“Certainly,” responded Cranston.
“I can tell you this, commissioner,” blurted Joe Cardona. “This second raid means that some one is pulling a slick game. I’ve got my ideas—”
“You can talk about them later, Cardona,” interposed Weston, in a forceful tone. “I want to think this over until I reach my home.”
The trio rode Manhattanward in silence. Commissioner Ralph Weston was deep in thought. Detective Joe Cardona was stolidly restraining the restlessness which governed his mind.
Of the three, only Lamont Cranston seemed indifferent. The affairs of Folsom Satruff, otherwise Dorand, apparently did not trouble him at all. His face was unperturbed.
Yet that inscrutable visage masked thoughts more pointed than those which concerned Commissioner Weston and Detective Cardona. Behind the calm features of Lamont Cranston lay the master brain of The Shadow.
The awesome personage who had turned the tide against crime, had not revealed his hand to-night. The Shadow, who had delved more deeply into this affair than Weston and Cardona together, was riding, in a feigned guise, with the pair who thought they were on the trail of truth!
CHAPTER XVI. WESTON ORDAINS
COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON used a Manhattan apartment as his town residence. It was here that he took Joe Cardona and Lamont Cranston. The place was quiet, for the servants had retired.
Weston led the way into a little office. He seated himself behind a desk.
There was something in Weston’s air that indicated the solution of a problem. The ride through the crisp night air of Long Island had evidently stimulated the commissioner’s thoughts. He waved his hand toward the telephone as he spoke to Lamont Cranston.
“We shall not be long,” stated Weston. “If you wish to call the Cobalt Club and have your car come here, you are welcome to do so, Cranston.”
“Never mind,” came the reply. “I can take a cab to the club. I am glad, however, that you will not require me for long. I am going away to-morrow and I have matters to which I must attend before I leave.”
“Another big game hunt in Africa?”
“No. A quiet sojourn on Easter Island, among the prehistoric monoliths.”
Commissioner Weston smiled indulgently. He knew that Cranston had a penchant for visiting strange, out-of-the-way spots. It seemed a touch of irony that the globe-trotter who looked everywhere for adventure should have found it in New York.
Weston wondered if Cranston had welcomed the excitement. Apparently not; Cranston’s present mood seemed one of annoyance. Nevertheless, Weston knew that Cranston possessed coolness and that his opinion of conditions at Satruff’s was apt to be a good one. It was upon this subject that Weston voiced his present questions.
“Cranston,” he asked, “how did you come to learn that Folsom Satruff was Dorand?”
“Satruff told me his identity,” returned Cranston.
“How long ago?”
“After the night when the first raid occurred.”
“Ah. I see. You aided him on that occasion. Who else knew then that Satruff was Dorand?”
“McEwen knew; so did Doctor Harlow. The old chap, Okum, was also in Satruff’s confidence.”
“Riggs?”
“No. He knows nothing. You understand, commissioner, that I am simply repeating what Satruff told me. He asked my advice regarding his circumstances.”
“I understand. What about this man Vincent? How does it happen that he knew nothing at all about Dorand’s identity?”
“I can explain that quite completely.” A smile appeared thinly on Cranston’s lips. “Satruff, when he decided not to inform the police, did, however, determine to take a new man into his employ. That was against McEwen’s advice. Satruff, in order to obtain a man whom he could trust, asked me to recommend one. I chose Vincent.”
“I see. Then Vincent did not meet Satruff until after the first raid.”
“Exactly. What is more, Satruff soft-pedaled his Dorand activities for the present. Vincent went there purely to be on hand in case of an emergency. I can vouch for him; what is more, I can assure you that he had never even heard of Folsom Satruff until I arranged matters for him to enter Satruff’s employ.”
“Cranston,” declared Commissioner Weston, rising and extending his hand, “your information has cleared matters. I can visualize the situation at Satruff’s much better now. There is no need to detain you further, and I wish you an enjoyable excursion among the monoliths at Easter Island.”
While Cardona remained seated, Weston accompanied Cranston to the outer door of the apartment. He bade his friend good-by, closed the door and returned to his little office. So far as Commissioner Weston was concerned, Cranston had departed and would not come back.
THE commissioner would have been astounded, however, had he been able to view Cranston’s actions in the hallway. As soon as the apartment door had closed, the millionaire globe-trotter produced a blackened pick and applied it to the lock.
A click. The door opened. Lamont Cranston returned to the dim light of Weston’s living room. With long, silent strides, he moved across the floor toward the office. There was something sinister in his step.
Lamont Cranston was a transformed being.
He had not resumed the cloak and hat of The Shadow. Those garments had been discarded somewhere for the night. In manner and method, however, Cranston was The Shadow. His face seemed lost in gloom, as his back turned toward the light. His shape was followed by a long gliding patch of darkness that trailed across the floor.
Shadowlike, he arrived at the door of Weston’s office. His hand turned the knob. The door opened, so imperceptibly that it could not be noticed. A burning eye peered through the crevice. Watching and listening, The Shadow was here to learn what passed between Weston and Cardona.
The commissioner, leaning back in his swivel chair, was eyeing the detective with a smile. The Shadow could hear the words that Weston uttered; they mingled commendation with criticism.
“Cardona,” declared Weston, “I have all confidence in your ability as a practical detective. In fact, I consider that the services which you render are unique. At times, however, I am forced to admit that you lack perspicacity.”
Cardona was puzzled by the term. Weston continued to enjoy his indulgent smile.
“In other words,” he stated, “you lack clear-sightedness. I do not doubt that you have gained a very good idea regarding the possible source of the trouble at Satruff’s, particularly as you told me you had obtained some important data bearing on the case.
“But that is just the reason why you should have been more subtle. I do not ask you to play dumb; that would not be a wise part. You should, however, exert some form of strategy. Turn to another issue when there is one which should be reserved for later discussion. Do as I did to-night.”
Cardona sat dumfounded. He had not yet caught the full drift of the commissioner’s remarks. Weston made his explanation clear.
“My mind,” said the commissioner, “was considering the same question as yours: we had learned why the raiders for the underworld came to Satruff’s. We learned that when Satruff told us he was Dorand. What we wanted to know was how they discovered that Satruff was Dorand.
“That was a subject to keep to ourselves because of the people who were there. So I turned the conversation to a different matter; namely, my concern for the safety of Satruff’s wealth. The trend turned toward the decision that I wanted: to have Satruff keep his incognito and to hold his money where it is.”
“Leaving it open for more trouble,” objected Cardona.
“Trouble for which we will be prepared,” stated the commissioner. “I saw the very thing that you saw, Cardona. I knew that these men from the underworld must have learned of Satruff’s identity through some leak.