The Ghost Makers

Chapter XX — Imam Singh Prepares

Rajah Brahman was seated in his sanctum. Imam Singh was beside him, listening to final instructions. The rajah, despite his Oriental appearance, was talking in the shrewd tones of Bert Clutten.

"You know how we're working tonight, Tony," he said. "I'm going to work this materialization strong. A long talk, spirit guides and all that — before the fireworks.

"Get going as soon as we set the cabinet. I'll do the rest. Take plenty of time with the make-up. You've got to do the part right."

Tony nodded.

"Show them in," said the seer.

He went into the seance room, and was seated on his throne when the sitters were ushered into his presence. Rajah Brahman looked about with secret satisfaction.

Here were the real believers — ones who had the money. Arthur Dykeman would turn in his cash after this seance. Mrs. Furzeman, from Chicago, was a good believer. There was Thomas Telford — the seer noted that his newfound son was not with him. That was just as well.

Beside Telford sat the one member of the group who might be classed as a skeptic — Benjamin Castelle. The dignified man was very serious to-night, and it pleased Rajah Brahman. After this seance, Castelle would serve a most useful part in the scheme of things.

For Rajah Brahman, with the knowledge of the seer, was sure that to-night Castelle's skepticism would drop away. He was sure that the man, as a new convert, would be high in his praise of Rajah Brahman's psychic powers.

Best of all was Maude Garwood. Tonight, she would gain her long-cherished desire. From the vast spaces of the universe, a spirit would come to greet her — a spirit whom she would recognize. Rajah Brahman glanced toward Imam Singh. A great assistant, Tony!

The seance began impressively. After the usual discourse, Rajah Brahman signed for the spirit cabinet. It was brought to the center of the floor by Imam Singh.

Rajah Brahman commenced a discussion of the higher planes. While he spoke, his mind was thinking of other matters. All was well in Chicago. Slade had arranged a good job there. Joe Cardona was out of the picture.

All was well here in New York. There must be no trouble, to-night, of all nights. Again Slade had proven useful. He had arranged for Barney Gleason and his chosen mobsmen to be on watch, to-night. That would prevent any interference by The Shadow!

Imam Singh was no longer in the seance room. He had glided into the reception room, and thence, to the outer door.

There, the white-clad man uttered a low signal. Four men appeared and came through the door. One was Barney Gleason. The others were his chosen gunmen.

"In here," whispered Imam Singh.

He stationed two men in the reception room. He led Barney Gleason and the remaining thug through the anteroom, into Rajah Brahman's private sanctum.

"O.K.," said Barney Gleason.

Imam Singh nodded. He went through the empty anteroom and traveled to the outer door of the apartment. There, he peered cautiously into the hall. He closed the door and let it latch behind him. It was only a few steps to the fire tower. There, Imam Singh descended, and reached the fhoor below. He peered from the tower into the hall. No one was in sight. Imam Singh hurried to a door directly beneath the entrance of Rajah Brahman's apartment.

He unlocked the door and entered. He turned on a single light in the hall, and made his way to the door of a storage room. He unlocked this door, and entered.

The storage room was fairly large. It contained various articles of furniture. A large square box was in one corner — beside it the properties of Professor Raoul Jacques, which had been partially unpacked. Imam Singh laughed as he looked at a chair which had come from the Hotel Dalban. He adjusted a stepladder in the center of the room, directly between two beams in the ceiling. The ladder was an unusual one. It was very firm, and had a large platform top. It reached almost to the ceiling. Iman Singh went to a closet. He divested himself of his white robes, and put on a garment of jet black.

This was close-fitting, and, with it, Imam Singh took out a black hood, which he did not don. Instead, he placed it upon a dressing table that stood beside the box in the corner.

Imam Singh turned on a light by the table. He produced make-up materials, and began a transformation of his own face.

A picture was lying on the table as he worked. It was a portrait of Geoffrey Garwood, the dead husband of the Philadelphia woman.

Gradually, Imam Singh's countenance assumed the features of the departed millionaire. Satisfied with his final touches, Imam Singh laughed and leaned back in his chair. His task was done; but there would be long to wait.

To-night, Rajah Brahman was doing preliminary work with the trumpet. The materialization of the wealthy Garwood would be the last number on the spooky program.

As Imam Singh leaned back, with eyes half closed, a pair of hands emerged from the box behind his chair. A man's form followed. The man suddenly hurled himself forward and landed full upon the unexpectant Imam Singh.

The struggle was brief, and all in favor of the attacker. A man of strength, he rolled the fake Hindu to the floor, and rammed his head against the woodwork. Within half a minute, the victor was staring at the inert face that resembled Geoffrey Garwood.

He arose and dragged the unconscious man to the far corner of the room, where he bound and gagged his captive. Then he returned to the dressing table in the corner, and took the chair which Imam Singh had occupied.

While this unusual event was taking place beneath the apartment of Rajah Brahman, a group of detectives at headquarters were extending a welcome to Joe Cardona, returned from his leave of absence.

The detective had just arrived from his trip to parts unknown. He looked worn and weary from his journey.

In the office, his comrades, unimpressed by Cardona's tired appearance, were questioning him about his vacation. Cardona saw a package on his desk. Some one spied the direction of his gaze. The banter changed in tune.

"Came in this afternoon, Joe. Were you expecting it?"

"Looks like more violets, Joe."

"Better see what's in it."

Joe Cardona opened the package. He brought out the inevitable bunch of violets. The banter turned to laughs. Cardona made no comment.

He fingered the stems of the flowers, and calmly thrust the bouquet into a glass of water that chanced to be on the window sill.

This action brought more raillery. It also gave Cardona a chance to examine the writing on the metal disk that he had plucked from the flowers:

Repeating the name to himself, Cardona dropped the disk into his pocket, and looked up the name of Thomas Telford in the phone book. He found it. He called the number. There was no answer. Summoning a squad of men, Cardona lost no time. Two police cars were speeding toward Thomas Telford's Long Island home. The cars were filled with detectives who wondered if their leader had experienced an attack of sunstroke.

The first car pulled up at Telford's bungalow. Cardona clambered out and dashed into the house, with three men at his heels. In the lighted room they found the body of Martin Slade!

Murder!

The detectives were amazed. How had Cardona received the tip? Through a bunch of violets? The ridicule that had attended those ludicrous bouquets of flowers was now a thing of the past. Cardona was reading the paper that lay on the desk beside the dead man. Its paragraphs were brief and to the point. They told much that Martin Slade had done.

Something in the confession stirred the detective to instant action. Ordering one detective to remain at Telford's home, Cardona turned to the rest of his men.

"Come on," he said briskly. "We're going back to Manhattan. We've got something more important than this to worry about."

The detectives were buzzing as they hurried to the cars in response to Cardona's mysterious command. To the drivers, Joe Cardona gave the order that announced the destination of this quickly formed raiding squad.

"Head for the Callao Hotel," ordered the detective. "Get going and keep going!" The Shadow had again spurred Joe Cardona on the trail.