Seeking a dropping point, he spied a space below. It looked like a darkened alleyway. Lowering himself into a corner where two walls met, The Shadow found cracked spaces among the bricks. Digging toes and fingers into these openings, he descended.
The space was deeper than The Shadow had supposed. At the bottom, he found himself in total darkness, save for the dull surface of what appeared to be doors at the inner end of this little cul-de-sac.
One door swung open to The Shadow’s touch. The Shadow entered and glimmered a tiny flashlight.
He was in an underground garage, an innocent-looking spot that was just large enough for a small truck.
This space was empty. The probing rays of The Shadow’s light showed a door at the side of the little garage. That door was metal.
Producing his pick, The Shadow attacked the lock. It yielded to the instrument. Opening the door, The Shadow stepped into a lighted passage. He saw steps leading above; straight ahead was an open door.
The Shadow saw the roulette table, resting on the platform of the lowered elevator.
Cuyler Willington had unlocked that elevator room in order to regain his precious Q-ray machine. He had not bothered to close the door behind him. He put the machine in its crate aboard the truck. He had, however, locked the door to the garage. Then he had made a prompt departure at the very time when The Shadow had been escaping from Nicky’s office.
The picture was plain to The Shadow. He saw the reason for the elevator; he knew that the garage must have contained a truck for the removal of the roulette layout. Yet the gambling device was still here.
A soft laugh told that The Shadow knew the answer.
Stepping into the elevator, he found the roulette wheel loose. He lifted it and saw the vacant space beneath. Replacing the wheel, The Shadow did what Cuyler Willington had failed to do. He clamped the wheel upon its pedestal.
THE Shadow’s next action was forced by something that occurred above. A muffled explosion came to his ears. The air in the passage quaked. Shouts followed. The police had blown the steel door in Nicky’s office. They were coming down the steps.
The Shadow wheeled from the elevator. He crossed the passage and opened the door into the garage.
He departed without locking the door behind him. He reached the alleyway and moved out toward the street.
Near his objective, The Shadow pressed suddenly against the wall as a flashlight’s beam came down the alleyway. Two policemen had arrived. They had spotted this entrance as a possible way of reaching the raided Club Cadiz. They pounded through, passing The Shadow on their way. Swiftly, the cloaked being glided to the street.
A taxi was close by. It was not Moe’s cab; but that did not trouble The Shadow. He reached the vehicle, opened the door and stepped silently aboard. In a quiet voice, he gave a destination. The driver heard it.
Puzzled, the fellow started the cab. He had been listening to sounds of whistles and sirens on the avenue, where the police were still busy entering the Club Cadiz. Hence the driver was only mildly surprised when he realized that he had gained a passenger.
When the cab reached its destination, something fluttered to the seat beside the driver. The man picked up the object. It was a five-dollar bill. Surprised, the driver looked into the back seat. He turned on the light. The cab was empty. The mysterious passenger had made a quick departure.
THE next evidence of The Shadow’s presence came within the walls of the sanctum. The bluish light clicked on. White hands appeared beneath its glare. One hand began to write. Steadily, concisely, The Shadow was summing up the events that he had encountered tonight.
Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler had fared forth to get Cuyler Willington. That fact was evident. They had chosen the Club Cadiz as the place for murder. They had been forestalled. By whom? Cuyler Willington.
Past and present linked. The Shadow, through his constant study of new inventive measures, had gained facts regarding the terrible Q-ray machine. He had believed that device to be safely kept in the laboratory of the Universal Electric Company.
It seemed obvious that Cuyler Willington had obtained that strange machine; that with it, he had delivered wholesale slaughter in order to eliminate dark-skinned enemies. Through the Q-ray. Willington had made a counter-thrust. Yet, somehow, his action had failed.
Gyp Tangoli must have escaped death. Gyp’s absence from among the dead forms in the gaming room was proof of that fact. Crooked foemen were still at large, ready for new battle. Both were fiends. Each would again seek the other’s life.
Ordinarily, The Shadow might have let one eliminate the other. But present circumstances forbade that course. Into this feud between two crooks had come a new and terrible element: the Q-ray. It had been used once for promiscuous death. It could be used again, now that its secret was known.
For the safety of humanity, The Shadow could use but one course: the prompt elimination of both these murderers. To end their fiendish careers, he must find one or the other. That must be accomplished with promptitude.
Trails had diverged. Links again were broken. Fierce enemies had gone into hiding. That fact brought a sinister, understanding laugh from the lips of The Shadow as his hand extinguished the blue lamp.
With both fiends living, there would be time to prepare for well-planned combat. They would be hiding from each other, as much as from the law. To gain a chance for combat, one would have to bait the other.
Therein lay The Shadow’s opportunity. If other measures failed, he could watch for the coming lure.
When it arrived, he could step into the impending battle. That thought was the reason for The Shadow’s laugh.
CHAPTER XVI. THE FINAL FACTS
“DETECTIVE CARDONA is here, sir.”
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston looked up and nodded to the secretary who had spoken. The man turned about and went out to admit the detective. Commissioner Weston glanced at his clock and smiled.
It was three o’clock on the afternoon following the terrible affair at the Club Cadiz. Detective Joe Cardona was due to report at this hour. Weston was pleased at the sleuth’s punctuality.
A man of brusque, dynamic forcefulness, Commissioner Weston handled the New York police force in almost military fashion. Weston looked like an army officer; his firm face and short, pointed mustache gave him a distinctive bearing. His eyes were both stern and alert when Joe Cardona entered the office.
Stockily built and swarthy of countenance, Cardona made a contrast to the police commissioner. Time had been when the star detective had chafed under Weston’s driving methods. That period had passed.
The two had reached accord; then Ralph Weston had resigned his post as police commissioner in order to visit a South American republic, where he had reorganized the police system.
During Weston’s absence, the post of police commissioner had been held by a gentleman named Wainwright Barth. A pompous individual with his own ideas about crime problems, Barth had proven a trial to Cardona. Joe was glad to see Weston back on the job. Weston knew it.
“Hello. Cardona,” he greeted, in a pleasant tone. “You don’t seem as glum as you used to be.”
“That’s because you’re back,” admitted the detective. “Don’t think I didn’t get along with Commissioner Barth. I did. But when things came up like this Cadiz Club business, I never knew what slant he might decide to take.”
“Well,” mused Weston, “Wainwright Barth has taken a trip to Europe. For the time being I am on the job. I take it that you have decided just what my course will be in this case.”