LATER, the blue light shone in The Shadow’s sanctum. A soft laugh sounded as the master sleuth studied the gathered clippings and reports. By his trip to Markin’s, The Shadow had, since his arrival, gained the real facts in the secret that lay behind a chain of deaths.
Facts, undisclosed while The Shadow was in Rio, were pointing the way to the measures which must be taken to aid the law. By his actions aboard the Southern Star, The Shadow had sought to end the run of crime. Yet murder had followed in New York and The Shadow had learned why.
Piecing the remarks which Markin, Weston and Cardona had made concerning their previous conversation, The Shadow had gained a practical knowledge of Markin’s revelations. The hidden listener at the conference tonight was the one who had profited through the discussion.
New murder might be on its way. Another lawyer — as yet unknown — might be the next victim set for murder. When crime struck, The Shadow would be there to meet it. He had gained the ground that he required to overtake new bursts of violence.
Earphones clicked. A light glowed upon the wall. Burbank’s voice came across the wire. The Shadow responded, in his whispered tones.
“Instructions to Marsland,” were his words. “Go to the Pink Rat. Await written orders that he will receive there.”
“Instructions received.”
Earphones clattered; hands disappeared from the light. When they returned, they were carrying folders that were identified by names. The Shadow began to study reports on crooks — definite data which he had produced from his exclusive files.
Half an hour passed while The Shadow engaged in research. Then came a click of the light. A laugh crept through the darkened sanctum. The Shadow was departing. He was on his way to the underworld.
There he would form contact with Cliff Marsland. The Shadow and his agent, independently, would seek the information that was needed. The Shadow had taken the same advice that Joe Cardona had received from Kelwood Markin.
On this, the first night of his arrival in New York, he was seeking first-hand information concerning the whereabouts of crooks who had been legal clients of Lester Dorrington.
CHAPTER XII
A CLIENT ADVISES
ON the following afternoon, a tall, cadaverous man entered the lobby of the Bylend Building. He purchased a newspaper at the stand; he paused to glance at the headlines. The murders of Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton were still in the news, but no new killings had been reported.
The tall man was Lester Dorrington. He was returning to his offices after lunching at his club. His expressionless face revealed nothing of his thoughts as he strolled toward the express elevator that awaited passengers for the twentieth floor and those above that level.
When Dorrington’s footsteps clicked along the corridor of the twenty-fourth floor, a door opened across the way from the lawyer’s suite. Peering eyes watched Dorrington pass. A detective, stationed by Joe Cardona, was watching the lawyer’s return.
From the time that he had left his house that morning, during the lunch period that he had spent at the club, Lester Dorrington had been under police surveillance. Yet there was nothing in the lawyer’s attitude that indicated suspicion of that fact.
Arriving in his inner office, Lester Dorrington began to study papers that were upon his desk. While the solemn-faced attorney was thus engaged, a ring came from the private telephone. Dorrington went to the little cabinet in the corner. He brought out the telephone and answered the call.
“What’s that?” he questioned, sharply, as he recognized the voice over the wire. “Ace Feldon? I didn’t tell him to come to see me… I see… He wants to talk to me, eh? Put him on the wire… What’s that? Well… All right… Send him down…”
Dorrington deposited the telephone in the cabinet. He strode swiftly across the luxurious private office and locked the door that led to the outer rooms. Dorrington had half a dozen workers in his general office, with lesser associates in private rooms of his extensive suite. He did not want to be disturbed by any of them.
Coming back to the corner by the little telephone cabinet, Dorrington unlocked the door of a closet. He pressed a shelf upward. A click followed. A panel raised in the rear of the closet.
The opening showed a spiral staircase.
DULL footsteps were clanging down the stairway. Dorrington stepped back into the office. A hard-faced, big-fisted man appeared from the open panel. His thick lips wore a pleased smile.
“Hello, Dorrington,” growled the arrival.
“Hello, Feldon,” responded the lawyer, dryly. “Sit down. I shall talk with you immediately.”
As the hard-faced man sauntered to a chair, the lawyer stepped into the closet and closed the panel. He left the door open, then came back to his desk. Taking his swivel chair, he stared coldly at his visitor.
“Hope you ain’t sore because I dropped in,” began “Ace” Feldon. “Say, Dorrington — that staircase is a swell gag. I knew most lawyers have got a good way out of their offices. You’ve got a couple here on this floor. But that office upstairs is the best stunt yet.”
“This was the first time you used it,” reminded Dorrington. “Your previous visits, Feldon, did not require secrecy.”
“That’s right,” nodded Feldon. “You always told me, Dorrington, that if I wanted to see you on the q.t., all I had to do was drop in on a guy named Loven, who has his office on the floor above this. But I never figured that you’d have a way between. It’s a pip, Dorrington, that staircase is.”
“I appreciate your commendation,” declared Dorrington. “Now that we have discussed the staircase, let me hear the reason for your unexpected visit.”
Ace Feldon shifted in his chair. Hard-boiled though he was, this toughened fellow was ill-at-ease as he met Dorrington’s searching gaze. Feldon fumbled with a hat that he was holding in his hands. Then, with a tone that indicated final decision, he put a definite question.
“Listen, Dorrington,” he growled. “What’s the idea of picking Whitey Calban to do your bumping for you? What was wrong with me?”
“Calban?” questioned Dorrington, in apparent surprise. “I haven’t seen the man for months, Feldon.”
“That ain’t the point,” retorted Ace. “Maybe you haven’t seen him; but you’re using him.”
“For crime?”
“Yes. For murder.”
Dorrington smiled slightly as he shook his head. The lawyer was accepting the statement as preposterous.
ACE FELDON, now that he had begun, was not ready to desist.
“Listen, Dorrington,” he stated, “you’ve represented Whitey Calban and you’ve represented me. Both of us are smooth workers. The bulls don’t mean nothin’ in our sweet young lives. If you wanted anythin’ done — along our line — it’s a sure bet that either Whitey or I would pull it for you.”
“Granted,” agreed Dorrington. “Murder, however, is something which I have found entirely unnecessary so far as my business is concerned. I have represented killers; but I have never hired them.”
“There’s a difference between Whitey Calban and me,” resumed Feldon, steadily ignoring Dorrington’s statement. “I’ll tell you what the difference is. I’m a square shooter, but Whitey Calban ain’t. I’ve got it in for that guy Calban.”
“So I have heard,” remarked Dorrington. “Feuds between gangleaders are not unusual. It seems to be part of the racket.”
“I ain’t one that goes out of my way to find trouble,” retorted Ace Feldon. “There’s just one reason why I’ve got it in for that louse Calban. He’s a double-crosser, that’s why. And when a guy like Calban begins to slip one over on a friend of mine, I do somethin’ about it. Savvy?”