The Triple Trail

CHAPTER III THE SHADOW ENTERS

THE same rains that had deluged the town of Droverton had brought heavy damage to lowlying New Jersey areas. Cloudbursts had flooded valley towns and the New York newspapers were proclaiming the fact with large headlines.

In the office of the New York Classic, a young man was banging on a typewriter, writing a final story that summarized the destruction in the storm-swept districts. He finished with a string of asterisks across the bottom of the page; then yanked the paper from the machine and handed it to a copy boy.

That done, the young man picked up a newspaper that had just been left on his desk. It was the bulldog edition of the Classic, off the press five minutes ago. Settling back in his chair, he passed up the front page and began to look through other portions of the tabloid.

This young man was Clyde Burke, reporter for the Classic. The rewrite of the storm news had been given him as a last assignment for the midnight edition. With his work done, Clyde was more interested in a story that he had written during the afternoon.

That story dealt with crime. Clyde Burke was usually detailed as a police reporter. Crime interested him more than storms. There was a double reason for the fact. Clyde Burke was not only a reporter on the staff of the Classic. He was also an agent of The Shadow.

Clyde’s work carried him into the underworld. As a newspaper reporter, he was immune from the usual feuds of mobdom, so long as he minded his own business, which Clyde appeared to do. Secretly, however, the reporter kept tabs on crook movements and passed his findings along to The Shadow.

Clyde was always alert in The Shadow’s service. To him, The Shadow was a leader who commanded complete obedience. Battling against crime, The Shadow was a mysterious power who held the balance in favor of the law. Clyde, like others, was doing his part to aid that mighty task.

Thumbing pages of the Classic, Clyde looked for other news items. Like all newspaper men, he knew that a story frequently had another story behind it. If he needed inside dope, he could get it from his fellow reporters. It was his policy to go through each edition while still hot from the press. On page thirteen of the bulldog, Clyde Burke stopped with a puzzled frown. The Classic conducted a personal column which happened to appear upon this page. Usually, the items were trivial. But this time, Clyde had spotted a rare one. He read it carefully:

Tucking the newspaper under his arm, Clyde arose and strolled over to a telephone booth in the corner. It was a pay station that a nickel-saving city editor had introduced for reporters who wished to make personal calls. That suited Clyde; for the call that he intended to make could not go over the regular switchboard.

Dropping a coin in the pay box, Clyde dialed a number. He waited for a few moments; then heard the click of a receiver, followed by a quiet voice: “Burbank speaking.”

“Burke,” said Clyde. “In the Classic office. Just been reading the bulldog. Listen to this. In the personals.”

Pulling the newspaper into view, Clyde read off the advertisement. Burbank acknowledged it; then gave an order to stand by. Clyde hung up and strolled back to his desk. He noted the time as he did so. Half past eight. The early bulldog edition would not be on the street until shortly before nine.

Slouching in his chair, Clyde stared out through the window and watched the flicker of Manhattan’s evening lights. Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, was relaying the call to the master sleuth. Orders would be forthcoming. Of that, Clyde Burke was sure.

SOMEWHERE in Manhattan, a bluish light was glimmering upon the polished surface of a table. Long-fingered hands were at work, sorting clippings and report sheets. The Shadow was in his sanctum, preparing campaigns against crime.

A glittering bulb from the wall announced a call to the sanctum. The Shadow’s hands stretched forth and plucked earphones. A voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

The Shadow’s tone was a whispered command. Burbank’s quiet voice continued. The Shadow’s right hand appeared beneath the light, writing words upon a sheet of paper. The earphones went back across the table.

A soft laugh from the darkness just beyond the light. The Shadow had received Clyde Burke’s relayed message. His keen eyes were analyzing the item that had come from page thirteen of the Classic.

Three points impressed The Shadow. The name “Signet”; the letter “G”; and the letter “T.” Beneath the copied advertisement, the long hand began to write inked statements of deduction.

The Shadow’s first finding was an obvious one: namely, that “Signet” was an assumed name, intended to cover the true identity of the person to whom the message was addressed. The logical supposition, therefore, was that “T” also hid an identity; one, however, that Signet would recognize.

Logically, T should have had an assumed name of his own, instead, he had resorted to a simple initial. This showed that T, in all probability, was the actual initial of the sender. Being known only to Signet, the single letter was a sufficient cover for the identity of the sender.

Someone with a name that began with T. A hopeless clue in an ordinary message. But The Shadow saw a point that offered a further finding. That was the letter G. T was waiting at G.

Had the message been signed by an assumed name, the letter G might have meant some designated spot, taken from a list that both persons had available. But the signature T showed that this was not a regular form of correspondence, T had used an initial to cover his own name. Therefore, G was an initial that covered another name.

G might be the initial letter of a city or a town; it might be some spot in New York. The Shadow leaned to the latter conclusion; his assumption was based upon the fact that the Classic, a tabloid newspaper, had little circulation outside of New York City.

Logically, T was in New York; and so was Signet. G must be a place in the city. With T waiting there, ready, G should be some spot where Signet could find him at night as well as at day. Probably a hotel.

Inked writing faded. Such was the way with The Shadow’s inscribed thoughts. His pen contained a fluid that vanished after drying.

Hands reached for earphones. Burbank responded. In whispered tones, The Shadow issued instructions to Clyde Burke.

That done, the master sleuth returned to his former work. Whatever the import of the message from “T” to Signet, there was nothing to indicate a menace. The Shadow was putting Clyde to work on a preliminary investigation.

THIRTY minutes later, Clyde Burke strolled into the lobby of the Hotel Goliath. Newsboys were already shouting from the street while they flourished early copies of the Classic. Clyde strolled toward the manager’s office.

From Burbank, Clyde had received a list of New York hotels that began with the letter G. These had been arranged in order of importance. The Shadow had decided that two men — Signet and T — who wished to meet quietly would naturally choose a larger hotel. The Goliath was by far the most important in the list of those beginning with G.

Arriving in the manager’s office, Clyde introduced himself and displayed his reporter’s credentials. Then, in an easy, assuring tone, he explained the pretended reason for his business.

“There’s a rumor about that Lord Calderon is in New York,” stated Clyde. “Just over from London; they say he’s slated to be the next British ambassador.”

“Coming here to the Goliath?” questioned the assistant manager, an eager smile on his thin face.

“The rumor didn’t say that,” admitted Clyde, “but it’s a cinch that if Lord Calderon is in New York, he’s stopping at some hotel. That’s why I’m going the rounds for the Classic. Just on a chance that the rumor is correct.”

“Lord Calderon hasn’t registered here.”

“You can’t be sure of that. He would probably be traveling under an incognito. They say he always uses a name other than his own.”

“But you have no idea of what name he might be using? If Lord Calderon should be here, we would, of course, wish to give him special attention.”

“That’s just it,” nodded Clyde. “I knew you’d be glad of the tip. And if he is here, I’ll see that other reporters don’t find him. I’ll ship them off on a bum steer while I get an exclusive interview.”

“But how can you find him?” questioned the assistant manager.

“Well,” mused Clyde, “if I could see the guest list — particularly those who registered today—”

The assistant manager came to his feet. He shoved a box of cigars in Clyde’s direction, waddled from the office and returned after a visit to the desk. He placed a typewritten sheet on the desk.

Clyde studied it. He jotted notes.

“Too bad,” remarked the reporter, after a short while. “None of these names look like an incognito for Lord Calderon. Maybe he’s stopping somewhere else. Maybe the rumor’s phony. But keep a lookout for his nibs.

“Long gray mustache” — Clyde made a gesture to indicate the adornment — “and he wouldn’t get rid of those handlebars on a bet. You’ll know him if you see him. Well, I’ve got to barge along.” Clyde paused to light a cigar that he had taken. “Twenty more hotels tonight. Hope I’ll see you later.”

Strolling from the office, Clyde left the hotel and headed for a drug store to put in a telephone call to Burbank. His visit to the Goliath had given him nine names for a starter. That was the number of new guests whose names began with T. On the list was the name of Stanton Treblaw.

IN his sanctum, The Shadow received a call from Burbank. Over the wire came the names that Clyde Burke had gained from his visit to the first of the G hotels. The Shadow wrote down the names in ink that did not fade.

Studying the nine, The Shadow paused at the name of Stanton Treblaw. It was one that he had seen before. Hands moved from beneath the light; a glimmer came from the corner of the black-walled room. The Shadow was referring to one of his many files.

The corner glimmer ended. The Shadow returned through darkness to the table. He put in a call to Burbank, gave brief whispered instructions to the contact agent; then extinguished the bluish light.

A soft laugh sounded in darkness; after that a swish. Silence followed.

The Shadow had departed. He had found a trail that commanded his attention. He had learned that Stanton Treblaw, listed as a collector of rarities, had left his secluded New Jersey domicile to visit Manhattan.

To The Shadow, this was a matter of more than passing interest. Faring from his sanctum, The Shadow was on his way to visit Stanton Treblaw.