The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER VII THE GUISE OF THE SHADOW

THE blue light in The Shadow’s sanctum was shining upon the latest report from Harry Vincent. The coded writing and its hasty postscript faded gradually away — the last line remaining a few seconds longer than the rest.

White hands removed the blank street of paper. The Shadow’s eyes had perused the message. Events at East Point were now fully impressed upon the mind which had sought them through Harry Vincent.

The hands were at work again, and the girasol glimmered as slender fingers spread the pages of other reports. Here was typewritten data, and it concerned the activities of three men — the ones who dwelt upon East Point. The Shadow, through Rutledge Mann, had checked up information concerning those with whom Harry Vincent was in close contact.

Malbray Woodruff, according to Mann’s report, was scarcely more than a nonentity. He had exhibited paintings at art gatherings, with comparatively small success. In the winter, he lived in a Greenwich Village studio.

Professor Kirby Sheldon was quite the opposite. The old gentleman held a high reputation in educational circles. He had gained great fame as a lecturer, and his ability to present his ideas on sociology had brought him into widespread prominence.

At present, he was giving a series of lectures at regular intervals, holding these affairs at the home of Anthony Hargreaves, a New York millionaire. After each few days in New York, the professor would return to East Point to prepare new material. His lectures were attended by a group of enthusiasts that had been organized by Anthony Hargreaves.

The last report concerned Elbert Cordes. It gave information which Harry Vincent had gained from neither Woodruff nor Sheldon.

Elbert Cordes was a retired bank president, but the nature of his retirement was none too good. One bank had failed while Cordes was its head. He had later become president of a second bank. That institution had also failed.

On this occasion, Cordes had been brought to trial. It was proven that a large manipulation of funds had been perpetrated, but not one bit of evidence could lay the blame on Cordes. Lesser officers were sent to prison, but Cordes was exonerated. His reputation, however, was ruined. In the Connecticut town where he had lived, Cordes was generally regarded as a culpable man, who had covered his traces.

Private detectives had sought to find hidden funds in his possession. They had failed. Finally, Cordes had sold his Connecticut residence, where he had lived alone, being a widower with no children. He had purchased a cottage at East Point, and was living there with one servant.

The typewritten papers slid aside. The slender, tapering fingers remained motionless upon the table. At last, one hand produced a sheet of paper. The fingers wrote in ink:

The writing faded, and a low laugh came from the gloom beyond the mysterious blue lights. The glimmering girasol sparkled its shafts of flame. The Shadow had evidently solved a simple problem which had confronted him.

The light went out. The laugh reechoed through the room. The Shadow had departed at the beginning of this evening — and his soft mockery indicated that he had work ahead.

HALF an hour later, a chauffeur started from his seat behind the wheel of a luxurious limousine which was parked on an uptown street. His action was in answer to a voice that had spoken from the curb.

“All right, Stanley,” were the quiet words the chauffeur heard.

The uniformed man clambered from his seat and opened the door of the car. The man who had spoken stepped into the light. He was tall, immaculately clad in evening clothes, and distinctive in appearance. His face had both dignity and firmness.

Beneath his arm, the owner of the limousine was carrying a small portfolio. He deposited this object upon the seat beside him, and turned two sharp eyes toward the waiting chauffeur.

“Where to, Mr. Cranston?” questioned Stanley.

“To the home of Anthony Hargreaves,” responded the man in the limousine. “His Park Avenue residence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Twenty minutes later, the limousine stopped in front of a large apartment house. The tall man alighted and entered the building. He spoke to the doorman.

“I wish to see Mr. Hargreaves,” he declared. “Notify him that Lamont Cranston is here.”

With these words, Cranston gave a card to the attendant. A few minutes later, the doorman returned with a short, dapper man in a Tuxedo, who introduced himself as secretary to Anthony Hargreaves.

“A lecture is in progress, Mr. Cranston,” said the secretary, with a bow. “Mr. Hargreaves would be delighted to have you come up. Professor Kirby Sheldon is speaking to our regular group.”

“Indeed?” responded Cranston. “I shall be glad to join Mr. Hargreaves. Very glad, indeed.”

A GROUP of some twenty people were seated in the living room of the apartment when Lamont Cranston entered. Anthony Hargreaves shook hands with his visitor at the door, and motioned Cranston to a seat.

Hargreaves was a short, baldheaded man, with bristling brown mustache. He and Cranston listened intently while Professor Sheldon was proceeding with the lecture.

The tall, dignified sociologist was an excellent speaker. He was at present discussing social problems in concise, well-chosen terms, that brought nods of approval from many of his listeners. His theme was that every class of society had its parasites. Professor Sheldon ended his lecture with one decisive statement.

“The social strata,” he asserted. “are formed by individuals who recognize their superiority over their associates. Thus, from a simple beginning, we have formed classes of society as definite as the castes that exist in India.

“These groups, in themselves, are purely artificial creations. From top to bottom of the social layers runs a single dividing line. Upon one side are the useful of each class; upon the other side, the useless.

“That vertical separation is the true division. Place the useful members of society together. Regardless of origin, their arbitrary divisions of caste will disappear. Assemble all the useless and their ridiculous groupings will multiply.

“Unfortunately, however, the parasites are dominant. Hence Utopia is possible only by the voluntary withdrawal of a group of the elect. This is sound theory which will be recognized as fact once it has been properly put in practice.”

The conclusion of Professor Sheldon’s discourse brought a storm of enthusiasm from the listeners. The professor advanced from the rostrum and received the handshake of congratulating men and women. The guests broke into little groups; and finally the professor became engaged in private conversation with two individuals.

It was at this juncture that Anthony Hargreaves clapped Lamont Cranston on the back and suggested that the lately arrived guest meet Professor Sheldon.

To Hargreaves, the advent of Cranston was a notable occurrence. Hargreaves was a man of many millions; and he had striven to gain social recognition. He recognized Cranston as one of the elite, and was proud to have him as a guest.

Others there had noticed Cranston’s presence. They, too, were pleased. For Lamont Cranston, member of the exclusive Cobalt Club, and globe-trotter extraordinary, was known as a millionaire in his own right.

A man of high esteem, he kept much to himself, and it was seldom that his whereabouts were known. His appearance at a social function such as this was most unusual. Hargreaves felt sure that it was the fame of Professor Sheldon that had brought Cranston to this highbrow event.

“You must meet the professor,” insisted Hargreaves. “You will like him immensely, Cranston.”

“I shall be glad to meet him,” responded Cranston, in a quiet voice. “but at present he appears to be engaged.”

“Don’t worry about that,” protested Hargreaves hastily. “Professor Sheldon always talks with members of the group after his lecture. We will not be interrupting him.”

“Those men talking with him?” asked Cranston quietly. “Who are they?”

“The tall chap,” answered Hargreaves, “is Roy Darwin, executive with the International Commerce Board. The short man is Clayton Peale, national representative of a large advertising concern.”

“I have heard of both of them,” remarked Cranston. “Who, by the way, is the young man listening to the conversation?”

As he spoke, Cranston indicated a tall, dark-complexioned individual who was quietly watching the group of three. He was younger than the others, and wore a self-satisfied smile as he overheard the professor’s discussion.

“That’s Maurice Traymer,” said Hargreaves. “High social standing — polo player — old family—”

Cranston nodded and walked forward with Hargreaves, as the millionaire host drew his guest toward the spot where Professor Sheldon was standing.

“I appreciate your interest in my discussion,” Sheldon was saying. “I am glad to have talked with you, Mr. Darwin, and with you, Mr. Peale. Such men as you might well be proponents of the true Utopia.”

Hargreaves arrived and introduced Cranston to Sheldon and the other two. A new discussion began, but it did not concern the professor’s lecture. Lamont Cranston merely expressed regret that he had arrived late, and promised to be present upon the next affair at which the group assembled.

“That will be two nights from now,” Hargreaves explained. “Professor Sheldon is returning to his summer home tonight. He will be here in time to deliver an eight-o’clock lecture the night after tomorrow.”

Darwin and Peale had withdrawn; from the corner of his eye, Lamont Cranston noted that Maurice Traymer had also walked away.

Professor Sheldon announced his intention of departing. Anthony Hargreaves and Lamont Cranston accompanied him to a corner of the room, where an attendant had charge of hats and coats.

WHILE Professor Sheldon was donning his coat, a faint smile came over the lips of Lamont Cranston’s inscrutable countenance. From his pocket — on the side away from observation — he drew a tiny fountain pen and deftly slipped back the cap with a motion of his fingers. His hand dropped into his pocket. Not a motion betrayed the fact that Cranston was writing a message therein.

When the hand emerged, it held a folded slip of paper. This was invisible as Cranston held it clipped between his slender fingers.

The attendant was holding Professor Sheldon’s hat. In absent-minded fashion, Cranston took it; then noting his error, handed the headpiece to Professor Sheldon.

When Cranston received his own hat, his hand was empty. The folded paper had mysteriously disappeared.

Professor Sheldon took his gold-headed cane; shook hands with Anthony Hargreaves and Lamont Cranston; then strode from the room. Hargreaves hurried after him, leaving Cranston alone. Still wearing his cryptic smile, Cranston quietly left the apartment.

The millionaire guest was alone when he reached the street and hailed his limousine. As soon as he had entered the car, and Stanley had headed southward, Cranston indulged in a low, whispered laugh. That mysterious mirth revealed the identity of this inscrutable man.

Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!

In the guise of a millionaire clubman, he had attended Kirby Sheldon’s lecture, and had met the old professor who lived at East Point. But there was something in Cranston’s laugh that signified more than ordinary pleasure.

Tonight, he had not only favored the lecture group with the presence of The Shadow. He had also accomplished a very definite purpose that he had held in mind. He had solved the problem of secret communication with Harry Vincent his agent located at East Point.

For Lamont Cranston had made a very simple arrangement whereby a trial message was already on its way, carried by a man who did not suspect its existence.

As The Shadow, he had chosen the identity of Lamont Cranston for his secret guise. As Lamont Cranston, he had picked Professor Kirby Sheldon as special messenger for The Shadow!