The Black Hush

CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW BEGINS

HEADLINES told of the double killing at the Olympia Hotel. New Yorkers read of gangland’s outrage.

Mingled with bacon and eggs came the cry of murder as breakfasters perused their newspapers.

Richard Reardon and Roland Furness were unfortunate victims. Everyone granted that fact, and agreed that the perpetrators of the outrage should be brought to justice. But in back of all the disapproval was the established idea that the men had died through a mistake.

Detective Joe Cardona had expressed that belief, and it had been accepted. Every journal in Manhattan was in accord. The case was too obvious for doubt. Even the man who had been missed was known.

Unknown mobsmen, out to get Goldy Tancred, had made a blunder. Somehow, they had extinguished the lights in the Olympia Hotel. Under cover of darkness, they had entered the Red Room where they had believed the meeting of the Mohawks was being held.

Richard Reardon, heavy and conspicuous, had been mistaken for Goldy Tancred. Well-directed bullets had marked Reardon’s form. Roland Furness, also in the danger zone, had been put on the spot as well.

It was possible that he had been taken for Bowser Riggins.

Newspaper columns were filled with hectic details which included garbled statements of the witnesses.

Members of the Association of Electrical Engineers, when interviewed, had given varied stories. Such statements received no more than passing mention.

One man said that the shots had preceded the light; another told the opposite. One declared that he had seen the light move away; another that it had been extinguished before it moved. One more declared that the killer had used an acetylene lantern instead of an electric flashlight.

But the sum and substance of all the reports was that Goldy Tancred had been slated for the spot. A big shot, liked by politicians, but unpopular among certain gang leaders, had escaped the doom that was intended for him.

Goldy, himself, knew nothing. He was staying close to his palatial apartment high up in the Hotel Marathon. His famous astrakhan coat no longer would be seen at Brindle’s restaurant. Goldy Tancred — so reporters affirmed — would prefer to send out for sandwiches in the future.

DETECTIVE Joe Cardona read the morning newspapers with a real relish. His presence at the Olympia Hotel was universally commended. He had used good sense in watching Goldy Tancred. It was not his fault that the killers had blundered.

Commissioner Ralph Weston, overlord of New York police, had voiced his approval of Cardona’s tactics. He supported the detective’s finding, and he had promptly deputed Cardona to handle the case.

Among the newspapermen who were active on the story was Clyde Burke, a reporter for the New York Classic. A veteran news gatherer, Clyde believed that Cardona was right. Secretly, however, he wondered what the outcome of this affair might be. For Clyde knew, from experience, that there was someone who could deal with gangland’s slayers even when the most ardent police measures failed.

Clyde Burke was thinking of The Shadow. For Clyde Burke, himself, was a secret agent of The Shadow!

In a room at the Metrolite Hotel, another young man was pondering upon the same matters that concerned Clyde Burke. A resident guest of the hotel, Harry Vincent was scanning the day’s headlines.

Like Clyde Burke, Harry believed that Joe Cardona had the correct information. Nevertheless, Harry was wondering what would follow. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow.

In an office of the huge Badger Building, a chubby-faced man also studied the morning newspapers. With careful shears, he clipped the columns that carried the story of the double slaying at the Olympia Hotel.

By profession, this placid individual was an investment broker. His name was Rutledge Mann, and his many acquaintances knew him merely as a specialist on financial advice.

But Mann, who held no opinion regarding Cardona’s theory, was also wondering about the future. Like Clyde Burke and Harry Vincent, Rutledge Mann served The Shadow. Where the others were active and frequently in the field, Mann acted as a contact agent. He supplied information and data that might be required. These clippings, that he was gathering today, were being prepared for delivery to The Shadow.

His compilation completed, Rutledge Mann put all his clippings in an envelope. He left his office, took a taxi to Twenty-third Street, and entered a dingy building. On an upstairs floor, he stopped at the door of a deserted office which bore the name “Jonas” on its cobwebbed pane. He dropped the envelope in the mail slit.

Mann’s work was done, until later orders might be received.

The mail slit was the delivery box that enabled Mann to reach The Shadow. Complete reports on the Olympia outrage were now posted to the master mind. Whatever the sequel might be, Rutledge Mann would be ready to obey instructions.

Clyde Burke’s reportorial work — Harry Vincent’s perusal of the newspapers — Rutledge Mann’s clipping service — all these were productive of an important aftermath. A strange, unseen event occurred somewhere in New York and its beginning was a click that sounded in a secret room.

INTENSE blackness was suddenly ended by a bluish light that appeared in the corner of a black-walled apartment. An uncanny glow was focused upon the polished surface of a table, directly beneath the shaded circle of a blue-bulbed light.

In only one place could this phenomenon occur. That spot was The Shadow’s sanctum. Away from all the world, the very location of his secret room unknown, The Shadow, master of darkness, planned his warfare against the hosts of evil.

Two hands appeared beneath the bluish glow. They were long hands, with tapering fingers that combined smoothness with strength. There was no mistaking the hands of The Shadow, for upon a finger of the left hand rested the identifying token of the master.

This was a gleaming gem that shone with a changing hue that symbolized mystery. The Shadow’s girasol — a fire opal unmatched in all the world — glistened like a sparkling eye in ever-changing hues.

From azure, the girasol took on the shades of a rich purple. Its glowing depths became a brilliant crimson, only to change to a deep maroon that gave the stone an appearance of unlimited depths. All the while, the illusion of sparks persisted. Flashes of flames seemed to leap upward toward the light.

The white hands produced an envelope and removed its contents. Rutledge Mann’s clippings lay in view.

The right hand brought forward a pen and a sheet of blank paper. While hidden eyes studied the reports, the hand began to write.

Brief, pointed facts appeared like thoughts. As the hand rested, eyes from the dark visualized those statements. Bluish ink dried, then disappeared. The memory of the vanished words remained, locked in the brain.

Could Joe Cardona have seen those inscriptions, he would have been amazed. For The Shadow, step by step, was shattering the detective’s theory! He was tracing a very definite connection between the big shot and the murders in the Red Room!

Where Cardona had pictured Goldy as a man who had escaped a menace. The Shadow saw the big shot as one who had known of a designed murder. Goldy Tancred — threatened — was the last person whom the police could suspect of complicity. But The Shadow deduced otherwise.

The change of the Mohawks’ meeting from Red Room to Blue Room — the holding of the affair on the same night as the meeting of the electrical engineers — those had been accepted as mere coincidence. To The Shadow, however, such an obvious conclusion was not to be accepted.

Cold-blooded mobsmen who attacked beneath a barrage of blackness were not the ones to make so clumsy an error. The Shadow, versed in knowledge of underworld tactics, was quick to reject Cardona’s theory.

Richard Reardon and Roland Furness: one — perhaps both — had been marked for death.

Why?

They were not men of crime. Yet the explanation must exist. From a study of the past, and an observation of the future, the reason could be discovered.

CRIME was impending — crime that bore the mark of genius. The secret of mighty schemes was unrevealed, yet there were ways to reach it. Where the police were content to look for unknown murderers, The Shadow intended to follow other courses.

The Shadow wrote:

A soft laugh came through the gloom of the room. Its whispered tones awoke pulsating echoes. The hand inscribed terse comments beneath the name that it had written. Goldy Tancred must be watched. There was a way to do it. The Shadow was making his plans.

Two other names appeared upon the paper. Side by side, The Shadow considered them.

Again, the hand began its comments. The careers of these men must be traced. Somewhere in the events of their lives might lie an item of evidence.

Earphones slid across the table as the hands reached beyond to obtain them. The Shadow spoke into a mouthpiece. His low tones were passing over a private wire to a listener as secretive as himself.

“Burbank speaking.”

The quiet voice over the wire was that of The Shadow’s hidden contact man. Always ready for the Shadow’s bidding, Burbank dwelt in obscurity and kept up a telephonic communication with The Shadow’s agents. Words that came to Burbank were relayed back and forth between The Shadow and his men.

“Clyde Burke on duty,” responded The Shadow, in an even monotone. “Commence observation on the activities of Goldy Tancred—”

The voice continued. Burbank listened. While The Shadow spoke, his hand was writing. Every word that he gave to Burbank was inscribed in blue upon a blank sheet of paper. The statements, however, were in code.

The Shadow concluded his orders. As he told Burbank to stand by, he folded the paper before the writing had reached the vanishing stage, and placed it in an envelope. This was to go to Rutledge Mann.

The writing would not disappear until after the investment broker had learned its import.

“Harry Vincent on duty,” The Shadow went on. “To cooperate with Rutledge Mann in uncovering facts regarding Richard Reardon and Roland Furness—”

The voice continued; the hand wrote and closed its message. The earphones slid across the table.

Instructions to Burbank were ended. The orders to Rutledge Mann, sealed in separate envelopes, were carried away by The Shadow’s hands.

The light clicked out. Invisible within the walls of his windowless sanctum, The Shadow laughed again.

Weird echoes of a mocking cry reverberated from the hollow space. The Shadow’s work had begun.

During the future, his eyes would watch the activities of Goldy Tancred, the man who had escaped.

Meanwhile, delving into the past, his investigating forces would discover facts regarding Richard Reardon and Roland Furness, the men who had encountered death.

Somewhere, between the affairs of the big shot and the dead engineers, lay crime of an insidious nature.

Goldy Tancred, feigning a connection with small-fry politicians, was seeking to cover up the game.

Clearly, The Shadow saw that Goldy’s pretensions were a bluff; that he was using the unsuspecting Mohawks as an alibi. Just as plainly, The Shadow knew that there had been a definite purpose in the killings of Reardon and Furness.

The echoes of The Shadow’s laugh persisted. At last, like dying whispers from invisible ghosts, they faded into nothingness. Only impenetrable darkness remained within the sanctum.

Strange darkness! Like a shroud it had veiled the presence of the master mind. From that darkness, The Shadow had gone into light. He would find darkness again — for The Shadow struck best from Stygian gloom.

This time, however, a curious analogy remained. Out of darkness had The Shadow gone. Into darkness he must come to deal with the hidden foe.

For The Shadow, now, was dealing with strange fighters who also had used blackness to mask their crimes!

It was darkness that The Shadow sought. It was darkness that he would find. That strange black hush that had fallen over the Olympia Hotel would spread its blanketing depths again.

Its sinister folds would envelop The Shadow along with fiends of crime. The Shadow had begun his campaign against the menace of the black hush!