The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER VI THE STORM BREAKS

MORNING. Acting Inspector Joe Cardona sat at his desk in headquarters, reading the New York Classic. A grim smile showed on Joe’s face as he perused Clyde Burke’s column. The account of last night’s episodes ran as follows:

As he finished reading, Joe Cardona looked up to see Detective Sergeant Markham enter. Joe pointed to the newspaper. Markham grinned and nodded.

“Just read it, Joe,” he said. “Coming in to tell you about it. Looks like Burke’s gone nuts, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” commented Joe. “Well” — he paused, thinking of last night’s futile trip to Long Island — “you can’t blame him. Somebody was due to cut loose with a razz on the commissioner. It’s too bad for Burke, though.”

“Why?”

“The commissioner will have his scalp. Wait and see.”

“On account of the panning Burke handed Egg?”

“Sure. The commissioner rates Egglestone pretty high.”

JOE CARDONA had made his comment in a tone of prediction. One hour after the prophecy, Clyde Burke entered the city room of the Classic. He was greeted by shaking heads.

“The old man wants to see you,” remarked a reporter. “He’s in his office.”

Clyde entered a door marked “Managing Editor.” He found the “old man” seated at his desk. The M.E. motioned for Clyde to close the door. Clyde complied.

“Burke,” began the old man, “since when has your column called for editorial comment?”

Clyde grinned sheepishly. The M.E. remained severe.

“Commissioner Barth called me this morning,” he declared. “He was highly indignant. He termed the Classic a yellow sheet. He said that it defied all the ethics of journalism.”

“He’s said that before, boss.”

“Yes. But this time he is justified. I’m firing you, Burke.”

“Just on account of—”

“Yes. On account of the way you wrote that column. It was poor business, Burke. Particularly from a reportorial standpoint. That type of tripe belongs in a small-town journal.

“I don’t mind violent criticism. But I do object to having the Classic carry stuff that reads like the lead article in the Punkville Weekly Bugle. You’re through, Burke. Two weeks’ salary waiting downstairs.”

Clyde nodded. He turned and walked slowly toward the door.

The managing editor looked up; then rose and reached the door ahead of him. He clapped his hand on Clyde’s shoulder. His eyes carried a kindly twinkle as he spoke.

“I had to fire you, Burke,” he remarked. “Now that the job’s over, I don’t mind telling you that you’re a valuable man. You will find a berth somewhere; when you do, refer to me for recommendation.

“That column simply bore the marks of misplaced talent. Get it out of your system. Try a job in the sticks for six months until you’re rid of this small-town complex. Then come back here. You’ll find a new job waiting.

“I had to make an example of you to appease Barth. It will cool him when he learns that you were promptly removed from our staff. Either he will have forgotten all about you within six months, or—”

“There may be a new commissioner by that time,” completed Clyde.

“Exactly!” chuckled the managing editor. “Good-by, Burke. By the way, did I say you would find two weeks’ salary downstairs?”

Clyde nodded.

“I meant four,” corrected the M.E., returning to his desk.

HALF an hour afterward, Clyde Burke entered the office of Rutledge Mann. He found the investment broker seated at his desk, with clippings of Clyde’s column in front of him. Mann looked up in solemn fashion. His face was slightly quizzical.

“Sacked,” announced Clyde, pointing his thumb toward the clippings. “On account of that.”

Mann smiled slightly. He picked up the clippings and tucked them in an envelope, which he passed to Clyde.

The reporter was a bit puzzled. He knew that he was due for some mission in behalf of The Shadow; what the clippings had to do with it was something he did not understand.

“Your recommendations,” said Mann. “To a new job. They should serve you well.”

“The old man promised me a recommendation of his own if I needed it for a newspaper job.”

“Good! Call on him if necessary. But I think your own ability — as evidenced by to-day’s article — will gain you a job with the Latuna Enterprise.”

“The Latuna Enterprise?”

“Yes. Here is a sample of the editorials that appear in that journal. Read it. I think that you and Mr. Harrison Knode have much in common.”

Clyde nodded, chuckling, as he read the editorial that concerned the Blue Sphinx. When he looked up, Mann was politely tendering him a railroad ticket along with a green slip Pullman reservation.

“Pennsylvania Station, four thirty-five,” announced Mann, in a businesslike tone. “Ticket and lower berth to Latuna. And added instructions” — he picked up a sealed envelope and handed it to Clyde — “are to be read on the train.”

At five o’clock that afternoon, Clyde Burke was seated in a corner of a club car, reading the message that Mann had given him. Coded words faded. Clyde crumpled the blank sheet and tossed it in a wastebasket beneath the writing desk opposite.

He had memorized brief added instructions from The Shadow.

AT that same hour, a slower through train was pulling out from the Union Station in Washington. Alone in the smoking compartment of a sleeper were two men who had come aboard at the last minute. Cliff Marsland and Tinker Furris formed the pair.

Cliff was reading a New York evening newspaper, in which he found brief mention of a foiled burglary in Cobleton’s Pawnshop. He pointed it out to Tinker. A few minutes later, the pock-faced crook called Cliff’s attention to a copy of the New York Classic.

“Say, look at this!” whispered Tinker, hoarsely. “Here’s a guy has some funny dope on that job of ours. Some mug got away with the sparklers and another guy returned them!”

“The Shadow, probably,” nodded Cliff, as he read the column. “Sure enough. That holds together.”

“Whadda you mean?”

“Well, the bulls were coming in, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“And The Shadow had to scram. So he slugged Egglestone and made a getaway.”

“Why’d he run off with the swag?”

“Guess he didn’t know who Egglestone was.”

“I begin to get it. Then he handed the stuff over to some flatfoot. But it says here that there was a fellow in a sweater.”

“That was probably what Egglestone thought. The Shadow must have handed him a quick haymaker.”

“Yeah. And the cops must have been woozy when he cooped ‘em in that office.”

“They would have said the same as Egglestone.”

Tinker nodded. Then his ugly countenance denoted perplexity. Cliff watched him closely. He knew what was coming.

“What gets me,” confided Tinker, “is how The Shadow got out of it at all. You clipped him, Cliff.”

“Probably grazed him with my first shot.”

“You done better. You must have plugged him twice, anyway. He staggered that first time. I thought he was done.”

“Looks like nobody can kill The Shadow.”

“Maybe not. But I can’t figure how he snapped out of it so quick. To do all he did afterward. Say — it’s got me sort of jittery, Cliff.”

“Why should it?” Cliff laughed as he saw a chance to swing the dangerous subject. “The more The Shadow did, the better for us.”

“Why?”

“Because it kept him too busy to pick up our trail. We’re sitting pretty, Tinker. Come on — it’s time for chow. Let’s see if this rattler has a diner.”

Tinker said nothing more, and Cliff decided that the topic was ended. That was a good sign. For the fight with The Shadow had put Cliff in right with Tinker. As sworn pals, they were heading for Latuna to join up with Konk Zitz.

Uppermost in Cliff’s mind was the fact that he must keep the true facts of that fight completely away from Tinker’s mind. Any inkling that the battle had been framed would prove disastrous.

For where Cliff was going, any suspicion that he was an agent of The Shadow would ruin the coming campaign against crime. More than that, a discovery of the truth could spell prompt death for Cliff Marsland.