Crooks Go Straight

CHAPTER XVIII. FROM THE SANCTUM

BLUISH light flickered in a black-walled room. White hands lay beneath the downward focused glare. A glimmering stone, The Shadow’s priceless girasol, sparkled from a moving finger. The Shadow was in his sanctum.

Clippings came between those deft fingers. These were newspaper accounts of the fray on Forty-eighth Street. For twenty hours had elapsed since The Shadow had fought his battle with Beak Latzo’s underlings.

Lesser crooks, dead and living, had fallen into the hands of the police. Wounded mobsters had been unable to escape the advent of the law. Some — such as Mike Rungel — had managed a get-away. The Shadow’s agents had ridden clear in Moe Shrevnitz’s cab.

Beak Latzo and Lucky Ortz had eluded the law. The Shadow had known that Beak must be the man on the upper stairs; he had recognized Lucky when he had slugged the lieutenant. But The Shadow had gained no traces to the hideout where the pair had fled.

The police — according to the newspaper accounts — had learned nothing from the small fry whom they had captured. They had followed back to Dokeby’s office; there they had discovered the opened safe.

Dokeby had been informed and a search was on for traces of the missing funds.

The actual amount of the loss had been minimized — probably by Dokeby. For the stolen securities were negotiable, and certain facts had been soft-pedaled in the accounts that reached the press.

Clippings dropped from lithe fingers. Reports came under The Shadow’s consideration. Word from Cliff Marsland, stating that he and Hawkeye were regaining contact with Mike Rungel. Details from Clyde Burke, adding points of inside information that had not appeared in newspaper accounts.

Each of these report sheets had been inscribed in code. Written characters vanished after The Shadow read the messages. Such was the way with secret communications between The Shadow and his agents.

All were done in a special ink that disappeared after the messages had been opened.

A third report: From Harry Vincent. It stated that Jack Targon had paid a routine visit to Perry Delhugh, at dinner time last night. Delhugh had been in conference with the Talleyrand Hospital committee and had sent a message to Jack by Benzig, telling him to return later. Jack had come back sometime before eight o’clock, to spend an hour with the philanthropist.

In reporting these facts, Harry had been forced to rely upon remarks dropped by Benzig. For most of the time, the door of the filing room was kept closed. Footsteps and voices in the hallway were the only way by which Harry could guess at arrivals and departures when his door was closed.

Being Thursday night, Jack Targon’s visit to the house was one that Harry had anticipated. There was no news at all regarding Steve Zurk. That also was natural, for Steve had come on Wednesday and was not due again until tonight— Friday.

A SLIGHT laugh shuddered through the sanctum. It carried a peculiar significance. It was The Shadow’s own admission of neglected opportunities. For in this maze of combated crime, The Shadow had left one point uncovered.

Crime came at night. Through Cliff Marsland, The Shadow could keep tabs on gang movements.

Through Harry Vincent, he could check on the visits of Steve Zurk and Jack Targon, at Delhugh’s. But therein lay the weakness.

On nights when Jack Targon visited the philanthropist, Steve Zurk did not come there. Hence The Shadow had no watch upon Steve’s actual activities except on those evenings when the ex-convict stopped in to see Delhugh.

Yet The Shadow’s laugh was not an admission of failure. The mysterious investigator had deliberately allowed Steve Zurk to roam at large, despite the evidence which had been at Beak Latzo’s first hideout, in the form of letters. For The Shadow had seen a definite system in the scheme of crime. The dirty work had been left to Beak Latzo, as a complete cover-up for the tipoffs.

The dope had been crossed last night. That sudden change of method was the one point that had upset The Shadow’s scheme. Vanished swag had showed a double cunning in the routine of crime.

A crumpled paper came between The Shadow’s hands. Long fingers smoothed the ruffled sheet. This was the letter that The Shadow had taken from Beak Latzo’s; one of the two that Beak thought Goofy had burned.

Here, in Steve Zurk’s ragged scrawl, was the order that had sent Beak and Lucky to rob and murder Theobald Luftus. This sheet of paper was a link for which the law had searched in vain.

The Shadow placed the sheet aside. In its place he brought forth a dusty printed form.

This was that chance paper that had been tossed aside in Richard Dokeby’s safe. The Shadow placed the paper with the printed side downward. The bluish light from the shaded damp showed the finger prints with remarkable clarity.

A thick, glossy paper dropped upon The Shadow’s table. Upon it were photographic copies of thumb and finger impressions. This record, long in The Shadow’s possession, was identified with a printed name: Steve Zurk.

The Shadow had already compared the finger prints on the legal form with this photographic record. The impressions were identical. Thus had The Shadow gained an important link to the second crime. The paper from the lawyer’s safe had been smudged by Steve Zurk.

The Shadow turned the paper, printed side up. This surface was less spoiled than the other. It was smudged, but no impressions had registered themselves. But what were two missing thumb prints, compared with eight finger impressions that stood out in detail?

The Shadow laughed. His whispered mirth was echoed as he placed the document and the records to one side.

Then came a click. The bluish light went out. Paper crinkled in total darkness. A final laugh throbbed from invisible lips. Amid the sibilant echoes came swishes of The Shadow’s cloak.

Then silence.

IN contrast to the pitch darkness of The Shadow’s sanctum, the outer world was illuminated by the light of day. Though the sun had set, dusk had not yet arrived. Evening was still an hour off.

Not long after The Shadow had departed from his secret abode, a tall, strolling figure appeared upon a secluded side street. This personage approached a parked limousine and stepped aboard the car. A uniformed chauffeur turned about.

“Club, Stanley,” came the quiet order.

“Yes, Mr. Cranston,” responded the chauffeur.

The Shadow had resumed the guise in which he so frequently traveled. As Lamont Cranston, quiet, leisurely millionaire, he was visiting the Cobalt Club.

The limousine required some twenty minutes to reach its destination. There the passenger alighted.

Dusk settled. Manhattan streets began to glow. Stanley was peering through the fading daylight when he saw his master reappear at the door of the club. Again The Shadow stepped aboard the limousine. He gave an order in Cranston’s quiet tones.

The limousine rolled away. It followed a threaded course through varied streets until it pulled up in front of a secluded brownstone mansion. There The Shadow alighted and spoke a few words to Stanley. After that he went up the steps of the house.

This was the home of Perry Delhugh. Again, The Shadow — as Cranston — was calling on the philanthropist. He had chosen this hour for an early call, ahead of the time when Steve Zurk was due to arrive on an appointed visit.