Cardona heard the utterances, but could not understand them. He did not know that the dying man was trying to complete an interrupted statement; that Hawk Forster, on the rim of the beyond, was squealing. Then the eyes closed. The rat-faced gunman was dead.
Joe Cardona, his revolver regained, scrambled to his feet and looked about the room. His companion sprang forward to look at the dead man.
"Where did that shot come from?" growled Cardona. "Somebody clipped him right when we needed it most. Wasn't any of us—"
He paused as his gaze took in the opened window. Cardona motioned his companion back toward the doorway, while he himself slipped along the wall and approached the blackened casement. True, the single shot had saved Cardona's life; but had the man who fired it intended to aid the detective or hinder him? Cardona had seen shots like that go astray through strange twists of luck. While his brother officer, now wary, covered the window, Cardona stepped boldly to the balcony. All appeared dark outside. Deep fog blanketed the street.
Peering down into the gloom, Cardona made out a balcony on the floor below. Then there was a drop to the street. A swift, agile man could have escaped that way.
Through the fog, a street lamp showed the sidewalk below the balcony. A uniformed policeman dashed into the lamplight, staring upward. Evidently he had been attracted by the sound of the gunfire. Cardona shouted down to him. The patrolman recognized the brusque voice of the detective, the most widely known of all headquarters men.
"Any one down there?" demanded Cardona.
"No," came the officer's reply.
"Look under the balcony."
"No one there."
"Send for the wagon, then. We've got a dead one up here."
The policeman hurried away toward the patrol box, at the corner. Cardona peered downward; then shrugged his shoulders and went back to look at the body of Hawk Forster.
In the patch of light upon the sidewalk, a splotch of blackness appeared. It wavered there while a man emerged from a spot beside the dark wall of the old hotel.
The darkness disappeared as a tall form flitted across the street and merged with the misty light. Through the thickness of the fog resounded the tones of a weird, chilling laugh. Joe Cardona, viewing the body from the window, heard that laugh. It awakened a responsive chord in the detective's mind. His forehead furrowed as he caught the hint echoes of sinister mirth. The laugh of The Shadow!
Cardona knew that laugh. It had come to his ears at other times, when he had been miraculously saved from death at the hands of evildoers. To Cardona, the weird merriment brought enlightenment. He knew now that he had been brought here by The Shadow. He knew the source of the telephone call that had told him where Hawk Forster, wanted murderer, could be found. A quiet voice had spoken to Cardona over the phone — not the voice of The Shadow.
But Cardona had cause to believe that the avenger of crime employed trusted subordinates. The Shadow! He had spotted, captured and thwarted Hawk Forster, the killer. It was one more token of The Shadow's relentless war against crime; another blow struck in the cause of justice. Joe Cardona understood and thought that he knew all.
Cardona was wrong. He did not know that Hawk Forster was a rat who had tried to squeal; that the murderer had known the schemes of more potent crooks, and had been about to blab them to The Shadow when the detectives made their premature entrance.
Cardona suspected nothing. Only The Shadow knew that some great crime was brewing.
Yet he had gained only an inkling from Hawk Forster before circumstances had forced him to make a rapid exit. Danger threatened Daniel Antrim, a lawyer who dealt with criminals. When that danger struck, it would mark the beginning of rampant crime.
Vile plans were under way! With Hawk Forster dead, none but the schemers themselves knew what the details were.
Only The Shadow could meet these enemies of the law. To do so, he must learn both source and nature of the contemplated crime which Hawk Forster's sealed lips could never tell!
Could The Shadow uncover the plot, wherever it might be brewing?
Chapter II — Man with A Mission
The trim yacht Vesta was plowing smoothly through the mild blue waters of the Gulf Stream. Upon the rear deck, beneath a widespread canopy, sat four men, dressed in suits of cool pongee. Glasses clinked in their hands. Often their conversation was broken with ribald laughter.
The four appeared a typical group of pleasure-seekers, with nothing more to do than enjoy to the fullest the luxurious life of tropical seas.
There was a definite ease of equality about these men; each seemed to possess poise and leadership. In action, manner, and deportment, they were much alike. Yet in facial appearance and physical proportions, there were noticeable differences.
The difference became particularly evident during a peculiar ceremony which the men performed. They were drinking to the health of each in turn — apparently a regular procedure.
One man would keep to his seat as the other three stood and lifted their glasses.
"To George Ellsworth," those drinking the toast first recited in unison, "the best of luck and health!" They drank and sat down, plopping their empty glasses before the man whom they had toasted.
"Fill them up, Butcher. Fill them up!"
The one called George Ellsworth complied. His manner was characteristic of his nickname, "Butcher." He was a big, bluff fellow, some forty odd years of age. His face was full, his lips jocular. His fat, beefy hand gripped the bottle and filled the glasses.
Then Ellsworth rose, and two others got to their feet with him. The fourth of the group remained seated.
"To Howard Best," came the chant, "the best of luck and health!" Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.
"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.
Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his white, scrawny hands tense. He was the sober-minded member of the group. The sobriquet of "Deacon" fitted him like a slipper. He appeared years older than Butcher. Standing next to the huge man, Deacon looked very lean and withered.
"To Maurice Exton, the best of luck and health!"
Thus chimed the third toast; and after it the jocular order:
"Pour it out, Major! Don't be stingy with the bottle!"
Maurice Exton — the one called "Major" — was a medium-sized man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features sallow. A neat mustache that matched his hair adorned his upper lip.
A Van Dyke tipped his chin. His shoulders were erect, and had a military bearing. He filled the glasses with steady hands. Then came the toast to the fourth of the group:
"To Joel Hawkins, the best of luck and health!"
After the passing of this last toast, there was momentary silence.
Then Deacon turned to Joel Hawkins and said:
"Don't forget the glasses, Ferret. There's another one coming up."
"That's right," replied "Ferret," with a wry grin. "Did you think I forgot?" Joel Hawkins leaned forward with a shrewd, gleaming grin. Short, stoop-shouldered, so as to almost appear deformed, the name of Ferret was apt. The man's eyes peered sharply through partly closed lids.
Handling the bottle with his face on a level with the glasses, he seemed to be measuring each drink so that all would be exactly the same.
Major picked up his glass and stood, while the other three followed him to their feet.
"To David Traver!" he said, in an even voice.
"To David Traver," came the chorus, "the best of luck and health!" The men drank this final toast more slowly. Their glasses swung down one by one. As they resumed their seats, they looked about with satisfaction.
"Well, we've remembered Judge," declared Butcher.
"Judge has remembered us," said Deacon quietly.