The Shadow's Shadow

CHAPTER XXIII THE SYNDICATE OFFICE

THE blue light was glowing in The Shadow’s sanctum. Two white hands were at work making notations upon a sheet of paper. The fiery girasol threw its ever-changing sparkle from The Shadow’s finger.

The cryptic statements which The Shadow wrote were evidently references to the activities of certain persons with whom he had been recently concerned. Among them appeared names: Gats Hackett, Squint Freston, and those of lesser gangsters.

Then, in new notations, The Shadow’s hand inscribed the names of Douglas Carleton and Felix Zubian. Master plotters though that pair believed themselves to be, they had not managed to escape The Shadow’s attention.

Where Lamont Cranston had been watched, at the Cobalt Club, Henry Arnaud had become a watcher. He had connected many links in a broken chain of circumstances. Even now, he was fingering a sheet of paper that bore the names of other persons: Stanford Devaux and his daughter, Virginia.

A tiny spot of light gleamed across the table. The Shadow’s hands reached forward, and obtained a pair of ear phones. These disappeared into darkness, to be fitted upon an unseen head. A voice whispered into the mouthpiece.

“Report.”

“Burbank speaking,” came a voice from the other end. “Report from Cliff Marsland. He is established as a member of Gats Hackett’s new gang. Job set for to-night. Ready to leave at half past eight. Clyde Burke is following. Will report upon signal from Marsland.”

The ear phones moved across the table. The tiny light no longer glimmered. The Shadow laughed softly in the darkness. His plans were working well to-night.

The Shadow had anticipated Gats Hackett’s next move immediately after the battle beneath the Tenth Avenue garage. Since Harry Vincent and Rutledge Mann were now known to The Shadow’s enemies, he had placed those agents out of danger’s way. But in New York, The Shadow had another pair of competent workers whom he had called to active duty.

One was Cliff Marsland, who had entree to the underworld. Gangsters believed that Cliff was one of their own ilk. Hence when Gats Hackett had recruited his new forces — a step which The Shadow had foreseen — Cliff had been welcomed as a member of the replenished mob.

The other was Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter. He had been assigned to the job of following Cliff Marsland, so that the pretended gangster might flash him a signal when Gats Hackett’s mob had assembled at a given spot.

Minutes went by, while The Shadow’s hands still moved among the papers. Shortly before nine o’clock, the little light made a tiny spot across the table. Again, The Shadow communed with Burbank.

“Mob outside Archive Building,” reported Burbank, in his quiet tones. “Attack planned on diamond syndicate office. Half past nine is zero hour.”

“Instructions to Burke,” declared the voice of The Shadow. “Visit Cardona at headquarters. Keep him there on interview, until after nine thirty.”

The little light was gone. The large blue incandescent flicked out. The room was in darkness. A shuddering laugh swept through the blackness. A robe swished amid the shivering echoes. The Shadow was gone.

FIFTEEN minutes later, an almost invisible shape moved inward from a window on the eighth floor of the Archive Building. The figure of The Shadow merged with the blackness of darkened corridors. It passed directly beside the half-opened door of an empty office. There, The Shadow listened.

“Be ready, Squint,” came the whispered voice of Gats Hackett. “We’re holding it until nine thirty. That’s when the boys outside will begin to act suspicious.”

“Yeah,” responded Squint grimly. “They’re goin’ to bring The Shadow in on us, eh?”

“Sure,” declared Gats, in a brave tone. “He’s going to run into my smoke wagons to-night, unless he gets nabbed on the way in. We’re going to do it right this trip. I can blow the lid off that old kettle in two minutes. You scram with the sparklers. I’ll stick with the mob to get The Shadow.”

“What if he don’t get here?”

“Him?” Gats was derisive. “That fox? You bet he’ll be here! With Gaffer, Fuzz, Martin, and that guy Marsland roaming around the building, he’ll spot something sure enough. Say — he’s got to be good to get by those birds.”

The Shadow moved on. He passed by other spots where men were lying silent.

Gats Hackett had spoken the truth when he had declared it would be difficult for The shadow to enter this building unobserved. As a matter of fact, The Shadow had not scaled the wall unseen. His long, mysterious form had been glimpsed by one man who was watching that particular portion of the building — The Shadow’s own man, Cliff Marsland.

A key jogged into the lock of the syndicate office. It was a formidable lock, one which Gats Hackett expected to crack with a powerful blow. But the hand of The Shadow opened the lock noiselessly. A tiny, black steel instrument performed the operation without any difficulty.

Within the office, the door closed behind him, The Shadow continued until he came upon a strong safe in the corner. There, aided by the small round spot of a tiny flashlight, his left hand began its work upon the dials. The hand was ungloved; the sensitive fingers were unhampered. The mystic hues of the girasol sparkled with new radiance.

The door of the safe opened. The spot of the flashlight, a circle no larger than a silver dollar, probed the interior. It came, at last, to a final stopping point.

The inspection of the steel box was final and complete. The safe was empty!

The light went out. There was a short pause, while a keen brain sought the answer to this unexpected enigma. Then, a soft, scarcely audible laugh sounded before the safe, and its tones were whispered back in the same weird fashion by the steel interior of the opened strong box.

The door of the safe closed slowly and softly while the echoes still emerged. There, in the dark, it seemed as though The Shadow had locked his own mockery within the vault!

The black cloak swished as The Shadow swept swiftly across the room. The flashlight glimmered upon a telephone. The light went out. A whispered voice was calling a number. A short space followed. The tones of a gruff voice came from the other end. Detective Joe Cardona was on the line.

“Yes, room eight — six — four” — The Shadow’s whispered voice was low and ominous — “in the Archive Building. Office — United Diamond Syndicate. Safe blowers here. Come at once.”

The receiver clicked. The Shadow’s form moved toward the door. Invisible hands turned the lock and the knob. The door was opened. The way lay free for The Shadow’s unseen departure.

He had come here, this being of the night, to take the wealth of diamonds before the crooks arrived. He had come too late for he found the diamonds missing. Now he was setting forth to seek them.

The Shadow stood still. Some one was coming down the hall. It was the watchman, going his rounds to see if all doors were locked.

The door began to close, The Shadow still within the office. The door did not shut all the way. An interruption caused it to remain in its position.

Vague men had leaped up from the silence of the corridor. One of them, striking in the dark, felled the watchman. The old man’s lantern clattered to the floor.

The cracked voice of Gats Hackett was giving a command. The gang leader, impatient, was directing the attack before the zero hour of half past nine!

The door of the syndicate office was now closed. In the pale glow that flitted in from the window, the figure of The Shadow made a dim, fantastic silhouette. Both hands were gloved, and they were moving, drawing two huge automatics from beneath the folds of the black cloak.

DOWN in detective headquarters, Joe Cardona was shouting orders like a madman. Men were rushing to do his bidding. Thumping on the desk, the star detective gave his final instructions. Then he happened to remember Clyde Burke. He turned to the silent reporter, who was staring in open-mouthed wonderment.

“Come along, Burke!” shouted Cardona. “You want a story — you’ll get it! I’ve got a tipoff. They’re blowing a safe at the United Diamond Syndicate office!”

“A tip-off!” cried Burke, as he leaped to his feet to follow the detective. “Who’s it from, Joe?”

“You’ll find out!” responded Cardona grimly. “You’ll find out — maybe.”

That was the last statement Joe Cardona intended to make to any one regarding the identity of the man who had called. For the detective had received those tips before. Well did he know the sound of that spectral voice that he had heard.

Hot work lay ahead to-night. This squad was going forth on business — not to be misled by a hoax. The ace detective knew that plenty of gun play lay ahead.

Joe Cardona had recognized the voice of The Shadow!