Irwin Langhorne, who had been a witness of all this, stopped to pay his check at the cashier’s window.
He inquired about the man who had fallen.
“He’s dead,” said the cashier in a low voice. “It must have been a heart attack!”
IRWIN LANGHORNE was ill at ease as he went back to his office. He had reached a period in life when friends were dying at frequent intervals. He had known two who had succumbed to apoplexy. The thought of sudden death perturbed him. To witness it was a serious experience.
But there was another worry that now impressed itself upon Langhorne’s mind. That morning, the millionaire had received a strange, cryptic letter. With it had been clippings that pertained to three deaths upon Suburban trains, the passing of Henry Bellew, and two other deaths.
Death! It seemed to be in the air today. He had been reminded forcefully of it; now he had seen it strike!
Was this coincidence or fate?
In his private office, Langhorne managed to shake off the worries that beset him. He forgot about the unfortunate episode that had occurred in the restaurant.
THREE deaths had occurred that morning, each in a different place. All New York was to discuss those deaths before evening. New mystery perplexed the police by noon. Eager reporters took up the story.
Three deaths in public places were enough to start a police investigation; and when, in each instance, the surgeon’s report showed that gas poisoning was responsible, the result was high excitement at headquarters.
Late that afternoon, Detective Joe Cardona paid a visit to the office of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. A stack of newspapers was piled upon the commissioner’s desk when Cardona entered. On this visit, there was very little ceremony. Weston eyed Cardona coldly, waved his hand toward the heap of journals, and asked a single-worded question:
“Well?”
Cardona sat wearily in a chair. His face was solemn. It showed that he was beaten. In despair, the detective came out with the facts as he had found them.
“I don’t know anything,” he confessed. “It looks like the railway stuff all over again. There were three killed there, commissioner. Three here in New York. Poison on the trains; gas this time. But we haven’t found a single clew.”
The commissioner stared through the window and thoughtfully thrummed the desk. When he faced Cardona, there was a new expression on his countenance.
“Cardona,” he declared, “you’re up against something big. When you couldn’t get any evidence on those train killings, I was considerably disappointed. But when I went over your reports, I became convinced that you had taken every step that was humanly possible.
“There were other deaths out there. Henry Bellew looked like an accident. His butler dying was a mystery. This fellow, Vernon Quinley, bombed in a garage, looked like something different. You didn’t connect the three with the train murders, nor did I.
“But now I’m convinced that there was a connection. One man is back of the whole shebang. These three deaths in Manhattan show that he is at work again. A master schemer. That’s evident.”
“I agree with you, commissioner,” said Cardona.
Weston arose and paced the floor.
“The newspapers are on it heavy,” he remarked. “It means that you’re on the spot, so far as they are concerned. But I’m with you this time, Cardona, and I’ll tell you why. The way that you went after the Suburban trains was proof that you were on the job. Frankly, Cardona, it’s too much for you. But there isn’t a man at headquarters who could do half what you have done.
“I’m in your boots now. Working on hunches. That’s all we appear to have. I can only hope that you will get a hunch that works. But I’m warning you in advance” — Weston paused emphatically — “when I tell you that your hunch had better be a quick one. This talk of a hidden fiend whose ways are beyond detection is going to raise havoc all the way up the line. You’ll be the first to feel it if it brings a shake-up. You’re on the spot, Cardona!”
“I know it,” said Cardona grimly.
WESTON resumed his chair. For the first time, a real understanding had been gained between the commissioner and the ace detective. When Ralph Weston spoke again, it was in a quiet, meditative tone.
“What have you learned?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Cardona admitted. “It looks like the hit-or-miss racket again; We’ve searched high and dry for bombs and suspicious characters. We can’t find either. My men have gone over every inch, commissioner.”
“Can you find any possible reason why the deaths should have occurred at those particular spots?”
“Not one,” responded Cardona. “I’ve caught a glimmer on the Felswood mess. Quinley was a commuter; so was Bellew. Maybe the aim was to get them. But here are three men — all unimportant, as before — and I can’t figure why three of them were bumped in one day.”
Weston nodded.
“I read the newspaper accounts,” he said, picking the uppermost paper from the pile. “Guy Bradley, a cigar-store clerk. Harold Egglesworth, a life insurance salesman. Peter Blossom, a wholesale poultry dealer. I can’t see why any one would be the victim of a widespread plot.”
“Something’s bound to follow,” remarked Cardona. “That’s the only hunch I’ve had so far. I’ve got men watching the places where the victims dropped dead — but it won’t do any good.”
“Why not?”
“Because the whole system has changed. At Felswood, there were deaths one a day, all at the same place under the same conditions Now it’s three in one day at different spots. I’m looking for one man in back of it all, but he’s foxier than before. It’s a muddle, commissioner; a real muddle.”
“Stick to it, Cardona,” said Weston tersely.
THE detective left the office. He started wearily along the street, glancing at headlines as he passed the frequent news stands. Death— death— death! That was all Cardona saw. What could be done to stop it?
The Shadow!
Cardona shrugged his shoulders. Here was crime that should surely lure the mysterious phantom who battled with the lawless. Yet so far — to Cardona’s way of thinking — the hand of The Shadow had not appeared.
Cardona was weary as he made his rounds. He went from one place to another, to talk with the men who were on watch.
Starting from the little arcade uptown, he rode by subway to the office building; then went to the little restaurant in the wall of the skyscraper. All places seemed barren of clews.
But while Cardona was going through this hopeless formality, another man was following the same trail.
A tall, hawk-nosed individual paused in the uptown arcade to light his brier pipe. As he lingered there, his sharp eyes looked everywhere. The only object that seemed conspicuous to them was the telephone box extending from the wall.
The tall man put in a telephone call. His long left hand, upon which glowed a strange, color-changing gem, moved along the side of the box, and then beneath. It emerged as the man completed his call.
Walking through the arcade, the tall man descended to the subway. He glanced at his left hand. A long streak of gluey substance had made a slight impression upon his palm. Quietly, the man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the mark.
He made another telephone call in the lobby of the building, where the second death had occurred. As he strolled through and headed for the side entrance, he again wiped a line of gum from his left hand. The man’s last stop was in the little restaurant where Irwin Langhorne had seen the stroke of death.