Twenty blocks on, the cab was stopped by a traffic light. The driver thought this was the time to learn his passenger’s destination. He put his head through the partition, but saw no one. With an exclamation of anger, he leaped from the cab and opened the back door.
His passenger had gone. The car was empty. A flat object was visible on the rear seat. The cab man picked it up. It was a damp, flabby ten-dollar bill.
Ten blocks back, the man came out of a dilapidated house situated on a side street. He seemed entirely different from the water-soaked individual who had taken the taxi near the drawbridge.
He was clad in a dark suit. Upon his shoulders rested a loose black cloak. His face was lost beneath the brim of a large, black felt hat. He turned and walked along the street, scarcely noticed by those who passed. A soft, chuckling laugh escaped his lips and echoed from a doorway as he passed.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
THE man in the black cloak had undergone a remarkable transformation. He was no longer weary. Only a slight limp remained as a token of his crash in the speedster. The effects of his long, cramped hiding had disappeared.
He made a startling figure as he passed the lights of the avenue, his great, grotesque shadow forming an uncanny blot upon the pavement.
A short while later, the same man in black appeared in front of Rodney Paget’s apartment house. The Shadow entered the building unobserved, and rode up in the automatic elevator.
He stopped at the door of Paget’s apartment and silently inserted an oddly shaped key. He opened the door noiselessly and stepped into total darkness. The door closed behind him.
Then there was silence. Alert, The Shadow was listening. He seemed to sense the presence of some living being. He moved across the room, so noiselessly that no ear could have heard him.
There was a slight click as his hand pulled the cord of a lamp. The light revealed a man against the opposite wall — a grim-faced man whose eyes were intent upon the door. The fellow turned in amazement to stare into the muzzle of The Shadow’s automatic.
A soft laugh came from beneath the hat. The man by the door sullenly raised his hands. The Shadow moved toward him; then turned quickly as another man leaped from the corner of the room and fell upon him.
“Get him, Fritz,” hissed the man at the door, as he leaped toward the strugglers. “No gun! No noise!”
“I’ve got him, Bart,” came the triumphant answer. The attacker’s hands were gripping The Shadow’s throat.
Then came an astounding change. Slender white hands came from the cloak. The Shadow caught his opponent’s wrists. Dropping toward the floor, The Shadow swung Fritz headforemost. He used the man’s wiry body as a giant club.
The human weapon descended with terrific force against the fellow called Bart. The Shadow arose and laughed softly. His two antagonists lay on the floor before him.
Fritz was completely dazed. Bart was only partly stunned. The Shadow removed the man’s belt and bound his hands behind him, firmly and with amazing speed. He used a handkerchief to gag the man’s mouth.
Then he turned his attention to Fritz. The man wore no belt, so The Shadow used his suspenders.
Leaving his helpless victims, The Shadow commenced a quick search through the room.
He acted with the air of one who was familiar with the place. Papers, drawers, books, and other articles were quickly inspected. The Shadow seemed to be checking a previous search.
He left the room and turned on lights throughout the apartment. His eyes were looking everywhere. He stopped suddenly in the little alcove. Something caught his eye.
He stepped to the window shade. There were blotchy marks at the left side of the rolled-up blind. There were similar marks at the bottom of the shade. Visible only to a keen eye, they had attracted The Shadow’s notice.
THE white hands were at work. Within a few seconds, the left hand found the secret catch and the right hand drew down the shade. As the papers which Paget had hidden fell toward the floor, The Shadow plucked them from the air. He began a quick perusal of the document.
The dust-covered fingers of Rodney Paget had left the marks that had betrayed his ingenious hiding place. The Shadow’s previous search had failed, but, firm in his belief that Paget still possessed the document he wanted, The Shadow had succeeded through the aid of a trifling clew!
The figure in black stood firm and motionless. The Shadow was completely absorbed in the revelations which he was now gaining. His perusal was rapid but careful. He finished the reading. His hands slipped the papers beneath his cloak. Then he raised the empty blind and locked it in place.
His hand produced a watch. He turned and left the alcove.
In the outer room, The Shadow stood above his bound victims. He appeared as a man of destiny. He was lost in deep, concentrated thought.
The men on the floor wondered. They feared the presence of this mysterious being; they dreaded what might happen.
To their astonishment, The Shadow ignored them. The strange man in black came suddenly to life. He moved rapidly through the apartment, extinguishing lights behind him. The living room was plunged in darkness.
Leaving his victims to their own uncomfortable thoughts, The Shadow opened the door of the apartment and disappeared from view. The only memento of his presence was the sound of a mocking laugh that came through the closing door.
It was a long, taunting laugh that echoed after he was gone. It chilled the hearts of the men who lay bound upon the floor. For the laugh did not bring back thoughts of the events that had just transpired. It seemed to presage events that were yet to be!
CHAPTER XIX. OVER THE WIRES
THE telephone rang in a booth in the Grand Central Station. An attendant at the lunch counter opposite heard the ring. He finished serving a customer and went to the rear of the counter.
Alone and undisturbed, he dialed a number. He heard a voice at the other end.
“Burbank,” he said softly.
“Good,” came the reply. “Any report?”
“None.”
“Where is Vincent?”
“Gone.”
“Burke?”
“Gone.”
There was a momentary silence. Then the voice issued a brief order.
“Be ready,” it said. “Act instantly on any double call. Report news here at once.”
The receiver clicked. The lunch counter attendant hung up the phone and went back to give the waiting customer his check.
At police headquarters, Inspector Timothy Klein was chewing the end of a fat, unlighted cigar as he stared sullenly at Detective Joe Cardona.
“You see the connection, don’t you?” he demanded.
Cardona nodded.
“This whole thing is your fault, then. If you had got your man the first time, this new mess wouldn’t have come along. It’s time you woke up, Joe.”
“Woke up!” exclaimed the detective. “I’ve been trying to trail that mug that was at Marchand’s house.
“Whether he did the murder or not, we’ve got the goods on him! He was carrying guns. He resisted arrest and assaulted me. But even at that, I believe his story—”
“Blah!” interjected the inspector. “Don’t be a kid, Joe. Wise up.” He thrust a copy of the Morning Monitor before the detective’s eyes and pointed to the glaring headlines.
“Look at the ride they’re giving us. Another murderer slips the police. Where is the man that was in the car? Look over here” — he turned to a back page — “they even point out the similarity to the Lukens murder.
“They want to know where the man is who was found beside the doctor’s body. There’s the connection right there!”
He threw the paper in front of Cardona. The detective did not seem to notice it. Klein became sarcastic.