Pins and disks were disappearing. Only one remained — that tiny spot of red that shone upon the bleak, deserted tip of cape land known as East Point.
THE SHADOW had marked a vital spot. He had afforded no solution to the problem. He had waited merely until the government search had shown no results.
Beginning with the knowledge that cunning had outwitted law, The Shadow had followed his process of logical reasoning, as clearly as if he, himself, had been planning a raid upon a ship like the Patagonia.
The Shadow’s hand inscribed a brief, terse message in coded language upon a sheet of paper. As the ink dried, the hands of The Shadow folded the note.
Written in disappearing ink, this simply coded message would fade as soon as its recipient had read it. That was the system The Shadow used when he communicated directly with his agents.
The hands slipped the note in an envelope. Using another pen — one provided with ordinary ink — The Shadow addressed the letter with his right hand. The moving fingers inscribed the name and destination in neat characters, while the left hand rested motionless, holding the edge of the envelope.
The girasol sparkled fantastically, its glittering shafts giving silent approval to The Shadow’s deed. The stone and the hand remained upon the envelope while the right hand laid the pen aside and moved upward.
A click sounded above the blue light. The room was plunged in darkness. A cloak swished softly through the solid gloom as The Shadow moved away. The silence seemed to break asunder as the sudden peal of a sinister laugh broke through the blackness. Weird, mocking notes betokened The Shadow’s mirth.
The gibing cry reached an unearthly tone. Its peal burst like a white-capped breaker, into a fierce triumph that ended in a long, shuddering whisper.
Echoes responded from the black walls, hurling back the cry in ghostly miniature. The reverberations of the whispered mirth followed, repeating in long-continued waves like sinister lisps from the mouths of hideous ghouls.
The last sounds subsided faintly. Grim silence replaced them. The room was empty. The dynamic presence which had dominated it was gone.
The Shadow had departed. But in the few minutes of his calculations, he had laid his plans; he had issued his orders that would put The Shadow’s agents at work.
CHAPTER IV
THE STRANGER AT EAST POINT
THE persistent ringing of the telephone bell awakened Harry Vincent. Leaning from his bed, Harry lifted the receiver of the instrument and yawned a sleepy “Hello.”
“Mr. Vincent?”
Harry acknowledged the question with an affirmative reply.
“This is the Standard Crucible Co.,” came the slow, lethargic voice ever the wire. “Can you arrange an appointment with our man, by ten o’clock?”
“Certainly,” answered Harry. “I shall be glad to meet him.”
Hanging up the receiver, Harry glanced at his watch and noted that it was nine o’clock. Dressing hurriedly, he left the hotel room and hastened down in an elevator. Entering the grillroom, he ordered breakfast, knowing that he had sufficient time to eat a quick meal.
Staring across the table, Harry could see the passing people in the luxurious lobby of the Metrolite Hotel. The situation to-day recalled to Harry many former adventures that he had undergone since he had made his New York residence in this palatial hostelry.
For that telephone message — which to other ears might have seemed nothing more than a simple business appointment — was a call to action. It meant that Harry Vincent must immediately set forth to do service for The Shadow.
Two words had been peculiarly emphasized across the wire. Those were the words “our man.” Whenever agents of The Shadow communicated with one another, they did so tersely, with emphasized words that carried a special meaning.
To Harry, “our man” meant “R. Mann”; thus signifying that he was to call upon Rutledge Mann, the investment broker who acted as contact agent for The Shadow.
Harry Vincent had done yeoman duty in the service of The Shadow. His career as an agent of The Shadow had begun on one eventful night when Harry, about to throw himself from the parapet of a bridge, had been plucked from suicide by a hand that had stretched from the darkness. Since then, Harry had obeyed the commands of this mysterious rescuer faithfully in every respect.
Never had he encountered The Shadow face to face; but on many occasions, The Shadow had come to aid him when he had fallen into the hands of enemies.
The conclusion of each episode had brought a period of recuperation to Harry Vincent. Living comfortably at the Metrolite Hotel, or vacationing at his home in Michigan, he had merely awaited The Shadow’s bidding to begin new work in the ceaseless struggle against crime.
As Harry started from the hotel toward the Badger Building, where Mann’s office was located, he sensed the objective of this present mission. Usually, The Shadow’s commands came from a clear sky. Often, The Shadow chose to work alone. But on this occasion, Harry had been reading the newspaper accounts concerning the gold robbery aboard the Patagonia.
Those signed articles by Clyde Burke had been a sure intimation that The Shadow was interested in the affair of the stolen millions. Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent had worked together on more than one occasion. With Clyde temporarily incapacitated, it was only logical that Harry should be called upon for duty.
Upon reaching Rutledge Mann’s office, Harry was ushered into an inner room, where he found the investment broker seated at a glass-topped desk. Harry extended a hand in greeting, and took a seat beside the desk.
The two men formed an interesting contrast. Harry Vincent, active agent, was a stalwart young fellow, whose poise showed ability and self-confidence. He was a man built for action, with keen, firm gaze and well-molded features.
Rutledge Mann, passive agent, was older than Harry, and quite lackadaisical in pose. Faultlessly attired, possessed of chubby countenance, he had the blase expression of a person who found life quite uninteresting, and lived in a continuous state of boredom.
Mann had always been a puzzle to Harry Vincent. It was almost impossible to picture him as other than a stuffed-shirt idler, who took life easy, and detested action.
Yet Harry had seen Mann in the power of desperadoes who had threatened him with torture and death if he would not betray The Shadow. Then had Rutledge Mann shown his mettle. Beneath that affected exterior was a determination that had gained Harry Vincent’s complete admiration.
TO-DAY, Rutledge Mann exhibited his usual composure. With no particular haste or emphasis, he drew a few papers from a desk drawer, and dropped them on the table.
One sheet was blank. Mann tore it into pieces, and carelessly dropped the fragments into a wastebasket. Harry knew what the action meant. The blank sheet had been a message from The Shadow, and the writing had disappeared following Rutledge Mann’s perusal.
“This afternoon,” declared Mann, in a complacent tone. “you are to go to a place called East Point. You leave by express at one o’clock, and transfer to a local at East Point Junction. Once you are there, Vincent, you may find it a pleasant place to spend a brief vacation.”
Harry nodded. He understood the inference. He was to go to East Point to investigate, and to remain there until otherwise notified.
“There are no hotels at East Point,” continued Mann. “In fact, there are only a few shacks near the railroad station. A few miles beyond — on the point itself — there are better residences. I doubt that there are more than half a dozen houses, however.
“The air is most beneficial at the extreme end of the point. The scenery is more picturesque at that spot. Furthermore, the few people who live there are apt to prove more interesting. Therefore, East Point itself, and not the tiny settlement at the railroad depot, should be your logical place of residence.”