The Black Falcon

CHAPTER V THE SHADOW’S MOVE

A CLICK sounded in a pitch-black room. A glimmering light of blue cast its eerie sheen upon the polished surface of a table. White hands appeared beneath the strange illumination. Upon one appeared a sparkling jewel of ever changing hues.

The hands moved away. Something crinkled beyond the range of light. The hands reappeared, bringing with them the paper-encircled band of bank notes that The Shadow had wrested from Rowdy Kirshing.

The pile of pelf meant nothing to The Shadow. The token on the hand, however, was significant. Well did The Shadow divine the meaning of that blackened falcon feather. It was the sign of a perpetrator of crime, a crook de luxe who had paid for aid obtained through Rowdy Kirshing.

A white hand stretched across the table. It produced a pair of earphones. A tiny light glimmered on the wall. A voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Instructions,” replied the voice of The Shadow, as it shuddered through the gloom. “Tell Marsland to obtain information concerning Terry Rukes, gang leader.”

“Instructions received,” returned the quiet tones of Burbank.

“Reports.” The Shadow’s voice hissed from the dark.

“None received,” came Burbank’s answer.

The earphones clicked back into place. The hands of The Shadow returned to the table. In this brief conversation, the master who ferreted crime had spoken to Burbank, his contact man.

Through Burbank, The Shadow’s instructions would go to Cliff Marsland, a stalwart agent who served The Shadow in the underworld. It would be Cliff’s task to seek facts concerning the whereabouts of Terry Rukes, the man whose name Rowdy Kirshing had gasped in confession.

The feather on the stack of bills! A tantalizing clew, it baffled further traces. The Shadow had been forced to slay Rowdy Kirshing in order to save his own life. The one man who might have furnished information thus was dead. Yet The Shadow had gained a step tonight.

Upon a piece of white paper, the right hand inscribed three names, as follows:

Solemnly, The Shadow crossed out the central name. Rowdy Kirshing had been obliterated. The racketeer had served purely as a go-between.

Then, from the stack of bills, The Shadow’s hand removed the falcon feather. The black plume dropped from the long white fingers. It fell directly upon the name of Velvet Laffrey.

THERE was significance in the action. Some master crook — he who used a falcon feather as his signature — was the abductor of Hubert Apprison. Was that man Velvet Laffrey?

The Shadow’s action denoted present doubt. Until further evidence was gained, The Shadow would let that telltale feather cover the name that lay beneath it.

Fate had been freakish tonight. The Shadow, following Rowdy Kirshing’s trail of easy money, had found the odd emblem of the one who had supplied the racketeer with cash. Meanwhile, Police Commissioner Weston had held an actual letter from the same supercrook.

The man who had defied the police had ignored The Shadow. Well for him that he had. With the letter as further evidence, The Shadow might have gained a prompt and effective trail. As it was, The Shadow, through active efforts, had gained less than had the police through purely passive behavior!

Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona had gone to a spot where they believed that crime would strike. They had followed evidence that a supercrook had deliberately provided. Meanwhile, The Shadow, whose keenness had outstripped that of the law enforcers, had gained a clew that could lead to no definite action on this night.

The little light gleamed from the wall. The Shadow reached for the earphones. The voice of Burbank came quietly over the wire.

“Report from Marsland,” announced the contact man. “No facts whatever concerning Velvet Laffrey. The man has disappeared. Instructions given to Marsland. He will look up Rukes.”

The earphones went back to the wall. The Shadow’s gleaming eyes still lingered on the markings which lay before him. A falcon feather; the crossed-out name of Rowdy Kirshing; the uncrossed name of Terry Rukes — these formed a trio in The Shadow’s plans to reach the plotter who had seized Hubert Apprison.

Long minutes went by. The Shadow’s hands made cryptic notations; then obliterated them with quickly penned lines. Intuitively, The Shadow could sense that crime was brewing. He was not content to wait until the kidnaper of Hubert Apprison chose to move.

Once again, the light showed on the wall. This time the voice of Burbank brought a new announcement, as The Shadow gave the word: “Report.”

“Report from Burke,” was Burbank’s statement. “Cardona called to conference with Weston.”

A soft laugh sounded in the gloom as the earphones clicked back to the wall. This was news. Clyde Burke, agent of The Shadow, was a newspaper reporter on the staff of the New York Classic. Burke was a frequent visitor to detective headquarters.

The Shadow knew that Joe Cardona was working on the Apprison case. The fact that the detective had gone to see the police commissioner indicated that some evidence might have reached the law.

The hands moved from the table. The light clicked out. A whispering laugh rose weirdly through the room. It reached a strange crescendo; then ended abruptly. Ghoulish echoes responded from the blackness. Silence followed. The sanctum was empty.

NOT long afterward, a tall man in evening clothes strolled into the lobby of the exclusive Cobalt Club. The doorman bowed as the visitor passed. He had recognized the solemn face of Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter.

An important member of the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston was regarded as a cryptic individual. It was known that he traveled to many foreign lands and never announced his plans to any one.

The only proof that Cranston was residing in his New Jersey home was found when he made his occasional visits to the Cobalt Club. Yet even then, the persons who saw him were not always correct in their belief that Lamont Cranston was back at home.

Little did they suspect that a strange, sinister being of mystery had adopted the guise of Lamont Cranston as a convenient personality to use on certain occasions. This tall, immaculate personage whose face was almost masklike, was a masquerader who had chosen a part that would not be questioned. The arrival at the Cobalt Club was none other than The Shadow.

Strolling through the lounge, The Shadow passed through a doorway and approached a group of telephone booths. There, with the leisurely manner of the man whose part he was playing, he entered a booth and gave a number. A few moments later, a voice came over the wire.

“Commissioner Weston’s apartment.”

“Hello,” The Shadow’s voice was a quiet, deliberate one. “Is that Kempton?… Ah, yes… This is Mr. Cranston… Yes, the friend of Commissioner Weston. Is the commissioner there?”

A pause; then the quiet voice resumed. “He is out? Where could I reach him?… I see… I see… You have instructions that he is not to be called… Of course; of course… I understand. You are to inform no one.”

A smile appeared upon the calm features of Lamont Cranston as the tall figure appeared from the phone booth. Still playing the part of the millionaire, The Shadow strolled through the lounge and took a chair. A thin smile appeared upon his lips as he pressed a cigarette between them.

Completing his smoke, this personage who played the role of Cranston, arose and returned to the phone booth. He dialed the same number that he had called before. Kempton’s voice came over the wire.

THIS time, The Shadow, although he still appeared as Cranston, did not use the voice of the millionaire. Instead, his tone was brusque. It was a perfect representation of the voice of Commissioner Weston.

“Is that you, Kempton?” queried The Shadow. “Were there any calls for me?… I see… Cranston. You told him where to reach me, of course…”

A pause; then, still in the tone of Weston, The Shadow delivered an angry outburst.

“Sometimes you lack sense, Kempton!.. Of course… Yes, of course I told you not to inform any one where I had gone… Once in a while, though, you can use good judgment… Yes, Lamont Cranston is an exceptional case.”

Kempton was apologizing in a profuse tone. The Shadow listened; then responded in mollified fashion, exactly as the police commissioner would have spoken.

“All right, Kempton… Yes, perhaps Cranston would call again. Tell him where I am, if he does. By the way” — The Shadow was adopting the sarcastic touch of which Weston was capable — “you haven’t forgotten where I am, have you?… Yes, that’s right… Visiting Elias Carthers, on Long Island…”

The Shadow hung up the receiver as Kempton completed an apology. Rising, he strolled in Cranston fashion from the club. Reaching the street, he signaled to the doorman, who, in turn, hailed a limousine parked down the street. The pretended Lamont Cranston entered the car when it arrived.

“Long Island, Stanley,” he said to the uniformed chauffeur. “Out to the home of Mr. Carthers.”

A soft laugh came from Lamont Cranston’s thin lips as the limousine rolled eastward. It was the whispered laugh of The Shadow; the laugh that denoted the mysterious and subtle nature of its utterer.

In feigning the voice of Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, The Shadow had paved the way for another call by Lamont Cranston. At the same time, he had made the extra call unnecessary; by feigning the commissioner’s sarcastic tone, he had drawn from Kempton the information that he wanted.

Yet there was another reason for the soft laugh. The Shadow was thinking of the destination to which he had ordered Stanley.

Lamont Cranston was a friend of Elias Carthers. He would be welcome at the tobacco magnate’s home. In fact an unanswered invitation to this very reception lay on a table in Lamont Cranston’s New Jersey residence.

The Shadow had cause for mirth. He sensed why Commissioner Weston had gone to visit Elias Carthers. It was probable that Weston had Cardona with him; the fact that Weston had given orders to Kempton not to name his destination added to that conjecture.

The Shadow knew that the dual presence of Weston and Cardona could mean but one thing. Danger or crime — an aftermath of Hubert Apprison’s abduction — must be threatening the Long Island mansion.

The Shadow, in addition to watching men of crime, kept in touch with the activities of the police. The policy had served him well tonight.

The Shadow had made his move. He, like Weston and Cardona, had the thwarting of The Black Falcon as his objective!