NO one came during the morning. Harry spent most of his time in the private office. He sent the girl out to lunch at twelve. When she returned, Harry went out. Arriving back at the office shortly before two, Harry found the first of the cameramen awaiting him.
“Here are the reels,” the man said, handing Harry two circular metal boxes.
“Fine,” responded Harry. “Let me have the bill. I will mail you the check.”
After Harry had gone into the private office, the girl entered to announce the second cameraman. The reels were delivered; and the third lot arrived by three o’clock. This was in accordance with the promised schedule.
At three fifteen, the stenographer entered and tendered Harry a card. It bore the name:
L. BURBANK
MOTION PICTURE OPERATOR
Harry did not go out to greet the visitor. He gave the card back to the girl with these instructions:
“Tell Mr. Burbank that he may go into the projection room. The reels are waiting there. I will view them later.”
At three thirty, the girl arrived to announce that Mr. Lamont Cranston was in the outer office.
“Show him into the projection room,” was Harry’s order.
Harry caught a glimpse of the second visitor as the girl went through the door. He saw a tall man, with keen, well-molded face, and fancied that he observed the sparkle of brilliant eyes.
Lamont Cranston! Harry had heard the name before. He knew that this was an identity which The Shadow sometimes assumed.
Lamont Cranston was a man of reputed wealth, a mysterious individual who traveled frequently. There was no proof that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. But there were times when The Shadow appeared in the guise of Lamont Cranston.
Harry was thinking of this several minutes later, when he went into the projection room himself. The Shadow was a master of disguise. In his adventures, Harry had met The Shadow — sometimes as a figure clad in black; but on other occasions, the mysterious phantom had appeared in various identities.
The projection room was dark. Staring through the gloom, Harry caught the light of two burning eyes that were turned in his direction. Those eyes seemed to flash a command. Harry found a chair and sat down; then turned toward the screen at the end of the room.
“Proceed.”
The word came in a whisper from some unknown spot. At The Shadow’s command, a shaft of light flickered on the screen; the mechanism of the movie projector began to hum. Within a few minutes, the scene in front of the little restaurant manifested itself.
At first, Harry wondered why this episode was coming last. Then he realized the reason. The picture showed many persons passing the restaurant, but only a few entering it. As the reels progressed, Harry could count no more than twenty people who went in or out. The flickering picture ended.
“Repeat,” came the voice of The Shadow.
Harry watched intently during the second showing. By the time the picture was completed, he felt sure that he could recognize most of the persons who had gone into the eating house.
THERE was a short wait; then another scene appeared. It was the lobby of the Stellar Building. Here, many people were passing in and out. A stocky man separated himself from the edge of the crowd. The Shadow’s monotone broke in with a single word:
“Slow.”
The reel lessened its speed. Harry saw the stocky man laboriously wending his way toward the door of the building. He noted the derby hat, the heavy-jowled countenance; the short-cropped gray mustache.
“Comment,” came The Shadow’s word.
“That man went into the restaurant,” blurted Harry. “I recognize him from the other reel—”
“Change,” ordered The Shadow.
A view of the arcade appeared, taken from an angle. Three minutes elapsed; then Harry uttered another remark of recognition. Coming directly into the camera was the man with the gray mustache and derby hat.
“Slow,” came The Shadow’s quiet order.
The motion became lethargic. Once again, Harry caught a perfect impression of the face. Here, in three different places, the camera had recorded the countenance of one man.
Another command from The Shadow. The showing ended. Harry sat quietly in the projection room for several minutes; with half-closed eyes, he seemed to see the face that he had viewed in the pictures.
When he finally left the projection room, Harry found the stenographer alone in the office. The girl looked inquiringly at her temporary employer.
“Both Mr. Burbank and Mr. Cranston have gone,” she said. “Mr. Cranston went into your private office for a moment—”
Harry nodded. He went into the little office, and there he found an envelope upon the desk. He opened it to read a coded note, inscribed in ink. A message from The Shadow — in special cipher that Harry understood. Hardly had Harry digested the new instructions before the writing began to disappear.
Harry glanced at his watch when he returned to the outer office. It was four o’clock. He told the girl that his work was finished for the day and instructed her to return to Mann’s office.
“Mr. Mann may expect a call from me later,” added Harry.
THE SHADOW’S agent made his way downtown. He reached the door of the Stellar Building, entered the lobby, and waited there. Office workers were beginning their departure. Half an hour passed while Harry idled. It was nearly five o’clock. A gleam of recognition flashed in Harry’s eyes.
Coming across the lobby was the man of the pictures. Stocky, mustached, and wearing a derby hat, this was the very person whose course had been traced by the unerring reels. Harry sauntered after him. The man entered the subway. From then on, Harry Vincent continued the trail.
It was nearly six o’clock when Rutledge Mann received a telephone call in his office. Mann, the chubby-faced, languorous individual who specialized in investments, raised his eyebrows when he recognized the voice of Harry Vincent.
“Irwin Langhorne,” came Harry’s word.
Mann wrote down the name; the address followed. When the information was fully recorded, Mann concluded the call. He wrote a brief report; inserted it in an envelope; and donned his hat and coat.
Shortly afterward, Rutledge Mann visited the office of B. Jonas, in a secluded building on Twenty-third Street. The investment broker dropped his message into the letter slot beneath the grimy, cobwebbed window.
The Shadow and his agents had performed swift work to-day. A purpose had been detected behind the strange murders in Manhattan. Irwin Langhorne was revealed as the man whom death now threatened.
Eyes of The Shadow! To-day, the lenses of recording cameras had served as eyes, to gain unerring evidence that had led to the tracing of one man among a multitude!
CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW WARNS
IRWIN LANGHORNE was seated in a little office on the second floor of his Manhattan home. His flat-topped desk, with its sheet of plate glass, reflected the glistening light of a heavy crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling above his head.
This room had once been a portion of a reception hall. A partition had been erected, but otherwise Langhorne had left the room very much as before. It was here that the millionaire importer attended to those details of work that escaped his office routine.
A stack of mail was lying on the desk. Langhorne ran through the envelopes and stopped at one. He tapped a bell beside him. A few moments later, the door opened to admit a slender, sleek-faced man who gazed questioningly at the millionaire.
“Jarvis,” demanded Mr. Langhorne gruffly, “when did this mail arrive?”
“At five o’clock, sir.”