The Living Joss

CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW MOVES

A TALL, keen-visaged man entered the portal of the Union Club shortly after midnight — less than half an hour following the unfortunate death of Westley Hartnett. The doorman of the club bowed as he recognized the arrival.

Lamont Cranston was not a member of the Union Club, but he held a guest card there, and his appearance pleased the doorman.

It was not often that this prominent millionaire visited the place. Members had urged him to join the organization; the doorman, proud of the club’s prestige, had learned of this effort. He was quite obsequious when he spoke to Lamont Cranston by name.

The firm-faced millionaire nodded pleasantly and strolled through the lobby. His gaze turned toward the lounge room. His ears caught the sound of a protesting voice. Cranston stopped to watch a heated discussion between a fat-faced gentleman and an attendant.

“I tell you that Mr. Goodall must be here,” argued the fat-faced club member. “He promised to wait for me — to wait until twelve o’clock—”

“I know that, Mr. Beecham,” interposed the attendant. “But when I received your telephone message—”

“I didn’t phone here!” blurted Beecham.

“I understand, sir,” said the attendant. “Let me tell you exactly what occurred. I answered the telephone, and was told that the call was from you. I was instructed to tell Mr. Goodall that you could not join him on his trip to Trenton. I did so; Mr. Goodall left.”

“Who called you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Preposterous!” puffed Conrad Beecham. “I never told anyone to call here. Where was Mr. Goodall when you saw him last?”

“He was sitting right here, sir” — the attendant indicated a large chair — “and he seemed rather annoyed when I informed him you were not coming—”

“I never said that I would not join him!” snorted Beecham. “This is an outrage! I am going up to Goodall’s room. It will be fortunate for you if he is there. This may mean your dismissal, my man!”

The attendant shrugged his shoulders as Beecham stormed from the lounge room. He followed in the fat fellow’s wake.

Lamont Cranston, a silent witness of the scene, slowly puffed upon a cigarette and strolled over toward the spot where the attendant had said that Blaine Goodall had been seated.

A TRIP to Trenton.

To a keen sleuth, this would have been regarded as a perfect clew. A broad highway led from New York to Trenton. By following that route, one could overtake a man who was traveling at normal speed.

Yet The Shadow, even when he had learned that Blaine Goodall had departed, displayed no hasty response.

In the calm guise of Lamont Cranston, this supersleuth quietly surveyed the chair which Goodall had recently occupied.

A full minute passed — a minute which a smart detective might have considered as wasted time. But at the end of that minute, keen eyes had found a mark.

Protruding from beneath the edge of the chair was the corner of a white piece of paper. Still puffing his cigarette, Lamont Cranston seated himself in Blaine Goodall’s chair, and with the same action, his hand plucked an envelope from the floor.

The eyes of The Shadow saw the rough sketch which Blaine Goodall had made for Hugo Urvin. The hand of The Shadow crumpled the envelope in a ball, and tossed it into the wastebasket — the target which Goodall had missed. The Shadow had scored an important point against the enemy. His deliberate actions had enabled him to avoid a useless step.

Where any other would have followed the direct route to the New Jersey capital, The Shadow was ready now to take the roundabout route for which Blaine Goodall had expressed a preference.

Still deliberate, this being who masked himself in the guise of Lamont Cranston arose and strolled to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth and called a New Jersey number. A voice answered; it was that of Richards, Lamont Cranston’s valet.

“This is Mr. Cranston,” said The Shadow, in the calm tone of the millionaire. “Tell Stanley that I intend to use the speedster tonight. Have him bring it immediately to the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel. He will wait for me there.”

His call completed, The Shadow left the Union Club. The doorman gave Lamont Cranston a salute as he passed. A smile flickered upon thin lips beneath a hawkish nose.

Lamont Cranston! The name commanded great respect. Only The Shadow knew that the real Lamont Cranston was still hunting his elephants in the wilds of Nigeria!

Reaching a coupe, the actions of The Shadow became more swift. The trim car headed rapidly downtown. In quick time, it reached the Holland Tunnel, and sped through the tube beneath the Hudson River. A swift car, this one; yet not swift enough to overtake a man with the start that Blaine Goodall had gained.

AT the Jersey side of the tunnel, the coupe stopped. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow emerged and approached a long-hooded roadster that was waiting there. A uniformed chauffeur tipped his hat.

“Hello, Stanley,” came the easy tones of Cranston. “Take the coupe home. I am going for a spin.”

The chauffeur nodded. He noted that his employer was carrying a briefcase. Lamont Cranston had one frequently.

Stanley would have been surprised had he known the contents of that bag. Within the darkness of the parked speedster, the personage who was the perfect double of the millionaire opened the briefcase and removed a bundle of dark material.

As the car moved forward, the driver seemed to disappear beneath the folds of a black cloak. A broad-brimmed slouch hat crowned his bead. Black gloves were upon his hands.

The Shadow was The Shadow!

The huge speedster — a car with wheel base greater than that of a large limousine — moved rapidly along the Lincoln Highway. It was gaining, no doubt, upon Blaine Goodall; but its speed, at present, was no greater than that which the coupe could have made.

Then came the turning point. Following the odd route which Blaine Goodall had chosen for his trip to Trenton, the huge car swung off the traffic-ridden highway.

Miles behind? What were miles to this powerful foreign car? What were miles when The Shadow was at the steering wheel?

A long, clear stretch of road lay far ahead. Not a car in sight at this late hour. The motor purred softly at seventy miles an hour. It began to thrum at ninety. Then its noise became a roar.

The speedometer moved upward to one hundred and ten. It wavered there, occasionally tending toward a higher point than that terrific speed. At whirlwind pace, the huge speedster held the road, scarcely slackening at long, sweeping curves.

The hand of The Shadow was at the wheel. The master who battled crime was on the trail of Blaine Goodall, gaining one mile out of every two!

If danger lay in the path of an innocent man tonight, The Shadow would be there when the menace arrived!