Silence. Mann stared at that strange figure, seeking to observe the hidden lips that had spoken those all-important words. He was thinking of the future.
Which would it be — his body, lifeless in this chair — or Rutledge Mann, alive and active, freed from poverty. It all seemed unreal, but he treated it with seriousness.
“I accept your offer,” was Mann’s spoken decision, as he stared into those glowing eyes.
“You promise full obedience.”
“I promise.”
A black-gloved hand placed something upon the table, beside the automatic. Mann looked at the object.
It was a check book. He opened it. The checks bore the imprint:
RUTLEDGE MANN
909 Badger Building
New York
“Be at your office to-morrow morning,” came the whispered voice from beside him.
Projecting from the end of the check book was a deposit book. Mann drew it out and opened it. At the top of the first column was the statement of a deposit of $2,500.
Mann wheeled in his chair to face the stranger. He saw no one. He leaped to the door and pressed the wall switch. He was alone. The man in black had gone!
He stepped swiftly back to the table. In one hand he held the pistol; in the other, the check book. One meant death. The other life a life worth living. He put the automatic into the table drawer. He sat staring at the check book as a man in a dream, while the minutes ticked by.
When morning arrived, Rutledge Mann saw the check book on his bureau, where he had placed it before retiring. It amazed him, even now, to find that it was real. The strange events of last night were dim recollections. Mann could not repress the suspicion that he had been hoaxed.
He dressed, left his apartment, and hurried downtown to the Badger Building, near Times Square. He went up to the ninth floor, and found Office 909. There he stood stupefied. On the door was the gilt lettering:
RUTLEDGE MANN
Investments
He tried the door. It was unlocked. Within, he found a small office, beyond it a door, and an inner office.
On the desk of the private office lay two objects — a key and an envelope.
Mann sat before the desk. He opened the envelope and extracted a folded paper. He began to read, and with reading came understanding.
WHILE Rutledge Mann was gaining his first insight into the methods of the mysterious man who had befriended him, another man who had business in New York was opening a letter at his breakfast table in his home in New Jersey. This was Cliff Marsland, a veteran of the World War, who had done his part in a recent campaign against the New York racketeers.
The letter which Cliff read was written in blue ink, and its words formed a private code which only he understood. Scarcely had he finished reading, when the writing began to disappear. The paper was blank when Cliff dropped it on the breakfast table.
“Darling,” he said to his wife, “I think it would be a good idea for you to take that Florida trip with your father. So plan to leave with him tonight. I have work to do that may take me away for a while.”
Meanwhile, in the club car of the Eastern Limited, a young man known as Harry Vincent, was smoking a cigar and staring meditatively at the passing scenery. Harry had terminated his vacation early that morning. He had left his parents’ home in the little town of Colon, and was riding east from Michigan, in response to an oddly worded telegram which he had received the night before — a message which he alone could understand.
And at precisely the same moment, Clyde Burke was hanging up the receiver of a telephone at the Classic office. He had just been listening to the words of a quiet voice which had spoken to him over the wire.
“Burbank!” Clyde Burke said in an undertone. “Burbank, the trusted agent of The Shadow! Burbank is on the job, and I have received instructions!”
Five men had received their orders. Simultaneously, The Shadow, the unknown master of mystery, had summoned his underlings, each to await his commands. While the police, with hundreds at their disposal, were blindly seeking to learn the identity of Double Z, The Shadow had prepared for battle with the newcomer in the world of crime.
CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW AT WORK
AT three o’clock that afternoon, a man called at detective headquarters and inquired for Joe Cardona.
He was taken into the detective’s office. Cardona was out; but he arrived half an hour later, to find the visitor awaiting him.
He looked quizzically at the stranger, a tall, sallow-faced man, who wore a blue serge suit and brown slouch hat. Cardona had never seen the man before; but he was impressed by the fellow’s appearance.
The man’s face was firm and expressionless; it seemed molded from a solid substance.
Before the detective could inquire the stranger’s business, the man arose and drew back the left side of his coat to reveal a badge of the secret service. Cardona extended a hand in greeting.
“Blake’s my name,” said the visitor, in a quiet voice. “Terry Blake. You wouldn’t suspect it from my name, but—”
He paused and broke into a smooth-flowing conversation of Italian. Cardona, surprised, answered in the same tongue. After a few more remarks, Blake resumed his conversation in English.
He had just explained to Cardona that he was of Italian ancestry on his mother’s side of the family.
Cardona, noting his features closely, observed certain prominent characteristics of that race.
“I suppose you want to see me about the Farmington case,” remarked Cardona.
“You guessed it,” replied the secret-service man. “I’m working on these anti-Fascist operations. It looks pretty much like this case fits in.”
“No doubt about it,” declared Cardona. “There’s only one hitch—”
“The method?”
Cardona nodded.
“Bombs and stilettos are in their line,” he said. “This poison business is a new wrinkle.”
“Not exactly new,” observed the secret-service man.
“No?” came the surprised reply.
“Italy,” said Blake, “was famous for the Medicis. I’ve seen the survival of some of their subtle poisons. The art has faded, but it is not dead—”
“I can’t see the connection,” declared Cardona. “Any knowledge of poisons in Italy would belong to members of the aristocracy, some of whom still have criminal leanings. But the anti-Fascists are a Communistic group—”
“You think so?” interrupted the secret-service man, with a thin, slow smile. “You should pay a visit to Rome. You would find it different from New York. In Rome, the Fascisti are a middle group, hated by the Communists and secretly despised by the aristocracy. The activities against the Fascisti are not confined to the lower classes.”
Cardona nodded thoughtfully.
“I get your drift,” he said. “Here in New York, we have only the bomb-throwers and their type. But in this case — with international affairs at stake — it may be that a more elaborate plot has been arranged—”
“I regard it as possible,” declared Blake.
“We haven’t had much luck on the poison,” lamented Cardona. “The toxicologist has found out its general nature, but he can’t place it. He figures it works slowly at first; then suddenly. That gives us no help. It might have been given to Farmington at lunch — in the morning, as early as breakfast—”
“Or the night before?”
“No. That would have been impossible. Not earlier than the morning — even then, not too early.”
“What clews have you discovered?”
“None.”
Cardona tossed a typewritten report to the secret-service man. It was a record of the detective’s conversation with Philip Farmington.
“Have you discovered anything in Farmington’s little office, that you mention here?”