"Sure. Joe Cardona," Slade answered.
"Right. Where is he?"
"There's talk about him being away on leave."
"Right," the rajah responded. "Did you stop to think that this is an odd time for him to be away?"
Slade became slightly nervous.
"You don't mean" — his voice was tense — "that Cardona might have got wise to the other rings—"
"Not a bit of it!" laughed Rajah Brahman derisively. "That flatfoot couldn't get wise to anything. At the same time, I'd rather have him here in New York than away."
"Why?" questioned Slade, in surprise.
"Because Cardona loves to kick up a fuss," Rajah Brahman explained. "If The Shadow is in this, playing a waiting game, he can't do much while Cardona is in town. Cardona would come blundering on the job as soon as The Shadow started anything. That's why I think there's a reason for Cardona's absence."
"You mean The Shadow?"
"Yes. I mean The Shadow may have decoyed Cardona somewhere. Unless — which is only one chance in a thousand — Cardona has really got a clue. But he can't get far with it if he has. It's The Shadow I think about — not Cardona—"
"I get you, Bert."
"If Cardona moves," the seer continued, "he gives himself away a week beforehand. But you can't tell how The Shadow works. I've heard enough about him to know that. So I'm keeping my eyes open.
"You do the same," he cautioned. "Watch yourself when you come in here. Watch when you go out." The men strolled into the anteroom, Rajah Brahman repeating his admonition. The tall, temporarily smooth-faced mystic was calm and at ease, but Martin Slade was still dubious as he glanced suspiciously about him. Noting the man's manner, Rajah Brahman pressed his lesson home.
"Come only when necessary," he said. "The chief is staying away except when he can come without anybody suspecting who he is.
"Jacques is out altogether, keeping quiet, and not coming near here. He shipped his paraphernalia over here, and that may have been a mistake. But it was the only way he could get rid of the chair."
"You've got it here now?"
"Yes. Downstairs."
"It's a clever gag, isn't it?"
"Well," declared Rajah Brahman in a noncommittal tone, "I can't say it's no good at all, because nobody suspected it up at the Dalban. They must have looked it over with everything else that was there.
"But I know better gags than that chair, and I wouldn't use it in a seance of my own."
"Particularly now," said Slade.
"Not at any time!" declared Rajah Brahman. "I have my own methods — and I'll fool the mediums with them, as well as the public. The Shadow, too! I'll spot that fellow the minute he puts his soft foot in this place!"
Martin Slade left by the outer door. Rajah Brahman returned to the inner sanctum. He had forgotten all about his missing watch — the tricky device with which he had produced his baby spook. Not for one instant did the mystic suppose that it was anywhere other than some place in this apartment. Rajah Brahman had stated to Martin Slade that he would be able to spot The Shadow. Had the pretended seer possessed the second sight which he claimed, he would have had his opportunity now. For scarcely had the curtain dropped before the door of the inner shrine, than a figure emerged from a darkened spot on the wall beside that very curtain.
It was The Shadow — the tall, mysterious man in black. Once more he had stood unseen before the portal of Rajah Brahman's sanctum.
Softly, The Shadow laughed. Then his tall form glided along the path that Martin Slade had taken. A soft, eerie laugh echoed in the room to mark The Shadow's passing.
Chapter XII — The Rajah's Scheme
It was exactly forty-eight hours later that Martin Slade again appeared in Rajah Brahman's luxurious apartment. He came in a spirit of elation.
Although the night was warm, Slade was wearing a light overcoat, and he did not divest himself of the outer garment until he was received in Rajah Brahman's sanctum.
He found the false mystic in the natural guise of Bert Clutten. There had been no visitors to-day. It was a Hindu day of repose, and Rajah Brahman was smooth-faced and clad in dressing gown and slippers. He looked up shrewdly as Slade arrived, and smacked a small portfolio upon a chair.
"I've got the whole works!" exclaimed Martin Slade. "Everything — here."
"I thought you were after it last night," declared Rajah Brahman.
"I laid low instead," explained Slade. "I wanted to make sure the old man was away. I got the lay of the place, and was lucky enough to hear that old housekeeper shouting at the top of her lungs over the telephone. Telling someone that the old man wouldn't be back until Tuesday morning — that's to-morrow."
"What about putting the stuff back?" questioned Rajah Brahman, opening the portfolio.
"I'll do it to-night," declared Slade. "There's plenty of time to go over it all and get it back there.
"I was worried about cracking the safe," he went on, "but the old crib was easy when I got started. Opened like the door of an ice box. Nothing to it!"
Rajah Brahman was sorting out the things that the portfolio contained. The expression in his eyes resembled that of a man who has discovered a gold mine. Here were letters clippings — everything that he desired.
Tony — as much Imam Singh as ever — arrived at his master's call, bringing paper and pencil. Cross-legged on the floor, Rajah Brahman began to take notes, calling Martin Slade to sit beside him. As the minutes went by, the two men gained a perfect account of the past history of young James Telford, Thomas Telford's son.
Rajah Brahman held a photograph in his hand. He looked at Slade thoughtfully. Then he called Tony.
"Take this downstairs and snap it," he ordered. "Wait a moment, Tony! Here's another!" Referring to his notations, Rajah Brahman selected a small snapshot that showed James Telford standing in front of a Louisiana bungalow. He gave it to Tony also.
"How much do you know about New Orleans?" he inquired of Martin Slade.
"I know it like a book," declared Slade. "Many's the night I've spent along Canal Street — and in the French quarter. I could give you the dimensions of Jackson Square from memory. The old town isn't what it used to be, though — a few years back, when I was there.
"How many years ago?"
"Five or six. Six, now I come to think of it."
"That's about the time young Jim Telford left there," said Rajah Brahman reflectively.
"I get you," said Slade. "Well, if you want any dope to spring on the old man, I can supply it. When you materialize the spook of the lost boy—"
"I don't need information about New Orleans," interrupted Rajah Brahman suavely. "I wanted to know what you knew about the town. It won't be necessary for me to go into details with Thomas Telford. I expect you to do that."
"You expect me—"
"Yes. In other words, there will be no materialization of James Telford."
"But" — Slade could not seem to understand — "but that's why I cracked the safe. You've got the dope, and you're not going to use it?"
"Look at this picture," said Rajah Brahman, thrusting a photograph of the missing man into Slade's hands.
"Did you ever see anyone who looked like that?"
"The face is familiar," said Slade doubtfully.
"Look at this, then." Rajah Brahman dug among the cushions of his lesser throne, and produced his mirror. "Look right into it, Slade. Then look at the picture."
The meaning dawned on Martin Slade. The man in the photograph bore a marked resemblance to himself, although the face was nearly ten years younger.
"I'm to play the spook?" he asked. "Is that the idea?"
"I said there would be no materialization," replied the seer, in an impatient tone.