The pair started toward the lower lobby. Cardona paused a moment at the head of the stairs. He wanted to see if there was any trace of a man who had come in this direction.
He drew his flashlight from his pocket, remembered suddenly that it was out of order, then stopped and uttered a puzzled exclamation.
The flashlight was turned on! It had been gleaming in Cardona’s pocket! The switch was just as it had been pressed; the instrument that had failed to function in a time of need, was now casting rays of useless illumination.
Puzzled, the detective turned the flashlight off and on. He repeated the operation several times. The torch worked perfectly.
With a grunt, Cardona extinguished the flash light and thrust it back into his pocket. Even though it appeared to be in perfect order, he would get a new one. No use to rely upon a flashlight that had failed once at a crucial moment.
There was important work to do now. Cardona wanted to find out who had entered the Red Room and left, probably scurrying down the stairs and out to the street amid the darkness. He wanted to learn what had caused the lights of the hotel to fail.
These proved insurmountable questions. When Cardona’s investigation was finished, he had gained nothing. He thought he knew the motive. He understood the style of killing. Those were important matters. But the clue that he wanted — the cause of the extinguished lights — was something that he did not manage to gain.
Cardona, when he reached headquarters, was still disturbed because he had not obtained a shred of evidence that involved the mysterious darkness. He sat at his desk, and scratched his chin. He felt something in his pocket thump against the arm of his chair.
Angrily, Cardona pulled out the faulty flashlight and tossed it into a wastebasket. He got up from his chair and sauntered out to report to Inspector Klein. He did not realize the importance of the action which he had just performed.
Unwittingly, Detective Joe Cardona had thrown away the only clue that he possessed. That discarded flashlight was the one link that might have led him to the solution of the black hush that had fallen over the Olympia Hotel tonight!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW BEGINS
HEADLINES told of the double killing at the Olympia Hotel. New Yorkers read of gangland’s outrage.
Mingled with bacon and eggs came the cry of murder as breakfasters perused their newspapers.
Richard Reardon and Roland Furness were unfortunate victims. Everyone granted that fact, and agreed that the perpetrators of the outrage should be brought to justice. But in back of all the disapproval was the established idea that the men had died through a mistake.
Detective Joe Cardona had expressed that belief, and it had been accepted. Every journal in Manhattan was in accord. The case was too obvious for doubt. Even the man who had been missed was known.
Unknown mobsmen, out to get Goldy Tancred, had made a blunder. Somehow, they had extinguished the lights in the Olympia Hotel. Under cover of darkness, they had entered the Red Room where they had believed the meeting of the Mohawks was being held.
Richard Reardon, heavy and conspicuous, had been mistaken for Goldy Tancred. Well-directed bullets had marked Reardon’s form. Roland Furness, also in the danger zone, had been put on the spot as well.
It was possible that he had been taken for Bowser Riggins.
Newspaper columns were filled with hectic details which included garbled statements of the witnesses.
Members of the Association of Electrical Engineers, when interviewed, had given varied stories. Such statements received no more than passing mention.
One man said that the shots had preceded the light; another told the opposite. One declared that he had seen the light move away; another that it had been extinguished before it moved. One more declared that the killer had used an acetylene lantern instead of an electric flashlight.
But the sum and substance of all the reports was that Goldy Tancred had been slated for the spot. A big shot, liked by politicians, but unpopular among certain gang leaders, had escaped the doom that was intended for him.
Goldy, himself, knew nothing. He was staying close to his palatial apartment high up in the Hotel Marathon. His famous astrakhan coat no longer would be seen at Brindle’s restaurant. Goldy Tancred — so reporters affirmed — would prefer to send out for sandwiches in the future.
DETECTIVE Joe Cardona read the morning newspapers with a real relish. His presence at the Olympia Hotel was universally commended. He had used good sense in watching Goldy Tancred. It was not his fault that the killers had blundered.
Commissioner Ralph Weston, overlord of New York police, had voiced his approval of Cardona’s tactics. He supported the detective’s finding, and he had promptly deputed Cardona to handle the case.
Among the newspapermen who were active on the story was Clyde Burke, a reporter for the New York Classic. A veteran news gatherer, Clyde believed that Cardona was right. Secretly, however, he wondered what the outcome of this affair might be. For Clyde knew, from experience, that there was someone who could deal with gangland’s slayers even when the most ardent police measures failed.
Clyde Burke was thinking of The Shadow. For Clyde Burke, himself, was a secret agent of The Shadow!
In a room at the Metrolite Hotel, another young man was pondering upon the same matters that concerned Clyde Burke. A resident guest of the hotel, Harry Vincent was scanning the day’s headlines.
Like Clyde Burke, Harry believed that Joe Cardona had the correct information. Nevertheless, Harry was wondering what would follow. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow.
In an office of the huge Badger Building, a chubby-faced man also studied the morning newspapers. With careful shears, he clipped the columns that carried the story of the double slaying at the Olympia Hotel.
By profession, this placid individual was an investment broker. His name was Rutledge Mann, and his many acquaintances knew him merely as a specialist on financial advice.
But Mann, who held no opinion regarding Cardona’s theory, was also wondering about the future. Like Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent, Rutledge Mann served The Shadow. Where the others were active and frequently in the field, Mann acted as a contact agent. He supplied information and data that might be required. These clippings, that he was gathering today, were being prepared for delivery to The Shadow.
His compilation completed, Rutledge Mann put all his clippings in an envelope. He left his office, took a taxi to Twenty-third Street, and entered a dingy building. On an upstairs floor, he stopped at the door of a deserted office which bore the name “Jonas” on its cobwebbed pane. He dropped the envelope in the mail slit.
Mann’s work was done, until later orders might be received.
The mail slit was the delivery box that enabled Mann to reach The Shadow. Complete reports on the Olympia outrage were now posted to the master mind. Whatever the sequel might be, Rutledge Mann would be ready to obey instructions.
Clyde Burke’s reportorial work — Harry Vincent’s perusal of the newspapers — Rutledge Mann’s clipping service — all these were productive of an important aftermath. A strange, unseen event occurred somewhere in New York and its beginning was a click that sounded in a secret room.
INTENSE blackness was suddenly ended by a bluish light that appeared in the corner of a black-walled apartment. An uncanny glow was focused upon the polished surface of a table, directly beneath the shaded circle of a blue-bulbed light.
In only one place could this phenomenon occur. That spot was The Shadow’s sanctum. Away from all the world, the very location of his secret room unknown, The Shadow, master of darkness, planned his warfare against the hosts of evil.