WHILE Cardona and his companion were starting on their course, a trim coupe was pulling up in the darkness near the old Majestic Theater. A figure alighted and chose a streak of blackness that loomed across the street beneath the front of the deserted theater. It was The Shadow.
His very progress unnoticed, this weird prowler gained the side of the Solkirk Apartments. He entered through a side door that showed a flight of steps to the basement. The Shadow descended. He stood in a deserted corridor. His form, revealed by a single incandescent, looked like a specter from another world.
The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, had picked the place for new investigation. Ahead of the detective, he had reached the apartment house where Mallet Haverly lived. An empty service elevator was in view at the end of the corridor. The Shadow entered it and closed the door.
A few minutes later, the door of Mallet Haverly’s apartment opened softly. The figure of The Shadow appeared in the garishly furnished living room. Floor lamps were alight. The place looked as though its occupants had just stepped out.
The Shadow crossed the living room. He entered an adjoining chamber. A tiny flashlight played from his gloved hand.
The apartment was deserted. The furniture — evidently rented with the apartment — was undisturbed. But there was no sign of personal belongings.
Mallet Haverly had departed. The Shadow stopped short. His light went out. He had detected the opening of the outer door. His eyes peered through the crack of a door that led to the living room. The Shadow saw Joe Cardona. The detective had entered, with a pair of blue-coats at his heels.
Swiftly, The Shadow crossed the room. He reached a window and raised the sash. His figure stepped to a small balcony. Long arms reached upward. The Shadow raised himself to a balcony above.
Hanging batlike beneath the hedgelike projection, The Shadow waited. He had not closed the window. He could hear the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The light came on in the room which The Shadow had left. Cardona and the officers were searching the place.
Long minutes passed. Cardona appeared beside the open window. The detective stared at the balcony, as though picking it as a last possible spot. He shrugged his shoulders and uttered a disappointed growl.
“Maybe Mallet got a tip-off,” he decided. “Anyway, he’s scrammed — and it’s a bet that Speedy Tyron beat it with him. Well — it got too hot for them. We’ll put fliers out. Mallet Haverly is through, even if we don’t know where he’s gone.”
Cardona pronounced this decision with glum satisfaction. Accompanied by the policemen, the detective left the apartment, after extinguishing the lights. Silence followed; then came the soft swish of a cloak as The Shadow dropped from the upper balcony and reentered the window.
THE disklike ray of The Shadow’s flashlight moved through the darkness. All along, The Shadow could see evidences of Cardona’s search. The detective had made positive that Mallet Haverly had gone to stay. Yet Cardona and his helpers had found no clew to Mallet’s destination.
In the living room, The Shadow’s flashlight revealed the ash stand. The rays showed a curled cluster of ashes. These were not the residue of tobacco. A gloved hand plucked the tray from the stand and held it above a table. A slight swaying motion; the ashes fluttered intact and dropped upon the table.
While one hand carefully adjusted the burned fragments, the other held the light. There, like the portions of a jigsaw puzzle, showed blackened lines that formed the shape of the destroyed picture.
Although the outline was not clear, The Shadow saw that this had been a post card bearing the picture of a building. The flashlight steadied upon a curled corner and its rays showed blackened letters which The Shadow’s keen eyes traced:
Montgard — Glenwood.
The name of the building and the town near which it was located. These facts were all The Shadow needed. His free hand gathered up the ashes; gloved fingers let them flutter, breaking into tiny bits. The destroyed pieces dropped into the ash tray. The Shadow replaced it in the stand.
Out went the flashlight. A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. The Shadow had found the only clew. His keen brain was piecing the words that Luskin had uttered. A million — where Mallet Haverly could get it!
Where?
In the ashes, The Shadow had found the answer. A building called Montgard — near the town of Glenwood. That was the logical destination which Mallet Haverly had chosen.
Silently, The Shadow left the apartment and descended by the service elevator. His tall form reached the darkness outside of the apartment building. From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable.
LATER, a light clicked in a silent room. Long, white hands appeared beneath the flickering rays of a shaded, bluish lamp. Fingers used pen to inscribe a coded note in writing of vivid blue ink. The hands folded the message and sealed it in an envelope.
From his sanctum, the hidden abode wherein The Shadow formed his campaigns, the master sleuth was sending new instructions. He was dispatching his trusted agents — Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland — to the town of Glenwood.
As soft laugh sounded as an unseen hand clicked off the light. The mirth rose to a strident tone. Its sardonic mockery broke into shuddering, ghoulish echoes. When the throbbing sounds had died, silence held deep sway.
The Shadow had gained his clew. The Shadow had begun his new quest. The Shadow had departed from his sanctum. The first steps against impending crime were under way.
The Shadow had divined some hidden purpose in the murder of Luskin and Mallet Haverly’s prompt departure from New York. His agents would set forth to check upon his findings.
Should The Shadow’s operatives report strange doings near the town of Glenwood, The Shadow, himself, would visit that locality to deliver new counterstrokes against men of crime!
CHAPTER V
THE LEGACY
AN elderly, gray-haired man was seated in a luxurious office. The window, opened to receive the mild morning breeze, allowed a view of the Manhattan skyline. Huge shelves of buckram-bound books proclaimed this room as a law office.
Letters lay upon the mahogany desk behind which the elderly man was seated. They were addressed to Reeves Lockwood. The lawyer’s attention, however, was not centered upon his mail. Reeves Lockwood was reading the morning newspaper.
“Roberts!”
A young man entered in response to Lockwood’s call. The lawyer continued his reading; then suddenly noticed that the employee had arrived.
“Bring me the files on the Raleigh estate,” ordered Lockwood. “I want to go over them with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Roberts reappeared with the files, he found the old attorney still engaged with the newspaper. This time, however, Lockwood noted Roberts when the man entered.
“Sit down,” ordered the lawyer. “Look through the files and see if you find the name of Luskin.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silent minutes followed. At last Roberts announced that he had discovered the name in question.
“James Luskin,” he announced. “Butler for twelve years in the employ of Windrop Raleigh. Dismissed after Windrop Raleigh’s death. Received no legacy under the terms of the will.”
“An odd sort, Luskin,” mused Lockwood. “Windrop Raleigh left small bounties to certain of the servants. Luskin was one of those whom he failed to remember. Well — perhaps old Windrop Raleigh had foresight.”
“How, sir?”
“A man named Luskin was slain last night in a gang duel. Apparently, the former butler had chosen bad company after his dismissal from the Raleigh service.”
“Shall I mark him as dead, sir?”