The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER III FROM THE SANCTUM

WHITE hands, agile and long-fingered, beneath the rays of a bluish light. The Shadow was in his sanctum, an unknown abode, secluded somewhere in Manhattan. Upon a polished table lay Mann’s messages, together with the clipping from the Latuna Enterprise.

Writing faded. Clipping was thrust aside. Hands stretched across the table and obtained a pair of earphones. A tiny signal bulb glimmered on the wall. A quiet voice came across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

Mann — in his office, during daytime hours; Burbank — in an obscure room, at night. These were the contact agents of The Shadow. Where Mann, slow and deliberate, served in the development of preliminary plans, Burbank was ready when action called. Active agents were always ready to receive his relayed orders from The Shadow.

“Instructions to Vincent.” The Shadow’s voice came in an awesome whisper. “Insert this advertisement in the late edition of the Evening Traveler: ‘Wanted, Four Salesmen, preferably those knowing Mid-West conditions convincingly.’”

Burbank’s reply was a careful repetition of the words that The Shadow had given him. Then came another order from The Shadow.

“Instructions to Burke,” was the whisper from the unseen lips. “Arrange to accompany Cardona on nightly inspection tour of the East Side. Special story for the New York Classic.”

“Instructions received,” replied Burbank.

“Instructions to Marsland,” resumed The Shadow. “Pick up message in Shrevnitz cab one block above Cobalt Club, seven o’clock. Follow orders as given.”

“Instructions received.”

The earphones clicked against the wall. The bluish light went out with a click. A soft laugh quivered through blackened walls, rose to a startling crescendo, then faded into shuddering echoes.

With the last tones of that dying mockery came a hush amid the Stygian blackness. The Shadow had departed by his secret exit. The sanctum had returned to its inky emptiness. Day or night, that strange abode remained a chamber of blackness.

AFTERNOON hours waned. It was half past six when a personage attired in evening clothes entered a cab near Times Square. Tall, calm-faced and silent, this individual carried himself with remarkable composure.

Despite the fact that his keen, hawklike visage was most unusual, this stroller had a way of rendering himself inconspicuous in the crowd. He chose an opportune moment when he entered the cab and stepped aboard so quietly that even the shrewd-eyed driver failed to note his entry.

The first indication that the taximan received of a passenger was when a whispered voice came through the opened window to the front. The driver half started; then nodded. He stared straight ahead when he pulled from the curb.

The taxi driver’s name was Moe Shrevnitz. Familiar with Manhattan’s many thoroughfares, a capable man in a pinch, Moe had been mustered into The Shadow’s service. The Shadow owned the independent cab that Moe drove. The taximan kept close to a chosen point near Times Square, to await The Shadow’s call.

The voice from the cab was the whisper of The Shadow. Recognizing it, Moe knew that he was conveying his chief. As he neared his destination, he again caught a statement from The Shadow.

“Wait for Marsland,” was the whisper. “Deliver this message to him.”

An envelope dropped beside Moe as the driver wheeled toward the curb. Moe picked up the envelope as he stopped. He placed it in his pocket; then turned about. The cab was empty.

In that brief interval after the arrival, The Shadow had stepped to the curb. Though garbed in evening clothes, he had strangely vanished.

Moe settled back to await Cliff’s appearance.

The Shadow had chosen a destination close to the exclusive Cobalt Club. He had turned in the direction of the club building after leaving Moe’s cab. A few minutes later, the doorman bowed as The Shadow strolled into view.

“Good evening, Mr. Cranston,” said the doorman. “Commissioner Barth is expecting you, sir.”

“Very good,” was the quiet reply. A slight smile showed on thin lips as The Shadow entered to find the police commissioner. In his visits to the Cobalt Club, The Shadow came in the guise of Lamont Cranston, millionaire globe-trotter. It was a most convenient personality, for the real Lamont Cranston was seldom in New York.

In his guise of Cranston, The Shadow had become a close friend of Commissioner Wainwright Barth. He found Barth awaiting him in the lobby. They shook hands and went to the grillroom for dinner.

SEATED at the table, the two formed a marked contrast. The Shadow’s guise of Lamont Cranston made him appear as a quiet, lackadaisical individual, despite the keenness of his hawklike countenance.

Barth, on the contrary, was restless. Tall, he thrust his long neck forward from the collar of his evening shirt. His smooth pate gave him the appearance of a bald eagle, while his eyes gleamed through the lenses of his pince-nez spectacles.

“Prevention of crime,” announced Barth, above his soup cup. “That is my watchword, Cranston. Despite the fact that the newspapers sometimes criticize my policies, I am achieving results.”

“Ah, yes,” responded the pretended Cranston. “Come here, waiter. Get me a final copy of the Evening Traveler.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter.

“The Traveler is a conservative newspaper,” commended Barth. “You will find very little sensationalism in its pages. If you wish to see the outrageous crime reports that some journals are printing, I refer you to that yellow sheet, the Classic.”

“I am not looking for crime reports,” returned The Shadow, in the quiet voice of Cranston. “I am interested in the day’s doings at the stock market. Pardon me for a few minutes, commissioner, while I read the Wall Street news.”

Barth looked annoyed while he was finishing his soup. Cranston’s few minutes were longer than anticipated. He was still studying the stock market pages when the waiter appeared with the next course. Barth glowered indignantly. Then he turned suddenly as a club attendant approached.

“A telephone call for you, commissioner,” said the man. “You can take it right here, at the grillroom telephone.”

“Very well,” stated Barth.

As the commissioner went to the telephone, The Shadow lowered the newspaper slightly. With keen eyes, he noted every expression of Barth’s face. From annoyance, Barth showed excitement; then came indignation. Flinging the receiver on the hook, he came stalking back to the table.

“A crank call!” he announced testily. “Some bounder hung up after he had delivered a message. I’ve had that experience before, Cranston.”

“Perhaps the message was important.”

“Maybe it was. Jove! I was so incensed by the fellow’s action that I almost forgot what he told me. Let me have that newspaper, Cranston! This is a coincidence, your having the very one right here.”

“The last edition of the Evening Traveler!”

“Yes. The want-ad section.”

“What did you learn about it?”

“The man who called up,” explained Barth, as he went through the pages, “was insistent that I look for an advertisement that bears the key-number J-547. He said that he had been reading the want-ads, and that it appeared only in the last edition.

“Calling the Traveler office, he learned that the advertisement had later been recalled. He thinks it must be a hoax of some sort. A message, perhaps, with some unusual purpose.

“Ah, here is the advertisement in question. I see nothing odd about it.”

LEANING over the table, Barth pointed out the ad to his companion. In Cranston’s fashion, The Shadow read the words, which were followed by the key-number.

“Rather unusual,” was his comment.

“Why so?” demanded Barth.

“Cumbersome, to begin with,” stated The Shadow. “Not as illuminating as it might be. To what conditions does the ad refer? And why the word ‘convincingly’ at the end?”

“Quite peculiar,” agreed Barth. “I wonder, Cranston, could it be a code?”

“Read it to me,” suggested Cranston, returning the newspaper to the commissioner, “word by word, while I write them down.”

Barth complied. He began to nod wisely.

“Certain letters might mean something,” he said, looking at the ad. “Let’s try the first ones: W — F - S — no, that brings us nowhere. The second letters: A — O - A — that is quite as bad. The third letters—”

“One moment, commissioner,” interposed The Shadow. “Maybe you’re on the right track, but going the wrong direction.”

“How so?”

“You started with first letters; then seconds. Suppose we take the first letter of the first word: the second letter of the second word; and so on. Here I shall arrange the words in column form, marking those letters heavily. It’s working—”

Barth seized the paper on which Cranston was writing, the moment that his companion had completed the column. Staring keenly, Barth saw the result:

“Wolfenson!” exclaimed the commissioner. “The name shows up in the acrostic which those letters form. Do you suppose that it refers to Tobias Wolfenson, the chicle king?”

“Possibly,” replied The Shadow. “He is the only Wolfenson of prominence. He has a magnificent estate on Long Island. He prefers to live a secluded life, I understand.”

“This message,” affirmed Barth, nodding wisely as he tapped the newspaper, “appears to be conveying information from one person to another. Probably naming a certain objective. Perhaps one criminal is notifying another where to strike. Cranston, this requires investigation. I shall communicate with Tobias Wolfenson at once.”

“His telephone is probably unlisted.”

“I shall go directly to his house on Long Island. Accompanied by a squad from headquarters. Can you come with me, Cranston?”

“Hardly. I am entertaining tonight at my home in New Jersey. But why the squad, commissioner? I should think that your ace detective — what is his name — should be sufficient.”

“Joe Cardona? Yes, I was thinking of him, Cranston. Cardona is at present an acting inspector. Making routine trips through the underworld. I shall have him drop that duty tonight. Pardon me, Cranston, while I call headquarters.”

BARTH went to the telephone and put in a call. Returning, he applied himself to hasty eating, explaining the speed with which he was finishing his dinner.

“Cardona is joining me here,” announced Barth. “I told him to bring three picked men. Inspector Egglestone will take up Cardona’s usual duties tonight.”

Just as Barth was finishing his dessert, an attendant arrived to inform him that Inspector Cardona had arrived outside. Rising hurriedly, the commissioner shook hands with his friend Cranston and departed.

A thin smile appeared upon the lips that looked like Cranston’s. That smile remained until The Shadow arose, a few minutes later, and also strolled from the Cobalt Club. When he had reached the street, this being guised as Cranston indulged in a soft, whispered laugh.

By subtle measures, The Shadow had set a false trail for the impulsive police commissioner. Intrigued by hope of an unusual crime hunt, Barth was heading for Long Island. With him, he was taking Joe Cardona; the ace detective would be absent from the underworld tonight.

That was the end which The Shadow had sought. The temporary elimination of Joe Cardona fitted with the plan that he had made for tonight. Aided by his agents, The Shadow was ready to complete the steps that would frustrate crime and give him direct approach to the city of Latuna.