The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW’S MESSAGE

IT was late the next afternoon. Commissioner Ralph Weston was seated in the little office of his apartment. Facing him across the desk was Detective Joe Cardona. It was a last meeting between the chief and his star sleuth.

“I’m counting on you, Cardona,” stated Weston. “Remember that. Counting on you — just as much as if I were still Police Commissioner of New York.”

“You still are,” put in Cardona. “To me, anyway, commissioner. You’ll be back on the job some day—”

“I hope so,” interposed Weston, dryly. “Nevertheless, you are taking the exact attitude that I do not wish you to display. I want you to regard my successor as your chief. I want you to work for him as you worked for me.”

“Count on me, commissioner.”

“You will hear from the new commissioner. He is going to keep you working on important cases. So to pave the way to understanding, I have arranged a brief meeting before I leave.”

“But you are leaving in a few hours.”

“Yes. But that will not interfere with my plans for an informal meeting. Wainwright Barth — the new commissioner — is coming here. I expect him within the next quarter hour. You and Barth will accompany me to the boat.”

“A good idea, commissioner.”

“Call me Mr. Weston after Barth arrives.”

“All right, commissioner.”

Weston chuckled. Cardona grinned. A real friendship had sprung up between these two men. It had begun under trying circumstances. Weston, haughty and domineering, had driven Cardona almost with a goad. Cardona, blunt and persistent, had resented the commissioner’s authority.

Yet Weston had gained tact when he had recognized Cardona’s abilities; and Joe had found himself dependent upon this man of driving action. Gradually, they had come to thorough understanding until Weston’s commendation for Cardona was equaled only by the detective’s loyalty to his chief.

“Be tactful with Barth,” suggested Weston. “He will be hard at first, Cardona. He will annoy you, with his highbrow theories. He is a man of experience; but he has his own idea of criminals.”

Cardona started to say something and thought better. Weston noted this and smiled.

“He has ideas like I had,” went on Weston. “I think he will get over them. I have thrashed out many points with him. But there is one on which we did not agree.”

“What is that, commissioner?”

“The Shadow. Barth thinks The Shadow is a myth. He wants nothing to do with a black-garbed bugaboo that frightens dope-crazed petty thieves.”

“Is that what he said The Shadow was?”

“Practically.”

“Well” — Cardona was drumming on the desk — “that isn’t going to help. At the same time, commissioner, you had that very idea yourself. But you changed it.”

“Not for some time,” reminded Weston. “It took actual experience to alter my opinion. That is why you must be cautious on the subject. Barth will be more difficult to convince than I was.”

Cardona’s face became glum, for good reason. In his long experience as a sleuth, Joe had learned that The Shadow was a force beyond all measure. Time and again, unsolvable crimes had yielded to the persistent power of the unseen master.

JOE’S life had been saved by The Shadow. Rampant evil had been checked; fiends had been destroyed; crooks had been driven cowering to bay by The Shadow’s lone hand.

Like Cardona, Commissioner Weston also owed his life to The Shadow’s keen aid. These two men knew that the very elusiveness of The Shadow was the greatest proof of his existence.

“Wainwright Barth is a skeptic,” remarked Weston, voicing the very thoughts that were in Cardona’s mind. “Like all doubters, he wants to be convinced. He will not understand The Shadow’s way of fading into oblivion, letting credit go to others.”

“That’s The Shadow’s best stunt,” put in Cardona. “You wised to it, commissioner. Say — if The Shadow came around to get medals pinned on him, where would he be afterward? The reason the crooks are dead afraid of him is because they never can get a trace of him.”

“Precisely. But you cannot drive that idea through the brain of Wainwright Barth. It is best not to try. Cover up all mention of The Shadow in your reports. Well, Cardona, our new commissioner is due. I must make ready for our trip to the pier.”

WESTON’S anticipation proved correct. Hardly had the ex-commissioner completed his final arrangements for departure before Wainwright Barth was announced. Weston motioned to Cardona.

Together, they went out into the living room to meet the new police commissioner.

Joe Cardona grunted as he glimpsed his new chief. Tall and stoop-shouldered, Wainwright Barth had the face and beak of a bald eagle. His head seemed to project upward and forward from his body. His eyes glistened through the lenses of pince-nez spectacles. His bald pate shone from above a fringe of gray hair.

Weston shook hands with the new commissioner and introduced Cardona. Barth eyed the ace detective in a manner that was half critical, half approving. In the short conversation that followed, Joe Cardona played the part of listener. He heard a few of Barth’s comments on crime conditions and his poor opinion of the new commissioner became worse.

Weston’s servant arrived with hat, coat and cane. The ex-commissioner donned the garments and hung his Malacca walking stick on his left forearm.

“All ready for the boat,” he said. Then, turning to Barth: “I invited Detective Cardona to ride down to the pier with us. Quite all right, Barth?”

“Hum — hum” — coughed the new commissioner as he removed his pince-nez from his nose — “certainly, Weston. Certainly. Hum” — he paused to place the spectacles in a case and snap the cover sharply shut — “quite all right. I shall be glad to have Detective Cardona with us.”

They rode to the pier in Weston’s limousine. On the way, Barth ignored Cardona completely. Talking with Weston, the new commissioner voiced his opinions on the matter of the Garaucan bond swindle.

“I shall investigate through banking circles,” promised Barth. “My former banking connections will serve me well. You may rest assured, Weston, that I shall bring stern justice against those who may have financed that outrageous scheme.”

“You are talking like a judge, Barth,” remarked Weston. “Remember, you are a police commissioner. Get your man; let the courts manage the rest.”

“No effort of the law will be spared,” assured Barth. “I shall, however, make this a matter of personal inquiry and I shall employ agents of my own choice to examine into banking activities.”

Half blustering, half high-toned, Barth persisted along this channel until the limousine reached a large hotel. There they stopped to pick up Marinez Corlaza. The car continued on and reached the pier.

A small cluster of friends were waiting. They greeted Weston and went aboard ship with the ex-commissioner. The Steamship Equinox, pride of the Equatorial Line, boasted accommodations that equaled those of a transAtlantic liner. Weston stared with high pleasure as he viewed the furnishings of his suite.

“The best accommodations aboard, senor,” purred Marinez Corlaza. “Your visit to Garauca will be one that you will never forget.”

“Beginning with the voyage, eh?” smiled Weston. “Thanks, Corlaza. This is regal splendor.”

The commissioner placed his Malacca cane in a corner of the living room. He placed his hat and coat upon a couch and others followed suit. Then the group held an informal levee. A dozen in all, these friends were genuinely sorry at Weston’s departure.

Joe Cardona was standing alone. Marinez Corlaza approached, nodded pleasantly and began to chat about the case of Sigby Rund. The detective remarked that Rund’s suicide had ended his importance.

“Maybe the commissioner — I mean Mr. Weston — can learn something down in your country,” said Cardona. “Like tracing clear through to the fellows who were in back of Rund. But it looks kind of tough.”

“Of course,” agreed Corlaza. “Rund visited Garauca alone. No, I am afraid Senor Weston will gain nothing of use in New York. He will have much to do for us in Garauca, however.”

A NEW visitor appeared. It was Lamont Cranston. The globe-trotter was carrying his topcoat over his arm as he entered the door of the suite. He nodded to Marinez Corlaza, who watched him narrowly.

Looking about, Cranston noted that the couch was well covered with coats and hats. Spying a chair in the corner, he strolled in that direction and hung his hat, still folded, so that it dangled from the back of the chair.

He came back and joined the levee. Weston and his friends continued their conversation; Cardona looked on; and all the while Corlaza eyed Cranston. The arrival of the globe-trotter had produced an immediate effect upon the South American.

Whenever Cranston spoke to Weston, Corlaza chanced to be close by. Cardona noticed it, but gave the matter no special significance. Then came the cry of “All Ashore” and Weston’s friends began to pick up their hats and coats.

Corlaza watched Cranston walk to the corner of the room. There, Cranston carefully lifted his hat and coat. The hat dropped from his hand. It fell by Weston’s cane. Stooping to regain the hat, Cranston let his coat press against the wall. He arose and Weston’s cane went clattering to the floor.

Hat on head, coat over arm, Cranston reached down and picked up the Malacca walking stick. He set it back in the corner and strolled over to shake hands with Weston. Encountering Corlaza on the way, he first shook hands with the South American.

Once again, eyes met. Keen, burning optics viewed the crafty gaze of Marinez Corlaza. Cranston’s lips formed a thin smile; Corlaza’s twisted cunningly. Then Cranston gave a brief good-by to Ralph Weston.

He strolled on to the deck.

Joe Cardona had shaken hands with Weston just before Cranston had said good-by to the ex-commissioner. Overtaking the detective, Cranston clapped him on the arm and spoke in greeting. He offered him a ride uptown; Cardona accepted. They reached Cranston’s limousine parked near the pier.

Cranston carefully lifted his coat from his arm and laid it on the seat; then pointed Joe into the car and followed.

Cardona left the limousine near Times Square. Cranston ordered Stanley, the chauffeur, to take him to the Cobalt Club. As the car rolled along an eastbound street, Cranston turned on the light above the rear seat and lifted the topcoat that he had laid so carefully. From its folds dropped Ralph Weston’s Malacca cane!

A soft laugh followed. Long, thin hands examined the gold-tipped walking stick. A finger pressed the light switch. When the limousine drew up at the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston alighted. He was carrying his coat over his left arm; with his right, he was swinging the cane that he had gained as trophy of his visit to the Steamship Equinox.

Strange purpose of The Shadow! Guised as Lamont Cranston, he had gone to say good-by to Weston.

He had come back with the ex-commissioner’s most prized possession, filched from a thronged room.

He had gained the Malacca cane under the very eyes of Marinez Corlaza, by the simple expedient of covering it with his coat and carrying it away in the folds.

Yet Marinez Corlaza had not seen The Shadow execute the theft of Weston’s cherished cane. In fact, at the very moment when Lamont Cranston was swaggering into the Cobalt Club, Corlaza, aboard the Equinox was looking at what he thought was Weston’s Malacca cane.

The steamship was in the harbor. Weston and Corlaza were seated in the ex-commissioner’s living room.

The South American, glancing toward the corner, was idly noting the cane that stood there. It was so like Weston’s walking stick that Corlaza thought it was the same. So, in fact, did Weston.

The Shadow, when he had come aboard as Cranston, had carried a duplicate cane within his coat. When he had lifted Weston’s, he had let the hidden cane fall. Corlaza, seeing the act, had thought that Cranston had merely knocked over the original walking stick. He had failed to see the perfect, well-timed substitution, all completely covered by the coat.

HOURS passed. Corlaza had retired to his own suite. Weston had retired to his sleeping-room. The door to the living room was open. The Equinox was cleaving steadily southward through the open sea.

Half asleep, Ralph Weston stirred as he heard a strange, buzzing sound.

Like the alarm of an unbelled clock, the noise persisted from the living room, coming above the rumble of the steamship’s engines. Rising, Weston entered the living room and turned on the light. He located the sound, in the corner behind a chair.

Weston picked up the walking stick as he sought to investigate the mysterious buzzing. To his amazement, the cane was vibrating in his hand! Twisting the stick to determine the source of its strange protest, Weston was further astonished when the head came loose. Instantly the buzzing ceased.

Peering, Weston discovered that the cane was hollow. Something white showed within. He drew out a roll of paper. Dropping the cane, he spread this strange document upon a table. With blinking eyes, he read a message inscribed in ink of vivid blue:

As Weston completed his reading of this message, he happened to glance up toward the top of the page.

To his amazement, the writing was disappearing, letter by letter — word by word. As his eyes followed down, Weston saw the entire message fade into blankness.

Quickly, Weston unrolled the last six inches of the thin scroll. There, he saw the tabulated list of a dozen names — these in letters of vivid red that did not vanish. They were the names of the traitors mentioned in the message. Weston gasped.

The first name on the list was that of Marinez Corlaza. The genial representative who was taking him to Garauca was the chief plotter among those who sought his life. With trembling hands, Weston tore the precious list from the bottom of the scroll. He looked for a place to put it; then smiled.

Throwing the blank paper in the wastebasket, Weston picked up the pieces of the cane. He stuffed the little list back into the hollow section; then replaced the head. It clicked firmly into position. There was no recurrence of the buzzing.

Seated at the desk, the Malacca cane across his knees, Ralph Weston repeated the name that had been in the message: that of Jose Daranga. He would remember that name. As head of the National Police, he would invoke the aid of the militant colonel who stood ready to win justice for his country.

But there was another name that ran through Weston’s brain. It was that of the mysterious friend whom he knew had aided him — the only personage in all the world who could have gained this information and passed it along in writing that vanished once it had been read.

For Ralph Weston knew who had moved to aid him. He realized that he had one more debt of gratitude to a being whom he could never pay. Weston knew that the scroll within the Malacca cane was a message from The Shadow!