Clyde Burke grinned as he hurried from headquarters. He might have worked a ride with Cardona and Markham in the police car. Cardona, however, would think just as well of him for having passed up that privilege. There was another reason, however, for Clyde’s action. The reporter wanted to get back to that same telephone that he had used before.
A BLUISH light was shining upon the surface of a polished table. Its rays, focused downward by a heavy shade, showed only a pair of white hands on the table. One hand wore a sparkling gem of ever-changing hue. It was a girasol, a priceless fire-opal.
That gem told the identity of the hands. These were the hands of The Shadow. The light from above was the sole illumination in The Shadow’s sanctum, the hidden, black-walled room located somewhere in Manhattan.
A tiny bulb glimmered from the wall. The white hands stretched forward and produced a pair of earphones. A strange, eerie voice whispered from the darkness. It was the voice of The Shadow.
“Burbank speaking,” came a quiet tone over the wire.
“Report.”
“Report from Marsland,” announced Burbank. “Now at the Black Ship. No trace of Strangler Hunn in underworld.”
“Report received.”
“Report from Vincent. Has finished rounds of listed hotels. No trace of Strangler Hunn.”
“Report received.”
A pause; then came another statement from Burbank. The quiet voice showed not the slightest tinge of excitement.
“Stand by,” declared the contact agent. “New call arriving. It may be Burke.”
A longer pause while The Shadow waited. Burbank, in a hidden room of his own, had contact with the outer world. Only he could reach The Shadow by the private line that ran from his station to the sanctum.
The pause ended. The Shadow, shrouded in darkness, listened, while Burbank announced that the call had come from Burke. Then came short, terse statements. After that The Shadow’s whisper:
“Report received.”
The earphones clattered. White hands slid into darkness. The light clicked out. A soft laugh sounded amid the complete blackness of the sanctum. Weird tones of mirth rose to a shuddering crescendo. They broke with a startling cry that ended with taunting echoes.
The walls hurled back The Shadow’s mockery. Hidden tongues seemed to join in the fading gibes. The last reverberation died. Silence joined with blackness. The sanctum was empty.
The Shadow, black-garbed battler who dealt doom to men of evil, had learned the fact he wanted.
Through Clyde Burke, The Shadow had gained the information which belonged to the police.
Strangler Hunn, somewhere in the uptown apartment house known as the Melbrook Arms, would have more than detectives and a police cordon to deal with him tonight.
The Shadow, avenger whom all murderers feared, was on his way to strike!
CHAPTER II. AT THE MELBROOK ARMS
THE Melbrook Arms was an old-fashioned apartment house in the upper eighties. Six stories in height, it formed a square-shaped building that stood across the street from an empty lot.
Automobiles parked in the open space; high rows of signboards against a blank-walled garage beyond — these formed the prospect as viewed from the front windows of the decadent apartment house.
Strangler Hunn had been seen entering the Melbrook Arms. The detective who had spied him was waiting in the parking space across the street. Acting under instructions from Inspector Klein, Detective Farlan was to be in readiness only in case of emergency.
The plainclothes man had done nothing to excite Strangler Hunn’s suspicion. Farlan knew that the wanted man was in the apartment house. That was sufficient. Until the police cordon had formed; until Joe Cardona was here to act, all must remain quiet.
While Farlan watched, a lean, stoop-shouldered man came briskly along the sidewalk. This arrival entered the Melbrook Arms. Farlan decided that he must be a tenant of the apartment house. In this surmise, the detective was correct.
Passing through the deserted lobby, the stoop-shouldered man entered the automatic elevator and rode up to the third floor. There he unlocked the door of a front apartment and entered an unpretentious living room. There was a desk in the corner away from the front window. The man seated himself there and pulled the cord of a desk lamp.
The illumination showed the man to be about fifty years of age. His face, though colorless, was sharp-featured; and the furrowed forehead was that of a keen thinker. Reaching into an inside pocket, the man who had arrived in the apartment drew out a small stack of folded papers.
HE spread one of these upon the desk before him. He began to read it in careful fashion, starting his forefinger along the top lines, which stated, in typewritten letters: To Mr. Roscoe Wimbledon.
Confidential Report:
From MacAvoy Crane, Private Investigator.
The perusal of this document required only two minutes. Reaching to the side of the desk, the stoop-shouldered man brought up an old-fashioned portable typewriter. He inserted the paper, clicked off a short additional paragraph, formed a space and beneath it typed the line: Special Investigator.
Removing the paper from the machine he produced a fountain pen and inscribed his own signature: MacAvoy Crane.
Pushing the paper to one side, the man at the desk picked up a telephone. He dialed a number and sat with ear glued to the receiver. He was paying no attention to the paper which he had just signed. It lay at the left of the desk, upon the other documents. The unblotted ink was still damp.
“Hello…” MacAvoy Crane was speaking in a sharp tone. “Hello… Is Mr. Wimbledon there?… Yes, this is Mr. Crane… What’s that?… Yes, I can call him in half an hour. Where is he now?… At a conference in the Hotel Goliath? I see… National Aviation Board… Yes… It’s important…. If I can’t get him there, I’ll call you again in half an hour…”
Pausing, MacAvoy Crane still held the telephone. Hanging up, he set the instrument down impatiently. He reached for the paper which he had signed; pushed it aside and picked up the documents below it. He sorted these; his forehead furrowed in deep perplexity.
Then, with decisive thought, Crane dropped the papers and picked up a telephone book from the floor.
He looked up the number of the Hotel Goliath. His finger ran down the page. There was impatience in his action. Evidently he was anxious to get his call through to Roscoe Wimbledon.
The number found, Crane reached for the telephone. He paused. He seemed to be making up his mind whether he should interrupt Wimbledon at the conference or wait until the man had returned home. Then, with a sudden change of plan, MacAvoy Crane again picked up the telephone book. An odd smile showed upon his lips as he began to turn the pages.
SOMETHING crinkled at the side of the desk. Crane swung in his swivel chair. His eyes, upon the desk top, bulged as they saw a huge, hairy hand cover the papers that he had laid there. Looking upward, the investigator found himself staring squarely into one of the ugliest faces that he had ever seen.
A vicious, thick-lipped countenance; glowering eyes beneath bristly brows— these were the features that Crane spied. Gripping the arms of his chair, the investigator began to rise. As he did so, he lowered his gaze. He saw that the intruder was a man with one arm.
The single hand was rising from the sheet of paper on the table. Its clutching fingers were symbols of prodigious strength. A sudden gasp came from Crane’s lips. He knew the identity of this unwelcome visitor.
“You — you are Strangler Hunn?” he blurted.
The leering face had thrust close to the investigator. The thick smile on the brutal lips was answer enough to Crane’s question. The hand from the table was creeping upward; its fingers seemed like preying claws.