“He has gone, commissioner,” he stated. “I heard the curtains swish. Have you a revolver?”
“Yes,” responded Barth, in a husky whisper.
“Then draw it,” suggested The Shadow, “while I turn on the light.”
Striding through the darkness, The Shadow clicked the light switch. Barth pounced forward from the window, a stubby revolver in his fist. He was bound on a chase. The Shadow stopped him.
“Too late, commissioner,” he stated quietly. “The rogue gained too good a start. Why not call headquarters?”
“Jove, Cranston!” returned Barth. “That is the very thing to do.”
He sprang to the telephone. Thirty seconds later he had his connection; with gleaming eyes, Barth was ordering the law to action. Walpin sat in a large chair, dejected and unhearing; but The Shadow was close beside the commissioner.
“Call all cars!” Barth was barking. “Cover every bridge; the Holland Tunnel; every ferry! Watch all outgoing trains. Grand Central; Pennsylvania; Jersey Tubes.”
“Do not forget One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, commissioner,” prompted The Shadow, quietly. “It is not quite as close as the Grand Central; but the robber could be on his way there.”
“One Hundred and Twenty-fifth!” bawled Barth. “Patrol cars to that station at once! Then get me Acting Inspector Cardona. Have him come here immediately!”
The Shadow’s watch showed 9:55. Fifteen minutes had passed since the masked robber had slipped out with the false pearls that Walpin had believed were his own. But Barth, in his call to headquarters, had announced that the robber had fled but a few minutes ago. Those intermittent growls had completely deceived the acting commissioner.
WORD to headquarters was given at 9:55, quickly relayed to radio patrol cars. At 9:57, a siren whined not far from the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station. A taxi driver, about to pull away, drew his car to the curb and watched.
The patrol car rolled up; a policeman leaped to the curb. An officer came dashing over from across the street. The taxi driver heard their conversation.
“Robbery just reported,” explained the cop from the patrol car. “Guy cleared out with a bunch of pearls — only made his get-away a couple of minutes ago.”
“Heading this way?” queried the cop from the beat.
“Don’t know,” was the laconic reply. “But if he is, we’ll be waiting for him. All railroads are being covered. The guy hasn’t had time to get to a station yet. We’ll be waiting for him if he comes here.”
The taxi pulled away; its driver grinned shrewdly. The name of that driver was Moe Shrevnitz; he was working as an agent of The Shadow. He had delivered a passenger at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, four minutes ahead of the alarm.
A train was already pulling out of the station; it was the Buffalo Mail. Moe’s passenger was aboard. The taxi run from Walpin’s to this station had been made with two minutes to spare.
IN a compartment aboard a Pullman, a lone passenger was smiling as he looked from the window and studied the glow of streets below. That rider was Cliff Marsland; he was the man who had come here with Moe Shrevnitz.
The Buffalo Mail had left Grand Central at 9:45; its schedule called for departure from One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street at 9:56. Cliff had been waiting on the platform, thanks to Moe’s quick driving.
The train had been delayed for about one minute; Cliff’s watch now showed ten o’clock. He was completely in the clear — as fully as if he had left New York hours before. No one would believe it possible that the safe robber could have made the Buffalo Mail at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.
All following trains would be watched; but not even a message would come to this one. The Shadow’s stall, coupled with the train schedule, had given Cliff absolute security. The Shadow’s agent, confident in his position, proceeded to open a suitcase that he had brought aboard.
He pushed bandanna handkerchiefs out of sight. Those could be disposed of later. Removing the silver casket, he opened it and admired the display within. These pearls of The Shadow looked like real swag.
Particularly the blue one.
Cliff removed the Blue Pearl; he placed it carefully in his vest pocket. He closed the casket, put it back in the suitcase and closed the bag. Settling back in his seat, he began to speculate on the future.
Tomorrow, he would travel, choosing various roads to make a crafty trail. Another night aboard a sleeper; then his course would bring him to the town of Paulington. This was Monday night; Wednesday evening would be the time to reach the destination.
For Cliff, by The Shadow’s orders, was carrying swag to Mountview Lodge, in hope of contracting The Condor. In his pocket Cliff held a perfect replica of the Blue Pearl, a passport that would make him welcome in a realm where crime prevailed.
CHAPTER VII. THE MAN AHEAD
TUESDAY morning’s newspapers were blatant in their front-page yarn of crime. The robbery at Michael Walpin’s had excited large headlines and long stories. Wainwright Barth’s presence at the scene had given zest to the reporters.
For the acting commissioner was none too popular with the gentlemen of the press. One man in particular — Clyde Burke, of the Classic — had long awaited an opportunity to hand Barth a jolt.
Clyde, as chance had it, was with Joe Cardona at the time when Barth had summoned the acting inspector. The reporter had followed along to get a story. The coincidence of Clyde’s arrival had made Barth fume; but it had brought a smile from Lamont Cranston.
The reason was that Clyde Burke was, secretly, an agent of The Shadow. Long a friend of Detective Joe Cardona, it had been natural for Clyde to be with the sleuth who was at present acting as inspector. It fitted well with The Shadow’s plans. He wanted publicity to follow this robbery at Walpin’s.
AMONG the interested readers of the day’s news was a young man who had chosen to travel away from New York on Tuesday. This chap had picked up evening newspapers in addition to the morning journals. He was reading the accounts as he rode aboard a jostling local that was rolling toward the town of Paulington.
This young man was Harry Vincent agent of The Shadow. In the morning, he had received maps and instructions from an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. Well provided with information, Harry had started out in behalf of The Shadow.
“Paulington next stop—”
The conductor’s bawl ended Harry’s reading. He had just reached the end of a statement that Michael Walpin had made for the press. Walpin had sworn that no one outside himself could have known the combination of his panel or his wall safe. That had deepened the mystery which concerned the burglar’s simple mode of operation.
“Paulington next—”
Harry looked from the window. Afternoon had waned; heavy clouds had increased, gathering dusk. The premature approach of darkness was to Harry’s liking. For The Shadow’s agent had no desire to be noticed in the town.
The Shadow had picked cut a logical headquarters. That was the tumble-down cabin on the hillside.
From that spot, Harry would be able to pay trips to the vicinity of Mountview Lodge. Moreover, he could be reached by Cliff Marsland when the latter arrived.
Harry’s policy would be to lay low; if he did not hear from Cliff, he could make cautious efforts at contact. He would have full opportunity to work as a free agent. No reports would be necessary until he held important news. Harry Vincent was the man ahead.
The train was grinding to a stop. From the window Harry saw the end of a station platform. He made his way from the car and stepped off as soon as the train ceased motion.