ONE hour later found Clyde at a typewriter in the city room of the New York Classic. He was finishing his usual police column, which covered his investigations in the underworld.
Inside stuff that would pass the desk, the moment that the night editor stepped out. He was leaving now. Clyde grinned and finished the column. He turned it over to an uncritical assistant editor, who gave a glance and sent the pages to the copy desk.
Clyde chuckled as he donned his hat and strolled from the city room. He had scooped the town. Tomorrow’s column would be verbal dynamite, thanks to The Shadow.
CHAPTER VI
THE STORM BREAKS
MORNING. Acting Inspector Joe Cardona sat at his desk in headquarters, reading the New York Classic. A grim smile showed on Joe’s face as he perused Clyde Burke’s column. The account of last night’s episodes ran as follows:
The East Side playboys are having their little jest at Commissioner Barth’s new methods. Somehow they must have wised to his aptitude for taking up fancy clues that lead nowhere.
Last night our high official spotted a dummy ad in an evening newspaper. That was enough. He yanked Joe Cardona, acting inspector, from the underworld route. Just like a poker player discarding an ace from a royal flush.
With Joe off the beat, the jokers started. It began when they tapped the safe in Cobleton’s Pawnshop and picked up a flock of likely-looking gems. Just so Barth’s hired hands would know what was up, the raiders whooped a few shots like cowboys on a round-up. That brought Inspector Egglestone in the wake of two policemen.
The inspector arrived after the funmakers had locked the officers in Cobleton’s office. But they had left a pal to take care of good old “Egg.” Encountering a gorilla, the inspector found himself on the wrong end of a haymaker. While Egglestone slumbered, the crook made off with the swag.
It was all in fun, however. Half an hour later, a patrolman showed up with a suitcase filled with the missing jewels. A gent in evening attire had passed them to him. Said gent had introduced himself as Commissioner Barth.
Egg Egglestone was delighted until he found out it couldn’t have been. Headquarters reported the commissioner on Long Island. Out in the lonely night, insisting that Cardona keep watch on a darkened house that later proved to be unoccupied.
Only one slip-up marred the festivities. The suave deceiver who handed over the missing gems failed to wear a pair of pince-nez spectacles. But it didn’t matter. The cop on the beat was not in the commissioner’s social set. Never having been introduced to Mr. Wainwright Barth, he knew nothing of those famous specs. He just took the suitcase and toted it in to Egglestone. Egg took the credit.
Clues: A gentleman who cracks safes, fires a gat to make a noise, handles his dukes well, talks the ‘oily boid’ dialect, wears a sweater and uses a bandanna for a mask.
His pal travels in a Prince Albert, chooses taxis as a mode of riding and tells coppers that he’s the police commissioner. Convincing enough to make them believe it, too.
What one takes, the other gives back. That’s their idea of fun. Inspector Egglestone seemed to like it. Too bad the commissioner didn’t take him out to Long Island, instead of snatching Joe Cardona off the job. Maybe he’ll remember to do that next time.
If he does, the law will have more to show than the recovery of swag that was handed back to them. Cardona has a habit of rounding up funmakers for a joy-ride in the wagon. An art at which Commissioner Barth and Inspector Egglestone seem lacking.
As he finished reading, Joe Cardona looked up to see Detective Sergeant Markham enter. Joe pointed to the newspaper. Markham grinned and nodded.
“Just read it, Joe,” he said. “Coming in to tell you about it. Looks like Burke’s gone nuts, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” commented Joe. “Well” — he paused, thinking of last night’s futile trip to Long Island — “you can’t blame him. Somebody was due to cut loose with a razz on the commissioner. It’s too bad for Burke, though.”
“Why?”
“The commissioner will have his scalp. Wait and see.”
“On account of the panning Burke handed Egg?”
“Sure. The commissioner rates Egglestone pretty high.”
JOE CARDONA had made his comment in a tone of prediction. One hour after the prophecy, Clyde Burke entered the city room of the Classic. He was greeted by shaking heads.
“The old man wants to see you,” remarked a reporter. “He’s in his office.”
Clyde entered a door marked “Managing Editor.” He found the “old man” seated at his desk. The M.E. motioned for Clyde to close the door. Clyde complied.
“Burke,” began the old man, “since when has your column called for editorial comment?”
Clyde grinned sheepishly. The M.E. remained severe.
“Commissioner Barth called me this morning,” he declared. “He was highly indignant. He termed the Classic a yellow sheet. He said that it defied all the ethics of journalism.”
“He’s said that before, boss.”
“Yes. But this time he is justified. I’m firing you, Burke.”
“Just on account of—”
“Yes. On account of the way you wrote that column. It was poor business, Burke. Particularly from a reportorial standpoint. That type of tripe belongs in a small-town journal.
“I don’t mind violent criticism. But I do object to having the Classic carry stuff that reads like the lead article in the Punkville Weekly Bugle. You’re through, Burke. Two weeks’ salary waiting downstairs.”
Clyde nodded. He turned and walked slowly toward the door.
The managing editor looked up; then rose and reached the door ahead of him. He clapped his hand on Clyde’s shoulder. His eyes carried a kindly twinkle as he spoke.
“I had to fire you, Burke,” he remarked. “Now that the job’s over, I don’t mind telling you that you’re a valuable man. You will find a berth somewhere; when you do, refer to me for recommendation.
“That column simply bore the marks of misplaced talent. Get it out of your system. Try a job in the sticks for six months until you’re rid of this small-town complex. Then come back here. You’ll find a new job waiting.
“I had to make an example of you to appease Barth. It will cool him when he learns that you were promptly removed from our staff. Either he will have forgotten all about you within six months, or—”
“There may be a new commissioner by that time,” completed Clyde.
“Exactly!” chuckled the managing editor. “Good-by, Burke. By the way, did I say you would find two weeks’ salary downstairs?”
Clyde nodded.
“I meant four,” corrected the M.E., returning to his desk.
HALF an hour afterward, Clyde Burke entered the office of Rutledge Mann. He found the investment broker seated at his desk, with clippings of Clyde’s column in front of him. Mann looked up in solemn fashion. His face was slightly quizzical.
“Sacked,” announced Clyde, pointing his thumb toward the clippings. “On account of that.”
Mann smiled slightly. He picked up the clippings and tucked them in an envelope, which he passed to Clyde.
The reporter was a bit puzzled. He knew that he was due for some mission in behalf of The Shadow; what the clippings had to do with it was something he did not understand.
“Your recommendations,” said Mann. “To a new job. They should serve you well.”
“The old man promised me a recommendation of his own if I needed it for a newspaper job.”
“Good! Call on him if necessary. But I think your own ability — as evidenced by to-day’s article — will gain you a job with the Latuna Enterprise.”