“A little. Here is the story, Joe. You remember that Universal Aircraft mess a few months ago — the big swindle that the government uncovered—”
“Sure thing. Jackson Gleek committed suicide. He was general manager of Universal Aircraft. I was up at the morgue when they brought his body in. Then there was another fellow implicated — Lester Drayson, the president. He took it on the lam. Supposed to have made off with plenty of cash.”
“That’s the case. Well, Joe, the commissioner has just informed me that MacAvoy Crane was investigating the affairs of the defunct Universal Aircraft Corporation.”
“I thought that would be a government job!”
“It was. But the federal authorities let down after the receivers for Universal Aircraft sold out to the World Wide Aviation Company. It was the president of World Wide — Roscoe Wimbledon — who put Crane on the job.”
“To find out if others were implicated?”
“Exactly. If he can uncover other crooked workers, he can turn the job over to the government. Stolen funds may be recovered. Maybe Lester Drayson planted a lot of dough with other people—”
Klein paused suddenly. A shadow had fallen across the door sill. Joe Cardona turned to follow the direction of the inspector’s gaze. Both men smiled as a tall, stoop-shouldered janitor shambled into view, carrying a mop and bucket.
“Hello, Fritz,” greeted Cardona. “On the old job again, eh?”
“Yah,” returned the janitor, staring with a dull expression upon his stupid face.
“Keep going,” laughed Cardona. “Don’t mind us, Fritz. We’ll be out of here soon.”
The janitor began to work with mop and bucket. Inspector Klein arose from his desk.
“That’s about all I know, Joe,” he told Cardona. “I wanted you to keep mum on the whole business until I’d seen the commissioner. I can’t go along tonight. He’s taking you to see Wimbledon.”
“Where?”
“At Wimbledon’s home. Incidentally, a call came in to Wimbledon’s last night. It was MacAvoy Crane who called. He said that he had a report to make. Wimbledon, was out at the time. Crane didn’t call again.”
“Then those papers—”
“Were probably documents that Wimbledon wanted. They may have contained important information regarding the tangled affairs of Universal Aircraft Corporation.”
Inspector Klein glanced at his watch. He turned again to Joe Cardona.
“Better get started, Joe,” he ordered. “You’ve just about got time to get up to the commissioner’s before he is ready to leave.”
Klein and Cardona strolled from the office. As Joe passed Fritz, the janitor was busy mopping in the corner. Cardona gave a friendly jab against the man’s ribs. Fritz jumped away and almost upset the bucket.
“So long, Fritz,” laughed Cardona.
“Yah,” returned the janitor, stooping to pick up the mop that he had dropped.
FOOTSTEPS faded along the corridor. A few minutes passed. Fritz suddenly ceased his work. Picking up the mop and the bucket, the stoop-shouldered worker slouched from the office. He followed the corridor, made a turn and stopped in an obscure space where lockers were in evidence.
Fritz opened a locker. Then began a strange transformation. Out came a folded mass of black cloth. It slipped over the stooped shoulders. Next a slouch hat settled upon a head. Black gloves covered long hands. Fritz, the janitor, had ceased to exist.
In his place stood, a tall, erect being garbed in black. Impersonating the headquarters’ janitor, The Shadow had listened in on the conversation between Inspector Timothy Klein and Detective Joe Cardona!
Informed through Burbank that Clyde Burke suspected concealed facts held by Joe Cardona, The Shadow had come here to investigate. He had arrived before the hour when the real Fritz usually put in his appearance. He was leaving in time to avoid the genuine janitor.
The blackened form glided from the locker. It picked an obscure exit to the street. The Shadow merged with darkness, as a soft, whispered laugh came from his hidden lips.
THE SHADOW next appeared within his sanctum, some time later. White hands beneath a bluish light were the only tokens of his presence. Those hands were fingering clippings and typewritten statements which concerned the scandal that had swept the affairs of the insolvent Universal Aircraft Corporation.
The light clicked out. A soft swish sounded in the Stygian blackness of The Shadow’s secret abode.
Again, a whispered laugh. The sound died, with fading echoes. The sanctum was empty.
HALF an hour later, a tall, dignified individual alighted from a taxicab in front of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed as he passed. This personage, a gentleman clad in faultless evening attire, was evidently some one of high consequence.
In the light of the club lobby, the arrival’s face showed as a keen, chiseled visage, characterized by thin, firm lips beneath a hawklike nose. Strolling across the lobby, the arrival approached a telephone booth and entered. A long, blackened silhouette stretched from the booth across the tiled floor, as the newcomer dialed a number.
“Hello…” The occupant of the booth spoke in an even-toned voice. “Yes… I should like to speak with Mr. Wimbledon… He is busy? Inform him that Mr. Lamont Cranston has called… From the Cobalt Club… I shall call on him this evening…”
The receiver clicked. The speaker stepped from the booth. A thin smile showed upon his firm lips.
Parting, the lips seemed to voice a soundless laugh.
This personage who called himself Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. Club man of wealth, he had entry to the homes of the elite.
As Fritz the janitor, The Shadow had learned that Joe Cardona and the police commissioner were going to visit Roscoe Wimbledon. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had arranged a trip to the same destination.
Like the police, The Shadow was anxious to learn why Strangler Hunn had murdered MacAvoy Crane.
Chance had enabled the law to move first. Joe Cardona had dashed forth last night to fight with Strangler Hunn. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had to-day received a call concerning MacAvoy Crane.
Tonight, Weston and Cardona were interviewing Roscoe Wimbledon, the man who had hired Crane as an investigator.
The Shadow had chosen to follow. He was taking the trail that the law had opened. Such was his only policy for the present. The time would come soon when he would outstrip the action of the law.
A soft, whispered laugh pronounced that fact with prophetic mockery as Lamont Cranston strolled forth from the Cobalt Club.
CHAPTER VI. AT WIMBLEDON’S
THREE men were seated in the library of Roscoe Wimbledon’s palatial New York home. One was Roscoe Wimbledon himself; the others were Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona.
As he viewed his companions, Cardona was impressed with their appearance. Commissioner Weston, a man of powerful build and dynamic personality, had always held Cardona’s regard. Weston’s keen face, with firm-set jaw and pointed mustache, marked the commissioner as a man of action.
Yet as he noted Roscoe Wimbledon, Cardona found himself admitting that the aviation magnate was Weston’s equal. Wimbledon, a man in his early forties, possessed a powerful virility. Tall, broad of shoulders, with square countenance that marked him a man of achievement, Wimbledon showed the ability to dominate those who came in contact with him.
Roscoe Wimbledon was talking. Weston and Cardona were listening. In short, terse phrases, the aviation man was stating the case in question.
“The Universal Aircraft Corporation,” declared Wimbledon, “had orders that aggregated millions of dollars. The concern was a going one. The opportunity for quick but unlawful profit proved too great a temptation to resist.