Mox

CHAPTER II MURDER DISCOVERED

IT was early the next evening. At headquarters, Detective Joe Cardona was seated alone at a desk. Cardona, known as an ace detective, was at present in a special capacity. He was Acting Inspector Cardona, serving in place of Inspector Timothy Klein, who was confined to his home by illness.

There was one thing which both rankled and pleased Cardona. Since Inspector Klein had gained a state of convalescence, it was Joe’s duty to report constantly to his superior. The acting inspector had no reason to resent this condition that had been imposed upon him; indeed, Cardona would have willingly kept Klein informed of the details which took place at police headquarters.

But Cardona had a hunch that Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, through visits to Inspector Klein, was keeping tabs on what Cardona was doing. This was why Cardona felt uneasy. He knew that he rated high with Weston; at the same time, he felt an inferiority complex so far as the commissioner was concerned.

Weston — to use Cardona’s own mental phraseology — had the “Indian sign” on the star detective. A keen, dynamic sort of man, the police commissioner had more than once expressed the opinion that Cardona relied too much on hunches. So far as Weston was concerned, Cardona preferred to let him judge by results rather than by actual observation of Cardona’s working methods.

The tingle of the telephone bell presaged something important. Cardona lifted the receiver, grunted a hello, and began to make notations on a slip of paper as he listened. His hieroglyphics recorded, Cardona hung up the receiver. He waited a few minutes, then, with a grim look, went back to the telephone and called Inspector Klein.

“Just got a call from Mowry’s precinct,” informed Cardona. “Murder up there. Man dead in a rooming house in the Bronx. Told them to hold everything until I got up there.”

“Unusual circumstances?” queried Klein’s voice.

“Yeah,” returned Cardona. “Guy stabbed in the back; third-floor front room. No way anybody could have got into the place, and out again. Besides that—”

Cardona paused thoughtfully. Klein’s voice came promptly over the wire.

“Well,” added Acting Inspector Cardona, “the guy left a note. I want to see it. May be something important. It’s addressed to The Shadow—”

“To The Shadow?” Klein’s question was a surprised echo.

“Yeah,” admitted Cardona, “to The Shadow. So they told me from the precinct. I’ll call you after I get up there, inspector.”

Cardona hung up the receiver with a bang. He was angry; and with reason. He could see trouble when this news reached Commissioner Weston.

JOE CARDONA, during his career as detective, had seen positive proof of The Shadow’s prowess. In fact, Joe owed his life — not once, but several times — to The Shadow’s intervention.

Yet always, Joe had seen The Shadow only as a mysterious being, garbed in black, or in a disguise that veiled his true features.

The mention of such a personage in Cardona’s reports had aroused the ire of Commissioner Weston. According to the commissioner, The Shadow — until he could be given a more tangible identity — must be regarded as nothing more than a myth.

A letter to The Shadow!

If such a note were important, it would be best to let it reach The Shadow somehow. But to give it to reporters would be a great mistake. Commissioner Weston’s antagonism would be aroused. Reporters, to Cardona, were both bane and blessing. He hated their interference; he liked their commendation, when it appeared in print.

Looking toward the door, Cardona found an answer to his very thoughts. Smiling from the frame of the doorway was a young man about thirty years of age, light in weight, and almost frail in build, but whose face showed both experience and determination. Cardona recognized Clyde Burke, reporter of the New York Classic.

“Hello, inspector,” greeted Burke, with a friendly wave of his arm.

“Lay off that inspector stuff,” growled Cardona. “I’m Detective Cardona — Joe to you.”

Rising as he spoke, the detective faced the reporter. There was a contrast between the two. Burke’s face was tapering; his blue eyes and frank smile were disarming. Cardona, with square jaw, swarthy countenance, and glowering eyes of deep brown, was harsh and outspoken. Forty pounds heavier than Burke, though the two were of a height, Cardona showed a challenge as he stepped toward the reporter.

“Did you hear me talking on the telephone?” he demanded.

“Couldn’t help it, Joe,” returned Burke.

“What did you hear me say?”

“Something about a murder up in the Bronx. A letter in his room. Addressed to The Shadow—”

“Yeah?” Cardona’s fists clenched, then opened. “Well, Burke, you’re a good egg. I asked you what you heard, and you told me. You couldn’t have heard anything else, because that’s all I said.”

“What of it, Joe?” queried Burke. “I’m a friend of yours. All I want is the story — if it’s a good one — the way you give it to me.”

“O.K., Burke,” growled Cardona. “You’re one news chaser that I can count on. Listen. I don’t want this to go out until I’ve been there. I’m going up to the Bronx, but I’m not taking you with me. If you blow in of your own accord, all right. Here’s the address; you could probably get it up at Mowry’s precinct anyway.

“But this Shadow business is out. Understand? They’re holding everything until I show up. When I give out a statement, The Shadow may be out of it. I don’t want anything getting in the Classic that I haven’t handed to you. The commissioner has been calling Inspector Klein; maybe he’ll be calling him tonight. There are some things I’ve got to be cagey about. This is one of them.”

“I understand, Joe,” nodded Burke. “Leave it to me. I won’t give the office anything until after you’ve looked over the lay. I’ll just call them and tell them I’m going to the Bronx. Count on me, Joe.”

The reporter sauntered from the office as Cardona prepared for his trip to the northern section of the city. Outside of headquarters, Burke entered a cigar store, and went into a telephone booth. He called a number.

A QUIET voice answered him. It was not the voice of the man at the city desk in the Classic office. It was a voice, however, that Burke expected to hear. Over the wire came this statement:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Burke reporting,” returned Clyde in a cautious tone. “Murder in the Bronx. Dead man left a message to The Shadow.”

“Continue with details.”

Clyde tersely told all that he had gleaned from Joe Cardona. His report finished, the young man hung up and walked from the cigar store. He headed for the nearest subway station to begin his ride to the address where murder had fallen. He intended to be there — as reporter for the Classic — when Joe Cardona arrived.

Yet Burke had another purpose. He was anxious to see that letter, even though he would not print it in the Classic. For Clyde Burke’s call to the quiet-voiced man named Burbank was of more importance than any news which might be gained for the columns of a newspaper. Clyde realized that as he walked along the street.

Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow. Veiling his operations by his connection with the Classic, Clyde was always on the lookout for situations such as the one which had just arisen. Burbank, the man whom Clyde had just called, was The Shadow’s contact agent.

Through Burbank, The Shadow could be quickly reached. The mysterious master who battled crime was always in communication with Burbank. Thus Clyde Burke’s statement regarding a dead man’s message to The Shadow was already on its way to the one person who would find it most important: The Shadow, himself!

The quickness of The Shadow’s system was evidenced by activities which Clyde Burke could not witness. In a small, secluded room, a man was seated at a lighted table. He was wearing ear phones; a lighted switchboard was set before him. The man’s back was toward the darkened room. This was Burbank, contact agent for The Shadow.

Burbank pressed a switch. A light glowed. There was no response. Burbank pulled out the plug. He had just made a connection over a private wire to The Shadow’s sanctum, the mysterious abode where The Shadow spent many secret hours. The lack of response showed that The Shadow had left the sanctum.

Methodically, Burbank made a regular telephone connection and dialed a number. There was a reply. A speaker announced that this was the Cobalt Club. Burbank inquired for Mr. Lamont Cranston. Shortly afterward, an even voice came over the wire:

“Hello. This is Mr. Cranston.”

“Burbank speaking,” declared The Shadow’s agent.

“Report,” came Cranston’s voice. Burbank relayed Clyde Burke’s message. Quietly and methodically, he conveyed its entire substance. The reply was a final tone:

“Report received.”

AT the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston stepped from a telephone booth and appeared in the lobby. He was a tall man, with firm, well-chiseled features. There was something about his face — its inflexibility, perhaps — that made it appear like a mask superimposed upon the countenance beneath.

Known at the Cobalt Club as a multimillionaire globe-trotter, Lamont Cranston was a notable member. The Cobalt was one of the most exclusive clubs in New York; to hold prestige there was a sign of real social importance.

Attired in immaculate evening clothes, Lamont Cranston formed an imposing figure as he stood in silent meditation. A thin smile had appeared upon his carved lips, his eyes seemed to burn as they stared toward the outer doorway. The most remarkable feature of this distinctive person was — strangely — his shadow.

Where Cranston’s form eclipsed the light from the floor, a long shade appeared. Jet black in hue, it lay in clear-cut outline; a grotesque shape that terminated in a perfect silhouette!

That splotch of blackness was a symbol. It marked the true identity of this tall personage.

Lamont Cranston was The Shadow! Within a dozen minutes after Clyde Burke had gleaned important information for his chief, almost before Joe Cardona, in his role of acting inspector, had started for the Bronx, The Shadow was acquainted with the fact that an unknown dead man had left a message for his perusal.

In the part that he was playing — that of Lamont Cranston, gentleman of leisure — The Shadow showed none of the swiftness which so characterized his usual actions when crime was in the wind. Club members, passing through the hotel lobby, nodded in greeting to Lamont Cranston, as the tall millionaire stood puffing a cigarette in apparent unconcern. It seemed that Cranston had an appointment with some one, and intended to keep it.

A MAN of pompous bearing strode into the lobby of the Cobalt Club. His shoulders were erect, his arms were swinging in a somewhat military manner. The doorman spoke and bowed. The newcomer glanced about the lobby in a rather brusque fashion. He noted Lamont Cranston. His face lighted and a smile appeared upon his dominating face.

“Ah!” exclaimed the arrival. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Cranston! I was detained at my office; in fact, I found it necessary to leave word that I could be reached here while dining with you.”

“So I supposed,” returned Cranston, with a quiet smile.

“How so?” inquired the arrival, in a tone of surprise.

“Because,” said Cranston, “there was a call for you. I answered it. I managed to get the gist of it, commissioner.”

The last word revealed the identity of the newcomer. This man, who had arrived to dine with Lamont Cranston, was none other than Police Commissioner Ralph Weston!

“A call!” interjected the commissioner. “In reference to—”

“To a murder,” interposed Cranston, in his easy manner. “It appeared to be from a police inspector — from his home — the name slips me—”

“Klein?”

“Ah, yes. Inspector Klein. He has received a report from an acting inspector — I believe the name is Cardona—”

“Yes. Cardona.” Weston was impatient.

“Cardona has started to a house in the Bronx.” Cranston drew a slip of paper from his pocket. “This address, commissioner. A man was murdered there, it appears. Cardona is going to investigate. Inspector Klein seemed anxious that you should be there also.”

Weston snatched the paper and studied it. A doubtful expression appeared upon his face. With a penchant for crime solution, he was anxious to find a way of postponing this dinner engagement with Lamont Cranston. The multimillionaire supplied the answer.

“So I arranged,” remarked Cranston, “to have my limousine available. It is outside. I should be glad to ride with you to the Bronx if you feel that our dinner might best be postponed.”

“Excellent,” declared Weston warmly. “I shall accept your invitation. Let us go at once.”

Lamont Cranston called for hat and coat. With Commissioner Weston, the millionaire strode from the Cobalt Club. A limousine drew up to the curb. They stepped in.

Commissioner Weston was elated at this turn of events. A showman by nature, a man who regarded his office as a unique position, Weston was pleased at the opportunity to take along so unusual a companion as Lamont Cranston.

The millionaire, in turn, wore a placid smile that Weston did not detect. The police commissioner had no inkling whatever to Lamont Cranston’s real purpose in extending this invitation. He did not know that the supposed telephone message from Inspector Klein was a mere pretext.

Weston thought that Lamont Cranston was serving him. The contrary was the case. Weston was serving Lamont Cranston. In his guise of an influential millionaire, The Shadow was traveling to find the message which Schuyler Harlew had left for him.

The Shadow’s passport on this unusual mission was the police commissioner of New York City!