The name as well as the voice was a token of identity. Burbank was The Shadow’s hidden contact man — one with whom The Shadow’s agents could communicate at any time.
In brief terms, Cliff Marsland reported what he had learned at the Hotel Spartan. He did not mention the name of Duffy Bagland. He simply referred to the gang leader as 308. That was Bagland’s room at the hotel.
“Report received,” came Burbank’s quiet tone. “Await instructions. Call in ten minutes.”
Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver. He went back into the rear room of the restaurant. When the waiter reappeared, Cliff was seated at the table, still smoking a cigarette while he waited for his order.
Minutes drifted by; Cliff, while he ate his meal, was on the alert. The door to the telephone room was only a few feet away. Within ten minutes, Cliff intended to make another call to Burbank.
Then he would receive the instructions for tonight — the word that would tell him how to cooperate with The Shadow in forestalling the crime which brewed at Duffy Bagland’s bidding.
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW HEARS
STRANGE blue rays were focused upon the polished surface of a table top. Within that circle of light rested two white hands — long-fingered shapes that seemed to project from nowhere, like living, creeping things.
Upon a finger of the left hand rested a sparkling gem. A stone of many hues, its deep-tinted colors changing from deep crimson to sparkling azure, this jewel betokened mystery. Connoisseurs who had seen that gem had pronounced it as an unmatched girasol, the finest fire opal in all the world.
The hands — the deep-colored girasol which emitted sparks of light — these were tokens of The Shadow. They gave sign of his presence. The bluish gleam from the lamp told that The Shadow was in his sanctum.
Only in that one abode did such strange light exist — shafts of gleaming blue that were confined to the corner of a black-walled room. No eyes other than those of The Shadow were accustomed to that eerie light, for the location of the sanctum was known to the master alone.
Somewhere in Manhattan — a spot easily accessible, yet impossible to find — there lay The Shadow’s sanctum. This was the weird apartment which The Shadow chose to escape the city’s roar and strife, a secret sanctuary wherein he could plan his mighty campaigns against the hordes of evil.
Envelopes lay upon The Shadow’s table. The long white fingers opened them. Sheets of paper were unfolded — reports from The Shadow’s agent. All were written in vivid blue ink; all were inscribed in a code which the hidden eyes of The Shadow rapidly perused.
After the reading, the written words began to disappear. One by one, in uncanny order, they obliterated themselves as effectively as if some unseen hand had wiped them out.
Such was the way with the communications which The Shadow used. The disappearing ink took effect when contact came with air. Any letters that might fall into unfriendly hands would thus prove useless. Before the simple code could be deciphered, the writing would be gone!
A peculiar instrument rested upon the table, just at the fringe of light. Its ticking was drowned by the rustling of the papers. A large dial with three circles of numbers, this device served as The Shadow’s clock. It told off seconds as a speedometer marks the tenths of miles.
Each second, by that clock, seemed to be a lingering space of time. Although the hands of The Shadow moved with ease, their actions, when gauged by the odd timepiece, seemed incredibly swift.
Such was the secret of The Shadow’s prowess. He had the ability to pack decisive actions into fleeting moments, to attempt feats which others would not dare — all because of deft and unfailing precision.
THE inner circles of the clock indicated that the time was shortly after eight. While The Shadow worked, a speck of light appeared upon the black wall directly opposite the white hands. Fingers crept swiftly across the table, and returned with a set of earphones. These were carried into the darkness. The Shadow spoke into the invisible mouthpiece.
The call was from Burbank. The contact man, connected with The Shadow’s sanctum, was relaying Cliff Marsland’s emergency report. A whispered laugh chilled the gloomy atmosphere of the sanctum. Then The Shadow gave brief instructions for Cliff to return to the lobby of the old Hotel Spartan, there to await direct orders from The Shadow.
The tiny signal bulb faded. The earphones slid across the table. The hands of The Shadow quickly swept aside the blank papers and their envelopes. A click sounded shortly afterward; the scene was plunged in darkness.
A slight swish could be heard in the darkness of the sanctum. It was the rustling of The Shadow’s cloak — the sound that betokened his departure.
A soft, creepy laugh came from invisible lips; it rose to a strident burst of mirth that ended in a host of echoes that shouted merrily from the walls. The weird reverberations dwindled to ghostly sobs that persisted as though uttered by a host of ghoulish throats.
When the last faint echo had died, the sanctum was empty. The Shadow had departed.
Swiftly and silently did The Shadow move on his strange excursions through crowded Manhattan. His course was untraceable after he left the black-walled room that served as his sanctum. Only at intervals, at widely separated spots, did manifestations occur to give an inkling of The Shadow’s passage.
A blot that grew black upon the sidewalk at the lighted corner of an avenue and a side street — a splotch which faded as quickly as it came — that sign meant that The Shadow had gone by.
A taxi driver, believing his cab to be empty, was startled by the sound of a passenger’s calm voice, giving him a destination.
A bill that fluttered through the window in payment; that was the mark of The Shadow’s departure when the driver reached the appointed spot. The cab itself was empty when the taximan looked within.
A LONG, silhouetted streak of blackness wavered beneath the structure of an elevated station; a moving, elusive shape passed the front window of the Hotel Spartan. A mass of blackness merged mysteriously with the darkness of an alleyway behind the hotel.
Unseen fingers dug into the crevices between the bricks of the dingy-walled building. A hand found the projecting ledge of a window. Slowly, steadily, a shrouded form moved up the side of the wall. The Shadow was creeping vertically to his chosen destination.
Upon this roughened surface, The Shadow required no special appliances such as the rubber suction cups with which he could scale the polished wall of a cliff. His ability as a human fly enabled him to rise steadily until he reached the third floor. There, his black form blotted out the light that filtered through a yellowish window shade.
Secure upon the ledge, The Shadow worked smoothly and silently. His black-gloved hands wedged a flat piece of metal between the sections of the sash. The lock turned neatly, and the lower part of the sash rose under the impulse of a firm hand.
The shade itself trembled so slightly that its motion could scarcely be noticed. A tiny space opened at the bottom; through it peered two burning eyes.
A man was seated in a corner of the room, his back away from the window. The Shadow knew the identity of that individual. It was Duffy Bagland, the gang leader whom Cliff Marsland had indicated with the number 308. The entire plan of this hotel was known to The Shadow. The master of mystery had been expecting crime to issue from this place.
Duffy Bagland had no inkling that eyes were watching him. Even had he turned toward the window, he would have noticed nothing but blackness beneath that partly lifted shade. Night was The Shadow’s mask — a shroud that completely enveloped his elusive shape.
Why was Bagland lingering here? His squad of mobsters was in readiness — The Shadow had spotted the ruffians while passing the lobby of the Spartan. There was one logical assumption; that Duffy Bagland expected some message.