Charg, Monster

CHAPTER VIII. THE SHADOW SUSPECTS

BRYCE TOWSON was seated, alone, at the long table in his conference room. The consulting engineer seemed serious as he studied plans that lay before him. Towson had dined early — here at home — and he had been busy with this work from the time his meal had ended.

Completing a survey of his plan, Towson glanced at his watch. His face showed annoyance. The time for the committee meeting had arrived. Herbert Whilton and Loring Dyke were due at any time; yet Shelburne had not put in his appearance.

Towson’s impatience came to a sudden end as the door opened and the tardy secretary appeared.

Shelburne stared anxiously across the room. Seeing that Towson was alone, the smug man smiled. He was in time for the conference.

Towson, however, made comment upon the fact that Shelburne was late. He spoke to the secretary as the man moved across the room toward the filing cabinet. Towson’s tone was severe.

“What’s been keeping you, Shelburne?” he demanded. “I expected you to arrive early — not late. I have been working here alone, since dinner, trying to straighten out the details caused by Fallow’s death. I wanted you to help me.”

“Sorry, sir,” protested Shelburne. “I shall do better in the future.”

“See that you do,” declared Towson. “Our work is increasing in importance. We cannot tolerate an incompetent secretary.”

With this, Towson gathered up papers from the table and thrust them into Shelburne’s hands. Carrying the documents to the filing cabinet, the secretary laid them on top and began to arrange them.

The door opened a few minutes later. A servant appeared, followed by Herbert Whilton. Towson arose to greet the wheezy, dry-faced philanthropist. They shook hands soberly; then sat down at the table.

“Poor Fallow,” remarked Whilton. “How unfortunate that he should die.”

Bryce Towson nodded solemnly.

“I thought of him last night,” crackled Whilton. “I remember that he was to have given another of his scientific talks over the radio. I used to listen to them.”

“Twice a month, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Dyke used to broadcast occasionally, also. An odd sensation, Towson, speaking into a microphone. It makes one more nervous than addressing an assemblage. I have been called upon, several times, to introduce important personages at banquets.”

“The microphone should not annoy you on such occasions. You had people before you.”

“They seemed to be absent,” declared Whilton, with a shake of his gray head. “Gone — as soon as that annoying microphone was put in front of me.”

“Pure nervousness,” laughed Towson. “I have spoken over the radio several times. In fact, I am to deliver a broadcast again next Tuesday night. A talk on suspension bridges, with comparisons. I suppose every one will tune in on some other programs. The American public wants entertainment, not knowledge.”

SHELBURNE was approaching with his sorted papers. Towson received them from the baldheaded secretary; then looked toward the door as his servant made a reappearance.

“Mr. Dyke has arrived?” questioned Towson. “Show him in at once.”

“Not Mr. Dyke, sir,” replied the servant. “It is a friend of Mr. Whilton’s — the gentleman who was here the other night—”

“Mr. Cranston?” asked Whilton, eagerly.

“Yes, sir,” answered the servant.

“Usher him in at once,” ordered Towson.

Lamont Cranston arrived a few minutes later. He was invited to a seat at the table. Turning to Herbert Whilton, he explained the object of his visit.

“I was out of town,” stated the firm-faced visitor. “I was much sorrowed to learn of Meldon Fallow’s untimely death. I called your home this evening, Whilton.”

“I was out,” declared the philanthropist, in his senile, whining tone. “I neglected to leave word where I could be found.”

“So I learned,” said Cranston. “I thought, perhaps, that you might be here. So I waited a while at the club; then decided to make a trip in this direction.”

“You should have called me, Mr. Cranston,” remarked Bryce Towson. “I have been here all evening. I could have told you that we were holding a conference tonight.”

“I thought of it,” returned Cranston. “However, I decided to wait and then come in person. I am not here to intrude upon your conference. I merely came to extend my sympathies and to arrange a later appointment with my friend Whilton.”

“You are quite welcome here,” assured Towson. “We are waiting for Loring Dyke. Call him, will you, Shelburne? Find out if he has started.”

“Shall I call his personal number, sir?” asked Shelburne.

“Yes,” ordered Towson.

“What is the personal number?” queried Cranston, in an interested tone.

“Dyke has two telephones in his home,” explained Herbert Whilton, with a dry chuckle. “One is the private exchange, the other, the personal. He uses the latter when he does not wish to be disturbed by ordinary calls.”

“Mr. Dyke does not answer, sir,” interposed Shelburne, turning to Towson.

“He must be on his way here, then,” decided the engineer.

“Two telephones,” mused Cranston, with a slight smile. “One private; one personal. How does Dyke distinguish between them?”

“You explain it, Shelburne,” said Towson, to the secretary. “I believe Mr. Dyke made you take down the details at one of our conferences.”

“He did, sir,” admitted Shelburne. “It was quite confusing when he first mentioned it to you and Mr. Whilton also to Mr. Fallow, sir. He clarified it, however. It became quite simple.

“Mr. Dyke has a small suite of rooms on the second floor of his home. A laboratory, where he can work, undisturbed; a bedroom, should he decide to work late. He locks the door and remains entirely alone.

“His personal telephone is in that suite. The other telephone — the private one — is merely the house telephone. The two are not connected. Only the few persons who know Mr. Dyke’s personal number can reach him in his laboratory.”

“An odd idea,” remarked Cranston. “Does he often remain long in his special suite?”

“I believe so, sir,” answered Shelburne. “There is a dumbwaiter that comes up to his laboratory from the kitchen. When meal hours arrive, the servants send up food and signal. I believe that Mr. Dyke stated that he sometimes remains alone for forty-eight hours.”

“He did mention that fact,” nodded Whilton. “An odd chap, Dyke. He believes in concentration; sometimes he is totally lost in thought at these committee meetings.”

“Does Dyke live far from here?”

“No. Shelburne has his address.”

“Here it is, sir,” said the secretary, passing a typewritten sheet to Cranston. “The fourth name on this list.”

“Not more than half an hour,” decided Cranston, “if Dyke is coming by cab. Well, gentlemen” — the tall visitor was rising — “I must leave before Mr. Dyke arrives. I have an appointment that will keep me at the Cobalt Club until eleven o’clock.”

“You will be free after that?” questioned Whilton, as he shook hands with the visitor.

“Yes,” acknowledged Cranston.

“Could you stop back?” questioned the old philanthropist. “Our conference will be ended by that time. You and I can chat; and I can take you back to the club in my limousine.”

“Very well,” agreed Cranston.

LEAVING the conference room, Lamont Cranston was ushered to the front door by one of Towson’s servants. A grim look showed upon the chiseled face as the visitor reached the street.

Cranston entered a trim coupe. He started the car and pulled away from the curb. From then on, his course was swift. Threading through thickening traffic, Cranston took an eastward route. His destination became apparent after he had traveled a dozen blocks.

He was speeding toward the home of Loring Dyke. The trip, calculated as a taxi ride of half an hour, had dwindled to less than twenty minutes. The coupe came to a sharp stop on a secluded street slightly more than a block from Dyke’s address.

Cranston’s hands opened a briefcase that lay on the seat. An instant later, they were obscured by blackness. The folds of a cloak settled over shoulders. A slouch hat followed.

The door of the coupe opened. A figure emerged, unseen. Fading away from the glimmer of a street lamp, a tall, spectral form merged with the darkness of a silent building.

Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. The disguised master had gained a sudden impression of a looming menace. Until Shelburne had called Dyke’s, without response, The Shadow had considered further murder to be a matter of the future.

His belief had undergone a sudden change. Some impelling thought had warned him that Loring Dyke was in danger. With all speed, The Shadow had come hither in hope of saving a man marked for doom!