff nodded thoughtfully. “You suspect an accomplice,” he remarked.
“Yes,” admitted Cardona. “I do. Pug failed; but that’s no reason why some other tough guy won’t try the job later on. I want you to keep in touch with me. There’s no proof on anybody just yet, but there may be later.”
“I understand,” nodded Satruff.
“I’ve got my suspicions,” stated Cardona, in an expressive tone, “but I’m not saying any more until I’ve made an investigation. I’m taking Doctor Harlow down to headquarters, so he can make a technical statement about killing Pug Hoffler.
“After that — well, I’ll keep you posted. I’m going to find out how Pug Hoffler got this layout here. There’s more to this than shows on the surface.”
While Satruff nodded more definitely than before, Cardona opened the door of the living room and motioned to the millionaire to accompany him downstairs. Together they descended to the front hall where the four who had left were waiting.
Cardona joined Doctor Harlow. He and the physician said good night. They departed and Satruff’s eyes followed them as they went. The man whose strong-room had been saved, was thinking over what Cardona had said. Satruff was the only one who knew of Joe Cardona’s suspicions.
There was another, however, who had divined those suspicions. Lamont Cranston’s keen eyes also followed the detective and the physician as they left. Cranston had been watchful upstairs also. He had heard Cardona’s sharp quiz of Harlow’s statements.
That Pug Hoffler had been about to squeal on some one was evident. A shot had ended Pug’s life. That shot had been fired by Doctor Wesley Harlow. Why? Because — so the physician had said — Folsom Satruff’s life had appeared to be in danger.
Was there another reason?
Well did Lamont Cranston know that Joe Cardona nourished such a thought. The keen brain of The Shadow was at work. Cardona was a sleuth who followed hunches. He was working on one now; and in the past — so The Shadow knew— Cardona’s hunches had frequently been correct.
THE face of Lamont Cranston was inflexible, however, when its owner turned to bid good night to Folsom Satruff. The millionaires shook hands. It was then that Satruff expressed a sudden thought.
“I should like to see you again, Cranston,” he stated. “By again, I mean very soon. You aided me well, to-night. I regard you as a friend. There is something important that I wish to tell you. Could you come here — say to-morrow evening—”
“Certainly,” returned Cranston, in a quiet tone. “I shall be glad to call here, Satruff.”
The host met his guest’s gaze. Cranston’s piercing eyes were impressive. Satruff wondered if this keen personage had caught the fact that Cardona suspected an accomplice in to-night’s affair. He wondered what Lamont Cranston thought regarding Doctor Wesley Harlow.
There was a glance, however, that Satruff did not catch as Cranston turned toward the door. He did not notice his guest’s gaze as it turned across the hallway and steadied for a long moment upon the pallid, corpselike face of Bartlett Okum.
The door closed to mark Cranston’s departure. The guest entered his coupe. He drove away into the night. As he handled the wheel of the car, his form seemed completely merged with the interior darkness.
A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. That laugh was one of recollection. The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, had observed every detail of the battle in Folsom Satruff’s strong-room.
He had seen exactly what Doctor Harlow had stated; that Bartlett Okum had been ready to fire at Pug Hoffler the very moment when Harlow had released a bullet to end the gang leader’s evil life.
Harlow’s odd behavior — his prowling about the grounds — the revolver which he had carried in his car; these had attracted the attention of Joe Cardona.
But Okum’s admission of the gangsters — the secretary’s helplessness when they had entered — these were points which The Shadow alone had noted.
The Shadow knew the secret which both Wesley Harlow and Bartlett Okum, through their contact with Folsom Satruff, had learned. He knew that Satruff was the unknown philanthropist who used the pseudonym of Dorand.
That was why The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, had agreed to make another call at the home of Folsom Satruff.
CHAPTER IX. DORAND ASKS ADVICE
ON the following evening, Lamont Cranston’s trim coupe was again rolling along the road to Garport.
The Shadow, hidden at the wheel, was on his way to visit Folsom Satruff.
The car swerved swiftly from the main highway, without slackening its speed. It whirled along a narrow byway. The road-worthy car responded as its driver swung it into an entrance between two pillars.
Gravel crunched as the coupe ascended the slope to Satruff’s mansion.
The car came to a stop beside the porte-cochere. Alighting, The Shadow stalked through the darkness.
His keen eyes had spied the fork, farther back, where a disused driveway went to the opposite side of the house. Now his burning gaze was centered upon the mansion itself.
Few lights were glimmering, although a parked sedan indicated that a visitor was in the house. As The Shadow came into a dim range of illumination beneath the porte-cochere, his form was no longer hazy. It appeared as the shape of a tall man, who bore the passive features of Lamont Cranston.
Riggs answered the door when the visitor rang. He recognized Cranston and conducted him to the second-floor living room. Entering, Cranston was greeted by Folsom Satruff. With Satruff was an elderly, shrewd-faced man who rose to be introduced.
“This is Mr. McEwen,” stated Satruff. “Tobias McEwen, the attorney. He is my legal representative.”