“The Latuna Enterprise?”
“Yes. Here is a sample of the editorials that appear in that journal. Read it. I think that you and Mr. Harrison Knode have much in common.”
Clyde nodded, chuckling, as he read the editorial that concerned the Blue Sphinx. When he looked up, Mann was politely tendering him a railroad ticket along with a green slip Pullman reservation.
“Pennsylvania Station, four thirty-five,” announced Mann, in a businesslike tone. “Ticket and lower berth to Latuna. And added instructions” — he picked up a sealed envelope and handed it to Clyde — “are to be read on the train.”
At five o’clock that afternoon, Clyde Burke was seated in a corner of a club car, reading the message that Mann had given him. Coded words faded. Clyde crumpled the blank sheet and tossed it in a wastebasket beneath the writing desk opposite.
He had memorized brief added instructions from The Shadow.
AT that same hour, a slower through train was pulling out from the Union Station in Washington. Alone in the smoking compartment of a sleeper were two men who had come aboard at the last minute. Cliff Marsland and Tinker Furris formed the pair.
Cliff was reading a New York evening newspaper, in which he found brief mention of a foiled burglary in Cobleton’s Pawnshop. He pointed it out to Tinker. A few minutes later, the pock-faced crook called Cliff’s attention to a copy of the New York Classic.
“Say, look at this!” whispered Tinker, hoarsely. “Here’s a guy has some funny dope on that job of ours. Some mug got away with the sparklers and another guy returned them!”
“The Shadow, probably,” nodded Cliff, as he read the column. “Sure enough. That holds together.”
“Whadda you mean?”
“Well, the bulls were coming in, weren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“And The Shadow had to scram. So he slugged Egglestone and made a getaway.”
“Why’d he run off with the swag?”
“Guess he didn’t know who Egglestone was.”
“I begin to get it. Then he handed the stuff over to some flatfoot. But it says here that there was a fellow in a sweater.”
“That was probably what Egglestone thought. The Shadow must have handed him a quick haymaker.”
“Yeah. And the cops must have been woozy when he cooped ‘em in that office.”
“They would have said the same as Egglestone.”
Tinker nodded. Then his ugly countenance denoted perplexity. Cliff watched him closely. He knew what was coming.
“What gets me,” confided Tinker, “is how The Shadow got out of it at all. You clipped him, Cliff.”
“Probably grazed him with my first shot.”
“You done better. You must have plugged him twice, anyway. He staggered that first time. I thought he was done.”
“Looks like nobody can kill The Shadow.”
“Maybe not. But I can’t figure how he snapped out of it so quick. To do all he did afterward. Say — it’s got me sort of jittery, Cliff.”
“Why should it?” Cliff laughed as he saw a chance to swing the dangerous subject. “The more The Shadow did, the better for us.”
“Why?”
“Because it kept him too busy to pick up our trail. We’re sitting pretty, Tinker. Come on — it’s time for chow. Let’s see if this rattler has a diner.”
Tinker said nothing more, and Cliff decided that the topic was ended. That was a good sign. For the fight with The Shadow had put Cliff in right with Tinker. As sworn pals, they were heading for Latuna to join up with Konk Zitz.
Uppermost in Cliff’s mind was the fact that he must keep the true facts of that fight completely away from Tinker’s mind. Any inkling that the battle had been framed would prove disastrous.
For where Cliff was going, any suspicion that he was an agent of The Shadow would ruin the coming campaign against crime. More than that, a discovery of the truth could spell prompt death for Cliff Marsland.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE MUSEUM
WHILE two trains were bringing new visitors to Latuna, that prosperous little city lay glittering beneath the darkened evening sky. Well-lighted streets were prevalent in Latuna; but they ended abruptly on the border of the business district. Beyond were blackened, vacant subdivisions that had ceased development with the sudden termination of a real-estate boom.
On a hill well out from the town stood a lonely marble building that looked like a vast mausoleum. This was the central portion of the unfinished Latuna Museum. It had been erected on the hill so that it might overlook the town.
Subdivisions as yet unbuilt; intervening trees that had not been cut down — these isolated the museum from the city. Instead of dominating a suburban district, the new building was actually in a rural area.
Viewed from the outside, the museum was a square-shaped building with broad steps leading up to four mammoth stone pillars. Modeled after the Parthenon in Athens, the structure was topped by a low, broad dome.
The marble front had large windows, guarded with heavy metal shutters; but the sides and back were windowless. Moreover, they lacked the marble surface of the front. These other walls were entirely of brick.
The reason lay in the fact that the museum was uncompleted. The final plans called for the addition of two wings and a rear extension which would be deeper than the rest of the structure; for the ground sloped downward at the back of the museum.
Entering the building, one found exhibit rooms in both front corners. Smaller rooms were situated along the side walls. From the center of the building back to the rear wall was a special exhibit room, directly beneath the broad dome. One entered this through a commodious anteroom. Heavy Florentine doors formed the first barrier; lighter doors were beyond, at the inner portion of the anteroom.
A main hall ran along the front of the building, just in back of the lobby and the corner exhibit rooms. Small corridors ran along the sides, between the blank walls of the central exhibit room and the small chambers at the sides of the building.
An incomplete arrangement. Many persons had predicted difficulties in the new extensions. On this particular evening, one man seemed deeply concerned with that problem. Joseph Rubal, curator of the museum, was seated in his office, which was reached by the last door on the right-hand corridor.
RUBAL was a tall, dry-faced man. His forehead showed deep furrows; his expression was perpetually solemn. He had a habit of running his long fingers through the sparse hair of his partly bald head. He was following this procedure as he studied a set of plans that lay upon his desk.
Eight o’clock. Rubal noted the time by his desk clock. He frowned as he looked toward the door; then his expression changed as he heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened and a uniformed attendant entered.
“Ah, Hollis,” expressed Rubal, as he eyed the stocky, square-jawed arrival. “Have the other attendants left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have locked up for the night?”
“Yes, sir. Until the watchmen arrive at nine.”
“Remain here. I shall make sure.”
Hollis watched Rubal leave the office. He shrugged his shoulders. As chief attendant, he never failed in his duty of closing the museum, yet the curator invariably insisted upon a personal check-up.
Five minutes later, Rubal returned to find Hollis standing stolidly in the spot where he had left him. Rubal gave an approving nod, a token that he had found the front door barred on the inside. Hollis started to leave the office.
“No inspection is necessary, Hollis,” remarked Rubal, dryly. “Remain here. I wish to talk to you. Did you notice these plans for the new extensions?”
“No, sir. Are they completed?”
“Not quite. It is a problem, Hollis.” The attendant nodded; then advanced as Rubal beckoned him to the desk. On view lay a floor plan of the museum as it now stood, with dotted lines to indicate the additions.