LATE the next afternoon, Detective Joe Cardona was seated at his desk in headquarters. The place was deserted. Cardona, alone, was giving vent to his feelings by means of a sullen scowl. The chief object of Cardona’s annoyance seemed to be the evening newspaper that was lying on the desk before him.
Leaning back in his chair, Cardona spent a few minutes in reflective thought. Then, in a decisive manner, he arose, picked up the newspaper, and strode into another office.
He sat down in a chair on the opposite side from a gray-haired man who was busily engaged in completing a report sheet. This was Inspector Timothy Klein, Cardona’s superior.
Klein did not appear to notice Cardona’s arrival. When he had finished his report sheet, however, the grizzled inspector looked up and greeted the detective with a friendly smile.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” he inquired.
“Plenty,” admitted Cardona. “This, for one thing.”
He pointed to the newspaper as he spoke. Klein looked at the item indicated and shook his head.
“Why does this bother you?” he questioned. “A couple of small-fry mobsters killed — that’s all. There have been other shootings in that neighborhood.”
“Listen, inspector.” Cardona’s voice was serious. “I’ve got a hunch that there’s trouble coming. There’s something big behind this. I’ll tell you why. I was using this fellow Scoffy. Just breaking him in as a high-grade stool pigeon.”
Inspector Klein arched his eyebrows. The statement aroused his immediate interest.
“Last night,” went on Cardona, “I went down there to see him. He told me about this fellow, Bennie Lizzit. Scoffy was afraid of Lizzit. More than that, he told me Lizzit was hooked up with a big game. I told Scoffy to keep an eye on Lizzit. Then what happens? This. Lizzit kills Scoffy; and someone gets Lizzit.”
Inspector Klein began to nod thoughtfully.
“Which leaves me out,” declared Cardona. “My stool’s dead; so is the man he was watching. That’s why I think the game is going to break.”
“What do you think it’s all about, Joe?”
“I know what it’s about,” asserted Cardona. “You know the trouble we had with those swell society robberies. You know how little we learned. Some rumors about a smart crook they called ‘The Jackdaw.’ Whether he was a gentleman burglar or a gang leader, we didn’t find out. The only way we figured that he’d ducked out was when he quit operating.
“Well, last night Scoffy tipped me that Bennie Lizzit had worked for The Jackdaw. With Bennie back in town, Scoffy figured The Jackdaw might be back. Now that Scoffy and Bennie are both dead, I figure The Jackdaw is back.”
THE statement brought a frown from Inspector Klein. Cardona knew the reason. He spoke before Klein had an opportunity to express himself.
“I know what you’re thinking, inspector,” said the detective. “It’s going to raise hob if we start going after some unknown bird that we call ‘The Jackdaw.’ The commissioner put the taboo on my mentioning The Shadow in reports — even though I knew there were cases in which The Shadow figured. Now, if I say there’s a crook called The Jackdaw—”
Inspector Klein raised his hands. He tried to curb Cardona’s outburst.
“Easy, Joe,” he said. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. There are no reports of robberies as yet.”
“That’s just it,” returned Cardona grimly. “The other times we came in after The Jackdaw was gone. This trip I want to be ahead of him.”
“Excellent,” affirmed Klein.
“I’ve figured it this way,” asserted Cardona. “If The Jackdaw is back on the job, he’ll be after big game. Here — right on the same page of this afternoon’s newspaper — is something that ought to interest him.”
Inspector Klein looked at the item which Cardona indicated. Half aloud, he read the words which most impressed him:
“Among the gems which Rutherford Casslin will exhibit at his home on Wednesday night is a large diamond of a decided reddish tint. Its value has not been stated; but Mr. Casslin stated that he regards it as the prize of his collection.”
“Casslin is a millionaire,” explained Cardona. “Lives out on Long Island in a big place he calls ‘Five Towers.’ I talked to him on the telephone this afternoon.”
“About the diamond?”
“Yes. I told him who I was. I asked him about being present at his home on Wednesday night.”
“What did he say?”
“I think he’s crazy,” growled Cardona. “He told me to go back to Bombay; that he was tired of people calling him up and misrepresenting themselves. He wanted to know if I was the same fellow who talked to him in London, and claimed to be from Scotland Yard.”
“That’s odd,” commented Klein. “He must have obtained the diamond in India. Listen, Joe; why don’t you go out here this evening and see this millionaire? Get his slant on whatever he suspects; but don’t mention anything about The Jackdaw. That ought to pave the way for a visit on Wednesday night.”
A shadow fell across the floor as the inspector was speaking. Joe Cardona saw the approaching streak of black; he wheeled in his chair, and looked toward the door. He grinned as he saw a tall, stoop-shouldered janitor, who was carrying a pail and mop. The fellow looked at the detective with dull, listless eyes.
“Hello, Fritz,” laughed Cardona. “Cleaning up early again, eh?”
“Yah,” returned the janitor.
“Well, I’m not interfering,” said Cardona. “I’m on my way right now.” He turned to Klein. “I’m all set, inspector. I’ll run out to Casslin’s place some time this evening.”
“So he can see you’re not from Bombay,” added Klein, with a short laugh. “That sure is an odd one, Joe, unless some—”
“Unless Casslin is goofy?”
“No.” Klein was rising from the desk as he spoke. “Unless there is some Hindu business mixed up with that diamond. I’ve seen some strange hookups in my time.”
“I’ll find out the whole story, inspector.”
The two men walked from the room. Klein was pocketing his report as he went. He looked toward the janitor, who was busy with mop and bucket.
“Good night, Fritz,” he said.
“Yah,” was the janitor’s reply.
Footsteps died in the corridor.
IT was then that Fritz ceased his mopping. His tall form seemed to straighten to unusual proportions. A soft laugh came from his thick lips. In the direct light of the room, Fritz’s face took on an artificial expression that neither Cardona nor Klein had noticed. It was more a mask than a face.
Stooping again, this curious janitor shambled from the office. He emitted a friendly “Yah” to a detective whom he passed in the hall. He reached an obscure room, placed mop and bucket upon the floor, and opened the door of a locker.
Folds of black cloth tumbled forth. A cloaklike garment rolled over the janitor’s head. Long hands placed a slouch hat upon the head above. With swift, gliding stride, a phantom shape swung away from the locker, and reentered the gloomy corridor.
The metamorphosis was complete. The pretended janitor had become The Shadow.
No one could have traced The Shadow’s course from then on. Not even the real Fritz, arriving for janitor duty, saw the lurking shape which waited near the outer door until he had passed. The Shadow, by his remarkable impersonation, had listened from the corridor to the conversation between Detective Cardona and Inspector Klein. He had learned why Joe Cardona had visited Scoffy; he had also discovered why Bennie Lizzit had slain the stool pigeon.
To The Shadow, the information gained was usable for a more direct purpose than an immediate visit to the home of Rutherford Casslin. One hour after his departure from headquarters, The Shadow appeared in an obscure portion of Manhattan. A corner light revealed him only as a passing shade of blackness against a dingy wall.
The Shadow had arrived in a district of cosmopolitan Manhattan where members of a dark-skinned race were wont to be. Hindus are rare in New York, but the spot chosen by The Shadow was one which they frequented. The tall shape was lost in obscurity; it reappeared at a little used doorway, and glided into the side entrance of a small restaurant.
Half an hour passed while The Shadow watched from obscurity. The proprietor of the restaurant was a Hindu, garbed in American attire. Most of his patrons were Americans; but as The Shadow lingered, a dark-skinned individual entered and spoke to the restaurant keeper. After that, he went to a table in a corner of the place and sat down.
The Shadow glided from the unused entrance. Shortly afterward, a second Hindu entered, spied the one seated at the table, and joined him. The men waited until bowls of curried rice had been set before them.
Alone, they were about to speak, when a tall American strolled in and took his seat at a table near by. One of the Hindus glanced in his direction, then shrugged his shoulders, and started to talk to his companion.
THE Hindus were obviously men of intelligence. The fineness of their Aryan features showed that fact. Their talk was partly English, partly the native tongue familiar to them. It would have been an indecipherable jargon to the average American.
The customer near by had ordered a dish of Indian food. He seemed quite oblivious to the words which the Hindus were uttering. Nevertheless, his ears were keen, and nothing escaped him. The dialect came within his understanding.
“It can only be the one,” a Hindu was declaring. “Its color — red — is all that we need to know. It is the diamond taken from Bishenpur.”
“Would Changra of Bombay still seek it?” queried the man’s companion.
“No,” was the reply. “Once it had left London, and come to New York, the price would be too great for any offer he might make. Changra sells his gems at profit.”
“He sought the Bishenpur diamond.”
“Yes. The Nizam of Hyderabad would gladly buy it for his vast collection. The Nizam would pay a great price.”
“How much would Changra offer for the diamond?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand rupees.”
An eager hiss came from the listening Hindu.
“You are going back to India,” said the first speaker. “If you should carry with you the Bishenpur diamond, it would mean great gain for each of us.”
“Changra would ask no questions?”
“None.”
“But the diamond? How can you obtain it?”
“Tippu is watching at the American’s castle. Tippu is bold. He will do his utmost to seize it.”
The listener nodded in agreement. His dark eyes gleamed at the thought of great gain. The ensuing discussion dealt with the arrangements which he must make upon reaching Bombay.
While the Hindus were still talking, the American finished his meal and arose. He strolled leisurely from the restaurant. The plotting Hindus gave no more thought to him. They had no idea whatever that he had understood their conversation.
NOT far from the restaurant, the tall listener stopped beside a parked coupe. He stepped into the car. Blackened folds of cloth dropped over his shoulders. Black gloves and slouch hat completed his adopted garb.
The coupe moved, guided by an unseen hand. As it rolled from the vicinity where New York’s small Hindu population thronged, a soft laugh betrayed the hidden thoughts of the driver of that car.
The Shadow had learned more than Joe Cardona. He had discovered why Rutherford Casslin had regarded the detective’s telephone call as a hoax. Possessor of a rare stone which he had brought from India, the American millionaire had refused all offers which had been made for its purchase.
The Shadow had learned of a definite danger which overclouded Rutherford Casslin’s possession of the diamond. He had heard the name of a man who was watching the millionaire’s Long Island home — Tippu, a vigilant Hindu bent on crime.
The Shadow, like Joe Cardona, was bound for Rutherford Casslin’s home. Whether or not The Jackdaw was concerned in this enterprise did not matter. Crime threatened and where crime hovered, there would The Shadow be.
The clock on the dashboard of the coupe showed the hour of nine as The Shadow guided his car through the traffic of Manhattan, headed for an East River bridge.