The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW TRAIL

Two days had passed since the developments at Dolver’s. It was a crisp, clear afternoon in New York.

Shouting newsboys no longer cried out their tale of murder. A lull had gripped the law in its search for Dave Callard.

Yesterday, the affray at Dolver’s had made front page headlines. Today, other news dominated the journals. All except the New York Classic. That sheet alone persisted in its efforts to make news about the murders that the police had pinned on Dave Callard.

Boxed on the front page of the Classic was the same request that had been printed two days before. A call for friends of Milton Callard to show themselves.

Clyde Burke had a story in the Classic also; one that carried his own byline. Other journals did not copy; since Clyde alone had been close to events at Dolver’s. The story had been a Classic scoop. Rival newspapers preferred to ignore the details after one printing, rather than call attention to the triumph of the Classic.

IN contrast to the bright daylight of Manhattan, there was darkness in a certain room: The Shadow’s sanctum. This was a spot where daylight never penetrated; a place that was thick with solid gloom. Amid the hushed walls came a click; the bluish light appeared above the corner table.

The Shadow’s hands arrived. They opened envelopes and slid out written reports and clippings. The Shadow began a brief survey of events. Among the clippings was Clyde Burke’s story of the attempt on Dolver’s life.

One point, alone, was of interest. The chalk marks on Dolver’s window shade had been deciphered.

Roger Mallikan had seen them; the shipping man had shown some knowledge of Chinese because of extensive foreign correspondence. He had interpreted the characters as a simple Chinese proverb.

The crudely formed chalk marks linked with Dave Callard. The hunted man had lived in China; he had worked for native interests in his attack on the Chu-kiang pirates. Had Callard entered Dolver’s house and made those marks? If so, why?

The police had no answer. Whoever might have come in the window while the room was empty could also have decided to leave a marker for some other expected intruder. That was the only logical explanation.

Perhaps a more effective attempt on Dolver’s life might have been planned beforehand. The arrival of Weston and Cardona would naturally have changed matters. One theory was that Callard had hoped to abduct Dolver; but had been forced to give up the idea after representatives of the law appeared.

THE SHADOW pressed clippings aside. Into the light came a piece of rope, looped and with ends already tied. It was a replica of the coil that had bound Courtney Dolver, that night at the penthouse.

The Shadow slipped his wrists into the coils. Cloaked arms came beneath the light and added to the twists. Muscles pressed; the slack disappeared and the knots tightened. Carefully, The Shadow managed to work the coils from his arms, before they became too great a restraint.

This test proved what had been said before; that Dolver’s struggles had only served to bind him further.

These knots were a tribute to the craft of the man who had devised them. The Shadow tossed the rope aside. Into the light he brought a brass candelabrum, similar in size to the one at Dolver’s.

The Shadow moved away into the darkness of the room, leaving the candelabrum standing beneath the light. Suddenly a pistol shot rifled through the gloom of the sanctum. With that flash of flame in darkness, the slug from a .38 clanged hard against the center of the branched candlestick and sent the object banging to the floor beyond the table.

The Shadow had made a demonstration of his own. He had duplicated that shot from the dark, using a gun of the same caliber. Stepping past the table, he found the candelabrum in the dark and brought it back to view.

The Shadow’s duplicate shot against an unheld candelabrum had sent the loose brass stand clear of the table. Had Dolver’s candlestick been wavering in his hand, it might have done no more than deflect the bullet instead of stopping it. The Shadow knew, from experience, what damage a ricochet shot could do.

His tests completed, The Shadow began quick notations. His words were pointed as he inked them in blue fluid, that faded after drying. The Shadow was analyzing a chain of crime. He was marking off points that concerned ways of murder.

Ralgood — Basslett — Shurrick — the deaths of those three conformed. Each had been riddled with three or more bullets, fired from close range. Every man had been eliminated up to that point. Then came the case of Dolver. He had been spared.

But why had only one shot been fired? Why had the gun been dropped? Neither point was consistent with past occurrences. Three men had been riddled at close range; yet only one shot had been delivered at Dolver.

The darkness had allowed a chance for the .38 to be emptied pointblank. Dropping the gun had been folly, since it still contained useful cartridges. That revolver, moreover, gave no blind trail. Instead, the police had linked the dropping of a gun at Shurrick’s with the same action at Dolver’s.

Joe Cardona had encountered Dave Callard in front of the house. Callard had engaged in slugging tactics. Apparently, he had been weaponless, or had chosen not to draw a revolver if he had one.

Again, the facts were inconsistent. Why had Callard lingered by the house when he could have fled across the lawn? The time element had been in his favor; unready with a gun, he should certainly not have tarried.

THE final notations faded. The Shadow’s laugh rang out amid the sanctum. In his inscription of these inconsistencies, The Shadow had merely noted facts that he had already analyzed. From confusion of circumstances, he had long since produced an answer to those seeming perplexities.

The tiny bulb glittered on the far wall. The Shadow took the earphones to receive a report from Burbank.

Clyde Burke had just left Joe Cardona’s office. He had been waiting there an hour for the detective.

He was going back to the Classic.

Clyde was now off duty. The Shadow’s turn had come. As Lamont Cranston, he intended to drop in on Commissioner Weston, who was expected at the Cobalt Club. There was still time before that appointment. As a final action in the sanctum, The Shadow again reviewed reports.

He noted that a police guard was on duty at Courtney Dolver’s, and that the importer was keeping close to his Long Island home. Also that Roger Mallikan was accompanied by two detectives, who served as bodyguards wherever the shipping man went. Weston had seen to this protection immediately after the trouble at Dolver’s.

SOME distance from the location of The Shadow’s sanctum, Clyde Burke was entering a large, old-fashioned building, the home of the New York Classic. The reporter took an elevator. He reached the reporter’s room. There he saw the city editor beckoning. As Clyde approached, his superior nudged him toward the managing editor’s office.

Clyde entered to find the M.E. pacing the floor beside his desk. At sight of the reporter, the managing editor snatched up an opened letter and held it in front of Clyde. He exclaimed excitedly:

“We’ve been waiting for you, Burke! This came in only ten minutes ago. From one of old Milton Callard’s friends.”

“Who is he, boss?”

“A man named Justin Hungerfeld. Came in this morning from Europe. On the Doranic, from England. Saw our statement and sent this note by messenger.”

“Where is he?”

“At the Hotel Albana. Waiting to see our representative. That means you. Get on it quick, Burke.”

Clyde snatched the letter from the managing editor’s hand. The reporter skidded from the office, caught the elevator and rode down to the street. Clamping his hat on his head, he hurried around a corner; then stopped suddenly and ducked into a small drug store, to put in a call to Burbank.

His report made, Clyde came from the store. He looked about and saw no taxicabs. He decided that the subway would be best. Clyde started off at a brisk pace.

Eyes noted that fact. Sharp eyes that peered through slitted, yellow lids. They were the eyes of a Chinaman, watching from a laundry across the narrow street.

The Celestial saw Clyde’s direction; then went back to a rear room, picked up a telephone and solemnly dialed a number. He spoke singsong orders in Chinese; then hung up.

AS Clyde neared the subway, he passed a dingy-looking house that had a basement entrance. A short, lightly built man was locking the lower door, his back turned toward the street. As soon as Clyde was by, this man turned around. A Chinese face showed above his American garb.

On the corner was a bank building. An Americanized Chinaman was standing in the doorway, counting checks that he had taken from a deposit book.

The Celestial who was following Clyde turned into the bank, nudging the other as he went by. The man at the door placed the checks and deposit book in his pocket. He took up the broken trail.

The subway car was rather crowded. Clyde did not notice the Chinaman who edged into a corner of the platform. But the yellow-faced observer kept his eye on the reporter. When Clyde alighted, the Chinaman followed, reaching the street only a short distance behind The Shadow’s agent.

Three blocks to the Hotel Albana, along a street that had opposite traffic. Clyde decided to walk. The Chinaman did not follow; instead, he stepped into a cigar store, entered a telephone booth and called a number. Like the man in the laundry, he talked in native singsong.

Pacing the side street, Clyde Burke looked behind him. He had gained the impression that he was being followed. All yesterday and today, he had occasionally felt that sensation. But as he glanced over his shoulder, Clyde curbed his qualms. He saw that no one was on his trail.

A FOLLOWER was soon due. As Clyde passed the next corner, a placid, slight-built Chinaman stepped from the obscure entrance to a Chinese restaurant.

This Celestial had received the telephone call. He was taking up the trail. He followed it until Clyde entered the Hotel Albana. The Chinaman waited a few moments; then he entered also.

Passing a cigar stand, the Chinaman shrank almost from sight. Listening, he heard Clyde inquire for Justin Hungerfeld; he saw the clerk nod and give the room number. The Chinaman watched the reporter head for an elevator.

There were telephone booths beyond the cigar stand. The Chinaman entered one and dialed. He, too, spoke in singsong; but among his babble of Chinese was a name that he repeated, as he addressed the person at the other end. That name was Leng Doy.

The Chinaman departed promptly after he had made his call. The yellow trail had done its work. Secret watchers in the employ of Leng Doy, Celestials who had kept their duty a secret even from Yat Soon, the arbiter, this chain of Chinese had functioned well.

They had watched Clyde Burke ever since the reporter had come into the limelight as the ace of the New York Classic in the newspaper’s search for friends of old Milton Callard.

Leng Doy, the crafty merchant, had guessed that Clyde Burke would be among the first to visit any man who might reveal himself.

Leng Doy had gained the news he sought. To him, by telephone, had come the name of Justin Hungerfeld, together with the present whereabouts of this missing man who had known Milton Callard.

Within some hideout, Leng Doy had won a triumph.

Where Leng Doy was, Dave Callard would be there also. The way had been paved for hidden action.

Aided by Leng Doy and the merchant’s Chinese subordinates, Dave Callard could scheme to reach this new friend of his dead uncle.

The man whom the police sought for triple murder had gained an opportunity to deal with Justin Hungerfeld.