“Dash that appointment of Cranston’s,” ejaculated Weston. “I was going to insist that he cancel it and come along with us.”
“Headquarters on the wire, commissioner,” remarked Cardona. “I’m arranging for the boats. We can get two and use four men to each.”
“Have four men join us, then,” ordered Weston. “They can meet us at the pier. You and I can ride in one boat, Cardona.”
“Just the two of us, commissioner?”
“No. We already have two men here.” Weston indicated the dicks who had come in from Dolver’s.
“They will go along with us, Cardona.”
“What about Mr. Hungerfeld, commissioner? You’ll leave him here?”
“Yes. Markham can look out for him.”
The detective sergeant smiled when he heard the commissioner’s statement. As a bodyguard, Markham considered himself to be the equal of a squad.
Weston’s decision was indication that the commissioner also recognized the detective sergeant’s worth.
Justin Hungerfeld, eyeing Markham, made no request for other protection. The old man was also impressed by the bulky sergeant’s businesslike air.
Cardona completed arrangements, then glanced from the window. The afternoon was waning; it was getting close to dusk. There was still time for the run up to Poughkeepsie, although Cardona had a hunch that they would not make the trip before dusk.
The ace detective had exaggerated the speed of the police boats in order to sell Weston the idea of an immediate start. A trip by automobile could be made in less time; but Cardona knew that the commissioner would prefer the boats once they were aboard. Travel would seem swifter when ploughing along close to the water.
OTHER eyes than those of Joe Cardona were also surveying that darkening sky. The Shadow, riding southward through Manhattan, was still in the guise of Lamont Cranston as he gazed from the window of his limousine and studied the sky line of the city.
With one hand on the ready bag that contained his garments of black, The Shadow used the other to lift the speaking tube and give a quiet order to Stanley. The Shadow had decided to go elsewhere than to Lamont Cranston’s New Jersey home.
He had also picked a mode of travel different from those which Cardona had considered. His plan was revealed by the quiet words which he delivered through the speaking tube, just as the car approached the Holland Tunneclass="underline"
“Stop at the Newark airport, Stanley.”
CHAPTER XVII. THE YELLOW HORDE
BACK at the old Hotel Albana, a gloom had settled in the eighth-floor corridors. Poorly illuminated by daylight, the approach of dusk had made the hallways vague. One could scarcely distinguish the numbers on the doors.
A yellow face bobbed into view from the stairway by the service elevator. That visage had not been present when The Shadow had made his departure; but it had come very shortly afterward. Dark eyes watched through slitted lids as this henchman of Leng Doy crept forward into the corridor.
A door opened; voices were heard. The Chinaman ducked back to the stairway and peered from a corner while a group of men came into view. There were four in alclass="underline" Commissioner Weston, Joe Cardona and the two detectives. The quartette was on its way to a Hudson River dock.
“Hungerfeld’s all right with Markham,” Weston was saying. “I would rather leave one man here — one competent man — than a group. We can count on Markham to be alert.”
Cardona grunted his agreement. The detective was thinking of someone other than Markham. He made remark while they waited for the elevator.
“Burke’s down in the lobby, commissioner,” informed Joe. “I told him he could stay there. He’s waiting for a story. What will I do about him?”
“Bring him along,” replied Weston, in jovial tone. “We can crowd him into one of the boats. It is better to have him with us. That will keep him from trying to interview Justin Hungerfeld.”
The elevator door clanged open. The four men entered. The door closed. The watching Chinaman crept from his hiding place, came along the corridor and stole to the door of 816. After listening for a few moments, he returned to the stairway.
Soon other faces came in view. A trio of whispering Mongols, nodding to the words of some hidden leader. These Chinamen started forward; others arrived at the top of the stairway. They edged large hampers into the corridor; then one of them crept to the door in the main corridor, the one that bore the number 814.
Slyly, this Celestial produced a large ring of keys. He began to try them in the door of Hungerfeld’s inner room. The lock-picking Chinaman proved himself to be cautious as well as an expert. He fitted a key and turned it; then looked toward the stairway and nodded. The Chinamen with the hampers whispered to someone past the corner.
TWO men stepped into the corridor in answer to the signal. One was Dave Callard, his rugged features discernible despite the gloominess of the hall. The other was a squatly, bespectacled Chinaman, whose face looked owlish. Callard’s companion was Leng Doy, the missing Chinese merchant.
Callard paused when he reached the door of 814. Leng Doy kept on to where the passage turned. The Chinaman made gestures, ordering his minions to take posts. He, himself, went to the door of 816 and beckoned for two to join him.
A yellow horde had gained possession of these corridors; others were shifting in from the stairway. A full dozen Chinamen were ready at the beck of Leng Doy. Both doors of Hungerfeld’s suite were covered.
Minions were at the corner of the passage, ready to give alarm.
They were waiting for Dave Callard to begin action. Flanked by two wiry Cantonese, the American turned the knob of the door marked 814. He opened the barrier and peered into an empty bedroom. A large window furnished fair illumination from the dusky outside sky. Callard saw that the room was empty.
Entering, Callard left the door ajar behind him. The door to the living room was open; lamps were lighted and the sound of voices came to the intruder’s ears. Justin Hungerfeld’s crackly tones were answered by Markham’s gruff speech.
“I shall rest a while, sergeant,” the old man was saying. “After that, we can have dinner served here. You will dine with me, of course?”
“Sure thing,” returned Markham. “Thanks, Mr. Hungerfeld. How long do you want to rest?”
“A half-hour nap will be sufficient.”
“O.K. I’ll call you when time’s up.”
Callard sidled to the wall as Hungerfeld appeared in the doorway from the living room. Markham was behind the stooped man; the detective sergeant glanced toward the window; then turned about and went back into the living room. He did not glimpse Callard. Close by the door to the hall, Dave made a signal.
It was observed by a peering Chinaman.
HUNGERFELD fumbled about and found a floor lamp. He pulled a cord; then approached the bed, intending to lie down. Again, Callard motioned. The door opened; and the two Chinamen crept in.
Hungerfeld was glancing toward the window; but his ears, surprisingly keen, must have heard the sound that the intruders made.
The old man came to his feet, turning about with surprising agility. He made no outcry, for he was staring into the muzzle of a revolver that flashed from the fist of Dave Callard. At the same moment, Hungerfeld heard a sound from the outer room. Someone was knocking at the door of 816.
The Chinamen who had entered were crouched as if to spring. Their threat was added to Dave Callard’s soft hiss for silence. Hungerfeld stood motionless as Callard stole toward the connecting door. Again the rap had sounded at 816. Markham had drawn a revolver and was on his way to answer the call.